Blood on the Leaves Part 29

"Did Professor Matheson ever comment about what happened to Earvin Cooper or any other murder victim on his list?"

"No."

"Did he ever express concern or regret that Mr. Cooper was murdered?"

"No."

"Did he ever tell you or students in any of his cla.s.ses he didn't condone murdering people on his list, and that such activity was wrong and should be discouraged?"

"We discussed why each person was on the list. Once we finished reviewing that, they were never mentioned in cla.s.s again."

"Were you ever told what to do to Mr. Cooper or others on the list?"

"We wanted to make their lives miserable, but Professor Matheson never had to tell us that. It was something we understood."

"Did you understand Mr. Cooper was supposed to be killed?"

Miller started to rise, but Matheson signaled not to.

"No," answered Brandon. "That was never stated nor implied."

"I have no further questions of this witness." Reynolds walked to the prosecutor's table and sat next to Sinclair.

"Mr. Miller?" asked Tanner. "Do you have any redirect?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Mr. Hamilton, you may step down," Tanner informed the witness.

Brandon left the courtroom with the same grace with which he'd entered, maybe more.

"Mr. Miller, are you ready to call your next witness?" asked Tanner.

Miller stood. "The defense calls Delbert Finney."

Reynolds watched Delbert amble to the witness stand. He wore a pair of baggy pants and a plaid flannel shirt. His quiet nervousness contrasted well with Brandon's confidence. He spoke with a slow country drawl as charming as it was believable. He told the jury about his family and that he'd been the first one to go to college. He described his small town, where everyone knew and trusted each other but pretty much kept to themselves. His eyes brightened and he spoke with more energy when he discussed visiting Dr. Matheson's home, and he choked up when he revealed the books the professor had given him.

"It wasn't a holiday or my birthday or nothin' like that. He just out-and-out gave them to me." He smiled proudly and informed everyone in the court that the volume of poetry "had a genuine soft brown leather cover, and the pages were bound or stamped in gold. I'm not sure of the term, but I can tell you it was the prettiest book I'd ever seen."

Reynolds waited for Tom Sawyer to show up and talk about the professor helping him to paint his fence. He studied the jury and knew they loved this kid, and when Tanner finally asked him if he had any cross, he stood and smiled. "No, Your Honor. But I'd sure like to borrow that volume of poetry from Delbert one day."

The witness grinned, the jury laughed, and Tanner announced a twenty-minute recess.

CHAPTER 54.

MILLER ENDED THE day with a witness who combined the best attributes of Brandon and Delbert and had the advantage of immediately being embraced by all the jurors for her beauty and elegance.

"The defense calls Regina Davis," Miller announced proudly.

She wore a conservative dark brown outfit, and as she pa.s.sed the jurors, she flashed a smile that melted their hearts. She raised her right hand, and Reynolds thought the Statue of Liberty couldn't have made a better impression.

"Ms. Davis, is it all right if I call you by your first name?"

"I would prefer that."

"Thank you. Regina, how long have you known Professor Matheson?"

"Almost five years. Dr. Matheson was the reason I minored in African-American history. I took eight or nine of his courses before my junior year and became his teaching a.s.sistant as a senior. When I enrolled in graduate school, I maintained the position."

"Regina, could you evaluate the teaching style or effectiveness of Professor Matheson, particularly as he impacted or influenced his students?"

"He gave us a sense of pride and self-respect. We became more confident because of him, believed more in ourselves and each other." She turned and faced the jury. "I used to have problems looking at people. Making direct eye contact. A lot of the students did. He used to tell us if you can't look at a person eye to eye, you can't face yourself."

"What else did he tell you?"

"That we didn't realize how beautiful we were. But by the end of his cla.s.s, we'd know."

"Did he ever teach you to hate white people?"

"No."

"Did he ever advocate violence against white people?"

"No."

"When he showed you photos of black victims, did he ever once tell you to seek revenge?"

"No. Never."

"Thank you, Regina." Miller walked to his seat and glanced confidently at Reynolds.

"Mr. Reynolds," barked Tanner. "You have the floor."

"Miss Davis, why did Professor Matheson give his students the names and addresses of those suspected of murdering black people during the Civil Rights Movement?"

"He didn't want us to buy groceries from them."

"He didn't want you to buy groceries?" he asked curiously.

"He used to tell us the Jews traveled all over the world to bring justice to those who murdered their people, but that we were expected to buy groceries from those who murdered our fathers and brothers. He thought that wasn't an honorable use of our time."

The rest of the questioning didn't go any better. Regina remained poised and self-a.s.sured without coming across as sn.o.bbish or defiant. Reynolds knew these students were painting a portrait of their professor that would be nearly impossible to alter for the jury. Three very different young adults had provided a magnificent representation of the man who'd taught and inspired them. He would have had an easier time convincing twelve nuns to find Mother Teresa guilty of war crimes.

Reynolds ended his cross-examination of Regina, and Tanner promptly adjourned the court for the day. Tomorrow everyone would learn whether Matheson intended to take the stand and testify in his own behalf. Reynolds never doubted he would, which caused him both to desire and dread the upcoming morning.

