Blood on the Leaves Page 24

  “What did you want to know?” she said bravely.

  He sat on the edge of the twin bed and bowed his head. “Who was the man they hung?” he said quietly.

  “I don’t know,” she answered firmly.

  He looked at her and knew that while capable of evasion, she’d never directly lie to him, not even over this.

  “I never wanted to know,” she continued with absolute conviction.

  “Was I found near him?”

  She nodded. “They said he did things.” She swallowed hard. “Terrible things to young children. We didn’t believe them. They just needed an excuse to kill that man. So they created a horrible lie.”

  Reynolds’s eyes searched for the window, but he knew he’d traveled too long and too far to escape now. “You recognize any of the men in the photo, the ones standing around his corpse?”

  She walked toward him and pulled out a desk chair. She sat down and pressed her back against the rigid set of wooden bars. “I’ve been lookin’ at it for a while.” She pointed to a white man who wore a long, light coat and a ten-gallon hat. He stood at the base of the lynched man, almost touching his bare foot.

  “This one never was no good,” she said with a level of animosity that lingered in the air. “We all knew enough to stay away from him. Far as I know, he hasn’t changed.”

  “He’s still alive?” he asked, interested.

  “Let it go, James,” she warned. “The only thing that comes from reopening old wounds is an infection ten times worse than the original.” She rose from her seat and headed to the door. “I’ll make us something to eat.”

  “What’s his name, Mama?”

  She diverted her eyes to the floor. “Eat some food and rest for a while. If you still want to know in the morning, I’ll tell you then.” He nodded his head in agreement. She left the room.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE BOY RAN faster than he’d ever thought possible, and yet the bloody fingers never tired. No matter what he did and despite his best efforts, the fingers followed his every move. The night sounds were almost deafening, but the boy could still hear his heart pounding and feel the warm breath on his back. “Help me!” He heard the words, desperate and afraid. He felt a hand tug at his chest. He saw blood and the rapid movement of a sharp blade illuminated by a cross. He felt something or someone strike him against the side of his face. His body kept falling and falling; then he heard laughter, followed moments later by a scream and something shining in the dark.

  Reynolds awoke on the bed in the room of his childhood. His perspiration had soaked through the pillow and stained the blanket underneath his body.

  He sat up and looked around his old bedroom and decided the nightmare had plagued him long enough; the time had come to turn the tables and chase the ghost. He took a shower, had breakfast with his mother, and then left to acquire the information he’d traveled all this way to obtain.

  The Greek Revival mansion overlooked the Mississippi River. It sat on a scenic bluff that must have made it a spectacular plantation in its day. Gothic white pillars lined the front entrance. Elderly black men in spotless uniforms worked next to tall concrete and marble columns. Reynolds half expected to see a marching band in red jackets playing “Dixie” while the servants danced and shuffled for the amusement of their master. Sarah, an older woman, introduced herself to him in the courtyard, wearing a maid’s outfit with a white apron that caused Reynolds to think of Gone With the Wind.

  “Follow me, sir,” she said, curtsying slightly. She walked pigeon-toed down a pathway that led through a garden of yellow and peach-colored roses. So this is the New South, he thought, as he walked on loose multicolored gravel sprinkled in between large round stepping-stones. They passed a guest house with several recessed porches. He wanted to hate this place but found the architecture remarkable. He wondered how many black hands had toiled to make the fine millwork and how many backs were broken to lay the bricks that surrounded the structure.

  He followed Sarah to a large, ornate gazebo adjacent to a sparkling pool. A white man sat comfortably under a blue-striped canopy. He wore a tan linen jacket and straw hat and drank iced tea with the flair of an aristocrat. Reynolds would bet his life the man had a neatly pressed Confederate uniform hanging in his closet alongside a custom-tailored robe fashioned from the finest white silk sheets.

  “Are you Gates Beauford?” Reynolds asked while standing under direct sunlight.

