Blood on the Leaves Part 18

"You've gone through your own trials and tribulations with black organizations, or am I unearthing unpleasant territory?"

"We've had an interesting dance," admitted Miller.

"Needed one moment, abandoned the next?"

"Something like that."

"Did they resent you, or did you resent them?"

"Never had time to give it much thought. I do recall a young black nationalist telling me there wasn't room for Caucasians in his version of the Movement. Accused me of being like a promiscuous white girl wanting to sleep with all the black studs to embarra.s.s her family."

"I take it a lot of black men should be incredibly grateful you weren't a woman."

Miller laughed at both the honesty of the observation and the audacity it took to make it.

"We all have our frailties, Mr. Miller. Take your comfort where you find it," Matheson said graciously.

"Blessed are the weak, for they shall inherit the earth."

"I'm not a biblical scholar but I believe the correct word is meek, not weak," corrected the professor.

"I'm not a linguistic expert," confessed Miller, "but that's a distinction without a difference."

Now it was Matheson's turn to laugh, and he did so with a grudging admiration. "We're getting along surprisingly well, aren't we?"

Miller agreed and left with the professor's plan outlining, in specific detail, how he wanted his defense to be presented.

CHAPTER 37.

THEY ARRIVED BY the carload. Those who didn't have their own transportation rented vans, sharing the expense with fellow pa.s.sengers. Some hitchhiked from as far away as Chicago. Rival gang members drove in the same vehicles, listening to music created by their favorite hip-hop artists in tribute to Matheson. Reminiscent of the early-sixties invasion of the Freedom Riders, many traveled on buses with placards that read STOP A LEGAL LYNCHING, and EDUCATION'S NOT A CRIME. Instead of singing songs of protest, they rapped words of defiance. At one point the evening before, an entire caravan of college students from Birmingham and Montgomery had lit up Interstate 59 before proceeding to Highway 20 and the state with which they shared both a common border and a history of racial violence.

While most were under the age of twenty-five, a sizable contingent of veterans from previous civil wars had also made the pilgrimage. They brought sleeping bags, tents, and a variety of camping equipment that police feared contained much more than cooking utensils and pocketknives. Many in the local black community offered to provide housing for those unable to find adequate shelter. This most unlikely of family reunions had caused nearly as much excitement as the impending trial and undoubtedly contributed to the unavailability of weapons and ammunition at virtually all surrounding sporting goods stores. White townsfolk had quickly purchased everything in stock and placed additional orders on-line or through direct catalog sales.

Mississippians had experienced a great deal in their storied existence, but nothing had prepared them for this onslaught. Radio talk shows expanded their regularly scheduled coverage to handle the significant increase in phone calls from outraged citizens. "Instead of complainin' about the past, why don't these blacks go into their own communities and stop the killin' and drug-dealin' there?" offered one irate woman. A man who claimed to be "pure, unspoiled, untainted white" called to say the professor was living proof that no matter how much you educated them, "a n.i.g.g.a will revert to bein' a n.i.g.g.a each and every time." Despite the constant interruptions of the radio host, a supporter of Matheson shared his views: "I don't care what you or these other racist crackers say, that professor will go down in history as one of the greatest men who ever lived. For the first time in my life, I'm proud to be black!" The next caller, wanting to be referred to as "a patriotic American," offered his dissenting opinion. "As far as I'm concerned, the only good thing about having another black on the planet besides myself is that I'll always know where to look for my worst enemy. The professor's a disgrace, and anyone who supports him ought to be tossed out the country." Subsequent callers debated whether that message came from an "ignorant white person trying to sound black" or a "self-hating black wanting to be white."

In that highly charged atmosphere, Reynolds and Miller selected their final three jurors, all of whom happened to be African-American: Jefferson Lynch, a fifty-year-old landscaper and handyman; Faison Sheppard, forty-four, a high school basketball coach; and, after a great deal of soul-searching and second-guessing, the prosecution decided to roll the dice and pick the young born-again dental hygienist, Blaze Hansberry. The alternates would be chosen with far less scrutiny after lunch. As it now stood, the racial composition of the jury consisted of four whites and eight blacks, equally divided by gender.

Reynolds made the mistake of stopping by his office before returning to the courtroom for the afternoon session. Vanzant intercepted him in the corridor. "How the h.e.l.l did you allow eight blacks to get on the jury?"

Several staff members walked past the two men, avoiding eye contact or the need to offer greetings.

"I selected the best jurors available, the ones I believe will listen to all the evidence and render a fair decision."

"Fair?" Vanzant scratched the back of his head and did a half turn. "They're probably members of his fan club! Did you bother to ask if any of them had relatives taking his cla.s.s or if they belonged to his father's church?"

