by Daniel Black
Lazarus had tried, but he’d not thought of anything.
“The scarf,” Aaron whispered. “Did you find the scarf?”
“Um … no … I didn’t.” Lazarus lied for fear the scarf would indict him and, more important, to let Cinderella dream, to give her, finally, a taste of the life she should’ve had.
“What about her husband?” Lazarus asked. “What do we know about him?”
“Not much. At least not yet. I’ve been thinking about him, too.”
“And what about Mrs. Dupont?” Lazarus asked. “Did she have any enemies we know of?”
Aaron shook his head. “Not that I can find. We’ve been snooping around, but she’s pretty clean. Everyone seemed to like her. Excellent student in college, favored socialite, friendly disposition. We can’t seem to find any reason someone would want to kill her.”
Lazarus huffed and reclined. There had to be an answer. He couldn’t go back to jail. Certainly not for a lifetime. Or, worse, lose his life for a crime he didn’t commit.
He asked, “Any ex-boyfriends or past lovers she might’ve had tension with?”
“None that we know of. Seems as if her husband was her first and only lover.”
“There’s gotta be something, man,” Lazarus moaned.
They searched the ceiling, walls, and floors for a clue.
“You didn’t see anyone else at the house that day?”
“No, I didn’t. I never went inside.”
“What about a car? How many cars were in the driveway?”
“One. The same one they drove from Whole Foods.”
He made a note.
“Did you notice any tension between them? Strained body language, curt comments, awkward silences?”
Lazarus thought a moment. “No, I don’t think so. They seemed pretty regular to me. She was giddy about her garden and he was obviously supportive.” He shrugged. “That’s all I saw.”
Aaron made other notes, which Lazarus couldn’t see. Lazarus thought to ask what he was writing but didn’t want to pry.
“I’ve gone over this a thousand times in my head,” Lazarus said, “and still I come up with nothing.” He stood and paced.
Aaron nodded. “I think our greatest defense is going to be you.”
“Me?” He turned abruptly. “I thought you don’t put the accused on the stand?”
“Usually you don’t, but we might need to. No offense, but you’re not the regular, desperate, mentally challenged homeless man looking for a handout.”
Lazarus frowned. Was this a compliment?
“So if you tell your own story, I think the jury’s assumptions about you and your state of mind might change. I don’t know. It’s the best we’ve got.”
Lazarus sighed, like a dying man. He didn’t want to face a jury of his peers, who, of course, wouldn’t be his peers. Everyone knew a black man, of any station, was guilty before proven guilty, so Lazarus had hoped to remain silent as things unfolded. Yet for his life he’d speak. He’d have to. He didn’t intend to die.
“Okay.”
“And we need to make a list of character witnesses. People who’ll testify to your integrity and overall good nature.”
He nodded.
“Got any names?”
“Well … I think so.”
How horrible, he thought, to be alive and no one be able to speak well of you.
Aaron hoisted a pen and waited.
Yet now, Lazarus wasn’t so sure. Should he name Quad, his only-begotten son, the one whose anger boils whenever he thinks of his father? Or should he ask Lizzie, who’d never stopped loving him? Of course the problem would be what she couldn’t say, what she couldn’t affirm, the years of his life for which she couldn’t account, and that would leave her flustered, believing she’d hurt his case, and from then on she’d be burdened with guilt she couldn’t bear and the hope of a fresh start or even a long-awaited reunion would forever be tainted by pauses and lapses in memory that were not her fault but might still help to destroy her father. He’d rather live out his days in prison—or die—before watching an indifferent court disassemble his daughter’s image of her father. He’d never ask Deborah to come—he hoped she didn’t even know, although he was certain she did—since she was the reason he left home in the first place. Her disappointment had not subsided over the years. He knew that. He knew her. And it just might please her to come now and tell the world how irresponsible he’d been to walk off and leave a wife and children because he “felt” he needed something in the world. How childish was that? No, she didn’t think he was a murderer, she’d say, but she couldn’t swear to it.
Perhaps his best testimonies would come from Upper Room residents. The Comforter would say something conciliatory, surely, exposing him as a man of strength and character, but who would believe her? Cloaked like Mary, the mother of Jesus, The Comforter would take the witness stand and, in the voice of a rejected cherub, speak her convictions about Lazarus’s excellence, and jurors would frown undoubtedly from their inability or unwillingness to believe her.
