Blood on the Leaves Part 15

He would represent the people of the state of Mississippi and seek justice against Matheson in a court of law, but who would speak for the people in these photos to defend and uphold a theory of justice that never encompa.s.sed them? Who would explain why their murderers were being accorded greater protections in death than these victims ever had in life? The first teardrop fell, followed by the second, then the third, and Reynolds pushed away the photos to protect them from further distress.

He turned off the small table lamp, leaned back into his chair, and thought of a sociology exam he took in college. He was asked the definition of a societal problem. He answered, "Something bad that happens to white people." Once again, society would vent its outrage at the murder of whites while ignoring the history that got them killed. This time he wouldn't let that happen. Somehow, he'd find a way to give these black people a voice, to see to it that someone wept for them, too.

He would call them as prime witnesses, resurrected examples of what can happen to a justice system when it devalues certain lives and, in the process, creates a monster that owes its allegiance to no one, not even to the thing that created it. Reynolds would slay that monster once and for all. It was the only way he knew how to honor them, by honoring the sanct.i.ty of life. Matheson had violated that sanct.i.ty, and in so doing had betrayed the very people he purported to avenge. And for that, Reynolds would make him pay.

He closed his eyes and invited the testimony of those who'd waited so long to have someone call their name with the respect they deserved. Reynolds couldn't leave quite yet. He needed a little more time alone with them in the darkness, where he might better experience their torment in an effort to bring closure to his own.

Cheryl found her husband sitting on the porch. She'd fallen asleep waiting for him to finish his work. When she awoke and saw that his pillow had never been used, she knew exactly where to find him.

"Want some company?"

He never looked at her but nodded yes.

She sat next to him and took his hand. "You don't need to be the one doing this, you know."

"I don't want a white person bringing him to justice."

"Why not?" she asked, surprised. "You think the community won't accept a guilty verdict if it comes as a result of a white prosecutor?"

"The community's not likely to accept the verdict no matter who's a.s.signed the case. I just don't want the lead prosecutor to be white. Something about that would seem unfair."

"Unfair?" She let go of his hand and gave him some s.p.a.ce.

"Maybe ironic is a better word. White prosecutors never really went after the murderers of those black folk. If they go after him with all their energy and the full force of the law, it would be like the victims were being lynched all over again."

"And if you do it, won't it be the same, maybe even worse?"

He still hadn't looked at her. "If I do it, I do it for them. In a strange way, I feel like I'm representing them, too." He gave a tired smile and finally turned to face her.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"About my dad. He used to say you have to be twice as good as the white man to be treated the same. Even then, they'd go to their grave before acknowledging you might be equal to them, let alone better."

"I hate to be the one to break this to you, James," she said, touching his arm. "But all black parents tell their children that. Sometimes they don't mention color-by the time you've reached five or six, they a.s.sume you can figure out some essential things on your own." She nudged him playfully, but he stared at the floor.

"You believe that stuff about the oppressed always being better off than their oppressors?" he asked.

"In this world or the next?" she asked half teasingly.

"This one," he said, remaining serious.

She thought about it for a moment. "I guess I do. Spiritually-maybe in other ways, too." She studied him. "Is that why it has to be you? You want to prove we're better?"

"I wanna prove there's nothing wrong with justice-the problem exists with some of the people who've administered it. And those black people who suffered, they have to know they died for a reason. To make it right." He looked at her again. "To make the system work, for everybody."

"James . . ." She hesitated for a moment. "How can you be so sure he did it?"

"Because I would have, too." He moved closer to her. "If I'd been him and spent all that time studying the anguish and the pain and the brutality and not had anyone to pull me back from the abyss of raw hatred . . ." He rubbed his face with his hands. "I hope to G.o.d I never get that close to the edge."

"I don't think you could ever change into someone I couldn't love," Cheryl said very quietly.

"You couldn't love me if I turned into a murderer."

"If you turned into that, you'd no longer be the person I married." She removed a piece of lint from his shirt. "You'd be a stranger to me, our children, most of all to yourself."