"I belonged to his father's church; that didn't stop you from selecting me."

"And you're beginning to make me regret that decision." Vanzant spun back around to face Reynolds. "You wanna tell me what possessed you to choose a jury like that?"

Reynolds put some distance between himself and his boss. "Blacks are far more likely to convict Matheson than whites."

"You base that on what?" Vanzant placed his hands on his hips, exposing a stomach that hung freely over his belt.

"Whites don't want to believe someone like Matheson could commit those crimes. It would make them too nervous." Reynolds reversed his strategy and took a step closer to Vanzant. "Blacks know it's possible. That's why we pray so often."

"Maybe you're just tryin' to stay popular with your people."

Now the two men were only inches apart. "You don't like the way I'm handling this case, take me off it!"

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Vanzant pointed his finger at Reynolds and came dangerously close to touching his chest. "Your a.s.s is on the line, and that's precisely where I intend to keep it!"

Reynolds ma.s.saged his temples, then looked at Vanzant. "You ever hear of a cracker sling?"

"No, should I have?"

"Yes. Many times." Reynolds walked away and headed for the men's room.

Woody Winslow approached his visibly miffed boss. "You all right?" he asked tentatively.

Vanzant rubbed the bottom of his chin. "You know what a cracker sling is?"

"No idea," Winslow responded. "Is it some type of racial epitaph?" He chewed a handful of granola.

"The word's epithet, and it better not be," warned Vanzant. "'Cause I got some slurs of my own I've been savin' for the right occasion." He looked down the same hall Reynolds had used to make his getaway. "I want you to attend every minute of that trial and report back to me at the end of each day. You understand?"

"You want me to be part of the team?"

"If I wanted you to be part of the team, I would've said that," Vanzant snapped. "Just sit in the back of the courtroom and take good notes and stop makin' all that d.a.m.n noise when you eat!" Vanzant walked away as Winslow took his last crunch.

Reynolds returned to the courtroom, and the rest of the afternoon went smoothly. Four alternates were chosen, and the jury panel received their instructions from the judge. Opening arguments would begin Thursday afternoon or perhaps Friday morning, depending on the number of motions in limine remaining to be resolved. Tanner gave the jurors a long lecture instructing them not to discuss the case with anyone. They were to advise him immediately of any violations of his orders. He told them to be particularly cautious of the press and warned he'd dismiss anyone seen talking to a member of the media, regardless of the subject matter. He told a few jokes and praised the attorneys on both sides, then sent everybody home with a quote about the importance of jury service. It kept democracy safe and "made this country what it is today."

Matheson coughed lightly at the judge's last comment, and Miller quickly gave him a gla.s.s of water to prevent Tanner from issuing any negative remarks. Blaze Hansberry glanced at the defendant and offered a brief but friendly smile, causing Reynolds to feel a sharp pain in his side. He wasn't sure if the discomfort came from within or as a result of Sinclair's poking him with the end of her pencil. He avoided looking at her "I-told-you-so" expression.

That evening Reynolds had dinner with his family for the first time in several weeks, although he hardly touched anything on his plate and his attention drifted frequently. Angela looked at him, then at her mother, who signaled that this wasn't the time to ask for anything.

Christopher, however, ignored the warning (a.s.suming he'd noticed it at all). "Dad, what's authentic mean?" he asked.

"You know how to use a dictionary, don't you?" intervened his mother.

"Genuine, or real," answered an uninterested Reynolds.

"That's good, isn't it?" Christopher asked despite a raised eyebrow from his mother.

"Ordinarily," his father said while pushing his food from one side of the plate to the other. "It depends on how it's used."

"I heard Mr. Taylor tell another teacher at school that Professor Matheson was an authentic hero."

Reynolds placed his fork down and stared at his son. "What else did you hear him say?"

Cheryl shifted uneasily in her chair.

Christopher chewed his fried chicken. "Something about him being like Noah's ark." He washed it down with fruit punch.

"Why would he say that?" asked a mystified Reynolds.

"Oh," Christopher exclaimed as his face brightened, "now I remember, not Noah's ark. He said Joan of Arc. This lady who got persecuted for her beliefs."

Cheryl released a long sigh.

Reynolds glanced away, disgusted, then looked at his son. "By any chance, did he teach you how to diagram a sentence, or improve your understanding of fractions, or how to correct a dangling participle?" His voice conveyed increased agitation. "Or anything else he's supposed to be doing with the d.a.m.n tuition money I give him, which is enough to feed an African village for a year?!"

"Honey, calm down," Cheryl said.

