Blood on the Leaves Read online

  No. He didn’t need a “cracker sling,” not anymore.

  Matheson’s unsettling suspicions about him and a great many other black men were essentially correct. Their success depended in large part on their ability to restrain themselves. Not with a sling or a harness or a straitjacket but with a barely held silence or a dishonest nod of approval or a bitter-tasting smile that would choke a more honorable person. To Matheson, these upwardly mobile professionals had sacrificed their passion in order to make people who despised them comfortable.

  Reynolds knew that Matheson was right on at least one other subject: Black folks never needed a sling to prevent them from striking out and destroying each other. But there were infinite ways to self-destruct. He couldn’t help but wonder how many good and decent people would be harmed as a result of one professor’s twisted effort to make history accessible to the masses.

  Reynolds pulled into his driveway and turned off the car engine but left the battery engaged. He sat motionless, listening to the music playing on his radio. He recognized the melody as a Miles Davis tune and remembered an interview the legend had given several years before his death. A reporter asked how Davis would spend his time if he had only one hour to live. Miles answered, “I’d choke a white man to death, slowly.”

  Reynolds laughed when he first heard the story, as had, no doubt, many other black men who’d heard the tale. He still recalled Cheryl’s response when he relayed the comment to her. “My God, how tragic.” She shook her head in disbelief and repeated, “How incredibly tragic.” He knew then and there why he loved her so much, and he feared what he might become without her and their children in his life.

  He noticed Cheryl standing under the light at the front entrance to their home. She smiled and waved. Witnessing those two actions, he knew he’d be able to set aside the burdens of the moment. He knew, too, that he’d make love to his wife tonight. What he didn’t know was that the lovemaking would be especially passionate and would last much longer than usual.

  CHAPTER 25

  THE FOOTHILLS OF the Appalachian Mountains, located in the northeastern corner of the state, offered budding geologists unlimited research opportunities. Students took advantage of the varied terrain, studying the massive boulders and spying on unsuspecting college girls who sometimes swam nude in the bubbling streams and clear lakes just beneath the rocky outcroppings. This area was far removed from the harsh realities of urban life. In the distance the legendary Delta blues seemed to start from a steep bluff and drop off sharply in a deep, mournful wail. Heavyhearted lyrics conjured images of flat and fertile land where a more optimistic future might be found.

  In between the towering pines and rugged hardwoods that laced either side of the riverbank, a father paddled a canoe while telling favorite stories to his seven-year-old son. Yoknapatawpha County may have existed in the imagination of William Faulkner, he said, but every proud and loyal Mississippian had a piece of that fictitious land in his heart. He spoke of the king of rock ’n’ roll with a special reverence. Elvis had grown up in a humble two-room home not far away in Tupelo, but he’d proved the American dream possible. The boy knew this already and really wanted to hear about the Indians who’d once inhabited the region. “Did they really take your scalp and eat the hearts of their victims?”

  His father laughed. He assured his son it was all true but told him not to worry. “The savages were defeated long ago, and the ones who managed to survive have been civilized.”

  The young boy asked what “civilized” meant.

  “Tame, no longer a threat or danger,” his father replied.

  He thought about his dad’s answer, then asked if he could help paddle. His father smiled proudly and handed him the oars. “Steady strokes,” he ordered. “Just keep moving them together.”

  The boy tried valiantly, but one oar always made it back before the other, forcing the canoe to move in ever widening circles. Frustrated, he yanked the resistant oar with both hands and brought to the surface a bloated and decayed human torso.

  Several hours later, federal agents and local police were sprinkled throughout Natchez Trace National Parkway, searching for evidence in marshy habitats that offered a haven to waterfowl and other seemingly protected species.

  “The body discovered this morning in a lake just outside Oxford has been identified as Theo Crockett, who’s been missing since early September,” Vanzant read from a prepared statement into a collection of microphones. The DA’s press facilities didn’t have sufficient space to accommodate the large group of reporters, forcing many to view the proceedings on a monitor in an adjoining meeting room.

  “This brings the total number of homicides associated with the so-called unsolved civil rights murders to six. A seventh potential victim, Travis Mitchell of Polarville, remains missing.” He looked into a crowd ready to pounce at the first opportunity. “I’ll be happy to answer a few questions.”

  “Mr. Vanzant!” a woman shouted. “Have murder charges been brought against Brandon Hamilton for the death of Earvin Cooper, and is he also a suspect in any other of these killings?”

  “At this time I’m not at liberty to discuss any charges that have been or may be filed against Mr. Hamilton or anyone else.”

  “Can you tell us the status of police investigations into the murders?” asked a reporter from the state’s largest daily.

  “The police have worked tirelessly on this case from the very beginning. They’re coordinating forensic efforts with state and federal law enforcement with the full cooperation of our office.” Vanzant looked into the news cameras with the assurance of an old pro. “Evidence is being collected and analyzed that will greatly assist us in apprehending, prosecuting, and convicting the person or persons involved in these cowardly acts of violence.”

