No Truth Left to Tell

by Michael McAuliffe

  SUB #2: Jesus, man, we talked ’bout it. You n’ me. Remember?

  [Pause.]

  SUB #1: OK. Shut the fuck up. Don’t say nothin’ more, an’ get to home base. I’ll find you.

  Click. Call ends.

  Gill again recorded the entire call, but this time it was on purpose. She recognized one of the voices as the same officer who had bragged about the Klansman. Given his urgent request to meet, she broke protocol and abandoned the monitoring post to find Mercer. Something was up, and this time she wasn’t about to miss it. Without Gill listening in, nothing more would be recorded during the shift, but it didn’t matter. The line had gone dead for good.

  41

  THE VISIT

  Rush hadn’t told Nicole DuBose about his visit with Nettie Wynn. He wanted to and should have, but didn’t. They had been in a state of uncertainty, not quite sure what would happen once their carousel ride stopped being new and magical. Their Vineyard time had gifted them passion and some version of love, but all-consuming jobs meant more time apart than together once off the island. During their separations, Rush sensed she had settled into a state of being interested but not convinced. Long calls couldn’t replace nights together. Their intimacy seemed fragile, even adolescent, with reasons becoming excuses.

  He wanted to explain to her the awful choice he faced, but he knew she would protect her grandmother from any further harm. He couldn’t blame her or anyone else who thought the same. He would tell her everything, but only after he visited Nettie Wynn alone.

  He tapped on the front screen door the same as he had done a dozen times before when he came to Lynwood. As he waited, he studied the yard again, recalling the crime-scene video of the soot, the charred wood frame that lay like an abused corpse, and the piles of ash. How the searing heat must have jabbed through the bedroom window like a hard blow to the body. Every time he visited, it was the same imagery.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She fumbled with the lock and opened the front door.

  “How are you?” Rush asked.

  “Dear, I’m still here.” Wynn smiled and pulled on his arm to come inside. Her step was slow, but her grip firm. “You look tired.”

  “I’ve been on the road a lot,” Rush said, telling an incomplete truth. He had been traveling for months, but that wasn’t why his face was drained of its usual connect-the-dots freckles.

  “Have you seen my Nicole?”

  “Not lately.”

  Rush chose his words with care, as he was uncertain whether Wynn was somehow privy to his private thoughts. He and Nicole hadn’t told anyone, including Nettie, of their relationship, and now wasn’t the time to add that complication to the conversation.

  “Your generation is on the go, in all directions at once. Always in a big hurry. You might want to slow down.”

  “Good advice.”

  “No trip to the diner?” Wynn asked.

  “Not this time. I’d prefer we talked here, if that’s all right.”

  “You’re not obliged to take me out, or even visit, when you find you’re in Lynwood.”

  “But I enjoy our visits.”

  “Why, I do too.”

  An eclectic collection of wood and metal frames occupied a console against the front wall. He wandered over to the pictures on his way to the living room couch where Wynn was arranging the pillows for them to sit. The photos were of various generations of the Wynn family, including one with DuBose at her college graduation, her eyes striking even underneath glass. Rush looked for a young Nettie Wynn but didn’t recognize her in any photo.

  “Where are you?” Rush asked, pointing to the pictures.

  “I know what I look like. I’m much more interested in seeing other people.”

  “Nicole told me that you were as beautiful as a young woman as you are now.”

  “She’s family, so she’s complimenting herself too, I imagine.”

  They both smiled.

  “I’d love to see pictures of you both at the same age. I bet you two would look like sisters.”

  “That might be true,” she said. “That one, there. It’s of me with my parents and auntie and uncle.”

  “This one? Nicole is the image of you!” Rush said, embarrassed at his enthusiastic comparison and in need of a diplomatic change of subject. “Did you move the furniture or paint the room since my last visit?”

  “Oh no, dear. It’s the same as it’s always been, same as it’ll always be,” Wynn said, waving her hand. “I think a big glass of iced tea would be nice. Would you like to have tea with me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’d enjoy that very much.”

  She went to her kitchen. After several minutes, Rush got up from the couch to find her.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “No, no. I’m fine. I know my way around.”

  From the way she moved about the house, it was clear that Crescent Street had been the anchor of her life, with her innate knowledge of the place—the painted wainscoting in the hallway, the reliable creaks in the worn wood floor, and the open windows that had invited the scents of countless seasons inside—helping her navigate the decades.

  They returned to the couch, with Wynn carrying two tall glasses filled with ice cubes surrounded by golden-brown liquid, with a layer of crystal sugar on the bottom, a piece of mint floating near the surface, and a tall mixing spoon inserted like a straw.

  “Thanks very much.”

  Rush waited to take his first sip until Wynn settled back in her seat. Rush felt embarrassed that he wasn’t helping, but she appeared to like the opportunity to play host.

  “Delicious,” he said.

  “One of the better things to come out of the South, I believe.”

  Rush and Wynn sipped their sweet teas. His polite smile did little to lessen his sense of impending betrayal.

