Blood on the Leaves Part 9

Her eyes closed briefly. She opened them and spoke softly. "Whatever my grandfather did when he was young, I know he's paid for it every day. I only hope, Professor, that you'll suffer as much for your sins."

He remained motionless for several moments after she left. When he finally moved, he became aware for the first time of her perfume. The fragrance reminded him of the bath bubbles his mother used to pour into the water; as a child he refused to wash unless the cherry-vanilla bubbles overflowed the top of the tub. He hadn't thought about that for many years. His mother had left him before he turned eight. From that point on, he took showers.

He returned to his desk and picked up the folder. It felt heavy. He removed a photo of Grayson and stared at his face. Melissa had her grandfather's eyes and mouth. He wondered what else she'd inherited. He closed the folder without replacing the photo, which he slowly tore in two.

CHAPTER 18.

EARVIN COOPER RACED out of his home brandishing an ax handle. "Get the h.e.l.l away from here!" he shouted at the two young black men on his front lawn.

Delbert held the base of a signpost as Brandon finished hammering it into the ground. Delbert headed quickly away but stopped when he noticed Brandon hadn't followed.

Cooper stood face to face with the powerfully built black who was calmly holding a hammer. "Take that thing out my lawn," Cooper said without looking at the sign.

"Take it out yourself," Brandon responded. "If you don't know what to do with it, maybe you can burn it. You're pretty good with fire, aren't you, Mr. Cooper?"

Cooper gripped the ax handle and raised it a few inches. Brandon waited patiently and tapped the hammer against his side twice.

Delbert joined Brandon. "We better go," he said.

"Better listen to your friend and get your black a.s.ses off my property," Cooper warned. "Or you can come back later and I'll have more than this stick in my hand."

"Maybe I'll just do that," answered Brandon. "You be sure to be here and welcome me yourself."

"I'll be here, boy. You can count on it."

Brandon and Delbert proceeded to the car parked across the street. Cooper followed a safe distance behind and scribbled the license plate number on his hand. Brandon sped off, his tires kicking up dirt and gravel.

After the car disappeared, Cooper returned to the signpost and read: A MURDERER LIVES HERE BUT NOT FOR LONG. He stared at the sign, then placed both fists around the ax handle and began hacking the sign into pieces.

CHAPTER 19.

THE LITTLE BOY outran the sounds of terror that drowned out the steady pounding in his small chest. But he couldn't outrace his fear or the b.l.o.o.d.y fingers reaching for him. He closed his eyes and tasted the salt from his tears and prayed his suffering would be short. He couldn't tell if his legs were still moving. The punishing earth beneath his feet had long ago numbed his lower body. He felt slender fingers on his shoulders. With one last effort at courage he opened his eyes and unsuccessfully attempted to scream. He turned and frantically pounded the black man's chest. The boy heard dozens of rapidly approaching footsteps finally coming to his rescue. He saw the blazing cross and felt a sense of relief followed by exhilaration. He relaxed his fists and stared at his hands, which were now stained with blood.

Reynolds awoke to find Matheson patiently standing over him.

"I hope I didn't startle you." Matheson stepped to the side and let the sun blind Reynolds. "Your wife told me I could find you here."

Reynolds slipped out of the hammock that hung comfortably between two large trees in his backyard. "Don't tell her I wasn't raking leaves." He did a stretching exercise to loosen up the tightness in his shoulders.

"Your secret's good with me," Matheson said, then stepped back into the sunlight. "You looked distressed. I imagine prosecutors often have problems sleeping well."

"We sleep just fine, especially when we put away the bad guys. Must've been something I ate. Chili peppers usually make me toss and turn." Reynolds smiled politely. "So, why are you visiting me on such a lovely Sat.u.r.day afternoon?"

"I was hoping you might join me for a casual ride around town. Give us a chance to chat, get to know each other."

Reynolds c.o.c.ked an eyebrow and tried to read Matheson's face. He considered the invitation, then shrugged. "Sure, let's go for it."

The two men drove for twenty minutes. Luckily, Matheson owned a terrific sound system along with musical selections that made conversation unnecessary. Reynolds was equally impressed with the car, an immaculate cla.s.sic Mercedes convertible two-seater.

"You must spend a small fortune keeping this car in mint condition. What is it, a sixty-seven?"

"Sixty-eight. Actually, I have a new one, but I like to take this out on weekends."

"Didn't know being a professor was that lucrative."

"I supplement my salary with books and lectures. But the real reason I drive expensive cars is, I enjoy p.i.s.sing off my colleagues." Matheson turned off the radio. "It's amazing the difficulty some folks have accepting a black man's success."

