Blood on the Leaves Page 17

  They listened attentively to the professor and often took extensive notes that they later studied and often committed to memory. Each subsequent question-and-answer period lasted increasingly longer. Matheson encouraged the men to seek answers within the group and to take comfort in the knowledge they weren’t alone in their problems or in the common struggle to find meaningful solutions.

  The guards allowed the meetings to go beyond designated time curfews since to do otherwise risked negative reactions from those present. Black guards volunteered for extra duty on nights the professor conducted his business. On more than one occasion, what Matheson said to the men or what they said to him moved a few officers to tears.

  As the trial date approached, the prisoners became increasingly anxious regarding Matheson’s future. While they wished him freedom, they also thought about their own lives and the possibility of enduring prison without him. He’d promised not to forget them, but they’d heard that before, from spouses and mothers and brothers and children who’d suddenly stopped visiting or writing or accepting collect phone calls. They were related by blood and yet had been abandoned, betrayed. They’d no such claim on the professor, so “why should he be any different?” they asked.

  “Because he is,” the Muslim told his fellow inmates. “Because he is.”

  They nodded in agreement and shared a prayer.

  CHAPTER 31

  REYNOLDS LOST TRACK of the time he’d been in his den reviewing the photos taken from Matheson’s home. It had been dark outside when he started, but now the sunlight forced him to close the drapes.

  When he’d first sat down, he removed everything from his desktop except for a lamp. He opened several photo albums and stacked them on top of each other. He selected pictures from the largest one and spread them out in front of him so he could take notes. He didn’t write a single word for a long while. He didn’t do much of anything except stare at the gallery that lay before him.

  He didn’t want to stare at the photos, but the harder he tried to look away, the longer the horror held him, drawing him closer to a place he feared he’d never leave. The images had a hypnotic quality. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he saw the victims’ eyes move to avoid his, as though they were ashamed of their bodies now contorted by an unprovoked collision with hate. Their deaths were grotesque, yet in their anguish he found a stunning silence that converted rage into an illusion of peace.

  It was odd—remarkable, even—that once emotions moved beyond terror and sadness, something indescribably beautiful entered. Perhaps it was faith, or maybe a profound connection with the oneness, the sacredness, of life. Whatever it might be, this much was certain: It raced to fill the void that, if allowed to exist a moment too long, would be occupied forever by madness. He understood that no one with an ounce of passion could study these photos without being consumed by them. And once they absorbed your spirit, it would be difficult if not impossible ever again to distinguish between vengeance and honor.

  Reynolds touched the first picture and paused briefly over each body. He went on to the next, then the next, continuing until he felt them die again. He caressed each frozen image: someone’s child, somebody’s father, a wedding ring on a charred finger, a face without eyes, an infant savagely separated from its mother’s protective womb with one merciless swing of an ax, destroying any chance that it might survive long enough to learn why it was despised with such viciousness.

  He turned the pages of one album to reveal additional atrocities so great they numbed his senses. That very numbing provided him the necessary power and courage to proceed. He saw a woman and her son hanging perfectly still from the same bridge that once connected and often welcomed strangers to a safe harbor and the community they’d desired to call home. Their necks were bent and broken. The sides of their faces touched their shoulders, seeking support or comfort but finding only despair.

  He saw what was left of a man roasted alive. His blood had been boiled so hot by the burning embers of hatred that it exploded and splattered a crowd still busy distributing severed fingers and other prized body parts as souvenirs.

  He stared at a bent serrated knife usually reserved for splitting and gutting hogs. It protruded from a young girl’s abdomen. An oversized corkscrew of twisted steel had punctured her thighs numerous times and ripped away her flesh and muscles by repeatedly pulling out large chunks of her body. Her insides were randomly flung across the earth like red-stained ripened crops to be harvested by the devil himself.

  He traced the scars on the back of a young boy whipped to death then mutilated beyond recognition except for the remains of his skull. It had been fractured with such force that one eye dangled outside its socket while the other lay buried beneath a blood-soaked eyelid swollen shut by the brutality of what it had seen.

  He’d become a vulture cautiously circling to inspect the dead and dying before acquiring the nerve to move more closely and feast off their remains. Was he violating them, or paying tribute? He turned his attention away from the victims and studied the crowds, whose only apparent anxiety came from the fear they wouldn’t be included in any subsequent photos taken near their slaughtered prey. Their frenzied white faces blended into one lurid and psychotic smile, which transformed a scene of debauchery into a tragic rendering that made forgiveness impossible and the future unworthy of hope.

  What would possess a group of people, even one that had become a vile mob, to descend into such a deep depravity that they’d invite their own children to attend and actively participate in the butchering of a human life, then proudly pose so that the evil act might be recorded forever, if not in the annals of history, then at least in their cherished family albums?