  “Mrs. Wynn, I have to tell you something, but I don’t want to. Really, I’m ashamed to have to.” He looked around the room, at everything but her, trying to find some escape in the wallpaper or the sconces. “I have some bad news.”

  “Why dear, whatever’s the matter?” Wynn asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, no—God no—this isn’t about you doing anything. Please don’t think that.” He couldn’t fathom how, even now, she could think that she might be at fault.

  “It’s about the cross burning case,” Rush started but paused midsentence. He held his breath to collect his words. He couldn’t finish the sentence he’d started. “I’ve something to ask you. The man who burned the crosses at your house, do you remember him? The Klan leader named Frank Daniels.”

  “Of course, I do,” answered Wynn. “I don’t care for the man.”

  “Remember that the case went to a trial?”

  “Yes. I’m not so old that I’d forget. I went to the courthouse, and you asked me questions about the cross with the lady judge and the jury. I wasn’t allowed to sit in until the very end. Yes, I remember.”

  “And you remember the jury convicted the defendant, and the judge sentenced him to prison—”

  “I spoke to the same very nice lady judge. You were there.” Wynn spoke slowly, as if she were replaying the events in her mind. “I remember how ordinary that Klan fellow was.”

  “You are so correct. Unfortunately, I found out there’s an issue with the case.”

  “A problem? But I thought it was over.”

  “Yes, the defendant’s in prison. Sometimes—not very often—but sometimes new information forces us to look again at a case.”

  Rush had come to tell her that he had to reopen the cross burning case, but he lost his resolve. A prosecutor’s clarity—that almost childlike certainty—had forsaken him. Prosecutors are empowered to seek justice, and nearly every prosecutor starts off believing in that purity of purpose. But it all flounders when justice isn’t obvious, when it’s not sitting on open ground waiting to be claimed. When it�
�s not so willing.

  “I made a terrible mistake during the case. The Klansman’s confession wasn’t admissible as evidence in the trial.”

  “Those people didn’t burn the crosses?”

  “They did burn the crosses, the one in your yard and the others. It’s not a question of if the defendant committed the crimes. It’s whether I can use the confession against him.”

  “Didn’t you already use it?”

  “We did, but the detective didn’t tell the truth about how he got the Klansman to confess.”

  “I don’t understand. The man who burned the cross in my yard, he told the truth about what he’d done, but the policeman didn’t. Why would he not tell the truth?”

  “The officer lied about how he got the Klansman to talk in the first place.”

  “Why, I ask?”

  “He threatened to hurt the Klansman. The Klansman admitted to burning the crosses so he wouldn’t get hurt.”

  “The detective didn’t tell you this?”

  “No. He didn’t, but I should’ve figured it out.”

  Wynn straightened up in her seat, clasped her hands together, and closed her eyes as if she were remembering her distant past.

  “I don’t approve of false swearing. I don’t want a hand in it. I was raised in the truth of the Lord. My strength for living comes from a pure and honest heart. You’re sayin’ the truth about them crosses isn’t clean. It’s stained.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m not explaining it very well, but yes. We know the truth about the crosses, but we also now know the truth about the officer. If we accept both, the case against the Klansman gets dismissed because of that stain. The person who hurt you and the others will go free.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Because the detective violated the defendant’s civil rights, and we shouldn’t have used the confession to convict him.” Rush nearly choked on his words, but finally it was out.

  Wynn sat still, motionless in her own home.

  “Very few people know. It’s a secret. I came here to tell you that I need to reopen the case, but that’s unfair, inexcusable really. I’m not willing to have you hurt again.”

  “You just said that it can’t stand on its own. The policeman didn’t tell the truth.”

  “If the defendant’s to stay in jail, I need to ignore that.”

  “I want the man to stay in prison. I also want him to seek redemption and change his ways, but that’s not going to happen.”

  “No, not likely.”

  “When we were raised in this very home, my parents protected us. But I came to know what was beyond the walls of this place. I learned early on that the world don’t like us black folk, that some even hated us. Even through smiles, people didn’t think we belonged. We had a choice: to stay inside and feel safe, or go out into this world with its glory and its evil.”

  Rush was overwhelmed by shame, aware he was forcing her to explain herself because he couldn’t, and having her summon painful memories to assuage his conscience.

  “Dear, I’m very familiar with hatred. It isn’t a surprise to me. A fiery cross in my own yard most certainly was the devil’s work, but the man who did it, he holds no power over me.”

  Rush couldn’t look at Wynn. He didn’t want her seeing him stripped of all pretense and realizing he was a slow learner who hadn’t yet understood his lesson.

  “My parents taught us to believe in a person’s potential for good, but not depend on it. I’ve lived my life relying on a higher power. For me, it is God’s law, and the Holy Scriptures tell us to minister to the wicked and to the righteous the same. Mr. Rush, do you have your lawyer version of that? I hope you do, for your sake.”

  That the vile Klansmen, in their spite, selected this woman for attack should have offended every cosmic notion of fairness and justice. But now Rush wondered whether just the opposite was true, and that of all the residents of Lynwood, Nettie Wynn was the very best person to answer hate.