Elisha, on the one hand, wouldn’t want to testify, although he’d do it. At best, he’d give one-word responses, and that would make the jury skeptical, wouldn’t it? He might simply nod and say nothing, and the judge would dismiss him, having been no help at all. Legion, on the other hand, would welcome the opportunity to talk about Lazarus, but es belligerence might be off-putting. Nothing and no one could bridle Legion’s tongue if he thought his words might save Lazarus. Legion would definitely be helpful. Still, Lazarus sighed and said, “I’m thinking.”
Cinderella was the obvious choice. She was white and obedient, which of course meant jurors would find her likable and sympathetic, and that’s what Lazarus needed—someone they trusted. Of course she was haggard like the rest of them—actually worse—but still she was white, which to whites (and blacks) meant she was redeemable. There was hope for her. In her squeaky sweet voice she could tell them that Lazarus had not simply been good, but good to her, and that would, she hoped, quell their desire to watch him die. Even if they thought he’d killed a white woman, they would hear that he had been good to one, too, and that would at least complicate an otherwise simple guilty verdict. He hated it had to come to this, but he also hated being guilty because he was black. Cinderella would understand. She’d seen how blacks were treated, even her comrades, and she’d spoken against it. On occasion, she’d even expressed a desire to change things, to level the playing field, as she’d said, to dismantle once and for all this ugly thing called racism in America. Legion had laughed and said, “Chile, please! Good luck with that! White folks wouldn’t know how to act without it!” Cinderella responded, very simply, “Maybe not, but I would.” Now, Lazarus thought, she’d get her chance.
“Cinderella. Her name’s Cinderella.”
“Who is that?”
“A friend. She’ll testify on my behalf. She’s white and they’ll believe her.”
“How well do you know her?”
Lazarus nodded. “Well. Very well.”
“Where is she?”
“Same place I’ve been. Under the bridge.”
Aaron relaxed the pen. “She’s homeless, too?”
“Yep.”
Doubt pressed his lips together like those of a corpse. “Do you know anyone else?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“We need someone credible, Lazarus, someone who looks the part.”
“She is credible. Believe me. And she’s white. That’s the important thing.”
“But she’s homeless, man, and this is the case of the murder of a rich white woman. I don’t know how much help this Cinderella woman would be.”
“I think it would work.”
“It might have to if we can’t find anyone else, but I’d rather go with someone more in line with Mrs. Dupont’s social class.”
“Well, I don’t know anyone like that.”
Aaron smirked. “Okay. Then we’ll list her. What
about family members? Mother, father, children, nieces, nephews, cousins, anyone?”
Lazarus sighed. “My mother’s dead and my father … well … is unavailable. My kids and I have been estranged over the years, so I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m an only child, so…”
“I understand. We’ll start with Cinderella then. Is that her actual name?”
“Yes. Well, no, but I don’t know her actual name. Guess I can ask.”
“Do that, please, and let me know what it is.”
“Okay.” Against his earlier judgment, he said, “I have other friends, too, who would definitely speak for me, but they’re homeless and black. Just like me.”
Aaron smiled. “No, thank you! You are more than enough. We don’t need more of that element!”
Fuck you, motherfucker! Lazarus wanted to say, but didn’t. The last thing he needed was to go to trial with no lawyer.
“I gotta go now!” Lazarus declared instead. “Got some business to handle.” He stomped toward the door, snatched it open, and let it swing wide behind him.
“Damn,” Aaron muttered. “Was it something I said?”
Chapter 30
At Five Points, Lazarus sniffled and began breathing heavily. He couldn’t think of the word he wanted—demeaning? belittling? degrading?—but he’d rarely felt so insulted. And by another black man at that! It was Aaron’s tone, really—it’s always the tone—that hoisted the humiliation, and now Lazarus understood how slave owners had broken the spirit of his people. They had sneered and frowned at them, as if their humanity were a joke, a caricature, a parody of real, live human beings. Slave owners had ignored them and spilt milk across their garments because they did not see them. The name-calling—“Coon!” “Nigga!” “Wench!” “Buck!”—had debilitated, to be sure, but that alone had not leveled them. What took them down was the gaze of nothingness, the staring that asked why they existed, the repeated blinking from those who presumed blackness an aberration forced upon the world. That’s what birthed uncontrollable rage. And now, as Lazarus leaned upon a distant wall, he began to weep for those who never understood their weeping. One lone tear evolved into a stream, which became a river of purging far greater than any he’d ever known. Each silent, homeless face floating in his mind intensified his wailing until his body slumped to the earth. These are people! his spirit cried. People! Human beings! Onlookers stared, dropping pennies and nickels around him, wondering as to the nature of this worthless man’s sobbing, unable to believe he bore the capacity for human compassion and concern. Some assumed him drunk or out of his right mind, so they rushed past him, sorry that good American citizens wasted spare change on an obviously ill street bum. Others stood, far off, beaming pity at this black vagrant who surely had rebelled against the laws of the land and thus brought his current condition upon himself. Whatever they thought, no one assumed Lazarus overwhelmed with ancestral grief. No one considered he might be purging generations of pain. No one thought, even for a second, that the weight of prejudice and discrimination, stereotypes and cultural myths, had finally gotten the best of him. No one. Every assumption rested upon his presumed psychosis, which, in the end, made it impossible for bystanders to sympathize. Most shook their heads as Lazarus sobbed for a dying world.
Even more frustrating was the realization that bail hadn’t set him free. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” he groaned and cried. How does a man who can’t afford a Snickers bar get accused of murder? His tears left dark spots on the concrete beneath him. The more he thought of his reality, the more heavily he wept until all he could do was pound the pavement in hopes that it might give and swallow him whole. Slowly he balled into a primordial fetal position as parents shielded children’s innocent eyes. One bright-eyed little white girl, curious to know what had brought the giant down, pointed at Lazarus, and immediately her mother slapped her hand away, saying emphatically, “Don’t point at people, honey. It isn’t polite. Just be grateful you’re fortunate enough…,” and her voice faded. But it echoed in Lazarus’s consciousness. What did she mean by “fortunate enough?” Enough for what? Not to care about other people? Not to be concerned with human struggle? Not to worry about where her next (or any future) meals would come from? In later days, he’d wish he’d risen suddenly, like one resurrected from the dead, and shouted, Thoughtlessness is not a fortune, ma’am! But at the time he couldn’t move. And he couldn’t stop crying. If he were white this wouldn’t be happening, he told himself. In fact, if he were white he probably wouldn’t be homeless at all. He’d be somewhere in Middle America with a wife who wanted whatever he wanted and kids who were happy being white alone. He wouldn’t have had to worry about looking for life; it would’ve come to him—in textbooks and magazine covers and media portrayals of CEOs and government officials. He would’ve seen himself everywhere and known that the world belonged to him. Yet as a black man he’d had to search for life’s meaning and still he wasn’t sure he’d found it.
Tears continued to pour. What if he didn’t win the case? What if they sent him to the electric chair? The prospect left him shivering on the ground like a crazy man. He knew what he looked like—a deranged lunatic, no doubt—but he couldn’t stop crying. The weight of consciousness had simply debilitated him. Most days he could rearrange it, disguise it, dismantle it into digestible pieces, but with his life on the line he had to bear it whole. And the burden almost killed him.
A sweet-faced black woman with extensions practically to the ground laid a dollar near his head and said, “Bless him, oh God.” Then, without hesitation, she touched him. Her palm cupped his forehead and he knew she was different. Her sincerity dried the lake of tears. He looked up and saw her palms extended toward him and her mouth moving, saying words he couldn’t discern. But she wasn’t embarrassed by him or concerned with others’ perceptions. He could see that much. Moisture lingered in her eyes as she prayed. He never knew what she said, but her energy moved him. Slowly, like one learning to walk again, he struggled to his feet and stumbled in a circle. She never stopped praying. It was as though she were speaking to a deaf, mute God, One who couldn’t hear speech but definitely heard the yearning of the heart. When she looked into his eyes, Lazarus saw the face of his precious little girl. Her hair had disguised her so completely he hadn’t recognized her, but now there was no doubt. This was his baby, his priceless little lamb, and all he wanted was to hold her. But she retreated. Each step he took toward her, she backed away the same distance, as though spiritually mandated to avoid him. But her lips never stopped moving. Of course Lazarus didn’t know she’d recently joined the Holiness church, where, after receiving the baptism of the Holy Ghost, she was told she had the gift of tongues and healing. And who better to heal than her own father. She saw God’s hand at work when she exited the Five Points MARTA station and beheld Lazarus writhing upon the ground. She knew immediately who it was. The locks, the pretty black complexion, the large, flat feet, the golden eyes. Who else could it be? So she gave thanks for the opportunity to use her gift. The fact that the receiver was her progenitor only added to the blessing and revealed that God really is The Great Orchestrator. What Lazarus didn’t understand Lizzie knew instinctively—this wasn’t personal family time. It was walking-in-the-spirit time, demonstrating to God her obedience, her willingness to heal whomever she encountered. Little by little, after being saved and sanctified, she transferred her love for her earthly father onto her heavenly father—One Who promised never to leave her. Still, she loved Lazarus no less. He hadn’t meant to go; she knew this in her heart. But she felt his absence and that’s what caused the bruising, the longing. So in finding God she found a man who wouldn’t leave, couldn’t leave, and that’s why she adored Him. He was ubiquitous, people said, everywhere at the same time and never not there, and Lizzie fell in love with the fact that, wherever she went, whatever she did, it was impossible to be outside of God’s presence. The notion steadied her while she prayed for and endured the unintentional inconsistency of a biological father who
se name promised something he couldn’t always deliver.
He halted his approach. Whatever she was saying had little to do with him as her father. He was just another man, another example of human need, so Lazarus dropped the hope of forgiveness and stood still. Walking backward easily, like one trying to keep a ferocious beast at bay, Lizzie continued praying in some indiscernible, unknown tongue until her initial sweet sincerity morphed into a fierce, judgmental gaze Lazarus didn’t understand. Her hands were higher now, straight above her head, and her lips moved with angry alacrity. What was at first mere concern felt now like spiritual reprimand. Lazarus studied her retreating form until she disappeared around a corner.
What was that about? he wondered. He’d never taken the children to church, although he hadn’t been opposed to it, but obviously Lizzie had discovered something she needed. Or something she thought she needed. Either way, it had affected her deeply, and Lazarus felt sorry for having not introduced her to God. The One he and Granddaddy knew. Certainly he’d told her about Lazarus I—and God—as they sat on the porch in the dark, listening to the cry of the lambs, but perhaps he’d not said enough. He didn’t recall explaining that Granddaddy was talking to God. That the lambs were simply the conduit between the visible and the Invisible. That we as humans need a conduit because our own shit gets in the way. Perhaps his love for Granddaddy had usurped a critical teaching moment. There was no way she was unsure of his admiration for the man—he’d said it a thousand times and forced stories of rural Arkansas upon his children. But he didn’t remember saying much about God. He didn’t know God back then. He found Him later, after burying Granddaddy on a hill called Golgotha.
Lazarus retrieved coins, one by one, from the sidewalk and dragged himself along Peachtree Street toward home. “I may not be perfect,” he said aloud, “but I have always meant well.” Does that matter? Is that what God values? He thought about it a moment, then sighed. If it wasn’t, he was certainly in trouble.
Without notice, he detoured. He’d thought to go home and wait out his fate, but an idea crystallized that he wanted to explore. Maybe there was nothing to it, but the possibility compelled him to walk toward Midtown. When he arrived at the corner of Courtland and Pine, he paused and stared. There, at the bottom of the world, were hundreds of his countrymen and women, waiting for a meal and a place to sleep for the night. The Metro Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless shelter was the most consistent in the city, and anyone who’d ever been on the streets of Atlanta knew the place. Lazarus had passed it a thousand times, on his way to Piedmont Park, frowning at those cloaked in desperation and shame. Worst of all, he smelled them, like rancid garbage waiting to be expunged. Yet today he needed them. He didn’t know anyone by name, but he knew their lives, and he hoped someone might have seen something. Or someone. It was a long shot, certainly, but if he knew nothing else about homeless people, he knew they get around. They see what others have the luxury to ignore. They watch human behavior when the rest of the world is asleep. They can tell you when the robin’s song changes because the least adjustment in the universe shifts their lives in incomprehensible ways. So Lazarus descended the slope and immediately began asking questions.