  Reynolds waited for an answer but knew none would be forthcoming no matter how many pictures he studied or how long he stayed in this photographic mausoleum of the violated and defiled. He wanted to cry somehow, but couldn’t. He wanted to kill someone, but that would make him just like the smiling white men he now despised. He thought of his precious children and wondered what he’d have done had their faces been among the victims in these photographs. He had no doubt he was capable of killing anyone who harmed his family; the only question was how long he’d make them suffer.

  So, if he’d do that for his children, why wouldn’t he do it for the children in these pictures, or for the fathers and mothers who would never hold them again? Weren’t their lives important, too, their suffering worthy of redress? And if he failed to protect them, wouldn’t all children, including his own, be less safe? What if Matheson had in fact freed him from the obligation of ever having to answer those questions for himself? Did that make the professor a criminal, or did it turn Reynolds and countless others like him, who substituted outrage for action, into cowards?

  He delicately arranged the photos in three equally spaced rows that formed one large, shattered portrait of pain. This time the eyes of the dead refused to turn away, forcing him now to feel ashamed. The image slowly blurred as the newly created mosaic of murdered men, women, and children began to be filtered through the tears of a prosecutor whose duty required him to punish them again. Except now, he’d rob them of their right to feel vindicated by denouncing, then penalizing the only person in this world who’d convinced them their lives mattered and their deaths merited avenging.

  He would represent the people of the state of Mississippi and seek justice against Matheson in a court of law, but who would speak for the people in these photos to defend and uphold a theory of justice that never encompassed them? Who would explain why their murderers were being accorded greater protections in death than these victims ever had in life? The first teardrop fell, followed by the second, then the third, and Reynolds pushed away the photos to protect them from further distress.

  He turned off the small table lamp, leaned back into his chair, and thought of a sociology exam he took in college. He was asked the definition of a societal problem. He answered, “Something bad that happens to white people.�
�� Once again, society would vent its outrage at the murder of whites while ignoring the history that got them killed. This time he wouldn’t let that happen. Somehow, he’d find a way to give these black people a voice, to see to it that someone wept for them, too.

  He would call them as prime witnesses, resurrected examples of what can happen to a justice system when it devalues certain lives and, in the process, creates a monster that owes its allegiance to no one, not even to the thing that created it. Reynolds would slay that monster once and for all. It was the only way he knew how to honor them, by honoring the sanctity of life. Matheson had violated that sanctity, and in so doing had betrayed the very people he purported to avenge. And for that, Reynolds would make him pay.

  He closed his eyes and invited the testimony of those who’d waited so long to have someone call their name with the respect they deserved. Reynolds couldn’t leave quite yet. He needed a little more time alone with them in the darkness, where he might better experience their torment in an effort to bring closure to his own.

  Cheryl found her husband sitting on the porch. She’d fallen asleep waiting for him to finish his work. When she awoke and saw that his pillow had never been used, she knew exactly where to find him.

  “Want some company?”

  He never looked at her but nodded yes.

  She sat next to him and took his hand. “You don’t need to be the one doing this, you know.”

  “I don’t want a white person bringing him to justice.”

  “Why not?” she asked, surprised. “You think the community won’t accept a guilty verdict if it comes as a result of a white prosecutor?”

  “The community’s not likely to accept the verdict no matter who’s assigned the case. I just don’t want the lead prosecutor to be white. Something about that would seem unfair.”

  “Unfair?” She let go of his hand and gave him some space.

  “Maybe ironic is a better word. White prosecutors never really went after the murderers of those black folk. If they go after him with all their energy and the full force of the law, it would be like the victims were being lynched all over again.”

  “And if you do it, won’t it be the same, maybe even worse?”

  He still hadn’t looked at her. “If I do it, I do it for them. In a strange way, I feel like I’m representing them, too.” He gave a tired smile and finally turned to face her.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “About my dad. He used to say you have to be twice as good as the white man to be treated the same. Even then, they’d go to their grave before acknowledging you might be equal to them, let alone better.”

  “I hate to be the one to break this to you, James,” she said, touching his arm. “But all black parents tell their children that. Sometimes they don’t mention color—by the time you’ve reached five or six, they assume you can figure out some essential things on your own.” She nudged him playfully, but he stared at the floor.

  “You believe that stuff about the oppressed always being better off than their oppressors?” he asked.

  “In this world or the next?” she asked half teasingly.

  “This one,” he said, remaining serious.

  She thought about it for a moment. “I guess I do. Spiritually—maybe in other ways, too.” She studied him. “Is that why it has to be you? You want to prove we’re better?”

  “I wanna prove there’s nothing wrong with justice—the problem exists with some of the people who’ve administered it. And those black people who suffered, they have to know they died for a reason. To make it right.” He looked at her again. “To make the system work, for everybody.”

  “James . . .” She hesitated for a moment. “How can you be so sure he did it?”

