Blood on the Leaves Read online

  He made a fresh batch of coffee and collected all the unused sugar pouches from the counter and returned them to their jelly jars. He checked to see which straws hadn’t been removed from their paper wrappings and shoved them into the silver holder. He changed his blue apron and put on a freshly starched white one just in case any of those photographers wanted to take pictures of his place later today. He glanced in the mirror behind the cash register and pushed his hair back. Probably need to get it cut soon, he thought, then counted the money in the register to see how much business had improved since all this mess started.

  CHAPTER 34

  REYNOLDS AND HIS family attended early morning service at the Reverend Matheson’s church. The choir sang “Search Me, Lord.” The unusually brisk air felt warm in comparison to the arctic chill that greeted them once inside. “Go ahead and search me, Lord. . . .” The congregation remained cordial to the children and courteous but distant toward Cheryl. “Shine the light from heaven on my soul. . . .” Reynolds, on the other hand, saw nothing but scorn followed by backs that turned on him quickly and often. “If You find anything that shouldn’t be . . .” The Reynolds family sat in their normal seats in pew eleven, but there were several vacancies on either side, and spaces in front and behind that created a circular divide. “Take it out and strengthen me. . . .” The Reynolds clan had become an island unto itself, surrounded by hostile waters and shunned by once friendly neighbors. “I wanna be right. I wanna be saved. And I wanna be whole.”

  The Reverend Matheson gave a subdued sermon, which fit the occasion. It had something to do with the struggle between Cain and Abel, good and evil, trust and betrayal. Several times Reynolds thought he should stand or raise his hand and be identified in the unlikely event that anyone in the place hadn’t gotten the clear parallels. When the service ended, Reynolds tried to make a quick exit, but one of the deacons cornered him at the rear of the church. He relayed a message that the pastor had requested him to wait.

  Reynolds asked Cheryl to take the children to the car and wait for him. He stood alone in one corner of the vestibule until the Reverend Matheson arrived.

  “I appreciate your seeing me, James.”

  “This isn’t going to take long, is it, Reverend? My family’s waiting, and I need to—”

  “I’ll make it brief,” the Reverend Matheson cut him off. “It would be better for all concerned if you stayed away from the church for a while. I’ve made arrangements with Pastor Hayward in Madison. He’ll be happy to handle your spiritual needs.”

  “Any reason in particular I’m no longer wanted as a member of your congregation?”

  “I believe you know the answer to that, James. If not, I suggest you pray for guidance.”

  “I’m just doing my job, Reverend.”

  “I wonder how many crimes against humanity were justified with that phrase.” He inched closer toward Reynolds. “How does it feel to be a Judas?”

  Reynolds didn’t flinch. “I could never be Judas, Reverend. That would make your son Jesus. And you know how ridiculous that sounds.”

  Several members of the choir walked past and acknowledged the pastor, who blessed them as they left. He returned to Reynolds, who’d been kept on hold, and addressed him in a sad, resigned voice. “Might be a good idea if you and your family found another place to worship on a permanent basis. I don’t believe I can offer what you need.” He turned and left.

  Reynolds stared down the long center aisle of the church and noticed a large statue of Jesus on the cross. Search me, Lord. Go ahead and search me, Lord.

  Several customers walked out of Rachel’s café, after Miller entered. It had been a long time since he’d caused that reaction. He proceeded to the lunch counter with a jovial smile and a light bounce in his step. He’d learned during the good old days of tossed bottles and loud jeers to act as if you were on your way to a picnic rather than a civil rights demonstration. It wasn’t that much of a stretch, since most protests could have easily ended up with him as the main course—someone’s idea of a fashionable cookout.

  Miller sat patiently at the counter, attempting to attract Rachel’s attention. The café had thinned out considerably since his arrival, and Rachel had started cleaning all the vacated tables covered with plates containing half-eaten meals. Miller hummed a pleasant tune, but she ignored him. He tapped the edge of the counter, a rolling drumbeat of steadily moving fingers. It elicited no response.

  “I can wait for it to get less busy if you’d like,” he finally said.

  “It would be better for both of us if you got your coffee somewhere else.” Her voice was harsh. She never looked at him.

  Miller knew Rachel well enough to know this hurt her more than it hurt him, and it hurt him more than he’d ever imagined.

  “I’m a lawyer. I’m supposed to help people,” he stated with an implicit plea for understanding.

  “I’m a waitress.” She pointed to a sign above the cash register. “I reserve the right to refuse service.” She still hadn’t looked at him, but her voice cracked and her face became flushed.

  “You exercising that right?” he asked, then moved three seats to the right and sat in front of her. She tried to move, but he grabbed her hand. “I asked you a question,” he said resolutely. “Do you intend to exercise that right?”

  She pulled her hand away from his. They’d finally made eye contact. He thought he saw tears in her eyes, or maybe they were in his.

  “I already have,” she answered, then walked away.

  He remained at the counter for a few moments, his legs weak and his feet unable to move. The café blurred a bit, and he refocused his eyes on her silhouette behind the kitchen curtain. She was bent over slightly, her hands pressed to her face and her body shaking.

