Blood on the Leaves Read online

  Edwards stepped out of the truck and pointed toward a clearing between some thick bushes. “There’s a narrow trail that leads to a larger openin’. It’s about a quarter mile past the first cabin you see, maybe a little more.” He nervously rubbed the side of his face.

  Reynolds had climbed out of the truck and stood in front of it. He didn’t want to put the man through any more suffering. “I appreciate your help. I’m sure I can—”

  “I’ll walk with you partway,” offered Edwards. “Show you how to get there. Won’t go no further than that.”

  Reynolds nodded in gratitude.

  Edwards told his girls to stay inside the truck until he returned. He headed toward the opening and pushed back some branches, then made his way to the path.

  Reynolds moved to the truck’s passenger side, reached inside his pocket, and removed some money. He handed it to the oldest daughter. “You wait till you get back home. Then give that to your daddy. Okay?”

  The older girl thought about it while the younger negotiated a deal. “Can we tell him you said to buy us somethin’ with it?” Her sister nodded to second the motion.

  Reynolds noticed the younger girl was holding a white doll with bright blue plastic eyes and golden yellow hair. “Then you can get a brand-new doll to replace that one,” he suggested.

  The little child looked at her older sister, who shared her bewilderment, then focused her confusion on Reynolds. “Why would I do somethin’ stupid like that?” she asked, exasperated.

  Reynolds smiled sadly and signaled his agreement. He rushed to join Edwards as the girls did their best to divide the money.

  CHAPTER 50

  THE COURTROOM FILLED to capacity earlier than usual. Anticipating the inevitable, reporters had already written their stories about the state’s resting its case. The buzz all morning dealt with whether Miller would bother to put on a defense, let alone call Matheson to testify in his own behalf.

  The bailiff brought the room to order, and Tanner entered from his chambers. The judge instructed the jury to be seated, and noted for the record that all the participants were present. The jury appeared in a jovial mood. The men, as planned, wore blue shirts, and the women displayed something red. Mrs. Whitney wrapped a rose scarf around her shoulders. Vernetta chose to wear a red jacket. Blaze squeezed into a tight two-piece outfit that made her particularly popular with Faraday Patterson and Jefferson Lynch.

  The judge paid the group a compliment and indicated they’d made good choices. He noted that one jury several months ago had decided to wear all black, which “scared the bejesus outta the poor defendant and didn’t make me feel my usually bubbly self.” After a minute or two of pleasant bantering, he got serious and invited Reynolds to continue with the state’s case.

  Reynolds walked slowly to the podium and faced the judge. “The state calls April Reeves,” he announced in a clear voice, surprising many in the court who’d expected this phase of the trial to conclude.

  Upon hearing the name, Matheson seemed to turn stone cold. The rear door opened, and a dignified black woman in her early sixties entered. She proceeded down the aisle of a hushed courtroom. All eyes remained focused on her as she approached the witness stand and raised her right hand.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” asked the clerk of the court.

  “I do,” she replied confidently.

  “State your full name for the record.”

  “April Patricia Reeves.”

  “You may be seated,” Tanner said politely. “Counselor, please proceed with your witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Reynolds said, shuffling through some papers. After a few moments he closed his file and took several steps away from the podium and toward the witness stand. He positioned himself an equal distance from the jury and Mrs. Reeves in an effort to partially block Matheson’s view.

  “Mrs. Reeves, where do you currently reside?”

  “Atlanta, Georgia. I’ve lived there for almost twenty years.”

  “Do you know the defendant?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “And what’s the nature of your relationship?”

  “He’s my son,” she declared proudly.

  Excited murmuring occurred throughout the courtroom. Tanner banged his gavel once and immediately restored order. “Unless you’re giving testimony or serving as counsel in this trial,” he chastised those seated in the chambers, “I strongly recommend everybody remain quiet.” He made himself more comfortable. “Mr. Reynolds, please continue.”

  “Is there a reason why you have a different last name from your son’s?”

  “Martin’s father and I were divorced more than thirty years ago. I remarried.”

  “Mrs. Reeves, could you tell us the reason your marriage ended?”

  Miller rose and almost knocked over the pitcher of water on the defense table. “Your Honor, this isn’t divorce court.”

  “Is that an objection to the question, Counselor?” Tanner asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor, on the grounds of relevance.”

  Tanner released a frustrated sigh and directed his remarks to a patient Reynolds. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Your Honor, it’s important that the state be allowed to pursue this line of inquiry to establish a basis for Professor Matheson’s racial animus.” Reynolds spoke calmly and with a sense of assurance. He hoped his tone would conceal his true feelings of insecurity and dread.

  Tanner thought about it for a moment and scribbled a note. “I’ll allow it for now,” he said reluctantly. “But I reserve the right to reverse myself. The witness may answer. The court reporter will read back the question.”

  The reporter reviewed her notes. “‘Mrs. Reeves, could you tell us the reason your marriage ended?’” She appeared as interested in hearing the answer as everyone else in the room.

  Reeves moved slightly forward and addressed the jury. “I had and continue to have great respect and affection for my ex-husband. But he was consumed with his work.” She glanced at the Reverend Matheson, who had his head bowed.

  “As a civil rights activist?” Reynolds inquired.

  “Yes. I wanted to be supportive, but he insisted on exposing Martin to violent demonstrations. It led to many conflicts between us.”

  “At what age was your son first exposed to these violent demonstrations?”

  “He was a baby, no older than five. Samuel felt the Movement needed children.”

  “By Samuel, are you referring to your ex-husband, the Reverend Matheson?”

