by Daniel Black
Aaron began with, “Please restate your name for the court.”
Legion leaned forward as if into a microphone and overarticulated, “Legion. That’s all I go by.”
“Okay. That works for me.” No one else objected. “Where were you on the night of April 3rd, the night before the murder in question?”
Dupont sighed and frowned. He’d had enough for one day, but there was more to come. His lawyer touched his arm.
“I was walking the streets when I saw that man”—Legion pointed to Dupont—“filling someone else’s tank with gas. I stopped because he was white, but not just white. Rich white. I wondered what he was doing in our part of town so late at night, so I watched him from a distance. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but I saw his car. It was a black Mercedes. I remember that.”
“How did you remember the car? There must be a million black Mercedes in Atlanta.”
“There’s a slight dent toward the right end of the bumper. Sorta looks like a warrior scar. The light at the gas station reflected off of it. That’s why I remembered it.”
Dupont stared at Legion with surprise and dismay.
“How do you know he wasn’t filling his own car with gas?”
“Because the one he filled he wasn’t driving. He drove the shiny black Mercedes with the sunroof. I saw him get in it. The other car was an old blue Ford Taurus.”
“Why didn’t you share this information before?”
“Because I didn’t see his car again until yesterday when he drove away. That’s when I noticed the same dent in the bumper and put two and two together. It was him. It was definitely his car.”
“Do you recall the person he was speaking to at the gas station?”
“I do. It was a short, thin black man with narrow, beady eyes. I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him before. He walks the streets at night—like me.”
“Do you think we could find him?”
“If he’s still around, sure. I can find him. Give me a day or two.” Legion winked and Dupont shuddered. The gesture was more a threat than a confirmation.
Dupont and the prosecutor whispered intensely. She then stood and pleaded. “Please, Your Honor. Can we take a fifteen-minute recess?”
She sighed. “Okay. But I see no reason to prolong this case. Court will resume in fifteen minutes.”
Smiling broadly, Legion left the stand. E resumed es seat next to The Comforter and waited. Junior strained to look at em, and when their eyes met, he nodded and blinked with gratitude. Legion winked and nodded back.
Everyone assumed a posture of silence. Lazarus and Aaron whispered inaudibly as did the prosecutor and Mr. Dupont. When the judge returned, she asked if the prosecution wanted to cross-examine Legion again.
“Prosecution rests, Your Honor.”
She nodded. To Aaron she asked, “Anyone else you want to call?”
He leapt. “Yes, Your Honor. I’d like to call Mr. Dupont back to the stand if I may.”
Dupont shuffled forward. The judge reminded him he was still under oath.
“Does your car have a slight dent in the right end of the bumper, Mr. Dupont?”
“It does,” he mumbled. “But lots of cars do.”
“In that exact same place? To that exact same depth?”
“Objection, Your Honor! Mr. Dupont has already answered the question. He can’t be expected to provide a mechanic’s precision.”
“Sustained.”
“No problem,” Aaron said. “Let me ask one more thing: the night before the murder, did you buy gas at the Shell station on Metropolitan?”
Dupont didn’t speak.
“Your Honor, please direct the witness to answer yes or no.”
She did so. He slurred, “Yes.”
“Yes. And did you pump that gas into your own or someone else’s car?”
“Objection, Your honor! This little theory has no bearing on this case!”
“It goes to motive, Your Honor. I’m trying to prove that someone else might’ve killed Mrs. Dupont.”
The judge thought for a moment then said, “Overruled. But make your case, counsel, and move on.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Aaron returned to Dupont, shivering upon the stand. “I’ll repeat the question: Did you pump the gas into your own or someone else’s car?”
“My own!” he grumbled.
“So the witness who testified that you pumped gas into another car just made that up?”
“Absolutely! He lives on the street! How much truth can you expect from someone like that?”
Someone like that? Legion mouthed.
“Well if that’s true, Mr. Dupont, how did you possibly burn a tank of gas overnight, such that you’d need to fill up again the next evening?”
Dupont paused, gazing at the prosecutor. “I don’t know. I can’t remember everywhere I went that day. It’s all a bit of a blur now.”
“A bit of a blur?” Aaron overemphasized. “The day of your wife’s murder is a bit of a blur?”
