Blood on the Leaves

by Jeff Stetson

  “You think they believe it now?”

  He moved closer and sat on the edge of the table. “It’s a start. Why should we be the only people whose heroes know how to pray better than they know how to fight?” He folded his arms across his chest. “Even Jesus used the lash to drive out the moneychangers from the temple, and needless to say, His Father had a legendary temper. Remember those floods?”

  Reynolds didn’t change expression. “I reread Native Son a few nights ago.”

  Matheson smiled. “It paid off. I liked the way you weaved the new Bigger Thomas into your closing. Very effective.”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “I’m sure you would,” responded Matheson.

  “I was struck by a particular passage in the book, where Bigger considers the consequence of oppression, the effects that racism had on his life, and what white hate had done to him. He tells his lawyer that ‘they kill you before you die.’” Reynolds studied Matheson. “They kill you before you die. . . . It made me pity him all the more.”

  “Yes,” Matheson said softly. “I remember feeling the same way the first time I read it, many years ago. But it’s a funny thing, reacting to injustice. Perhaps Dr. King put it best when he said civil disobedience means you should lovingly accept the consequences.” He leaned forward, and both men were inches apart. “James . . . I hope you don’t mind me calling you that; we’ve been through so much together.”

  “What do you want, Martin?” Reynolds had had all that he could or would take.

  “In the event this doesn’t turn out the way you envisioned, I’m having a little, shall we say, freedom party? I do hope you’ll drop by.”

  All sensation ceased. The confines of this cell should have closed in on Reynolds, yet he felt a huge space separating himself from the man standing directly in front of him. Even though Matheson remained inches away, for some reason Reynolds could barely see him. He had difficulty recognizing anything in the room, even the two guards who entered and announced, “We have to take Dr. Matheson back to the facility.”

  Matheson patted him on the shoulder, but Reynolds snatched the professor’s hand and held it firmly with a look of fierce determination bordering on rage. Matheson didn’t resist, nor did he attempt to break free. After a tense moment monitored carefully by the deputies, Reynolds let go and watched him leave.

  CHAPTER 62

  THE JURY MET in the morning and selected Blaze Hansberry as their foreperson after she’d been nominated by Mrs. Whitney and seconded by both Jefferson Lynch and Faison Sheppard. Aubrey Munson had briefly lobbied for the role but quickly climbed aboard the moving train as soon as the outcome appeared inevitable. They’d spent thirty minutes discussing the case when Octavia Bailey suggested a straw vote. They were about to take it when the bailiff interrupted their proceedings and indicated they should hold tight and do nothing until further advised. He asked Aubrey Munson to accompany him.

  “Where you gonna take me?” Munson asked.

  “Sir, it would be better if you just came with me. You’ll learn soon enough,” replied the bailiff.

  Munson shrugged and told the group to keep his seat warm and his soda cold. He followed the bailiff to a private elevator that led to the fifth floor. From there the bailiff led him directly to Tanner’s chambers. When Munson entered, he saw the judge seated behind his desk, and Miller and Reynolds together on the couch.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Munson,” Tanner said with great seriousness, then pointed to a chair.

  Munson sat and nervously crossed his legs. “Why y’all lookin’ so glum?”

  Tanner held up a cassette tape and placed it in a portable player. He pushed the Play button, and Munson heard his own voice spouting off about the Bible and interracial dating and his feeling about Dr. King’s holiday. Tanner pushed the Stop button and looked at Munson. “Heard enough?”

  “That woman never told me nothin’ ’bout bein’ recorded,” Munson said. “Ain’t that against the law?”

  “Not in this instance,” answered the judge, who was obviously miffed. “But lying under oath is.”

  “Did you say it was a woman you were speaking to?” asked Reynolds.

  “Yeah. Ain’t her voice on that thing?”

  “Just yours,” said the judge with finality.

  Munson rubbed his eyes and muttered a profanity. He tried to explain the situation. He was busy at work when he’d gotten the call. The phone connection wasn’t all that good. How could they be sure the tape hadn’t been altered? “They can do that, you know,” he said forcefully. “They splice this and that, add a voice here or there. Hell, now that I think about it, it didn’t even sound like me. Play it again, Judge,” he implored Tanner. “See if that’s me.”

  Declining the invitation, Tanner dismissed him from the jury, then instructed the bailiff to “kindly remove this man from my sight.” After Munson left, the judge indicated he’d call the court to order in an hour. He looked at Miller. “You know, I could see why Mr. Reynolds might want him on the jury, but I was a bit surprised you’d actually select him.”

  “Your Honor, if it had been up to me, I’d never have done it,” confessed Miller, much to the surprise of Reynolds. “My client insisted. That just goes to show that while the professor has been remarkably astute, he’s not infallible.”

  Reynolds had a million divergent thoughts run through his mind, and none of them were particularly comforting.

  Tanner reconvened open court and announced that one of the jurors had been stricken from the panel. The clerk randomly selected an alternate from the four available. She chose Lillian Cornfield, a white postal office worker in her forties, who took her place alongside the other eleven members seated in the jury box. Tanner apologized for the inconvenience and indicated they’d have to start over again.

