Blood Cries; Blood Oath; Blood Work

by Michael Lister

  “Just give me time,” I say again.

  I open the door and walk into the chapel, down the main hallway past my office, through another door, and into the sanctuary.

  There are far more men than I expect.

  They are on the floor and on the pews, their arms locked together in the classic sit-in fashion.

  As I make my way along the back and then down the center aisle, they have to unlink arms to let me through.

  Passing through them, I pray for inspired words to share and a peaceful resolution to this situation.

  When I reach the front, I step onto the platform and look out at the sea of black faces and the few white ones mixed in.

  From in the crowd, someone yells, “BLACK LIVES MATTER.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say. “They never have the way they should in this country.”

  The chapel goes as silent as I’ve ever heard it with a congregation in it.

  “That’s why we have this movement,” I say. “That’s why so many people are standing up or sitting in and saying something that should be true but isn’t—not the way it should be, not in this great country that gets so many things right. Black lives matter. Black lives should matter more than they do.”

  Some of the men nod, most just continue to stare.

  “Do you know whose lives really matter most in our culture?” I say.

  “YOURS,” someone yells.

  “WHITE LIVES,” someone else says.

  “SHUT UP AND LET THE MAN SPEAK,” someone shouts.

  “Wealthy lives,” I say. “Powerful lives. Celebrity lives. Those are the lives we seem to value. And yes, they are largely though not exclusively white lives. It’s not right. It’s not okay. Which is why we have to change it. That’s what this movement is about. It’s about saying all lives should matter equally and they don’t. It’s about speaking truth to power and saying it’s not okay to shoot unarmed citizens in the streets. It’s not okay to incarcerate masses of young black men. Injustice is not okay. Inequality is not okay. Institutional and social systems of oppression that keep large segments of our populations in the prison of generational poverty are not okay. So we speak out. So we stand up. So we sit in.”

  “SO WHY DO WE HAVE TO LEAVE?” someone yells.

  “YEAH.”

  “To have the moral authority to speak out against immorality, we must be the most moral, must set a standard for ourselves and carry ourselves with such humility and dignity and righteousness that we lend credence and credibility to our cause. If, as Dr. King said, ‘Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,’ then we must not act unjustly in our attempt to bring about justice. Recall what Dr. King said. ‘Darkness cannot drive out darkness. Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that.’ Remember the words of Jesus, too. ‘Love your enemies. Bless those who curse you. Pray for those who persecute you.’”

  “SO DO NOTHING?”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. You’ve already done something. You’ve gathered. You’ve borne witness. You’ve made a stand. I’m saying don’t undo the good you’ve done by turning this into something it shouldn’t be, into something that could get somebody hurt. Realize this. You are in prison. You are limited in what you can do. The best use of your time is to get yourself right, ready, educated, healed, together, so that when you go back out into the world, you can be a part of the solution and not part of the problem. These are very complex problems and will take the majority of us working together to solve. They have more to do with poverty and fear and frustration and desperation than race and weapons. We are all responsible. Here’s what I propose . . .”

  I pause a moment to make sure they are all listening.

  “Return to your dorms peacefully. Don’t antagonize or escalate. Be courteous and respectful. Conduct yourselves with the honor and dignity that this cause deserves. And we’ll host a series of Black Lives Matter programs and events here at the chapel beginning this weekend. We’ll have guest speakers and music—positive programs that will remind everyone that Black Lives Matter, that will make this prison in particular and the world in general a better place. Will you do that? Will you line up and follow me out? Will you leave peacefully with me now knowing that something good has been started today?”

  “That was good work in there tonight, Chaplain,” the captain is saying.

  We are walking toward the main gate in the soft glow of low evening sunlight.

  He shakes his head. “Black lives matter, what about cops’ lives? White lives? CO lives?”

  I stop walking.

  He stops too.

  “Yeah, saying ‘black lives matter’ means ‘cop lives don’t matter,’” I say, “in the same way that when Jesus said ‘blessed are the poor’ he didn’t want anyone else to be blessed, or to say ‘save the whales’ means ‘kill the dolphins.’”

  “I don’t get it,” he says.

  “For a group of people who have been oppressed and abused and enslaved and treated worse than any group in this country—except the native people—to assert that their lives matter when they see kids and unarmed men being killed in the streets doesn’t in anyway take away from all lives mattering. It’s like the people who complain about us having a Black History Month. ‘Why don’t we have a white history month?’ they say. Because every month is white history month. Because all the Eurocentric history textbooks leave out so much. Because we’re reclaiming something that has been missed, omitted, left out, undervalued. And when that is done, when someone asks or even demands equality, it doesn’t diminish yours. One group having rights doesn’t take away from the rights of another group—unless, of course, one group’s so-called rights are actually privileges predicated on the oppression of other groups.”

  “Well, I just don’t see it that way,” he says. “And I’m gonna recommend to the warden that he not approve any Black Lives Matter rallies. And I’ve got the majority of the officers behind me, so . . . prepare yourself for a fight.”

  Later that night, Johanna and I have a tea party in her bedroom.