  “I’m grateful for what you’ve done, but I don’t require you or anyone else to save me from this world.”

  Nettie Wynn was finished with the subject.

  “I hope you enjoyed the iced tea. I’m of a mind to prepare dinner if you’ve the time to keep an old lady company.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Yes, I do.”

  More important than absolution, Rush was beginning to better understand his place in the world.

  42

  CHANGE OF CIRCUMSTANCE

  The chief’s administrative assistant sprinted down the hallway to Rush’s office. “Where’s Adrien?” she asked Hall, who was wandering about during one of his social walkabouts.

  “On travel in the Lynwood police case, but he’s supposed to be back today. Maybe he’s coming in late,” Hall explained.

  “Chief’s looking for him.”

  “Something up?”

  “The switchboard forwarded a woman calling about that Klan case. She was trying to reach Adrien. She said it was important. When we couldn’t get Adrien, the chief said she’d take the call.”

  “What’d she want?”

  “I couldn’t hear most of it—”

  “Come on now, you hear everything.”

  “I think someone may have died.”

  “Died?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll get him to the chief,” Hall promised, now with deeper purpose.

  Fifteen minutes later, Rush arrived at the office. His flight back to DC the night before had been delayed for three hours because of thunderstorms in Atlanta, and his phone battery hadn’t lasted for the wait. He’d finally shut the front door to his apartment after one in the morning.

  The latest Lynwood trip had left him exhausted even without the flight hassles. While the trip was officially related to the police investigation, it really was about the detective. Rush now needed to tell the chief and somehow break the news to Nicole DuBose. Before any of that, he needed coffee and a cinnamon roll.

  “Adrien, chief’s looking for you,” Hall said.

  “Do I have time for a cup?”

  “Not today.”

  Rush went straight to Tipton’s office, where the assistant ushered him in. As was his habit, Rush stood at attention.

  “I spoke with a Nicole DuBose this morning. You know her?”

  “Of course, she’s the granddaughter of a victim in the Klan case.” Even hearing her name, Rush’s pulse quickened. “Why would she call you?”

  “She didn’t. She was looking for you, but the call got rerouted.”

  “I arrived back late last night—really this morning—from Lynwood. Took me longer to get out of bed.”

  “Adrien, Ms. DuBose informed me that her grandmother passed away.”

  Rush froze.

  “How can that be?”

  “Wasn’t she the victim who had the heart attack?”

  “She did. She was in the hospital and rehab for a long time, but she got better. She got better. Are you sure?”

  He sat down, and then stood up again.

  “She died at home two nights ago.”

  “I was with her less than a week ago.”

  “Where? In Lynwood?”

  “I usually visit her when I go there.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you the news. You must have liked her.”

  “It’s more than that. She’s the bravest person I’ve ever met.”

  “If her death was a complication of the heart attack, what about state homicide charges?”

  “I don’t know,” Rush said. “I really don’t.” Rush wavered as if he needed to grab on to someone or something to go on.

  Then he said: “Kay, I need to talk to you.”

  The moment of his truth had arrived. It was no longer about the five fires. Rush told Tipton everything.

  . . .

  She glared at Rush from across her desk, her lips narrow and eyes half closed.

  “When the hell were you going to tell me about this?”

  “I
needed to work through it.”

  “Did you think you could hide it?”

  “No, I didn’t. I just needed time. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry isn’t enough, Adrien. You’ve put the whole section at risk. What were you thinking?”

  “That a Klansman shouldn’t get away with burning crosses, but—”

  “Don’t be glib with me. I know what’s at stake.”

  “I needed to meet with her. With Nettie Wynn. She deserved to be heard before anything was done.”

  “Have you told the US attorney?”

  “No, not yet. He’s going to raise hell.”

  “He can raise whatever he wants, but this isn’t something he can control. Maybe if it never left his district, but now—”

  The chief stopped midsentence and leaned back in her chair.

  “I realize it’s hard to see when you’re in the middle of it, but you’ve got to realize the case was based on a lie,” she said.

  “The lie wasn’t about guilt or innocence.”

  “Guilt’s beside the point. This section—your section—prosecutes police officers for cutting these very same corners.”

  “I just needed to talk to her,” Rush repeated, as if invoking her memory would lessen his offense.

  “Why? Would you have done something different based on what she told you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Tipton wasn’t finished.

  “Well, what’d she say?”

  “She told me to have faith.” Rush paused. “Faith in the system. Maybe not in those words, but that’s what she meant.”

  “I’d tell you the same.”

  “It’s different coming from her.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’re just advocates; she’s the victim.”

  “Victims don’t make those decisions.” The chief’s words were stern, but her gaze had become maternal. “I’m not sure how this ends for you.”

  “I understand.”

  “But I know how the case ends.”

  43

  HURT & ANGER

  Rush couldn’t pinpoint the source of his devotion to Nettie Wynn, but she had tugged at him from the beginning with her gentle kindness and quiet resolve, and it was her voice alone he had needed to hear before any decision could be made about the Klan case. He had sought her permission in order to decide what to do, but with the others, his duty was limited to absorbing their hurt and anger.