  “Yes.”

  “You indicated the Reverend needed children for the Movement. What role were they to play?”

  “Martin’s father was certain that if the world saw the hate directed toward innocent children, including our son, that such violent encounters would change public opinion.”

  “You disagreed?”

  “I was a mother, not a strategist.”

  Reynolds glanced at the jury and noticed Mrs. Whitney nodding in approval. “How did your son’s participation in the Civil Rights Movement at such an early age affect him?”

  Miller once again rose, except this time he held the pitcher of water. “Your Honor, I object. Mrs. Reeves is not an expert in psychology.”

  “You’ve obviously never been a mother,” replied Tanner, which elicited some laughter from the jury and court observers. “Overruled. The witness may answer.”

  “At first our son was very proud and excited. He felt he was participating in a great cause. And he was.” She succeeded in making eye contact with Matheson and smiled warmly. He gave her a reassuring nod.

  “Did his feelings ever change?” Reynolds continued.

  “It was after he’d been called . . .” She hesitated. “A racial slur,” she said uncomfortably. “I believe it may have been the first time he ever heard that word. At least, directed at him with such force.”

  “How old was your son at th
e time?”

  “Five or six. A truck driver had yelled at him. The man was quite huge, with massive arms and a powerful build. It was hard to imagine someone that size screaming at a child so young, and with such fury.”

  Reynolds moved closer to the jury and allowed Reeves to have an unobstructed view of Matheson. “What did your son do? How did he react?”

  “He was too frightened to do anything. But late that night I heard him crying in his room.” She suddenly became uneasy, her voice more emotional.

  “Would you like to take a moment and drink some water, Mrs. Reeves?”

  “Thank you.” She poured a glass of water and took several sips, then removed a tissue from her purse.

  “I just have a few more questions, Mrs. Reeves. And then I’ll stop, okay?”

  She nodded gratefully.

  “You mentioned you heard your son crying in his room the night of the incident. What happened next?”

  “I went to him. And held him. And tried to convince him everything would be all right.”

  “Was he convinced?”

  She shook her head. “He made me promise I wouldn’t tell his father that he’d cried.” She again looked at her ex-husband, who still avoided her. “He didn’t want to disappoint him.”

  Reynolds walked past Matheson and stared at him for a moment, but the defendant didn’t return the look. “Did he say anything else?”

  “He wanted to know what he’d done to cause grown men to hate him so much.”

  Reynolds studied the jury. Some of the women were wiping away tears. Men looked at the floor. He glanced at Matheson, who stared at his mother with a son’s concern.

  “Did your son ask you any more questions?”

  She looked at the Reverend Matheson, who now stared at her with interest. She shifted her attention to Reynolds. “He wanted to know why his father hadn’t come to his defense, to protect him from that kind of evil.”

  Reynolds spotted Miller listening intently. “How did you respond?”

  “I tried to find a way to explain it to him, but before I could begin, he started crying again. His body shook with pain and humiliation. I just held him and tried to comfort him.”

  “Did you tell your husband?”

  “I pleaded with him not to take Martin to any more demonstrations.” She faced the jury. “Maybe I was wrong. Selfish. But I didn’t want my son scarred by racial hatred. I didn’t want him to be the target of that animosity, ever again.”

  “No further questions.” Reynolds moved to the prosecutor’s table and sat next to Sinclair, who’d used up her second tissue.

  The courtroom remained silent until Tanner interrupted. “Mr. Miller?”

  Miller stood and took a few careful steps toward Mrs. Reeves. He looked at her sympathetically. “Mrs. Reeves, you love your son, do you not?”

  “Very much.”

  “Know him the way only a mother could?”

  “I believe I do.”

  Miller vacillated for a moment, then asked his question. “Is your son capable of the kind of hate necessary to commit the crime of which he is accused?”

  Reynolds stood. “Calls for speculation.”

  “I’ll allow it,” Tanner ruled. “Answer the question, Mrs. Reeves.”

  She looked at Matheson, then turned directly to the jury. “The son I held in my arms, the son who cried himself to sleep while I told him I loved him, that son, my son, is not capable of that hate.” She turned back to Miller.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reeves.” Miller joined Matheson and sat down. “I have no further questions.”

  Reynolds stood before Tanner could address him. “Your Honor, just a few additional questions.”

  “Proceed.”

  “Mrs. Reeves, you’re here as a result of being served a subpoena, isn’t that true?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You don’t want to say anything that is damaging to your son, is that safe to assume?”

  “I’m here to tell the truth as I swore to do.” She looked at Matheson for a moment, then addressed Reynolds. “I can’t imagine the truth being harmful to my son.”

  “Mrs. Reeves, just moments ago you told this jury you were trying to protect your son from the harsh realities of racism and bigotry and violence.”

  “He was a child then.”

  “And yet the ugly truth hurt him and eventually also destroyed your marriage. So it seems the truth can be harmful to everyone, even two loving adults.” He watched her bow her head and didn’t want to push any further, but had to. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She raised her head and answered, “Regretfully, I would.”

  Reynolds sought the safety of the podium and stood behind it. “Mrs. Reeves, you testified you didn’t want your son scarred by racial hatred. Do you believe your son—not the child but the man, the defendant in this courtroom today—do you believe he’s been scarred by that hatred?”

  She folded her hands together and sat erect. “Mr. Reynolds, I believe everyone has been scarred by that hatred. The ones who have been scarred the most may not even be aware of it.” She looked at her ex-husband, who stared at his son.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Reeves,” