Blood on the Leaves Part 5

"The actors represented on this stage have gender and race in common. They personify the cla.s.sic heroic figure that will seduce you with false images of beauty and morality and tempt you to replace the protective cloak of your heritage and history with a coat not of your making. They'll rob you of your desire to dream and, if you're not careful, capture your very soul."

Watching Matheson from afar, admiring his eloquence, Reynolds felt a nervousness nagging at him. He wondered to what end this teacher would use his extraordinary gifts.

"American cinema, literature, media, history-all have endorsed a code of conduct, a definition of right and wrong, that is embodied in the people we call heroes. And playing those heroes are the white male actors whose images you see before you. They let nothing prevent them from achieving victory, acquiring honor, defending their family, their country, their G.o.d. And they do so by any means necessary."

Matheson scanned the rows of faces in front of him, then shifted his attention to Reynolds for a moment.

"Our heroes-black heroes-aren't accorded the same respect, because they're not allowed the same means to achieve it. White heroes take up arms to battle their enemy while our heroes are expected to turn the other cheek and pray for divine intervention. There are a great many things you can do while on your knees, some of them pleasurable. But, my friends, gaining freedom and fighting for liberty are not high on the list."

Against his better judgment, Reynolds laughed with the students.

Matheson removed his jacket and hung it on the side of the podium. He walked to the edge of the stage and sat down. His legs hung over a shallow orchestra pit that had been converted by his wizardry into a heavenly cloud. "It's time we put our faces up there alongside those white faces that for so long have represented courage in the service of virtue. If our town is being terrorized, then it's imperative we dispatch our black Gary Cooper before the train arrives and the moral clock strikes not high noon but rather darkest midnight."

Reynolds searched the faces of Matheson's adoring students. He had no doubt they'd sacrifice their lives for this man. He worried they might also kill for him.

"Sojourner Truth called attention to the dilemma of race in relation to the obstacles confronting her more advanced white sisters, by uttering her now famous question. She wasn't speaking for herself, but for all black women when she asked, *Ain't I a woman, too?' Well, with all praise to Sojourner, I humbly ask on behalf of our ancestors who were courageous enough to sometimes act cowardly so that we the descendants of their suffering would never have to: America, after all this time, ain't I a hero, too?"

The students leaped to their feet in sustained applause. Matheson also got to his feet and stood motionless, his slight fatigue dissipating as the clapping continued. He nodded an appreciative thank-you, then glanced to the very back row. The seat he focused on was empty. Reynolds was nowhere to be found.

Reynolds didn't know if he should wait any longer or return home. He was unsure why he'd decided to stand outside the auditorium in the first place. Maybe he owed Matheson the courtesy of a good-bye. He took a seat at the bottom of the steps leading to the arts center and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the campus at night. Students were leaving the building from several exits. He wondered if he'd selected the right one. He'd chosen the biggest, grandest portal opening into a lobby as big as a ballroom. Yes, Matheson would choose this path lined with rose petals tossed by young worshipers who would sing his praises as they followed him all the way to his horse-drawn golden chariot.

"You didn't stay to the end of the lecture," Matheson called out heartily.

Reynolds stood and was surprised to see the professor departing alone. The prosecutor smiled. "I'm not big on hero worship."

"Giving or receiving?" Matheson stepped down the stairs.

"You're enjoying all this, aren't you?"

"Immensely." The professor paused for a second. "May I buy you a cappuccino? There's a small cafe just off the campus that's open late."

The two men took a shortcut through the faculty lounge to a staff parking lot and eventually to the rear entrance of the coffee shop. They were served quickly at the professor's own private table. The waitress brought coffee, two slices of pie, and a freshly baked croissant, which emitted the aroma of cinnamon.

They exhausted a few minutes in small talk before Reynolds asked, "What makes someone like you?"

"The same thing that makes someone like you. Nature . . . nurture. Who's to say one's more important than the other?"

"My office was notified you've received death threats."

Matheson stirred his coffee. "It's a violent world."

