by Jeff Stetson
THE LITTLE BOY outran the sounds of terror that drowned out the steady pounding in his small chest. But he couldn’t outrace his fear or the bloody fingers reaching for him. He closed his eyes and tasted the salt from his tears and prayed his suffering would be short. He couldn’t tell if his legs were still moving. The punishing earth beneath his feet had long ago numbed his lower body. He felt slender fingers on his shoulders. With one last effort at courage he opened his eyes and unsuccessfully attempted to scream. He turned and frantically pounded the black man’s chest. The boy heard dozens of rapidly approaching footsteps finally coming to his rescue. He saw the blazing cross and felt a sense of relief followed by exhilaration. He relaxed his fists and stared at his hands, which were now stained with blood.
Reynolds awoke to find Matheson patiently standing over him.
“I hope I didn’t startle you.” Matheson stepped to the side and let the sun blind Reynolds. “Your wife told me I could find you here.”
Reynolds slipped out of the hammock that hung comfortably between two large trees in his backyard. “Don’t tell her I wasn’t raking leaves.” He did a stretching exercise to loosen up the tightness in his shoulders.
“Your secret’s good with me,” Matheson said, then stepped back into the sunlight. “You looked distressed. I imagine prosecutors often have problems sleeping well.”
“We sleep just fine, especially when we put away the bad guys. Must’ve been something I ate. Chili peppers usually make me toss and turn.” Reynolds smiled politely. “So, why are you visiting me on such a lovely Saturday afternoon?”
“I was hoping you might join me for a casual ride around town. Give us a chance to chat, get to know each other.”
Reynolds cocked an eyebrow and tried to read Matheson’s face. He considered the invitation, then shrugged. “Sure, let’s go for it.”
The two men drove for twenty minutes. Luckily, Matheson owned a terrific sound system along with musical selections that made conversation unnecessary. Reynolds was equally impressed with the car, an immaculate classic Mercedes convertible two-seater.
“You must spend a small fortune keeping this car in mint condition. What is it, a sixty-seven?”
“Sixty-eight. Actually, I have a new one, but I like to take this out on weekends.”
“Didn’t know being a professor was that lucrative.”
“I supplement my salary with books and lectures. But the real reason I drive expensive cars is, I enjoy pissing off my colleagues.” Matheson turned off the radio. “It’s amazing the difficulty some folks have accepting a black man’s success.”
“Who would’ve thought?” Reynolds said.
“Thought what?”
“That you’d enjoy pissing people off.”
Matheson laughed and inserted a new CD.
Reynolds smiled and leaned back, gently touching the headrest. “Where are we going?”
“To the hood, James. To the hood.” Matheson pressed down on the accelerator, and the car’s speed increased quickly, forcing Reynolds to sit more rigidly against the red-leather bucket seat.
They drove through West Jackson, Reynolds quietly viewing the barricaded stores and abandoned buildings along Lynch and Maple and Sunset Avenue. They arrived at a street called Hope, but there was little of it for the men who stood at the corner, waiting for darkness to arrive. Reynolds knew these folks intimately. He prosecuted them every day. They were the human signposts whose messages were long ago read and deemed unimportant. Day or night, they waited in front of boarded-up businesses that had deserted them along with any dreams they might have had for a future.
The only playground in the neighborhood had been designated too dangerous for children and was confiscated by young men with neither fear nor anything else of value to lose. During the day they sprinted back and forth on an asphalt court shooting jump shots; at night they shot dope or each other. Freedom didn’t exist here. Even the nets that hung from the basketball hoops were made of steel chains that clanged instead of swished whenever a ball fell through their rusted links.
Reynolds and Matheson exited the Mercedes and stood next to each other. A young black girl, no older than eight, walked toward the opposite corner. Matheson watched her as he spoke to Reynolds. “You see that girl across the street?”
“Yeah.”
The girl greeted two older boys, who followed her into an abandoned building.
“You might as well arrest her now,” Matheson said softly.
“She guilty of a crime?”