After Regina's testimony Miller met with his client in the small holding cell in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the courthouse. He once again tried to dissuade him from taking the stand, but to no avail. "The state's proven nothing, and you've got absolutely no reason to take the stand," he pleaded.

Matheson responded calmly. "When a defendant doesn't testify in his own defense, it raises suspicions regarding his innocence."

"The jury is specifically instructed to ignore any such inference."

"I'm not talking about a jury of twelve." Matheson became testier. "I'm concerned about the public. If I don't take the stand, they'll wonder what I have to hide. If I was truly innocent, there'd be no reason for me not to testify."

Miller sat in the chair next to him and leaned close. "If you're concerned about what radio talk show hosts are gonna say, you might as well decorate your cell and plan on stayin', 'cause you won't be leavin' it for a long while." He moved back and studied his recalcitrant client. "That's what you risk by taking the stand. Don't underestimate Reynolds. He's d.a.m.n good. He's been dealt a weak hand, but don't give him any more cards to play."

Matheson left his chair and moved away from Miller. "This isn't a card game, and the stakes are a lot higher than whether or not I leave here!" he proclaimed angrily.

Miller matched his anger with his own pa.s.sionate intensity. "This isn't about proving your innocence! You want a public forum to express your views. That's what you've always wanted. Lead actor performing center stage in a trial you've controlled from the very start." He approached Matheson, and the two men stood inches apart. "Well, I don't gamble with the lives of my clients to feed their egos or political ideologies. I don't know if what you've done is right or wrong. I don't even know if you murdered Cooper or anyone else. But my job is to defend you to the best of my ability and prevent the state from frying your arrogant a.s.s in an electric chair that has your name on it. I intend to do that with or without your help."

He started to walk away, but Matheson forcefully placed his hand on his attorney's shoulder. For a moment, Miller feared the man more than he'd ever feared any convicted felon.

"You're to put me on that stand," Matheson said, then removed his hand.

The two men looked at each other in silence before Miller made one last unconvincing effort. "Martin, listen to me, no one on that jury is going to convict you for the murder of Earvin Cooper based on the evidence before them. But throughout this trial we've been dealing with an undercurrent of all those other men on your list who've been murdered. And while n.o.body has said it, you can bet your life every member of that jury knows not one single other murder has occurred since your arrest. Now if you take that stand, you're going to resurrect all those dead bodies. And a jury is a funny thing. If their gut tells them something different than the evidence, they'll believe their instincts just about every time."

Matheson slowly retreated to his seat. He sat down and spoke without looking at his counsel. "This isn't a request. It's not an option. And from this moment on, it's no longer negotiable. I'm going to testify and I'm going to vindicate myself and my students, and neither you nor anybody else will prevent me from doing that."

Miller shook his head and surrendered. "There are a lot of inmates serving time in prison because they wanted to prove just how innocent they were. There are a lot of guilty ones who are free 'cause they kept their big mouths shut. I don't know which category you belong in, but we're about to find out. I'll notify everyone I've got one last witness to call. I hope he doesn't hurt our case." Miller signaled the guards.

"You only have to ask one or two questions, then get out of the way. This is between Mr. Reynolds and myself. It's time we settled it once and for all."

"Be careful what you ask for-you might get more justice than you can handle."

A guard unlocked the door and entered with another deputy. Miller turned to Matheson. "Your friends are here to give you a ride home. And that's precisely what it could become for you-your permanent home."

Matheson stood and prepared himself for the handcuffs and ankle shackles. Miller watched him until the leg irons were secured, then left.

CHAPTER 55.

SINCLAIR AND REYNOLDS spent another late night in the DA's office. She started putting away her files, but Reynolds retrieved a new stack of materials and began going through them.

"I think Matheson could get a lot of votes if he ran for office," Sinclair said. Wearily she grabbed her briefcase and purse.

"He should name me campaign manager," said Reynolds. "I've provided enough a.s.sistance."

"You really think he'll take the stand?"

"He's dreaming about it as we speak."

"At least he's getting some sleep. Which is what I intend to do." Sinclair opened the door to leave. "You want my advice, you'll do the same."

"I just need to go over a few things."

"Go home, James. The world will be here waiting for you in the morning."

"To carry its weight on my shoulders, no doubt." He unsealed another box and removed the contents.

Sinclair took a step back into the office, then stopped. "You almost made me feel guilty enough to change my mind and stay."

"You're welcome to take a seat," he offered.

"I said almost." She looked at her watch. "See you in six hours."

"Good night, Lauren." He watched her depart, then went back to scanning a set of pathology reports and autopsy doc.u.ments. Two hours pa.s.sed before he found himself unintentionally reviewing the same work he'd earlier completed and set aside. He needed to get home, catch a couple of hours' sleep, shower, dress, and face the defendant with some semblance of coherence.