"I've tried over thirty murder cases in the last ten years. You know how many were death penalty?"

"Seven," she quickly answered.

He smiled. Of course she knew, he thought to himself. He'd been a nightmare to live with during each one. "No matter how vicious the crime or repulsive the act, I always understood how someone could be that sick, could murder another human being. That demon exists in all of us if pushed far enough." He leaned back against the wooden post. "I've seen it in the faces of some of the most contemptible men ever convicted. But here's the really scary part: I've also seen it when I've looked at the relatives of the victims. All that rage needing to be released."

"Why are you putting yourself through this?"

"Because I'm afraid what Matheson did really is the norm. He tapped into some insanity that makes it all right to hate the hater and feel vindicated." He took a deep breath and looked beyond the boundaries of his backyard. "The line between justice and revenge disappeared a long time ago, Cheryl. If we fail to reestablish it now, I don't know if we'll ever be able to." He walked over to the other side of the porch. "I've got to show the jury that line while we're still capable of seeing it."

"Don't put that burden on yourself, James. You're one man prosecuting a single case. If you think you can change the world with this verdict, you've lost before you begin. Whatever happens with Matheson, you can get over it and go on with your life. But if you think you're fighting some righteous cause with the world hanging in the balance"-she crossed to his side and held him-"honey, that's not anything you'll ever recover from. And we still got a whole lotta livin' to do and two beautiful children to raise."

"And have we taught them to be twice as good just to be treated the same?"

"Three or four times, and even then it might not be enough to outdo their parents."

He gave a hint of a smile.

"Well," she continued, "I can't speak for their daddy, but I know if they want to surpa.s.s my achievements, they-"

He put his hand over her mouth and brought her close to him. He removed his hand slowly, and when her mouth became fully exposed, he kissed her gently, then more pa.s.sionately.

"Mommy?"

They stopped suddenly and turned to discover Christopher. He looked annoyed.

"Angela won't let me watch my videos on the TV in the living room."

"Go watch them in your room," his mother said, still fl.u.s.tered from the interruption.

"I don't wanna. My TV's too small."

"Go watch in the den," she suggested.

"I don't like to be in there by myself."

"Go watch in Angela's room," his father recommended as Cheryl gave her husband an incredulous look and raised her head while closing her eyes.

Christopher grinned mischievously and ran back into the house. Cheryl opened her eyes and stared at her husband.

"Did I mess up?" he asked.

"Big-time," she responded.

"Oh, well," he sighed, then grabbed her. "Where were we?"

She pulled back. "You were about to save the world, and I suggest you practice with your daughter, who-"

"Christopher!" they heard a blood-curdling scream.

"Who probably isn't going to handle your compromise too well," Cheryl finished.

They heard Christopher scream, "Daddy said I could!" Followed by Angela yelling, "Daddy's not that stupid!"

CHAPTER 32.

FOR THE PAST three months Miller had prepared for the trial almost nonstop. He reviewed all the state's evidence and hired forensic specialists to evaluate findings and conduct independent testing on the results. He read materials Matheson collected for his cla.s.s, and studied copies of the photos discovered at the professor's home. Students volunteered to gather research and a.s.semble visual displays he antic.i.p.ated utilizing in his opening. Posters and photographic exhibits now cluttered his entire home. He'd never had this much help before in trying any case.

Miller removed an unopened milk carton from his refrigerator and checked the expiration date: thirty days ago. He shook the carton and felt a thick, lumpy slush. It annoyed him that things spoiled before they were opened. He believed expirations should apply after unsealing a perishable item. He started to separate the top of the carton, to pour the contents down the disposal, but thought better of it. He placed the container on the kitchen counter and looked at his cat, who gave him one of her all-knowing stares that combined pity with a sense of superiority.

He admired dogs, which was why he'd never owned one. He knew they had a tendency to love their masters no matter how poorly they were treated, so he wisely decided not to test the limits of their loyalty. He couldn't stand cats, but they did have the singularly positive attribute of not making him feel guilty when he treated them like dogs.