  His vision blurred again. His legs steadied enough for him to stand, and he headed for the door.

  CHAPTER 35

  REYNOLDS AND MILLER spent the greater part of a week reviewing responses from prospective jurors to a twelve-page questionnaire. Miller didn’t believe in the process. In fact, he thought it a colossal waste of time. People lied easily when they completed forms. As with any other test, they answered based on what would get them a passing grade and not on what they believed. He preferred to analyze a person’s body language, not his penmanship.

  Reynolds found them useful as an initial weeding-out tool. You could quickly dismiss the group too stupid to lie, and have additional time to probe the veracity of those who gave clever answers they couldn’t recall. The art of selecting a jury had been greatly overrated. In most trials, if you had the evidence, you obtained a conviction; if you didn’t, the defendant went home free. But in certain special cases—the ones where law sometimes gave way to raw emotion—the jury composition made all the difference in the world.

  “An agent offered me a book deal,” Miller told Reynolds as they waited inside the courtroom for the next panel of potential jurors.

  “A lawyer with an agent,” mused Reynolds. “That’s like a devil with a publicist.”

  “Joke if you want to,” Miller cautioned, “but after this is over, you and I are going to be famous.”

  “One for winning and one for losing,” agreed Reynolds.

  “I know how I want to be introduced.” Miller leaned closer to Reynolds. “How much money you think it’ll cost to buy off the jury?” he whispered.

  Before Reynolds could respond, Tanner entered the courtroom and took his place behind the bench. The media and interested spectators once again jammed into their seats. If the court became this crowded for jury selection, Reynolds shuddered to think what chaos awaited once the trial commenced in earnest. Several guards were stationed throughout the courtroom, and special metal detectors had been installed at each entrance. The stairwells were monitored, and only one of three elevators provided access to the area. At the urging of federal officials, the judge authorized undercover security to mingle inside and outside the courtroom. There’d been a steady increase in the n
umber of death threats aimed at Matheson. To further complicate matters, the new weapon of choice, the Internet, carried rumors of invading armies of supporters and opponents plotting to storm the building, either to free the professor or kill him.

  Tanner called the proceedings to order, and a group of men and women wearing plastic badges were escorted to the jury box. Reynolds and Miller took turns interviewing panelists under the watchful eye of Matheson, who sat at the defendant’s table dressed in a dark blue suit, crisp white shirt, and red power tie.

  They’d gone through another two dozen without any agreement and spent the last ten minutes grilling Hardy Wilkins, a white carpenter with an easy going personality and pleasant style. Miller asked a series of questions having to do with notions of fairness and objectivity and finally concluded on the theme of retribution. Wilkins considered the issue for a moment, removed his glasses, and cleaned the lenses. “I don’t believe in revenge,” he said, then returned his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “A guy pokes out your eye. Then you poke out his eye. ’Fore you know it, got a bunch of damn blind people lookin’ for someone to hit.” Some of the spectators chuckled, which made Hardy self-conscious. “Well, not exactly lookin’, but you catch my drift.”

  “This juror’s acceptable to the defense, Your Honor,” Miller informed the court, and noticed Hardy’s grateful smile.

  “And to the people,” agreed Reynolds.

  “Well,” uttered a relieved Tanner, “we’re finally making progress. Let’s bring in juror number forty-six while we’ve got us some momentum buildin’.”

  The lawyers went through a third and a fourth batch of jurors before calling Carter Bullins, a potbellied plant manager who supervised the slaughter of chickens. When the questioning began, his pale white skin suddenly glistened. Reynolds sensed that the man enjoyed his opportunity to enlighten the court on how the real world functioned without legal protocol or fancy, convoluted concepts.

  “If those men did the crimes, the lynchings, then they got what was comin’.” Bullins placed his hand under his chin and picked at an open sore. “If you ask me, don’t think it was the professor.”

  “How did you arrive at that conclusion?” asked Reynolds.

  Bullins flexed his shoulders and looked at Matheson. “Never met a man with that much education worth a damn when it came time to doin’ an honest day’s work.”

  Matheson smiled. News reporters, obviously pleased to have something worthy to quote, wrote in their notebooks.

  “Thank you very much for your insightful comments,” Judge Tanner said. “You’re excused.”

  “Defense was leaning in favor of selection,” Miller asserted with a huge grin.

  “I’m sure you were,” sighed Tanner. “Mr. Bullins, you may go back to the poultry factory. I’m sure the chickens miss you very much.”

  Bullins swung open the gate to the jury panel and left the courtroom with a swagger.

  “Speaking of food,” remarked the judge, “I think this might be as good a time as any to take a lunch break. Bailiff, please inform the next two panels they should return to the court no later than one-fifteen. We’ll reconvene at that time.”

  Miller conferred with Matheson for a few moments before the guards escorted the professor to a holding cell. Reynolds and Sinclair reviewed their jury list and circled several names, all of whom they intended to challenge when the process resumed.

  Miller strolled over to the prosecutor’s table and tried to sneak a peek at the paperwork. Sinclair quickly placed the information inside a folder and rested it against her chest.