  Her room is small and it has Taylor’s crib in it, and though there are larger bedrooms upstairs, we’re not comfortable with either of our daughters not being on the same floor with us until they’re older.

  I’m sitting at a tiny table in a tiny chair, my knees around my ears, across from a stylish teddy bear named Huggie. Johanna sits next to us, a doll with big brown eyes meant to resemble her in the chair opposite her.

  Johanna is busy pouring the tea from her tiny china teapot into our tiny teacups, talking nonstop as she does.

  As I sit here listening to the workings of her little mind while watching the workings of her little hands, Huggie staring at me blankly with his big button eyes, his fedora tilted down a bit on his head, I feel what I so often feel these days—a joy so profound it seems spiritual, so deep it seems bottomless.

  The peace and love and happiness Anna and I have achieved together seems earned in a way—though it only partly is—but the ecstatic happiness I experience with Johanna seems an altogether unexpected gift and still catches me by surprise.

  40

  Early the next morning, Sam, Reggie, and I meet to discuss the case, get an update on forensics, and for them to tell me about what I missed while I was in Columbus.

  We are meeting early as an accommodation for me because I’ll be at my job at the prison all day.

  “How was your trip?” Reggie asks.

  “Good. Thanks for letting me go. And it actually resulted in some more info for us, though I don’t think it has any bearing on what happened.”

  They both look interested, indicating for me to tell them more.

  “Shane had a girlfriend up there—which is why he was breaking up with Megan. An older, more mature girlfriend. Name is Kayden, and she said Shane tried to break up with Megan many times and Megan wouldn’t let him. Said she knew what was coming.”

  “That’s good to know,” Reggie says.
“Until yesterday I liked her best for doing something—if something was done.”

  “Did you release a statement and send a counselor over to see her?” I ask.

  “I did, but the paper doesn’t come out until tomorrow, so word hasn’t really gotten out yet.”

  “What about a counselor?”

  “I made the referral but don’t know if she’s seen her yet. But why coddle her if she could have killed Shane?”

  “Because we don’t even know he was killed,” I say. “But even if he was . . . that’s not how we seek justice—to let her be smeared and vilified on Facebook and Twitter and in town talk. It’s brutal. And it’s out of hand.”

  “It’s funny . . .” Sam says. “I never really realized it until now, but . . . John is the girl of this investigation.”

  “Call me whatever you want, just do right by that young girl.”

  Reggie looks at Sam and says, “Wonder if he’ll feel differently once he hears about the bowline?”

  “From her Jet Ski?” I say. “What about it?”

  “It’s missing,” she says. “She swears it was on there when she put in at Iola. Got a witness who says so too.”

  “But under that theory, if Vera is right and Shane was snatched under, then it was most likely an accident. His foot got tangled up in the rope, it snatched him under when she took off, he got caught on something under the water, and she never knew it even happened.”

  “She could’ve done it on purpose,” Sam says.

  “Sure, but that’s far less likely, and whether she did it on purpose, it was an accident, or she had absolutely nothing to do with it, the way we treat her should be the same—humane, compassionate, fair, impartial, and not allow the media, social or otherwise, to skewer a kid for murder when we don’t even know if there was a murder yet.”

  Reggie nods. “Okay. I don’t see it quite that way, but I respect what you’re saying and will follow up on it.”

  “It’s preliminary,” Sam says, “but our lab techs say they believe there was human blood on the blade of the knife used to carve the crucifix in the tree at Iola Landing and it’s possible that at least one but probably more of Amber’s wounds were made with a knife like the one used on the tree. Since the carving was made before she was taken, the blood on the tree could be the killer’s or a previous victim’s. Either way it’s good evidence that can help us with identities and or apprehension—or at least in building a case for trial.”

  I nod. “That’s good.”

  “Real good,” Reggie says.

  “Has the lab identified what the cross was made of?” I ask.

  Sam shakes her head.

  “I keep thinking I should be able to,” I say. “I need to take another look at it.”

  “You want to see the actual cross or will pictures do?” Sam says.

  “Can start with pictures and see,” I say.

  “I’ll get them and we can look at them together.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Oh,” Reggie says, “almost forgot. Amber’s phone was finally turned back on for a few minutes yesterday, but then it was turned right back off again. Verizon pinged it, but by the time deputies arrived at the location, the phone and guy with it was gone.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Outside of Orlando.”

  “So what else did I miss yesterday? Why did you say Megan was your leading suspect up until then?”

  She smiles. “Because we caught Matt and Cody sneaking into the landing last night to get the big-ass stash they had hidden when Shane disappeared and we had been called.”

  “Where was it?”

  “In weighted down garbage bags underwater. They had put it over in the little slough on the park side of the boat launch.”

  “Bags?” I say. “As in more than one?”