This member of the lion family had arrived at his doorstep on his birthday more than six years ago and wouldn't leave until fed. He soon learned, to his utter dismay, that once a cat shares dinner on your porch, you might as well place its name on the lease. They were also independent creatures, which contributed to Miller's disdain. It made him feel inadequate that a cat could take better care of itself than he could.

On the first night she moved into his home, he named her Miranda, then read the cat her rights. They included, among other things, the mutual obligation to respect each other's private s.p.a.ce, private thoughts, and private needs. Miller maintained his part of the bargain, but Miranda intruded whenever her clairvoyant mind deemed it necessary. He had no difficulty understanding why certain cultures worshiped cats while others despised them, although these opposite emotions were caused by the same basic principle: Cats were either possessed by demons or capable of recognizing them in others. Either way, they were dangerous and needed to be idolized for life or destroyed at the earliest risk-free opportunity. But since there's never a truly risk-free period in anyone's cowardly life, you learned to live with your fears while simultaneously paying tribute to them. In that regard, having cats was a lot like having family.

Having concluded that even Miranda deserved more than rotten milk, Miller picked up the carton and dropped it into the plastic wastebasket. If good milk could go bad without ever being opened, what chance did kids have who were exposed to all types of contaminations? As he pondered the question, he cleaned Miranda's litter box for the first time in a long while, then fed her some tuna. He put two ice cubes into an extra-large bowl, filled it with water, then searched for his car keys. He wondered what had become of his childhood friend Sanford, and continued to think about him until he reached his destination.

The trip took slightly more than two hours, the last thirty minutes of which were spent on poorly paved roads. The Gulf Coast embraced the contradictions of divergent histories. The past could be reflected in the rusty shrimp boats that dotted the riverbank, barely able to provide sustenance to a family of four, let alone adequately feed an entire marketplace whose appet.i.te for the old ways of doing things had drastically changed. The future in all its splendid glory consisted of floating dreams better known as riverboat casinos. Gambling had invaded Mississippi with a vengeance and harvested the poor more efficiently than Whitney's invention had stripped cottonseed from the state's other prized crop.

Miller planned to phone before he left home, but why give the devil advance warning, especially when it controlled visitation rights? He thought it best to surprise the man, catch him off guard. It wouldn't necessarily level the playing field, but it might allow him to be compet.i.tive, stay in the game longer than he'd managed to do on other visits. Like most sons, Miller had tried valiantly to please his father, but never could. So at some point in his life he had simply decided to do the next best thing and disappoint him at every turn. The disappointment evolved quickly to infuriation and gradually to indifference, eventually culminating in disinheritance.

Miller had followed the footsteps but decidedly not the path taken by his patriarchs. He became a lawyer or, if he believed his father, a disgrace to his profession. He fought for civil rights with the same intensity he'd lashed out at Sanford, and for the same reason. His father remained the driving motivation behind all of Miller's important adult actions. If he couldn't please him, then he'd fail him unconditionally. And he'd keep failing until he finally learned the source of his father's bigotry-and the target, if any, of his love.

He drove through the narrow entrance leading to the complex where his father resided. It had been called an elderly nursing home five years ago, then a retirement community two years later, and now simply a senior lifestyle residential retreat. He'd visited many prisons that were far more honest about who lived behind the guarded gates and why. The facility employed a cordial staff. White folks handled the money while blacks carried the bedpans. It used to bring him abundant satisfaction to know his father depended on black people to a.s.sist him in performing the most basic of bodily functions. Now it brought only great sadness and deep regret.

Miller avoided the valet and parked the car himself. He wanted to delay this for as long as possible, and the journey through the maze of gardens and walkways gave him time to reconsider the visit. He could always get back into his car and return home. There'd be no harm done. He would have wasted a few hours, but he'd already spent much of his life avoiding the man who'd disowned him by calling him everything but a child of G.o.d or his son. No. The man hadn't called him his son since the day Miller obtained a law degree and notified his parents what he intended to do with it.