“She’s beautiful. That can be the ultimate crime on these streets. Or an invitation to commit one.”
“If anybody’s inviting a crime, it’s not that little girl. It’s you,” Reynolds responded with a degree of anger that surprised him.
Matheson remained calm. “One rich, used-up ex-athlete with a penchant for white powder and whiter women gets acquitted, and the whole country loses its collective mind and vows to reform the legal system while making his life miserable. You have any idea what a two-hundred-year system of jury nullification has done to this community?”
“I know about poverty, Martin. About hopelessness and fear and the crimes that stem from them.” Reynolds waited in vain for Matheson to look at him. “If you brought me here to show me that, then you’re wasting your time. I sure as hell don’t need a lecture from you about being black or poor.”
“I didn’t bring you here for a lecture, James. I brought you here to see what we’ve created. Broken buildings, broken lives, broken promises. One envelope with a trace of a biological or chemical weapon can send an entire country into hysteria, but we flood this place with drugs and guns and terror and nobody gives a damn!”
“Killing a bunch of old white men is gonna change that?”
“Somebody’s got to make the people who live here believe their lives are important, that you can’t destroy them without paying a price. Sandburg once said, ‘Slums always seek their revenge.’” Matheson looked across the street. “Sometimes they need to be pointed in the right direction.”
The young girl exited the building carrying a small plastic bag in her hand. She hustled down the street and met an older woman who took the bag from her. They dashed across a vacant lot and moved behind a large trash bin. A few moments later a car pulled out, driven by a black man. The woman had joined two men in the rear seat. The girl sat in the passenger seat, her face pressed against the glass, looking at Reynolds as the car sped past.
Matheson walked behind Reynolds and onto the basketball court. The men stopped playing and approached with wide grins. Reynolds watched them exchange a variety of soul handshakes and slaps and fist-knockings with the professor. One of the men tossed the ball to Matheson, who quickly hit a fadeaway jump shot from just inside the three-point line.
“Doctor Knowledge, you ready to shoot some hoops for real?” the man asked. “I can get you some sneaks, and if you wanna play for money, I can even make sure they fit.”
“Jerome, you know I don’t want to take advantage of your youth and inexperience,” Matheson joked.
“If you beat me, I’ll sign up for some of those courses at the college just like you want.”
“Education is not for the vanquished, Jerome. Enlightenment is neither a by-product nor a reward for losing.”
“Tell the truth!” someone shouted.
“Truth is like history. It’s defined by the people who win.” Matheson took a step toward Jerome. “When you’re ready to experience that type of victory, I’ll enroll you myself.”
One of the younger men retrieved the ball and tossed it to Jerome. He dribbled it twice, then wrapped both arms around the ball, holding it firmly to his chest. “If we lived on the bottom of the ocean”—Jerome looked at Matheson with admiration—“none of us would be as deep as you, my brother.” He gripped the ball with one hand and with the other saluted the professor.
“I’m coming back tomorrow,” Matheson warned. “Be sure to practice that pitiful thing you ca
ll a hook shot.”
“You just pump up those Air Nikes you got. Last time you jumped I almost saw the ground.” Jerome laughed, then looked over at Reynolds. “He a friend of yours, Doctor?”
“In time, Jerome.” Matheson gave a reassuring nod to Reynolds. “In time.”
Matheson walked away from the men, who immediately returned to their game. Jerome received a hard body check under the basket and threw an elbow that connected on someone’s chin.
Reynolds watched for a moment, then addressed Matheson. “Somehow I thought you were preparing to challenge me one-on-one.”
“I’m sure that would make some people happy. But I’d rather have you on the same team, James.” Matheson looked at Reynolds and spoke seriously. “I mean that.”
“I hope that’s possible, Martin. I really do.”
“You don’t sound terribly optimistic,” Matheson replied.
“I learned a long time ago never to predict a jury verdict. I’ve been surprised by the outcome too many times.”
“And disappointed?” Matheson asked.
“On occasion, even heartbroken.”