  “Does your office plan any action against Professor Matheson?” shouted a voice from the back of the room.

  “As of this moment, Professor Matheson hasn’t violated any law. However, I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that he bears moral responsibility for these senseless killings as well as the pain and suffering inflicted upon all decent, law-abiding citizens throughout this state. I’ll take one more question.”

  “Is it true your office pressured the university to stop Dr. Matheson from continuing to teach his courses?” asked a black reporter who’d pushed his way to the front.

  “My office isn’t in the business of pressuring the university or any other institution. But the mere fact that public funds are used to pay the professor’s salary, which enables him to continue preaching hate and possibly advocating or inciting violence, is both a travesty and a tragedy. I’m hopeful trustees of the university will work with our legislators to correct that as quickly as possible.”

  In a sudden burst of flashbulbs, Vanzant concluded the session and headed quickly to the exit.

  A group of white protestors carried signs outside the university’s humanities building that read, STOP PREACHING HATE, NO MORE VIOLENCE, TIME TO FORGIVE, and MATHESON’S THE REAL RACIST. A growing number of black students angrily encircled the group. Posters were forcefully ripped away, and several physical confrontations ensued. Campus security requested assistance from local authorities, which had started to arrive in patrol cars and police vans just as the violence broke out. They rushed to the scene with batons raised, but the black students immediately pulled back when Matheson appeared at the doorway’s entrance and ordered them to stop. He walked down the steps and approached the police.

  “Hey, Professor!” someone called out. Matheson saw a white man in his early thirties appear from the middle of the crowd. He moved closer and spit in the professor’s face.

  Matheson quickly grabbed the man by the throat and spun him around. He slapped the man hard across his cheek and pinned him against a tree. “This isn’t the Civil Rights era!” he said a few inches from the terrified man’s face. “And I’m not my father!” Matheson pressed the man against the tree. “You understand?” The man no
dded, and the professor slowly let go.

  The white demonstrators stood in stunned disbelief. The black students proudly exchanged smiles. Matheson removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped off the spit. Two policemen walked steadily toward him.

  “Professor Matheson,” called out the larger one.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re under arrest.”

  Matheson tossed the handkerchief in a trash receptacle. “The man spat on me. If you want to arrest someone, I suggest—”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the reason you’re being taken into custody, Professor.” The second policeman, a young black officer, spoke softly and respectfully.

  Some black students slowly began to surround the police while others moved to protect Matheson. The professor calmly raised his hand and signaled for them to relax. “These men are only doing their duty. It can be a burdensome task, but if my father were here I’m certain he’d remind us, ‘This, too, shall pass.’”

  Regina and Delbert moved closer to their professor’s side. Matheson looked at the students. He glanced at the humanities building and quickly scanned the adjacent area. He turned to the police. “Officers, I’m ready if you are.”

  The police led him away as most of the students stood silently and watched. Delbert moved from Regina and struck the demonstrator who had spit on the professor. Campus security converged on the two men and separated them before any more punches were thrown.

  Cheryl sat motionless on the edge of the couch, eyes intently watching the black female reporter who appeared on her television screen. “In a stunning development, Professor Martin Matheson, son of prominent minister and civil rights leader the Reverend Samuel Matheson, was today arrested and charged with the murder of Earvin Cooper.

  “Unnamed sources close to the investigation have confirmed that personal property belonging to Professor Matheson was found at Cooper’s murder scene. Also discovered was blood evidence linking Matheson to the crime.”

  The front door opened, and Reynolds walked in, carrying his briefcase and looking morose.

  The reporter continued, “District Attorney Melvin Vanzant refused to rule out filing additional murder indictments. And when asked about—” Reynolds turned off the television.

  “My God, James, this is impossible. There’s no way I’m ever going to believe Martin’s capable of murdering a bunch of old men. They’re harassing him over teaching those courses, and it’s unfair. Isn’t there anything you—”

  “Cheryl, we need to talk.” Reynolds placed his briefcase on the coffee table and sat on the couch next to his wife.

  “This doesn’t make any sense. Why, after all this time, would he kill any of those people?”

  “I’ll have to answer that to the satisfaction of a jury of his peers.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been assigned the case.”

  CHAPTER 26

  MILLER WALKED DOWN the prison hallway flanked by two white guards. They’d been polite in the past, even jovial, but not tonight. Miller lightly touched his handkerchief to his forehead, wiping off some perspiration. His stomach churned, and the muscles in his back tightened. It had been a long time since his body reacted this anxiously to meeting anyone, particularly a client.

  They reached a narrow room with a large, thick glass partition reinforced by steel mesh. An armed guard remained stationed inside a security area. When he saw Miller, he electronically buzzed the gated door. One of the police officers held it open until Miller entered. The door shut, and he discovered Matheson, seated patiently at a table that was bolted securely to the floor. Miller placed his briefcase on the metal bench and sat opposite Matheson.

  “Why’d you ask for me?”