"You're not worried?"

"My father taught me that death isn't to be feared."

"What else did he teach you?"

"That life is really frightening-although I'm sure he never intended to teach me that. It's a natural by-product of Christian training. Something to do with loving thine enemy while despising yourself." Matheson took a bite of his croissant.

"You don't strike me as a man who despises himself."

"Nor have I ever loved my enemy or blessed those who cursed me. Of all my accomplishments, I'm most proud of that."

A black woman in her fifties approached their table. She dismissed Reynolds with a perfunctory nod, then turned an admiring look at Matheson. "Excuse me, are you the professor who was on television last night?"

"I'm afraid I am."

"I just wanted to tell you how proud it made me feel to see a courageous black man finally stand up for his people. I intend to say a prayer and ask the Lord to keep givin' you whatever strength you'll need to go on teachin' those students the truth."

"That's very kind of you." Matheson seemed genuinely touched.

She smiled, then asked, "Could I impose and ask for your autograph?"

"I'd be both honored and delighted to give you one."

She found a piece of notepaper inside her purse and handed it to him. Reynolds turned away. Matheson removed from his jacket a Mont Blanc fountain pen with a gold inscription down its side, designed especially for him.

"Whom should I make it out to?"

"Calpurnia."

"Like Caesar's wife?" the professor asked with interest.

"I don't know anything about that, but it was a name good enough for my mother, her mother, and the mother before that."

Matheson laughed. "Thanks for reminding me that our contributions predate the Roman Empire."

"Predate everything else if you believe those old bones they dug up in Africa," she said.

Reynolds watched Matheson write his greeting. He'd mastered the art of reading upside down through years of stealing clues from opposing counsel while at the judge's bench, although deciphering Matheson's message from any angle required no deceptive skill. The man's penmanship was eminently legible-one could say, impeccable. G.o.d, Reynolds thought, is there anything this man can't do well?

Matheson wrote, Dear Calpurnia, the real power of magic rests not in what we make disappear, but in what we discover. May your magic never fail you. Always, Martin Matheson.

He gave the woman her paper, which she handled as carefully as the holy scrolls. Thanking him profusely, she left with a glow on her face.

Reynolds looked at Matheson, who acted as if nothing unusual had happened. The professor took a sip of coffee and noticed Reynolds wasn't eating. He pointed to the food.

"You should try the pecan pie; it's to die for."

CHAPTER 12.

REYNOLDS GRIMACED WITH determination and made a frantic dash across the hot clay court. With a desperate heave of his out-of-control body he viciously swung his tennis racket, barely missing the ball. He fell to the ground and slid headfirst, mashing his face into the newly installed white mesh net.

"Game . . . Set . . . Match." On the opposite side of the net Miller raised his racket victoriously toward the sun.

Reynolds rose to one knee and searched his body for any damage.

"A tennis court is different than a court of law," Miller proclaimed.

"Okay, I'll take the bait," Reynolds said, rising to his feet. "How is it different?"

Miller smiled. "The rich and powerful don't always win."

Reynolds stared back at his opponent. "That's it? That's your pearl of wisdom?"

Miller shrugged modestly. "It's also a place where love means nothing-seems a rather hopeless sentiment." With an unsportsmanlike chuckle he added, "As in six-love, the score of our final set!"

Waving off a troublesome gnat, Reynolds began walking away from Miller, who followed alongside. "Oh," Reynolds said, turning to his friend, "Cheryl's invited you to dinner."

"Why?" Miller asked suspiciously.

"Something about wanting our children to be exposed to different cultures, and you're about as different as they come."

"I'll a.s.sume that's a compliment," Miller replied, "but that doesn't ease my fears."

They started toward the back of the court to retrieve their leather bags and check their pagers.

"Is she trying to fix me up again?" Miller asked.

Reynolds laid it on thick. "I can absolutely a.s.sure you my wife has no ulterior motive whatsoever. She wants merely to provide you with a pleasurable dining experience in the company of friends."