“Objection, Your Honor! He’s taking Mr. Dupont’s words out of context.”
“Do you have something more, Mr. Freeman?”
“Here’s what I believe, sir: you found someone you could pay to do the dirty work of getting rid of your wife.”
“Objection, Your Honor!”
Aaron shouted above the prosecutor: “And when you found him, you promised some huge amount of money plus a tank of gas so he could get out of town—”
“Your Honor!”
“But you don’t know if he really disappeared, so now you have a problem—”
“Mr. Freeman! That’s enough!”
“… which you can’t afford to solve. But don’t worry! We’ll be happy to solve it for you.”
The prosecutor pounded the table, shouting, “Objection, Your Honor! Objection! He’s badgering the witness! This is outrageous!”
The judge banged the gavel and threatened, “Mr. Freeman, I’ll hold you in contempt if you say another word!”
Her glasses trembled in one hand and the gavel in the other. Aaron had done what he’d needed to do.
“Nothing further, Your Honor.”
Dupont left the witness stand screaming, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t hire anyone to do anything. I just got some gas that’s all. And I put it in my own car!”
“The witness will control himself!”
“You can’t pin this on me! I loved my wife! I wouldn’t have ever hurt her! He’s the guilty one!” Dupont pointed at Lazarus, whom Aaron directed to hold his peace.
“Sit down, Mr. Dupont, or I will put you out of my courtroom! Prosecutor, you will control Mr. Dupont or he will be expelled so fast he won’t know what hit him!”
The prosecutor grabbed him and forced him into the chair. She practically held her hand over his mouth.
“This is not a circus!” the judge reiterated. “This is a court of law! And we will have order in this court, or this case will not proceed!”
Chaos calmed. Dupont’s chest heaved, but he remained silent. Seconds later, the judge asked, “Can we be civil now and get on with the business at hand?”
The prosecutor stood and asked, “May I confer with Mr. Dupont a brief moment, Your Honor? Just to make sure he’s okay?”
The judge nodded. No one moved. The prosecutor and Mr. Dupont whispered intensely for several seconds until she rose and said, “Your Honor, Mr. Dupont and I move that all charges against the defendant be dropped immediately.”
Lazarus grabbed Aaron’s arm. Aaron mumbled, “Yes!” with clenched fists.
“Very well. In light of the new information introduced today, I think that’s the sensible thing to do. Mr. Love, sir, you’re free to go.”
Riotous cheering erupted. The judge left, shaking her head. Lazarus met The Comforter in the middle of the floor, and together they twirled and giggled with glee. Legion and Elisha held hands and leapt like children playing Ring around the Rosie, then joined Lazarus and The Comforte
r in a group hug. They looked like a football squad, gathered in a tight huddle, planning how they’d execute their winning play. But the game was over and they’d already won.
Lazarus began to cry. “I pray God lets me live long enough to repay all of you. You are my angels, my precious lambs.”
They smiled and chuckled.
“You’ve already paid us,” Elisha whispered. “Just come home.”
They embraced a while longer; then Lazarus broke ranks and joined Junior and the children.
“I can’t thank any of you enough. For everything. But especially for a second chance.”
They, too, hugged collectively. Lizzie wept and shuddered. Lazarus held her against his bosom and promised never again to let her go. Then Junior took both of Lazarus’s hands and gazed into his eyes. They shed identical tears, streaming down as living water, and The Comforter began to dance around them. Neither moved or said a word. Others halted and stared at this father-son duo, frozen in time, healing before their very eyes. Moving counterclockwise, The Comforter swished her skirt, back and forth, as if clearing a pathway. Once again, she murmured words, her words, spiritual words, which no one understood but everyone appreciated. And still the men said nothing. Water mounted high cheekbones and trickled down caverns and crevices of age, one more than the other, then congregated at the edges of their chins and fell, in droplets of regret, to the courtroom floor. All the while, The Comforter circled, shuffling back and forth like an old conjure woman, affirming what had finally come to pass. When the men embraced, all dry eyes moistened. The Comforter continued to dance, swishing her skirt like flowing angel’s wings. Still, no words were exchanged. Lazarus and Junior simply trembled, trembled, trembled. Quad saw himself, middle-aged and ancient, nodding at the confirmation of his future. Lizzie wanted for her children what she’d once had—a father, or now a grandfather, whose touch tingled. She wouldn’t give her children her burdens, her emotional afflictions, she determined. Only the joy of knowing they were loved and desired by Lazaruses young and old. For herself she’d gotten what she needed—the return of her superhero, the restoration of her childhood fantasy—and as long as Lazarus was there she’d be contented. In a perfect world, he’d find her mother and they’d fall in love all over again and return to the house, at least for Thanksgivings and Christmases, and the family would look like a family again. In a perfect world. But in this one, Lizzie settled for knowing where he slept at night and being reassured he’d never meant to leave her.