Thoroughly exhausted, he exited the building and made his way through the parking lot. Upon reaching his car, he placed his briefcase on the top of his hood, then fumbled for his keys. It was darker than usual, and he noticed shattered pieces of gla.s.s around his vehicle. He checked his headlights, which were fine, then looked up and discovered that one of the lot's overhead lights had been smashed. He returned to the car door and inserted his key into the lock but never had a chance to turn it. He felt a sharp blow to his right kidney; then someone grabbed his head and forced it violently against the automobile's side mirror.

Two men held him while a third pummeled his body and face with heavy punches. They slammed him against the car, and a masked a.s.sailant gripped him around the neck. "You get one warnin'," said the voice behind the mask. "This is it. No more questions. No more searchin'. You wanna know who killed that n.i.g.g.e.r? Next time we visit, you'll be able to ask him in h.e.l.l!"

Reynolds made an effort to free himself, but the man yanked him forward by the hair and crushed him with a brutal head b.u.t.t, then viciously kneed him in the groin. Someone struck him over the head with a hard object. He collapsed to the ground, where they kicked and stomped him until he lost consciousness.

The little boy ran desperately through the darkened woods. He stumbled but wouldn't fall, for he knew if he stopped now, his life would end. He looked ahead and saw a stream glistening in the moonlight. Ghosts couldn't swim, and even if this one did, the boy would drown before he'd ever allow it to take his life. He hurdled a fallen tree and prepared himself to leap beyond a patch of mud, but the fingers finally trapped him within their bloodstained grasp. The boy frantically pounded his tiny hands against the monster's chest, but instead of a beast he saw the frightened face of a beaten black man, who pleaded with him: "Help me! In Jesus' name, please help me!" Then the little boy saw the mob of angry white faces carrying torches and a long knotted rope. They surrounded the man and carried him to a large tree illuminated by a burning cross. Somehow the child overcame his fear and found the courage to rush into the middle of the crowd. "LEAVE HIM ALONE!" he shouted, to the amus.e.m.e.nt of the mob that had already placed the noose around the black man's neck. He clutched the man's hand, determined to pull him to safety. From the center of the blazing symbol of salvation he saw the swiftly moving blade of an ax slicing the air and striking the man's wrist. He heard the awful sound of crunching bone that left him holding the severed limb. The boy screamed in horror and dropped the b.l.o.o.d.y fingers that had chased him for so long. Someone slapped the boy across his cheek, knocking him to the ground. He looked up to see the black man swaying a few feet above him. He noticed a sharp metal knife sparkle underneath a fiery torch. A white hand thrust the blade into the man's chest. Blood spurted from the dead man's heart and splattered onto the child's face. He wiped his eyes and mouth, then stared at the blood on his hands. He rubbed his palms against his legs, but the blood remained-if anything, he'd only managed to spread it. A ghost hadn't chased him after all, but a man with dark skin similar to his own. The man needed his help but he'd failed him, brought him farther into the marsh and closer to his executioners. Jimmie Reynolds laid his body p.r.o.ne on the cold, damp earth, hoping beyond hope never to see those bloodstained fingers again. He closed his eyes and shut his mind to what had happened, then pretended to be dead.

Reynolds woke up in the hospital with Cheryl by his side. The doctor said there were no broken bones but he'd be sore for a couple of weeks. He required several st.i.tches on his forehead from the head b.u.t.t, and he'd been given a prescription for pain, which he refused to fill. He hated medication of any kind, particularly when he needed to think clearly. He didn't want to delay the trial but, under the circ.u.mstances, would request a day or two. He'd ask Judge Tanner to inform the jury he was involved in a minor car accident. Given the number of times his body had struck his vehicle, that would hardly be a lie.

He filled out a police report while still confined to his room and demanded to be released. At six years old, he'd spent a week in the hospital to have his appendix removed. While there, he counted seven people who died-one a day for his entire stay. After that experience, he vowed never to return unless as a visitor. Until tonight, the last time he'd been in a hospital was nine years ago, for the birth of his son.

Cheryl drove her husband home, and he lay down on the couch. She sat on the floor next to him and held his hand.

"Help me up, will ya?" he asked.

"I thought you didn't want to go to bed," she said as she carefully a.s.sisted him to his feet.

"I don't." He walked with some difficulty and proceeded into the kitchen. He opened one of the cabinets but couldn't reach inside because of the soreness of his ribs.

"What do you want?" Cheryl asked, concerned. He looked away. She retrieved the bottle of bourbon and placed it on the counter. "Is that what you think you need?" she asked disappointedly.

Reynolds didn't answer. He took the bottle and removed the top. He moved to the sink and poured the contents down the drain. She watched the last few drops leave the bottle; then he tossed it into the wastebasket.

She moved closer to him and placed her arm around his. "You told me you were going to keep that forever."

"I thought I'd need it that long. But I don't. Not anymore." He walked gingerly to the breakfast table and sat. Cheryl took the seat across from him.

"It always frightened me when you used to wake up in the middle of the night and reach for that bottle."

"Did you think I was gonna drink it?" he asked.