"Whenever a lawyer speaks in long sentences without so much as a comma separating his thoughts, it's a clear indication he's got either a weak case or a powerful lie."

Reynolds waved good-bye and quickly made it off the court and into the parking lot.

Miller leaned against the fence to ponder his fate alone.

Miller removed his jacket and leaned close to Reynolds. "It wasn't Cheryl. It was you. That's low even for a prosecutor."

Reynolds took the jacket and hung it inside the hall closet.

"Soup's on," Cheryl announced. She stood next to Lauren Sinclair, who looked radiant and uncomfortable. Cheryl ushered all of them to their seats at the dining room table. She placed Miller next to Angela and directly opposite Sinclair, who sat next to Christopher. Reynolds took his customary position at the head while Cheryl sat at the other end. "Well, don't we make quite the family," she said.

"Cheryl," Miller said, "if you knew my real family, you'd know how happy I'd be to join yours."

Cheryl lifted a gla.s.s of water and held it toward him in a toast. He nodded gratefully, then turned his attention toward Reynolds. "So what's the latest on our esteemed Professor Matheson? I see that the powers that be have failed to silence him."

"Todd," Cheryl intervened, "I'd rather not talk about that in front of the children, if you don't mind."

Miller gave an apologetic nod.

"He's awesome," chimed an enthusiastic Christopher. "I hope he's still teaching when I go to college!"

Cheryl made brief eye contact with Reynolds, who turned toward his son with raised eyebrows. "How much do you know about the professor's cla.s.s?" he asked.

"He's got a list of bad people and G.o.d's punishing them," answered Christopher.

"G.o.d doesn't punish people that way," Cheryl responded.

Angela dived in. "He sends them to h.e.l.l, bucket-breath."

"Does not," replied Christopher.

"Does," answered Angela.

"Does not!"

"Does!"

"That's enough," refereed Cheryl. "You know so much about G.o.d, young man, you can say grace."

Christopher stared at his sister and mouthed the words does not. He bowed his head in prayer. "Dear Lord, thank you for the food we're about to eat and knowing which people to punish and which ones to leave alone." He gave another warning stare at Angela, who turned up her nose, a.s.serting her superiority and defiance. The gathering mumbled, "Amen," and Cheryl pa.s.sed around platters of food.

"James tells me you taught him a lot about the law," Sinclair said to Miller.

Miller nodded. "He would've made a great defense attorney except for one fatal flaw: He had an uncompromising desire to punish people."

"My dad's beaten Mr. Miller twelve court cases in a row," Christopher proclaimed.

"Let's not rub it in," Reynolds interjected. "And it was thirteen," he said with great enjoyment.

"Eleven. I plea-bargained two." Miller placed a spoonful of whipped b.u.t.ter on his corn m.u.f.fin. "So, Lauren, how many innocent people have you successfully persecuted? I meant, prosecuted."

Cheryl placed a bowl of steaming potatoes under his chin, forcing Miller to inhale the aroma. "Mashed-just the way I prefer all my food," he said sincerely.

She dumped three large servings onto his plate. He quietly signaled "enough" and smiled his appreciation.

Angela pa.s.sed a bowl of vegetables to her father without taking any for herself.

"Did you forget to put some of this on your own plate?" he asked.

"I thought since we had guests I should give up my portion," Angela responded sincerely.

"How thoughtful," Miller said. He took the bowl from Reynolds and studied it. "And I bet you really love spinach as much as I do." He pa.s.sed the bowl to Sinclair without taking any.

Angela was reaching for the gravy when Reynolds grabbed her hand. He looked at it carefully, then glanced toward his wife. "Why are her fingernails blue?" He wouldn't let go of her wrist.

"To match her toenails," Cheryl answered.

Angela and her mother both rolled their eyes and uttered the same word, "Duh!"

Releasing Angela's hand, Reynolds lifted the tablecloth and peered underneath the table to check his daughter's feet. He dropped the cloth back into place. "Her toenails are blue." He searched the faces gathered around the table. "Why are my daughter's toenails painted blue?"