"Who would've thought?" Reynolds said.

"Thought what?"

"That you'd enjoy p.i.s.sing people off."

Matheson laughed and inserted a new CD.

Reynolds smiled and leaned back, gently touching the headrest. "Where are we going?"

"To the hood, James. To the hood." Matheson pressed down on the accelerator, and the car's speed increased quickly, forcing Reynolds to sit more rigidly against the red-leather bucket seat.

They drove through West Jackson, Reynolds quietly viewing the barricaded stores and abandoned buildings along Lynch and Maple and Sunset Avenue. They arrived at a street called Hope, but there was little of it for the men who stood at the corner, waiting for darkness to arrive. Reynolds knew these folks intimately. He prosecuted them every day. They were the human signposts whose messages were long ago read and deemed unimportant. Day or night, they waited in front of boarded-up businesses that had deserted them along with any dreams they might have had for a future.

The only playground in the neighborhood had been designated too dangerous for children and was confiscated by young men with neither fear nor anything else of value to lose. During the day they sprinted back and forth on an asphalt court shooting jump shots; at night they shot dope or each other. Freedom didn't exist here. Even the nets that hung from the basketball hoops were made of steel chains that clanged instead of swished whenever a ball fell through their rusted links.

Reynolds and Matheson exited the Mercedes and stood next to each other. A young black girl, no older than eight, walked toward the opposite corner. Matheson watched her as he spoke to Reynolds. "You see that girl across the street?"

"Yeah."

The girl greeted two older boys, who followed her into an abandoned building.

"You might as well arrest her now," Matheson said softly.

"She guilty of a crime?"

"She's beautiful. That can be the ultimate crime on these streets. Or an invitation to commit one."

"If anybody's inviting a crime, it's not that little girl. It's you," Reynolds responded with a degree of anger that surprised him.

Matheson remained calm. "One rich, used-up ex-athlete with a penchant for white powder and whiter women gets acquitted, and the whole country loses its collective mind and vows to reform the legal system while making his life miserable. You have any idea what a two-hundred-year system of jury nullification has done to this community?"

"I know about poverty, Martin. About hopelessness and fear and the crimes that stem from them." Reynolds waited in vain for Matheson to look at him. "If you brought me here to show me that, then you're wasting your time. I sure as h.e.l.l don't need a lecture from you about being black or poor."

"I didn't bring you here for a lecture, James. I brought you here to see what we've created. Broken buildings, broken lives, broken promises. One envelope with a trace of a biological or chemical weapon can send an entire country into hysteria, but we flood this place with drugs and guns and terror and n.o.body gives a d.a.m.n!"

"Killing a bunch of old white men is gonna change that?"

"Somebody's got to make the people who live here believe their lives are important, that you can't destroy them without paying a price. Sandburg once said, *Slums always seek their revenge.'" Matheson looked across the street. "Sometimes they need to be pointed in the right direction."

The young girl exited the building carrying a small plastic bag in her hand. She hustled down the street and met an older woman who took the bag from her. They dashed across a vacant lot and moved behind a large trash bin. A few moments later a car pulled out, driven by a black man. The woman had joined two men in the rear seat. The girl sat in the pa.s.senger seat, her face pressed against the gla.s.s, looking at Reynolds as the car sped past.

Matheson walked behind Reynolds and onto the basketball court. The men stopped playing and approached with wide grins. Reynolds watched them exchange a variety of soul handshakes and slaps and fist-knockings with the professor. One of the men tossed the ball to Matheson, who quickly hit a fadeaway jump shot from just inside the three-point line.

"Doctor Knowledge, you ready to shoot some hoops for real?" the man asked. "I can get you some sneaks, and if you wanna play for money, I can even make sure they fit."

"Jerome, you know I don't want to take advantage of your youth and inexperience," Matheson joked.

"If you beat me, I'll sign up for some of those courses at the college just like you want."

"Education is not for the vanquished, Jerome. Enlightenment is neither a by-product nor a reward for losing."

"Tell the truth!" someone shouted.

"Truth is like history. It's defined by the people who win." Matheson took a step toward Jerome. "When you're ready to experience that type of victory, I'll enroll you myself."

One of the younger men retrieved the ball and tossed it to Jerome. He dribbled it twice, then wrapped both arms around the ball, holding it firmly to his chest. "If we lived on the bottom of the ocean"-Jerome looked at Matheson with admiration-"none of us would be as deep as you, my brother." He gripped the ball with one hand and with the other saluted the professor.