The knot in his stomach tightened. Several residents were seated in lawn chairs near a pink marbled water fountain. They resembled small porcelain statues wrapped in plaid flannel robes. He wondered if his father might be outside, sweet-talking a younger woman or telling tales of his youthful exploits. If he knew his father, his listeners would be enthralled, charmed by the man who generated genuine adoration from mere strangers and unadulterated fear from his own family.

Miller proceeded to the main building, where he registered as a family visitor. A friendly student nurse issued him a gold pa.s.s on a cloth necklace and told him to wear it around his neck at all times while traveling anywhere on the property. He a.s.sumed the trainee feared someone on the grounds might mistake him for a resident and force-feed him Valium before giving him a haircut and a bath. He stroked the back of his ponytail and placed it over his right shoulder. He wanted to make sure it would be the first and last thing his father noticed. That should drive the old man crazy.

He'd been told to meet with one of the administrators, since the doctor wasn't available on Sat.u.r.days. There he would receive an update regarding the senior Miller's "situation," along with other helpful information on how to interact with him. He decided to skip that enjoyable task, feeling that no one could give him a better briefing on the condition of his father than his father himself. In any event, he already knew the best way to communicate with the man who had brought him into this world only to almost drive him out of it: from a distance or not at all.

He maneuvered his way through an obstacle course consisting of walkers, wheelchairs, and motorized strollers until he found a safe hallway with minimal mechanical traffic. He hated these places. They reminded him of hospitals, except the patients in this warehouse weren't being cured, since no cure existed for their particular ailment. This halfway point between a holding area and a resting place had a certain antiseptic quality made less stringent by a smattering of potpourri and a whiff of aerosol spray. Miller guessed the scent might be either French vanilla or wild country blossom, since both fragrances worked equally well to temporarily mask the aroma of an unclean house.

He didn't know what to expect when he entered room 53 for the first time in five years and discovered his father seated with his back to the door, staring out the window.

"Dad?" Miller waited for an explosion. When that didn't happen, he a.s.sumed his father would simply ignore him, act as if he didn't exist. He wouldn't allow his father that luxury. "Dad, it's me, Todd."

"Toddpole?" his father asked in a gentle voice.

Miller smiled, in part from nervousness but mostly from genuine surprise. "Toddpole?" Miller said the word with an amused nostalgia as he moved closer to this figure who still hadn't demonstrated enough decency to turn and face his son.

"You haven't called me that since I was a little-" He froze when his father wheeled around to greet him. There was a glimmer of recognition and a glimpse of a smile weakened by time and a lack of practice. This couldn't be Richard Stanton Miller. Not this withered little man with the translucent skin that revealed pale purple-green veins struggling desperately to complete their mission.

Miller's father had been a tower of strength, defiant in every way imaginable. When he spoke to a jury, they had no choice but to believe him. Tall and eloquent, confident and knowledgeable, pa.s.sionate and unforgiving, he couldn't be beaten by any adversary save one. After eighty-five years his father had met his match. He'd lost the most important battle of his life to the universal equalizer, time. And that defeat made him gaunt, hollow-eyed, and something not even his avowed racism had ever completely accomplished: pathetic.

"You clean up your room?" the soft voice asked.

Miller tried to respond but couldn't speak without releasing a lifetime of tears.

"You know how your mama fusses whenever you don't clean up like you're supposed to."

Miller turned away. His shoulders slumped a little more with each word he spoke. "It's clean, Dad."

"Including your toys? You sure you put them all away?" His father grabbed the sides of the chair to lift himself but stopped and settled back into his spot. "If you break them I'm not buying you any more." His father turned and once again faced the window.

Miller quietly moved to a chair next to his father's bed and sat down. He looked at the small night table that had three framed photos: a wedding picture of his father and mother, his grandfather posed outside a courthouse, wearing his judge's robe, and a picture of Miller as a child standing next to his proud, smiling father, who had his hand on his son's shoulder. Miller felt the first tear moisten his cheek. He placed his fingers on his quivering lips and wept quietly.