  “Because I would have, too.” He moved closer to her. “If I’d been him and spent all that time studying the anguish and the pain and the brutality and not had anyone to pull me back from the abyss of raw hatred . . .” He rubbed his face with his hands. “I hope to God I never get that close to the edge.”

  “I don’t think you could ever change into someone I couldn’t love,” Cheryl said very quietly.

  “You couldn’t love me if I turned into a murderer.”

  “If you turned into that, you’d no longer be the person I married.” She removed a piece of lint from his shirt. “You’d be a stranger to me, our children, most of all to yourself.”

  “I’ve tried over thirty murder cases in the last ten years. You know how many were death penalty?”

  “Seven,” she quickly answered.

  He smiled. Of course she knew, he thought to himself. He’d been a nightmare to live with during each one. “No matter how vicious the crime or repulsive the act, I always understood how someone could be that sick, could murder another human being. That demon exists in all of us if pushed far enough.” He leaned back against the wooden post. “I’ve seen it in the faces of some of the most contemptible men ever convicted. But here’s the really scary part: I’ve also seen it when I’ve looked at the relatives of the victims. All that rage needing to be released.”

  “Why are you putting yourself through this?”

  “Because I’m afraid what Matheson did really is the norm. He tapped into some insanity that makes it all right to hate the hater and feel vindicated.” He took a deep breath and looked beyond the boundaries of his backyard. “The line between justice and revenge disappeared a long time ago, Cheryl. If we fail to reestablish it now, I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to.” He walked over to the other side of the porch. “I’ve got to show the jury that line while we’re still capable of seeing it.”

  “Don’t put that burden on yourself, James. You’re one man prosecuting a single case. If you think you can change the world with this verdict, you’ve lost before you begin. Whatever happens with Matheson, you can get over it and go on with your life. But if you think you’re fighting some righteous cause with the world hanging in the balance”—she crossed to his side and held him—“honey, that’s not anything you’ll ever recover from. And we still got a whole lotta livin’ to do and two beautiful children to raise.”

  “And have we taught them to be twice as good just to be treated the same?”

  “Three or four times, and even then it might not be enough to outdo their parents.”

  He gave a hint of a smile.

  “Well,” she continued, “I can’t speak for their daddy, but I know if they want to surpass my achievements, they—”

  He put his hand over her mouth and brought her close to him. He removed his hand slowly, and when her mouth became fully exposed, he kissed her gently, then more passionately.

  “Mommy?”

  They stopped suddenly and turned to discover Christopher. He looked annoyed.

  “Angela won’t let me watch my videos on the TV in the living room.”

  “Go watch them in your room,” his mother said, still flustered from the interruption.

  “I don’t wanna. My TV’s too small.”

  “Go watch in the den,” she suggested.

  “I don’t like to be in there by myself.”

  “Go watch in Angela’s room,” his father recommended as Cheryl gave her husband an incredulous look and raised her head while closing her eyes.

  Christopher grinned mischievously and ran back into the house. Cheryl opened her eyes and stared at her husband.

  “Did I mess up?” he asked.

  “Big-time,” she responded.

  “Oh, well,” he sighed, then grabbed her. “Where were we?”

  She pulled back. “You were about to save the world, and I suggest you practice with your daughter, who—”

  “Christopher!” they heard a blood-curdling scream.

  “Who probably isn’t going to handle your compromise too well,” Cheryl finished.

  They heard Christopher scream, “Daddy said I could!” Followed by Angela yelling, “Daddy’s not that stupid!”

  CHAPTER 32

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p; FOR THE PAST three months Miller had prepared for the trial almost nonstop. He reviewed all the state’s evidence and hired forensic specialists to evaluate findings and conduct independent testing on the results. He read materials Matheson collected for his class, and studied copies of the photos discovered at the professor’s home. Students volunteered to gather research and assemble visual displays he anticipated utilizing in his opening. Posters and photographic exhibits now cluttered his entire home. He’d never had this much help before in trying any case.

  Miller removed an unopened milk carton from his refrigerator and checked the expiration date: thirty days ago. He shook the carton and felt a thick, lumpy slush. It annoyed him that things spoiled before they were opened. He believed expirations should apply after unsealing a perishable item. He started to separate the top of the carton, to pour the contents down the disposal, but thought better of it. He placed the container on the kitchen counter and looked at his cat, who gave him one of her all-knowing stares that combined pity with a sense of superiority.

  He admired dogs, which was why he’d never owned one. He knew they had a tendency to love their masters no matter how poorly they were treated, so he wisely decided not to test the limits of their loyalty. He couldn’t stand cats, but they did have the singularly positive attribute of not making him feel guilty when he treated them like dogs.

  This member of the lion family had arrived at his doorstep on his birthday more than six years ago and wouldn’t leave until fed. He soon learned, to his utter dismay, that once a cat shares dinner on your porch, you might as well place its name on the lease. They were also independent creatures, which contributed to Miller’s disdain. It made him feel inadequate that a cat could take better care of itself than he could.