"I'm coming back tomorrow," Matheson warned. "Be sure to practice that pitiful thing you call a hook shot."

"You just pump up those Air Nikes you got. Last time you jumped I almost saw the ground." Jerome laughed, then looked over at Reynolds. "He a friend of yours, Doctor?"

"In time, Jerome." Matheson gave a rea.s.suring nod to Reynolds. "In time."

Matheson walked away from the men, who immediately returned to their game. Jerome received a hard body check under the basket and threw an elbow that connected on someone's chin.

Reynolds watched for a moment, then addressed Matheson. "Somehow I thought you were preparing to challenge me one-on-one."

"I'm sure that would make some people happy. But I'd rather have you on the same team, James." Matheson looked at Reynolds and spoke seriously. "I mean that."

"I hope that's possible, Martin. I really do."

"You don't sound terribly optimistic," Matheson replied.

"I learned a long time ago never to predict a jury verdict. I've been surprised by the outcome too many times."

"And disappointed?" Matheson asked.

"On occasion, even heartbroken."

"That could be a good sign. It means you have a heart. Although it does depend somewhat on the reason for your grief." Matheson turned his body to the side and leaned closer to Reynolds. "Just exactly who do you cry for, James?"

"I cry for the victim, Martin."

"Then we have more in common than I'd hoped." Matheson gave Reynolds a rea.s.suring pat on the shoulder and walked to the street corner. Reynolds looked back at the basketball scrimmage, which had turned even more intense. For a moment he thought being a part of that game might be preferable to joining the professor on some unknown journey. He hesitated, then followed Matheson down Hope.

"Are we going someplace in particular?" Reynolds asked.

"We are someplace, James." Matheson stopped. "It's called the future. Unless we change it." He resumed walking.

"You gonna leave your car there?" Reynolds asked as they were about to turn the corner.

"If you're not safe among your people, you're not safe anywhere."

"I take it that means you're covered by theft insurance," said Reynolds.

"With no deductible," confided Matheson, flashing a generous smile. "Come on, I'll treat you to lunch."

Reynolds shrugged. I've come this far; might as well go the whole nine yards.

The two men ate at a local soul food luncheonette. The woman who ran the place with her two sons knew Matheson and served him extra-large portions. The aroma of barbecued chicken and hickory-smoked ribs permeated the tiny establishment, which had a small eat-in counter and three lopsided wooden tables with bench chairs. Most of the people who entered came for takeout and didn't have to suffer the lack of air-conditioning.

Reynolds sat in a cramped s.p.a.ce near a portable fan blowing warm air from a side window. Matheson kept his back to the door, making it easier for patrons to give him an affectionate pat on the shoulder or offer a congratulatory "Go get 'em, Doc" or "We're with you all the way."

"How's your brisket?" Matheson asked.

"Delicious," Reynolds replied between bites. "I haven't tasted greens and corn bread this good since . . . Well, now that I think of it, I don't remember if I've ever tasted them this good."

"There's a lot of love in this place, James. And every bit of it goes into what Eunice Williams calls down-home cookin'."

"You've known her a long time?"

"Her mother operated a diner sixty years ago and pa.s.sed on the family recipes to Eunice, who's been teaching her sons, who will teach their daughters, and so the tradition lives on." Matheson drank some ice-cold lemonade. "My father used to come here when he was young. This whole area consisted of shops, restaurants, and theaters-all owned and operated at one time by black folks. Now this is the only shop that remains. Everybody else went the way of the dinosaurs, except it wasn't fire and floods that did them in but the ravages of a poorly conceived integration strategy."

"I doubt your father would consider himself a contributor to their extinction."

"I'm certain he wouldn't. But that doesn't change the reality of what we gave up to get to where we now are."

"You seem to be doing just fine," Reynolds countered. He ate some greens and savored the taste while waiting for the fencing match to continue. For some reason, it stopped.

"James, I really didn't want this afternoon to deteriorate into our rather counterproductive t.i.t-for-tats. I'm more guilty of instigating those arguments than you are, and I apologize."

Reynolds felt uncomfortable. He could handle an arrogant Matheson, but the humble version made him nervous.

"More than anything else," continued the professor, "I'd like you to understand what I'm doing."

Reynolds set his knife and fork on the table and searched for an appropriate response. "Martin, what troubles me most is your indifference to ruining the lives of the very students you claim to care so much about. One or more of them is probably committing these murders, and you-"

"I know my students aren't responsible for any of those deaths, James. And I'll take that knowledge to my grave."