  “If I’m not, my mama’s gonna be one shocked lady.” Beauford looked at Sarah, who smiled on cue.

  “I’m James Reynolds.”

  “Yeeeesss.” Beauford prolonged the word and gave it many meanings, none of which Reynolds liked. “I’ve been watchin’ you on TV. Impressive, very impressive. Sarah, you know we got us a celebrity? Why, that’s the lawyer who’s gonna put away that black professor for killing all those innocent elderly gentlemen.”

  She looked at Reynolds, trying unsuccessfully to hide her disdain. Beauford noticed her demeanor and spoke sternly. “Sarah, bring our special guest some lemonade. . . . Make sure it’s from a fresh batch.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes and proceeded to the main house.

  “She’s a little slow but been with the family a long time. Would be cruel to let her go now. I doubt she’d even know how to take care of herself.” Beauford squeezed a wedge of lemon into his tea until all the juice was gone.

  “She manages to take care of you. Wouldn’t be that big a leap to take care of her own needs.” Reynolds spoke politely.

  Beauford studied him for a moment, then stirred the ice cubes in his glass. “Oh, my, where are my manners? You must be melting in that hot sun. Do find yourself a cozy spot beneath the shade and rest a spell.”

  Reynolds took a seat opposite Beauford, separated by a round outdoor table with a frosted Plexiglas top and porcelain lamp in the middle.

  “So, what brings you all the way out here from the big city? It must be something important for a man of your stature to visit my humble home.”

  Reynolds opened the envelope and removed the photo. He slid it across the table and positioned it in front of Beauford, who showed no reaction other than to scratch the back of his head just beneath his hat.

  “Nice photo, don’t you think?” Beauford asked. “I mean, given the conditions—night, dark forest, old cameras—I’d say it came out as good as could be expected.”

  “That’s you in the front, isn’t it? Standing next to the man you lynched.” Reynolds stared into Beauford’s eyes and found no discomfort and no remorse.

  “I believe so. But let me check just to be certain.” Beauford lifted the photo, held it in the sunlight at arm’s length, squinted. “Yeah, that’s me.” He put the photo on the table and looked at Reynolds. “I was young, more outgoin’ then. I value my privacy now. A great deal.” He stirred his drink, then handed the photo to Reynolds. “I suggest you destroy that for your own good. Wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen to you.”

  “This isn’t the past, Mr. Beauford. I can take care of myself.” Reynolds leaned forward. “You, on the other hand, might want to get yourself a good attorney.”

  Beauford cocked his head to the side to examine Reynolds, then smiled dangerously. “The world’s goin’ to hell in a handbasket. That’s what happens when people don’t know their place.” He closed his eyes briefly and spoke nostalgically. “Wasn’t all that long ago we had a Sovereignty Commission, funded by the legislature to take care of potential trouble before it got outta hand. Governor and lieutenant governor were members; worked closely with the sheriff and other decent folk. That’s when government was part of the solution instead of the problem.” Beauford used a white cloth napkin to dab the perspiration on his upper lip. “Don’t tell me about the past, boy. Contrary to what you might believe, we ain’t left it.”

  Sarah arrived with a cold pitcher of lemonade and two frosted glasses, but Beauford raised his hand for her to stop. She saw the photo and looked at Reynolds, then at her emplo
yer.

  “You can take that back, Sarah. There’s been a change in plans. Mr. Reynolds will be leaving, immediately.” Beauford remained focused on Reynolds. Sarah glanced again at the photo, then left quickly.

  “I want to know what happened,” Reynolds stated firmly.

  Beauford pressed his index finger against his nostril and moved it in small circles. “A man needed to die. He got some help. A lot of it.” Beauford sat back, more relaxed. “The world went on,” he spoke casually. “Might even have been a better place. What’s that sayin’ about youth bein’ impetuous?” He shrugged his shoulders. “We were impulsive. Afraid before we had to be.” He partially covered a yawn. “Hell, if we’d just waited, been a little more patient, you all would’ve killed each other.” He removed his hat and brushed back his blond and gray hair. “Just like vicious dogs trained to protect where they piss.” He picked up a paperback book that rested on a nearby lounge chair. “You said your name was Jimmy?” Beauford flipped through the pages until he found his bookmark, a thin red ribbon.