  Hardy Wilkins couldn’t contain himself. “You mean the whole damn trial?!”

  The spectators laughed, and the judge banged his gavel. “No, Mr. Wilkins,” Tanner assured. “If that were the case, I would’ve beaten you to the cussin’.”

  Wilkins nodded his head in appreciation and relief.

  “Fortunately, you didn’t spend much more than an hour in total deliberations. You will ignore anything you might’ve said during that time and begin your discussion anew.” Tanner looked at his notes. “I was informed by the bailiff that you elected your foreperson. You will need to have another vote, and you are, of course, free to select that person or any other, including the new addition to your group.”

  Mrs. Whitney looked at Blaze Hansberry and smiled.

  “You are to read nothing positive or negative into the decision to replace one of the members of your panel. I can tell you there are a variety of reasons why that occurs, and believe me—it happens more frequently than you’d imagine.” He looked at the jurors. “Any questions?” He waited for a moment. “If not, you know the routine by now. Bailiff, please escort these fine people to their exquisite accommodations.”

  Reynolds turned to the side and looked at Matheson, but the professor never returned the look.

  Tanner adjourned the court.

  Reynolds excused himself from Sinclair and hustled to the rotunda, where he managed to catch up with Regina, who’d been present at the hearing. “Ms. Davis,” he called out.

  She stopped and looked at him.

  “Could I ask you a few questions? I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Do you want me to answer under oath?”

  Reynolds smiled. “That won’t be necessary. I have a feeling you wouldn’t know how to lie.”

  “If that’s a compliment, I’ll accept it.”

  “There’s an office we can use. It’s just down the hall.”

  She followed him to a small suite of offices partitioned with glass and modular walls. He found a vacant area, and they entered.

  “Are you supposed to be talking to me like this?” she asked.

  “The trial’s over,” he explained. “Whatever y
ou say now can’t help or hurt the professor.”

  “I don’t believe that, but go ahead and say what you’ve got to say.”

  “I was just wondering: How many people did you call for your survey?”

  She looked away from him.

  “That many?” Reynolds prodded.

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” She didn’t make eye contact.

  “Did you make all the calls yourself or did Professor Matheson divide the assignment?”

  “Dr. Matheson encourages his students to work as a team, but then, you’ve probably discovered that by now on your own.”

  “Who gave you the names of the jury pool, Regina?” He looked at her and knew she’d never answer. “It had to be someone who worked in the court system.”

  “Not necessarily,” she replied.

  He assumed she’d cover for the person or persons involved.

  “A great many people support the professor,” she told him. “They simply want to see him get a fair trial.”

  “He had the information on Munson all along, didn’t he?” accused Reynolds. “That’s why he wanted him on the jury.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “He deliberately put Munson on the jury, knowing he’d be challenged as a liar and a racist, and you helped him accomplish that.”

  “Why would the professor want a racist on the jury? You’re not making any sense.”

  He wondered whether she’d been part of the plan or was used like everyone else. “The first fifteen minutes of jury deliberations reveals an untrustworthy juror motivated by bigotry to convict the professor. It places any conviction in doubt and reaffirms the community’s suspicions of the legal system just the way Matheson intended.” Reynolds shook his head as much in disbelief as in admiration. “I have to hand it to him—he covered all the bases.”

  He looked at her for a moment. “Your relationship with Dr. Matheson . . .” He hesitated and decided he wouldn’t pursue the subject.

  “Was it more than student and professor?” Regina completed the task for him. “I was waiting for you to ask me that in front of the jury.”

  “Then I’m glad I didn’t,” replied Reynolds. “You made me look foolish enough as it was. I’d hate to think what you’d have done to me if you already knew the question.”

  “The answer is no. Dr. Matheson never took advantage of me or any other student—although the line of volunteers is very long, and I’d be proud to be in it.”

  Reynolds admired her and didn’t care if it showed. “There are a lot of ways to take advantage of someone, Regina. The worst ones don’t involve touching.” He put the tips of his fingers together and briefly touched his lips. “Tell me something if you can: If you learned he murdered any of those people, would you still feel the same way about him?”

  She looked away for a moment and conveyed a troubled expression, then answered, “I’d respect him even more.”

  He didn’t believe her, but the answer stunned him anyway. “Then I guess I was wrong about you,” he said disappointedly. “You really do know how to lie.”

  Her eyes shifted to the floor.

  “At least I hope that’s a lie, Regina.”

  She finally looked at him.

  “For your sake as well as mine.” Reynolds didn’t have the desire or wherewithal to ask her any more questions. Regina left the office.

  CHAPTER 63

  THE JURY DELIBERATED for less than four hours, then notified the bailiff they were ready to see the judge. Reynolds assumed the worst. Jurors don’t make decisions quickly in murder cases unless the defendant’s a real scumbag. Long deliberations were impossible to guess; he’d be better off flipping a coin. But when the jury was out for less than half a day, it was a pretty good sign there’d be a vacancy in the state’s correctional facilities.

  Reynolds glanced around the courtroom, which was more packed than ever. No one wanted to miss the verdict or, for the moment, breathe.