"I am calm!" shouted her husband. He took a deep breath and spoke more softly. "I'm just wonderin' what else this guy is teaching impressionable kids."

"What's *impressionable'?" asked Christopher.

"You get one new word a day," warned Cheryl. "Okay?"

"Pa.s.s the Matheson," Reynolds said.

Cheryl looked at her husband strangely. Angela raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Christopher put his hand over his mouth and stifled a giggle.

"What?" Reynolds asked. "Why's everybody looking at me? I just asked for some macaroni; is that a crime?"

"You haven't eaten the Matheson you've got, Dad," joked Angela, which made her brother laugh.

Looking at him with concern, Cheryl handed Reynolds a bowl of macaroni before he could respond. "James, I think it might be a good idea if you got some rest tonight."

"Yeah, Dad," agreed Angela. "You look tired."

"I don't need any rest, and I feel perfectly fine," he replied stubbornly. "I just came home to have dinner with my family, and I have to hear about some fourth-grade teacher's idea of heroes and martyrs and G.o.d knows what else he's filling our son's head with."

"My head's not filled with anything, Dad," Christopher said rea.s.suringly.

"You got that right," agreed his sister, who then took an extra serving of stuffing.

"Children," interjected Cheryl, "hurry up and finish your meals. I want to talk with your father."

"If you want to talk with me, you can do it in front of them." Reynolds pushed his chair away from the table. "It's obvious everybody else with an uninformed opinion speaks freely around our kids, so why should you be any different?"

"Because *everybody' is not their mother nor are they married to you, and I don't appreciate your suggesting my opinions are uninformed," Cheryl said sharply.

Angela and Christopher exchanged apprehensive looks.

Cheryl gave both of them a warning stare. "You may leave the table now."

They started to rise from their seats but froze on their father's order. "I told you to stay!" They sat down and waited for their mother's countermand.

She didn't look at her children but neatly folded her napkin, leaned back into the chair, and relaxed her body. She stared at her husband and spoke calmly. "You want to tell us what this is all about?"

His chin nearly touched his chest, and he pouted for a moment. "Not really," he said to the floor.

Cheryl turned her head halfway and signaled to her children to leave. They both hesitated for a moment, then left quickly. She waited for Reynolds to look at her, but his eyes remained diverted in every direction but his wife's.

"You acted this way the first time you ever tried a case," she said quietly. "I remember thinking, if you were going to be that difficult to live with, our marriage wouldn't last past your third trial."

He gradually shifted his eyes and looked at her. "You weren't exactly Miss Congeniality during the first pregnancy. To top it off, you were overdue and I had to live with your malformed body and maladjusted personality an extra two weeks."

She sat ramrod straight. "You said you loved the way I looked."

"I would've told you the truth, but I was afraid you'd sit on me."

She folded her arms across her chest. "So now that we're sharing secrets, you want to let me in on what's troubling you tonight?"

He rubbed his face with both hands and took a deep breath. "I had an argument with Vanzant about the number of blacks on the jury. I don't think we've got the evidence to convict. I may have made a mistake selecting a young black woman to be on the panel. Judge Tanner thinks it would be a good idea for the lawyers to wear flak jackets on the way to court. And the governor's thinking about calling in the National Guard to handle any disturbances during the trial or after the verdict's announced."

Exhibiting absolutely no emotion, she looked at him. "Yeah, but what's troubling you?"

He smiled and touched her hand. "Were you really thinking about divorcing me during my first trial?"

"No. I was thinking of killing you." She paused for a moment. "I guess this isn't a good time to bring that up. The issue of killing, I mean."

He shook his head and tried to release a quiet laugh, but he felt too weak and depressed. "Maybe I'll call you as a witness. Use you as an example of good people who do bad things."

"Did you really not like my body when I was pregnant?"

"You looked like a Russian submarine, except you made more noise. A lot more."

She rose from her seat. "Go ahead and subpoena me. It won't be too difficult to convince the women on the jury that we're all capable of murder if the right b.u.t.tons are pushed."

He watched his wife walk away and thought about her advice.

CHAPTER 38.

THERE WOULDN'T HAVE been greater security if the president of the United States had visited town accompanied by a delegation of Israeli and Palestinian leaders. Every highway and alternate route leading into the city had remained gridlocked since six o'clock this morning. Police and news helicopters hovered above the courthouse and its surrounding area in a constant parade of aerial surveillance. Vendors set up souvenir booths along the main walkways. Demonstrators for and against Matheson screamed obscenities at one another. A few celebrities from entertainment and sports arrived in stretch limousines. One lead singer from a popular rap group nearly initiated a riot as fans converged on his entourage seeking autographs and a chance to touch him.