  “James,” corrected Reynolds.

  Beauford nodded that he recalled. “James,” he said invitingly, “get the fuck off my property.” He returned to reading his book.

  CHAPTER 43

  CALLED AS THE state’s first witness, Federal Agent Marsh testified for nearly three hours in a professional if not rehearsed manner. He covered his area of expertise and explained forensic science in lay terms. He proudly discussed the role of the FBI and detailed how the Bureau’s laboratories were the best in the world. He used a pointer to highlight a series of crime scene photos of Cooper’s barn, attached to a large poster display. He placed a red circle around a magnified picture of a Mont Blanc fountain pen wedged between two rocks at the burned-out site. There were identifying numbers recorded on each photo.

  “You were able to conduct fingerprint analysis on the pen?” Reynolds asked as he stood at a podium and faced the witness.

  “Yes. We managed to take several complete impressions.”

  “And were you able to match those fingerprints taken from the fountain pen found at Earvin Cooper’s murder scene?”

  “Yes. The prints perfectly matched those of the defendant, Dr. Matheson,” said Marsh, looking directly at the jury.

  “Was there any reason to believe the pen may have belonged to the defendant?”

  “It’s a very expensive pen that evidently had been specially designed and ordered as a gift to the professor from some of his students. It had his initials inscribed in gold on the cover, and a personal message engraved on the side.”

  “Do you recall the message?”

  “‘Without justice there is no honor.’”

  “Thank you, Agent Marsh. I have no further questions at this time.” Reynolds resumed his seat.

  Tanner turned toward the defense table. “Mr. Miller?”

  “Agent Marsh, you have no idea whatsoever how the fountain pen got in Mr. Cooper’s barn, do you?” Miller started quickly, asking the question while in the middle of rising.

  “It could have fallen from the defendant’s pocket during a struggle,” Marsh answered.

  Miller proceeded to the podium but stood in front of it. “It could’ve been dropped by the horse who was lending it to the cow who wanted to write a message to one or more of the hens, but my question suggested you have no real knowledge or facts as to how the pen was left there, isn’t that true?”

  “I offered you one plausible scenario; I’m certain there are many others.”

  “We can definitely agree with that.” Miller headed toward the display. “Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor.”

  “Granted,” said Tanner.

  “Agent Marsh, could you study photo number twelve of the state’s exhibit, please?”

  “Would you like me to step down?”

  “If that would make it easier for you.”

  Marsh left the witness stand and moved to the side of photo 12. He studied it without blocking the jury’s view.

  “Would you explain to the jury why the earth underneath where the pen was discovered is completely scorched and yet the pen itself is in good enough condition to lift fingerprints?”

  Reynolds immediately looked at the jury. The four black men in the group showed reactions ranging from Faraday Patterson’s smirk to Faison Sheppard’s noticeable scowl.

  “It may have been protected as a result of it being wedged between the two rocks. Or it’s possible the pen wasn’t in that position or location when the ground was ablaze,” speculated Marsh. “It could’ve been forced there by the explosion or water pressure from fire hoses or any number of other explanations.”

  “Including being planted—excuse me, dropped—long after the fire was extinguished?”

  “That’s highly unlikely.”

  “Can the witness resume his seat, Counselor?” asked Tanner.

  “Of course,” replied Miller. “Particularly if he’s able to maintain the chair in as good condition as this fountain pen.”

  “Mr. Miller,” warned the judge, “keep your personal observations to yourself. You’ll have a chance at the end of the trial to make all the commentary you wish.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Miller walked toward the jury. “Agent Marsh, are you aware of whether or not anyone from your office took foot impressions at the scene of the crime?”