  “Madam Forewoman, have you reached a verdict?” Tanner’s voice boomed throughout the hushed courtroom.

  “We have, Your Honor,” stated Blaze Hansberry.

  “Please hand your decision to the bailiff.”

  Hansberry gave a slip of paper to the bailiff, who delivered it to the judge. Tanner glanced at it and showed no emotion. He folded the paper and handed it back to the bailiff. “Before I have the verdict officially announced, I warn the members of this courtroom that I will not tolerate outbursts or demonstrations of any kind.” He shifted his attention to each major area of the room and displayed an expression that conveyed he meant business. “Bailiff, please return the verdict form to the jury forewoman.”

  Blaze Hansberry took the paper, and Reynolds noticed that her hand trembled slightly.

  “The defendant will rise and remain standing for the reading of the verdict,” ordered Tanner. He looked at the court reporter. “Madam reporter, you may read the charges.”

  “Case zero, zero, five-three-seven-seven, the State of Mississippi versus Martin Samuel Matheson. With regard to count one, murder in the first degree, how say you?”

  “We, the jury in the above entitled action, find the defendant, Martin Samuel Matheson . . .” Hansberry paused for a moment and gave Matheson a hint of a smile.

  Hundreds of black students and community supporters outside the courthouse erupted in cheers and applause. News cameras and photographers captured their celebration as they jumped up and down, joyously hugging each other. Brandon raised his fist high. Delbert wept openly. Some of the media focused attention on the dozens of white protestors who’d gathered across the street. Most remained quiet, stunned. One man tore up his sign and slammed it to the ground. A mother cursed a black newspaper reporter while her adorable five-year-old son waved a tiny Confederate flag.

  Inside the courtroom, Judge Tanner reviewed and signed paperwork. Sinclair sat quietly next to Reynolds, who had his elbows on the table and his fingers pressed against his lips. While he didn’t want to observe the reaction at the defense table, his eyes moved slowly in that direction and spotted Miller with his hand on Matheson’s shoulder. Both men had their heads bowed while the Reverend Matheson led a silent prayer. The professor looked up momentarily and made eye contact with Reynolds, then lowered his head again and continued the prayer.

  Reynolds stood behind the prosecutor’s table and glanced at the members of the jury filing out of their booth, pleased with their verdict and happy the ordeal had ended. He turned and discovered April Reeves sitting in her seat looking at her son. She displayed the expression of a concerned mother, but Reynolds found it impossible to discern the real cause of that concern. He thought it revealed a combination of relief and regret, but he couldn’t be certain which dominated her emotions.

  Behind her sat Ruth Cooper, staring at the jury. Reynolds had no trouble determining her true feelings. She clenched the bench in front of her tightly with both hands and cried in between her anguished utterances.

  He hadn’t noticed Vanzant making his way toward him. Once he did, he prepared himself for the worst. Surprisingly, Vanzant extended his hand. Reynolds hesitated, then shook it.

  “You did a great job with a weak case,” Vanzant said admiringly albeit grudgingly. “Maybe you were right: I brought the charges too soon.” The admission crept out uneasily. “But we’ll get him next time.” Vanzant acknowledged Sinclair with an approving nod. “You both will.” Vanzant walked down the aisle and left the courtroom, ignoring the hordes of reporters who surrounded him with questions.

  Reynolds felt numb and accepted his condition gratefully. He didn’t want to feel anything for at least a week. He didn’t trust his emotions at the moment, and it was best they remain dormant and unprovoked. He proceeded to Tanner’s chambers, where he’d ask the judge for permission to use the private exit.

  CHAPTER 64

  REYNOLDS SAT ON his porch and considered everything he could have done differently. He thought about Vanzant’
s last comment: “. . . we’ll get him next time.” He wondered if that meant Matheson would face charges on the previous murders based on the collection of future evidence, or if the assurance unwittingly predicted more victims. He didn’t believe Matheson would continue with the list. The professor had made his point, and those who were named would forever look over their shoulders and live in the terror they’d once enjoyed causing. Many had already left their homes and moved away, and with the announcement of this verdict, Reynolds knew others would leave as well.

  Matheson would have the satisfaction that people throughout the country had embraced his cause and developed their own retaliatory strategies. Soon there’d be lists in every state, with their own unique targets. The professor had won. He’d broken the law in order to mend it and in the process configured a patchwork of justice that had a little bit of something for everyone. That something, contemplated Reynolds, was revenge, and the blanket woven from that desire would smother us all.

  Cheryl joined her husband on the porch. “No matter how long you stay out here, the jury’s verdict isn’t going to change.”

  “I’m actually thinking about indicting myself, but I can’t decide on an appropriate punishment.”

  “I think you’ve suffered more than enough.”

  “I failed them,” he said.

  “Failed who?”

  “Those black victims in the photos. I promised I wouldn’t let it happen again. Wouldn’t let color decide justice.” He took a step away and looked into the darkness of his backyard. “I didn’t believe those pictures were real at first. I thought Matheson had altered them. When I showed them to Vanzant, he said maybe some well liquored-up Klansmen committed atrocities, but no way would normal, everyday decent Americans participate in that kind of butchery.”