  “Miss Sinclair, it’s so nice to see you again,” said Miller, smiling warmly.

  “The feeling’s mutual, Mr. Miller,” answered Sinclair.

  “Is that where you keep all your secrets?” he asked. “Pressed tightly against your . . . heart?”

  “I find it a very useful location to hide evidence. It’s the last place defense counsel would search.” She smiled.

  “Is that because we don’t believe prosecutors have hearts?” Miller replied, then winked at an amused Reynolds.

  “Not at all,” she answered. “It has more to do with your profession’s not wishing to travel in unfamiliar territory.”

  “I just came over to say hello and to tell you something of great importance,” Miller said gallantly.

  “I’m all yours,” responded Sinclair.

  “You read my mind,” replied Miller. “The bad news is, we won’t be able to date until my client’s acquitted.” He leaned forward and spoke quietly. “The good news is, it won’t take long.” He took a gentlemanly bow and returned to his table.

  Sinclair faced Reynolds. “I really want us to win this case.” She looked at Miller, who had taken his briefcase and turned to wave at her. “In the absolute worst way,” she said to Reynolds with renewed commitment.

  The selection process resumed shortly after two o’clock. Several more panelists were interviewed and dismissed. Around three-thirty, Mrs. Florence Blanche Whitney, a widow of “thirty-three years this winter,” began answering questions posed by Miller initially, then by Reynolds. Whitney, a black woman in her late sixties, presented an interesting choice to both sides. She didn’t have much formal education but had a wisdom born of experience “tryin’ to raise seven sons, four daughters, and twenty-six grandchildren so they’d be a pleasure for decent, God-fearin’ folks to know.”

  Reynolds liked her and thought that with the size of her family, she’d certainly have the stamina to argue her views with eleven other jurors. Still, he couldn’t be sure what those beliefs might be, and he wanted to be delicate in the way he explored them. Whether she was to be selected or not, other panelists were listening to his questioning. He knew the importance of not offending any prospective juror or that person’s colleagues, especially when the person in question represented the grandmother you’d pick to grace the cover of a greeting card.

  “Mrs. Whitney,” Reynolds said respectfully, “you’ve lived in this state all your life?”

  “Never had the money or enough suitcases to leave.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of things change, I imagine.”

  “Some for the good, some not,” she said, massaging her fingers.

  “Have you ever had any particular difficulty with white people?”

  Mrs. Whitney looked at Reynolds curiously, then to the judge with some confusion.

  “Mrs. Whitney, do you understand the question?” asked Tanner.

  “I believe so,” she answered. “He wants to know if I’ve ever had difficulty with—” She stifled a laugh and tried not to smile.

  Tanner tried to help. “Just try to answer the question to the best of your abil—”

  She lost it and laughed hysterically, which caused the spectators in the courtroom to laugh. She tried to stop, but with each effort she laughed even more. The bailiff chuckled. Tanner hid his smile behind the sleeve of his black robe. Reynolds stood perfectly still in the center of the room with his hands to his sides and his neck immobilized. He wanted to find a graceful way out of this, so he embarked on the easiest path.

  “This juror’s acceptable to the people, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Miller?” asked the judge, who discreetly wiped away a tear of laughter.

  Miller stood and announced, “We welcome her with open arms.”

  “I thought you would,” commented the judge. “All right, Mrs. Whitney, you can step down and make yourself comfortable.” He wrote her name on his tally sheet. “Counsel, let’s proceed.”

  In eight hours the attorneys interviewed just under a hundred panelists and agreed on only two. Matheson had been present throughout the whole day but stayed surprisingly low-key, offering comments to his counsel on only a handful of the members of the jury pool. Reynolds didn’t believe that pattern would continue much longer.

  At the session’s conclusion Tanner registered his annoyance at the lack of progress. “Gentlemen,” he warned, “if you don’t start selecti
n’ jurors at a quicker pace, I’ll assume the questioning and make the appointments myself. I want everyone to be in court at eight o’clock in the morning, and you can expect to work through the evening if necessary.”

  He reviewed his notes. “In an effort to meet media demand, I’ve agreed to provide a live audio feed of the proceedings. Under no circumstances will I allow video to be transmitted on closed-circuit monitors and risk the signal being intercepted and broadcast to the public. I don’t want that to happen and will severely sanction anyone who violates any of my directives.”

  He dismissed the participants at five-thirty and accepted an invitation by the media to have his picture taken, though he refused interviews. He also allowed his assistant to distribute his résumé along with a synopsis of his significant rulings. To be even more helpful, he attached some of his notable quotes and gave the press permission to use them freely with the proviso that adequate attribution be given at all times.

  At eight o’clock that night, Robyn Rochon arrived wearing a teal knit dress that clung to her cinnamon skin. Reynolds offered her something to drink, and she requested a bottle of water at room temperature. As he searched his office, he tried to remember the last time he’d seen her face on the cover of a fashion magazine. He found an unopened carton of bottled water and removed one bottle. She graciously thanked him and sat in the chair near his desk. He took his seat and noticed she was carefully observing his office. “Is something the matter?” he asked.