  “My office assisted local detectives as well as forensic scientists from the state’s crime lab. I believe we took a number of those impressions.”

  “Isn’t it true that the only set of foot impressions you were unable to account for belonged to a person with a size-thirteen shoe?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Mr. Cooper wore a size nine, so it’s safe to assume you ruled him out.”

  “The foot impression did not belong to Mr. Cooper or any known persons who had authorized access to the barn or its surrounding area,” answered the agent.

  “Those footprints didn’t belong to Mr. Cooper, yes or no.”

  “No.” Marsh shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Thank you.” Miller approached Matheson and stood beside him. “Do you happen to know Professor Matheson’s foot size?”

  “It was measured as a nine and a half or ten.”

  Miller puckered his lips and raised his eyes toward the ceiling in thought as he carefully made his way back to the jury box. “So, let’s see, using the terminology that you agents are so fond of, a nine and a half or ten, when carefully compared to a thirteen, is not a scientific match.” He turned to face Marsh. “Is that a fair characterization of the evidence?”

  “I believe the sizes speak for themselves.”

  “So if the shoe doesn’t fit, you must acqu—”

  Reynolds jumped up to object. “Your Honor!”

  “I didn’t say it; I didn’t say it.” Miller placed his hands up in surrender, then placed them on the jury railing. “But I will state in my own words that if the shoe’s the wrong size, then you must surmise a murderer’s still on the rise.” He looked at Reynolds. “Much to the state’s surprise.”

  Sinclair attempted to stand, but Reynolds put his hand on her shoulder. He’d already decided that any objections should be saved for matters more important than Miller’s antics, which he hoped might backfire.

  “Mr. Miller, I’ve cautioned you about your running commentary. If I neglected to mention that also includes a prohibition against bad poetry, let me do so now for the record.” Tanner looked at his watch and wrote a note on his ledger. “Proceed with your cross-examination.”

  “I have no further questions of this witness.” Miller crossed to his table and smiled at Reynolds as he took his seat.

  “Mr. Reynolds?”

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  “The witness is excused. Agent Marsh, you may step down,” instructed the judge. “We’ll take our lunch break. The jury’s to follow the court’s admonition regarding discussing this case. I’ll see you
back here at one-thirty. Perhaps by that time Mr. Miller will have devised a more suitable way to entertain us.”

  Tanner struck the gavel and left the bench.

  CHAPTER 44

  THE AFTERNOON SESSION started on time. The state called Officer Hezekiah Macon as its second witness, to provide chain-of-custody testimony and to identify one key piece of evidence discovered at Cooper’s murder scene. On his way to the stand he made brief eye contact with the professor, whose class he’d once rudely interrupted on police business. Matheson waited until the officer finished taking the oath before giving him a friendly nod.

  Macon spent the first twenty minutes discussing his training, experience, and years on the force. Reynolds asked him to list the number of awards and commendations he’d received, which caused him to speak proudly and at great length of his background and service. After the customary introduction designed to create a sense of ease between witness and jury, Reynolds proceeded with the substance of the case.

  “Your Honor, permission to approach the witness.”

  Tanner nodded approval. “Proceed.”

  Reynolds carried a small transparent bag that contained a narrow black object. “I submit into evidence state exhibit eleven-A.”

  “So identified,” uttered the judge.

  Reynolds gave the bag to the witness. “Officer Macon, do you recognize the object inside that plastic bag?”

  “It’s the fountain pen found at the site of the murder.”

  “Had you ever seen this pen prior to it being discovered at Earvin Cooper’s property?”

  “Yes. I saw it in the possession of the defendant.”

  “What makes you so certain of that?”

  “I attended an interview Professor Matheson had at police headquarters in late September. He used the pen to sign some paperwork. One of the detectives commented on how attractive and unique it was and asked if it was very expensive.”