He didn't remember falling asleep but had the distinct impression of a parched mouth kissing him gently on his forehead, followed by the careful placement of a blanket around his upper body. He kept his eyes closed until his father's shuffling ceased. Miller rose from the chair and thought about leaving without disturbing the figure who'd returned to the window. He concluded he wasn't that much of a coward.

He tried to engage his father in a conversation that entailed more than the distant past, but after a few promising attempts Richard Miller disappeared to a s.p.a.ce reserved for memory and dreams. Whether the place was real or imagined, Miller hoped his father would find peace there and, perhaps, another chance.

The car ride back home seemed filled with shadows. Clouds lingered overhead, threatening to release a sudden storm that hadn't been forecast. Miller had on occasion read news accounts detailing the lives of the most rabid racists from the early stages of the Civil Rights Movement, the ones who bombed churches and crippled or murdered children and blinded babies. Many of them had avoided prison only to enter, at an early age, advanced stages of dementia. He wasn't sure whether that represented a punishment or a blessing. Now he'd witnessed his own father ravaged by Alzheimer's, and realized that the suffering had been left to the son.

He'd wanted his dad to curse him or strike him or be the terror he'd grown up despising. It would give him energy for the battle that lay ahead. But when he found him shrunken in a wheelchair, with a mind disconnected from today, he realized he'd been living a lie. He'd never stopped loving or needing his father's approval. Despite his best efforts, he'd never hated him. This discovery made him feel ashamed, terribly lonely, and perhaps more than anything else, betrayed. How long had he lived this pretense of self-righteousness and moral outrage?

He shouldn't have visited this place, but in reality he'd never had a choice. Matheson had flung the past in everyone's face, and perhaps it was only right that his defense counsel take the first blow. He hadn't realized how often he'd need to turn the other cheek, and certainly had had no idea how much it would hurt. His father had no memory of the things that tormented him most, and Miller dared not remember the times that he himself cherished.

True enough, they were brief, those glorious exchanges between a loving father and an adoring and obedient son. But they were there. How ironic that they'd returned to a mind no longer capable of distinguishing reality from madness-or perhaps no such distinction ever existed. Hadn't the world of his father been both real and insane? How else to explain a gifted and highly educated man harboring such sickness?

Miller wondered if his father or grandfather had ever done anything that might have put them on Matheson's list. If they had, their actions would forever remain an unsolved mystery. If they hadn't, they certainly knew friends who belonged there. That fact alone enabled the commission of evil acts and may have even endorsed or encouraged them. When a governor stands at the entrance of a schoolhouse and proclaims, "Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever," he's officially sanctioned the lynch mob whether he intended to do so or not. When respected community leaders remain silent in the face of atrocity, they've become the mob in spirit, if not in deed, and have no need to touch the rope.

It was a strange legacy shared by the descendants of the South, all of whom were one or two degrees of separation from being a child of a victim or a father of a perpetrator, or both. Miller reflected that for his entire professional life, he'd been cursed to represent defendants who looked guilty whether they were or not. Poor, black, and uneducated, their stories stood little chance when weighed against the testimony of reliable eyewitnesses and the judgment of dedicated jurors who feared the same dark skin.

Now, at long last, he'd been gifted with the ideal client: influential, intelligent, handsome, and articulate. Matheson didn't fit the profile of a criminal except for skin color, and this one time Miller could make that liability disappear, or at least cloak it within the framework of reasonable doubt. Would an acquittal of Miller's prized defendant achieve some semblance of payback for all those innocent men convicted? More to the point, would it be the final act of defiance by a son toward his father-a man currently hiding in the secret recesses of his own diseased mind? Miller didn't know the answers to those questions, but he'd soon discover them.

For better or worse, he accepted that his life would never be the same. He'd been a southern oddity. Now he would be a celebrity. Back when they'd been on speaking terms, his father had advised him that a traitor shouldn't publicize his home address. Well, his list of enemies would likely increase, and they'd have no trouble finding him. What they would find still needed to be determined. He prayed it would be a man he'd be proud to know, one who would have the integrity, if not the innocence, of a child his father had once lovingly called "Toddpole."

CHAPTER 33.