  “You had the most colorful ad in the yellow pages.”

  “I don’t advertise.”

  “You’re still the most colorful. I think it only appropriate that a white lawyer defend me.”

  “In the event you’re convicted, you’ll have an entire system to blame,” theorized Miller.

  “That’ll give you additional incentive to win. You get to free me and absolve the system at the same time. Who knows? You may even find salvation for yourself.” Matheson studied Miller for a moment. “I researched your background; you have an interesting family history.”

  “I don’t think I like you very much.” Miller waited for a response.

  Matheson shrugged. “Could give you greater credibility with the jury. They’d see you disagreed with my methods but believed in my innocence.”

  Miller unlocked and flipped opened his briefcase. “While you were conducting your research on me, did you happen to notice I marched with your father several times?”

  “You must’ve gotten terribly tired,” said Matheson, smiling. “So, tell me, after you became a missionary were your feelings hurt by the natives when they rejected your teachings?”

  Miller bit down slightly on his lip. “If this is your way of ingratiating yourself, it’s actually working.” He removed a pencil and yellow pad from his case. “You want to talk about your trial now, or should we continue walking down memory lane?”

  Matheson relaxed against his chair. “After I plead not guilty at the arraignment, I want to waive the preliminary.”

  “I advise against that,” warned Miller. “Any lawyer would.” He wrote a note on his paper. “You can learn a great deal about the prosecution’s strategy.”

  “Their strategy is to convict me. Mine is to get out of here. We go straight to trial,” Matheson stated emphatically.

  “I took the liberty of checking with the DA’s office before coming here. They’re running tests on the dynamite caps found in your garage. If they match with Rankin’s car bombing . . .”

  “I bought them at a construction supplier. They’re not difficult to purchase.”

  “Two dozen special agents are investigating every move you’ve made in the last six months. They found gasoline receipts that place you in Greenville the day Taylor and Hopkins were lynched.”

  “I was in Dallas the day Kennedy got assassinated. They gonna blame me for that, too?”

  “How old were you?”

  “Five. I was a deadly shot with a water pistol.” Matheson looked at the window and saw both officers peering through the glass. He gave a friendly wave. The two men turned their backs on him. “So far, you’ve given me more incentive to act expeditiously. The longer I’m confined, the greater the likelihood I’ll be charged with additional murders. Let’s get this one settled as quickly as possible.”

  “If you’re found not guilty, they can turn around and indict you on the others. Even if you manage to win this case, there’s no guarantee you’ll be released for long.”

  “If they choose to pursue me after my acquittal, then their real motivations will be clear to everyone. When that happens, they won’t find any person foolish enough to do their dirty work, not even our mutual friend Mr. Reynolds.”

  “You really did do your homework on me. I’m impressed.”

  “I’m in the profession of dispensing assignments; I ought to be able to do my own when the occasion demands.” He handed Miller a sheet of paper. “That’s a list of some students who can assist you. Typing, research, whatever you need. I’ve already asked one of them to put together a photographic display.”

  “Of what?”

  “The pictures I distribute to my class. If the prosecution’s going to show graphic photos of the murder victim, I want to even the score for the jury.”

  Miller briefly studied the information. “Looks like you’ve been planning your defense for quite a while.”

  “It pays to anticipate your adversary’s next move.”

  “What gives me the feeling you’ve anticipated the next three or four?” Miller asked.

  “Because you’re the lawyer I knew you’d be,” responded Matheson. “Insightful and committed to fighting injustice wherever you find it.”

  “Did you want to write
my opening statement?”

  “No, but I’d like to review it. Feel free to drop it off any night—I’m up late.”

  Miller smiled to himself and shook his head in disbelief. “What made you so sure I’d take your case?”

  “Cases like these are as rare as, oh, shall we say, white southern-born liberals.” Matheson closed Miller’s briefcase and leaned it against the table leg. “I knew you’d take it, because you’ve been waiting for it all your life.”

  Maybe it was the smugness of the observation or the accuracy of his insight or a combination of both, but Miller now knew he didn’t like Matheson one single bit. But it didn’t matter. He’d represent him. He’d cut off his left arm for the chance.

  “In addition to your services on my behalf, I’d also like you to represent a student of mine. He was arrested for Cooper’s murder, and since they’ve now accused me, I see no reason why they need to detain him any further.” He handed Miller a sealed envelope. “All the information’s in there. I’ll be happy to secure his bail—put up my home as collateral if necessary.”

  “You may need that for your own bond,” suggested Miller.

  Matheson laughed.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “Not even the most devout liberal can be that naive.”

  “Try me.”

  Matheson reached out and touched Miller’s arm. “They’ve no intention of releasing me. They wanted to find a way to lock me up and they’ve accomplished that. There’s no chance I’ll leave this place unless a jury orders it. It’s your job to get the jury to do what the state finds far too dangerous.” Matheson stood and signaled that the meeting was over. “Convince them to give me my freedom, Mr. Miller.”