“That could be a good sign. It means you have a heart. Although it does depend somewhat on the reason for your grief.” Matheson turned his body to the side and leaned closer to Reynolds. “Just exactly who do you cry for, James?”
“I cry for the victim, Martin.”
“Then we have more in common than I’d hoped.” Matheson gave Reynolds a reassuring pat on the shoulder and walked to the street corner. Reynolds looked back at the basketball scrimmage, which had turned even more intense. For a moment he thought being a part of that game might be preferable to joining the professor on some unknown journey. He hesitated, then followed Matheson down Hope.
“Are we going someplace in particular?” Reynolds asked.
“We are someplace, James.” Matheson stopped. “It’s called the future. Unless we change it.” He resumed walking.
“You gonna leave your car there?” Reynolds asked as they were about to turn the corner.
“If you’re not safe among your people, you’re not safe anywhere.”
“I take it that means you’re covered by theft insurance,” said Reynolds.
“With no deductible,” confided Matheson, flashing a generous smile. “Come on, I’ll treat you to lunch.”
Reynolds shrugged. I’ve come this far; might as well go the whole nine yards.
The two men ate at a local soul food luncheonette. The woman who ran the place with her two sons knew Matheson and served him extra-large portions. The aroma of barbecued chicken and hickory-smoked ribs permeated the tiny establishment, which had a small eat-in counter and three lopsided wooden tables with bench chairs. Most of the people who entered came for takeout and didn’t have to suffer the lack of air-conditioning.
Reynolds sat in a cramped space near a portable fan blowing warm air from a side window. Matheson kept his back to the door, making it easier for patrons to give him an affectionate pat on the shoulder or offer a congratulatory “Go get ’em, Doc” or “We’re with you all the way.”
“How’s your brisket?” Matheson asked.
“Delicious,” Reynolds replied between bites. “I haven’t tasted greens and corn bread this good since . . . Well, now that I think of it, I don’t remember if I’ve ever tasted them this good.”
“There’s a lot of love in this place, James. And every bit of it goes into what Eunice Williams calls down-home cookin’.”
“You’ve known her a long time?”
“Her mother operated a diner sixty years ago and passed on the family recipes to Eunice, who’s been teaching her sons, who will teach their daughters, and so the tradition lives on.” Matheson drank some ice-cold lemonade. “My father used to come here when he was young. This whole area consisted of shops, restaurants, and theaters—all owned and operated at one time by black folks. Now this is the only shop that remains. Everybody else went the way of the dinosaurs, except it wasn’t fire and floods that did them in but the ravages of a poorly conceived integration strategy.”
“I doubt your father would consider himself a contributor to their extinction.”
“I’m certain he wouldn’t. But that doesn’t change the reality of what we gave up to get to where we now are.”
“You seem to be doing just fine,” Reynolds countered. He ate some greens and savored the taste while waiting for the fencing match to continue. For some reason, it stopped.
“James, I really didn’t want this afternoon to deteriorate into our rather counterproductive tit-for-tats. I’m more guilty of instigating those arguments than you are, and I apologize.”
Reynolds felt uncomfortable. He could handle an arrogant Matheson, but the humble version made him nervous.
“More than anything else,” continued the professor, “I’d like you to understand what I’m doing.”
Reynolds set his knife and fork on the table and searched for an appropriate response. “Martin, what troubles me most is your indifference to ruining the lives of the very students you claim to care so much about. One or more of them is probably committing these murders, and you—”
“I know my students aren’t responsible for any of those deaths, James. And I’ll take that knowledge to my grave.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I know,” the professor answered.