  “Three. All full. All filled with some truly nasty shit. We’re talking amounts large enough to send them away for a long time. And more than large enough to kill for. We’re thinking maybe Shane was killed by them or some of their associates. He’s a ra-ra Ranger. Captain Do the Right Thing. Maybe he threatened to turn them in. Maybe they just assumed he would and didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “They both told me Shane not only drank but did drugs with them,” I say. “Given his chosen career and how well he was doing in it, I find it hard to believe he did. They could’ve said it in an attempt to explain what happened to him—or because they knew we would find it in his system from where they slipped it to him and were already laying the groundwork for accidental drowning, contributed to by alcohol and drugs use. I wish I knew who suggested the race across the river. They could’ve slipped him something and challenged him to the race to get him to drown. And maybe that’s exactly what happened, only it was a little delayed because of all his training and the great shape he was in. I wish we knew what was in his system.”

  “We would if we had found the body,” Reggie says. “Can’t believe we haven’t.”

  “Would help everything,” I say. “What he was on. Whether we’re even dealing with a murder or not.”

  “I only have one more thing,” Reggie says. “Saved the most outlandish for last. Tommy said he saw footprints on the path over on the opposite bank behind the houseboat.”

  “Yeah, I saw them,” I say.

  “He started talking about Shane not being dead, about him getting dazed and wandering out over there or, even crazier, said it could be where his killers came in to kill him. Even speculated it was military related—like ISIS or some shit like that. Out there. But . . . we sent a deputy over with a search and rescue guy and guess what—the houseboat had been broken into. Something that happens all the time on the river. Usually kids, breaking in to screw or drink or smoke, so I didn’t take it very seriously, but now . . . I’ve at least got to ask . . . What if that’s where the drug deal went down? Or maybe where it was supposed to. What if Matt and Cody’s suppliers were over there? What if Shane saw them or saw something he wasn’t supposed to when they swam over there? What if that’s what got him killed?”

  41

  So when did you become a drug dealer?” I ask Cody.

  Unable to help myself, I had called the warden and told him I’d be in a little late so I could interview Matt and Cody before I left St. Joe.

  No matter what I tried, Matt refused to say a single word to me, so I am now working on Cody.

  “It was smart to put the small stash in the bathroom for us to find,” I say. “We thought that’s all there was. Whose idea was that? Thought y’all were just doing some drugs. Had no idea y’all were big time drug dealers.”

  “Man, I ain’t no drug dealer,” he says. “Don’t even play like that.”

  “I’m not playing. I really want to know.”

  “I don’t deal drugs. Never have. Never will.”

  “You could be in college right now,” I say. “Playing baseball. Having new experiences. Learning new ways to think. Meeting girls. Why deal poison to people instead of doing that?”

  “I don’t deal poison to people,” he says. “I already told you. I also already told you that I plan to go back to college in the fall. Tryin’ out for several teams.”

  “Off the record,” I say. “I really am just trying to understand. You see, I try to help people when I can. I work with a lot of addicts and inmates and young people, and I’m really trying to understand how someone with your opportunities and advantages does something like this. Honestly. I’m genuinely curious.”

  He studies me for a long moment, seeming to assess the veracity of what I’m saying.

  “Off the record?” he asks.

  I nod, as if there is any such thing.

  “Let’s say what I do . . . what I allegedly do—you know, just pretend make believe so I can play along with your game and try to answer your hypothetical questions—is in wholesale not retail. Let’s say what I do is favors for friends—like say picking up something or dropping off something, like a couch or somethi
ng. And sometimes maybe I help them out with storage, you know? Like I hold on to the couch for them for a little while. Never long. No big deal. None of it is a big deal at all. And for these favors my friends throw a little cash my way. That’s it. Nothing to it.”

  “Why?” I say. “That’s what I’m asking. Why do any of these favors for these friends at all?”

  He shrugs. “Do what you can for your friends. And the same reason everybody does what they do—man’s got to eat, got to pay his bills.”

  “Did it start before you went off to college? Did you do it there? Or—”

  “Just since I’ve been back,” he says. “Since I got cut from the team and hurt my knee and had to readjust my whole entire fuckin’ life ’cause shit doesn’t work out like you think it’s going to.”

  “Did Shane know about it?”

  “Shane was cool,” he says.

  “Is that a yes?”

  He nods.

  “He ever do any favors for friends?”

  “No.”

  “Or just help you? You’re his friend.”

  “No. Never. Couldn’t mess around with shit like that. He get caught . . . and his promising career would be over. His uncle wasn’t understanding at all.”

  “His uncle?”

  “Uncle Sam,” he says with a self-satisfied smile, as if he had said something clever. “Had too much to lose.”

  “If that’s the case, then why was he drinking the way he was and doing the Xanbars with y’all?”

  “I wondered that too,” he says. “I really did. It wasn’t like him. Hell, it was the first time he ever did something like that.”

  42

  After work, I drive to the landing to check in.

  My day at the prison had been difficult and draining—counseling, teaching, crisis intervention, and arguing with the warden about the need for a series of Black Lives Matter programs in the chapel. It had taken some convincing, but I finally persuaded him when I explained the programs wouldn’t be all that different from the Black History Month programs we do every February and that doing them would have a huge impact on inmate morale and the security of the institution.