The Upper Room family had much more immediate concerns. They needed Lazarus now more than ever—his flesh and blood, his optimistic spirit—if they were going to survive. He’d provided what none of them had ever had—a home all their own with people who wouldn’t give them away—and they wanted him back. Elisha especially longed for the stability Lazarus provided. As long as he was around, Elisha could endure the loss of his mother, but alone it was too much to bear. He’d choose to go with her if Lazarus ever left him, and although that might’ve been weak and unmanly, it was the only truth Elisha knew for sure. He could never suffer this world alone.
The Comforter broke the circle, dancing from the courtroom to the front steps to the street below. Observers mocked and pointed at this crazy lady, drunk presumably, twirling freely, as if she had no care in the world. Yet had they had more excellent eyes, they would’ve seen birds perched atop tree limbs, watching. They would’ve noticed ants following her every move. They would’ve felt the breeze, cool and comforting, swirling about in a mass of healing. And they would’ve known who she was. But as it was, they didn’t. So The Comforter forgave and loved them still as she cleared the way for Lazarus’s resurrection.
Lazarus invited everyone to lunch in The Upper Room. All he promised was something to eat and good fellowship. They accepted the offer and said they’d meet him there. In the meantime, he and the others went to find Cinderella.
When she heard the news, she sobbed with joy and disappointment. Lazarus was free and of course that had been the point. She was elated for him, but what of her now? What would she mean in his heart? Her fellow protestors congratulated her on a job well done. She assured them it had been a collective effort, one she couldn’t possibly have achieved alone. She also swore her undying allegiance, promising to assist whenever needed. They embraced, surrendered signs, and returned to lives of public anonymity.
Lazarus took her hand and held it until they reached The Upper Room. She understood the gesture; she knew what it meant. He loved her, but not the way she loved him. It would have to be enough. He could’ve hated her for what she’d done, but he didn’t. And for that she was eternally grateful.
When the Loves arrived—Junior, Quad, and Lizzie—The Family greeted them with the obeisance of royalty. They knew they had entered a holy place. For seats, they were directed to upturned buckets, milk cartons, and rusted fold-up chairs. Not long thereafter, Legion appeared with Styrofoam containers of hot fish and shrimp, fries and coleslaw, white bread, and a gallon of sweet tea. Junior asked where e’d gotten it from, but Legion raised a finger, quieting the old man’s curiosity. Others laughed. Soon, a chorus of lip smacking, gulping, and finger licking began, punctuated by storytelling and laughing so uproarious everyone forgot where they were. By midafternoon, with bellies full and hearts relieved, they sat silently, looking at the universe from down under, posing, it seemed, for a collective family portrait.
About the Author
Daniel Omotosho Black was raised in Blackwell, Arkansas, and now teaches at Clark Atlanta University in Atlanta, Georgia. He earned a Ph.D. in African American Studies from Temple University, then returned to Clark Atlanta as a professor with hopes of inspiring young black minds to believe in themselves. His heart’s desire is to write literature that celebrates the African American presence in America and teaches the world how to be more human. He is the author of Twelve Gates to the City, Perfect Peace, They Tell Me of a Home, and The Sacred Place. You can sign up for email updates here.
Also by Daniel Black
They Tell Me of a Home
The Sacred Place
Perfect Peace
Twelve Gates to the City
The Coming (e-original)
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About the Author
Also by Daniel Black
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in
this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
LISTEN TO THE LAMBS. Copyright © 2016 by Daniel Black. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Young Jin Lim
Cover photograph © Getty Images
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-07847-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-9066-4 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781466890664
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First Edition: February 2016