Reynolds studied Matheson but could find nothing in his expression to indicate why he felt so certain. “For the moment, let’s accept you’re right. They had nothing to do with the murders. Still, they’re celebrating every death. You’ve got them caring more about revenge than they—”
“They care about justice, James. They aren’t celebrating revenge any more than the families of victims of violent crimes celebrate the death penalty. When those family members attend state-sponsored executions, they don’t go there looking for blood. They’re searching for closure. And when that switch is pulled or that needle injected, do they finally experience a sense of relief?” Matheson leaned back and released a sigh. “Yes. I imagine they do. It may not bring their loved ones back, but in some small measure it protects the ones still alive and the ones yet unborn. If you can’t understand me, James, then you can’t understand the system you represent or the job you do or the citizenship you hold. Don’t blame me for being an American—blame America.” Matheson smiled sadly, then leaned closer toward Reynolds. “Do you know what they call a person who bombs a terrorist?” he asked.
Eunice brought more corn bread to the table. “How’s your meal, Professor? Hope your friend’s enjoyin’ his food as much as I enjoyed makin’ it for him.”
Reynolds smiled politely. “I’ve enjoyed it more than I can say, thank you very much. I’ll be sure to come back.”
“And bring plenty of company,” Eunice said, pointing behind her. “I got extra chairs out back.” She placed her hand on Reynolds’s shoulder. “Hope you saved some room for sweet potato pie or peach cobbler.”
“One slice of each, please,” said Matheson. “We’ll share.” He nodded at Reynolds.
“Comin’ right up fresh from the oven,” said Eunice, heading back to the kitchen.
Matheson smiled and looked at Reynolds. “It’s not as American as apple pie, but it’s all right to deviate occasionally from some traditions.” Matheson held up his glass of lemonade and toasted Reynolds, who returned the favor.
CHAPTER 20
SHIFTING HIS WEIGHT to accommodate a sack of newspapers slung over his left shoulder, Robert Johnson cradled his favorite fishing rod, which was protected by a long black leather case he’d received last week for his thirteenth birthday. He’d be fishing now if his younger brother hadn’t come down with a stomach virus. He could have ignored Joseph’s plea to take over his paper route, but their mother had taught them that obligations needed to be fulfilled and brothers were supposed to help each other no matter what.
He tossed a newspaper on a front porch and never brok
e stride. He probably wasn’t going to catch any fish this late, but he loved being near the water and intended to make up for lost time even if that meant he wouldn’t be home before nightfall. His mother worked on Saturdays, and his brother would cover for him if she got back earlier than expected.
The two brothers were extremely close, and though Joseph was only nine, Robert considered him his best friend. They’d do anything for each other, including but not limited to deceiving their mother for a noble cause such as fishing, football, or sneaking into the movies without paying.
Robert tossed another paper, toward a house surrounded by a bright white fence. It banged against the front door and ricocheted behind a medium-sized hedge. He glanced at his wristwatch and sighed. He hoped it hadn’t landed in a wet area. Sprinklers were watering both sides of the walkway, and he didn’t have any extra papers to spare. He promised Joey he’d deliver them all so his brother would stand a good chance of being newspaper boy of the month. It meant a whole week’s bonus and bragging rights likely to increase tips for the rest of the year.
He left the sack of papers on the sidewalk to ensure they’d remain dry. Unwilling to abandon his fishing rod, he carefully extended the case and maneuvered it efficiently in front of him, avoiding the spray from an overactive sprocket wheel attached to a long green hose. He made it through safely and tucked the end of the case between his arm and ribcage, simulating his preferred method for snagging trout. The front door sprang open and startled him. He never heard the explosion but saw a bright red-yellow flash just before he was thrown in the opposite direction of the fishing pole.
The case floated high and lingered over his fallen body, eventually landing a few feet away. The water from the gyrating sprinkler sprayed him and threatened the leather case. He instinctively reached to protect it when he noticed the water around him turn red. He felt a hole in his chest and raised his head to see an old man at the front door, holding a shotgun.
Robert’s head sank back to the wet earth. His body started convulsing in competition with the out-of-control sprinkler head. Chester Grayson slowly approached the teen and knelt beside him in stunned disbelief. He tossed the shotgun to the side and cradled the boy in his arms. Robert shook for several moments until his body became perfectly still. Grayson looked up toward the heavens and screamed as his granddaughter, Melissa, rushed from the house to offer assistance.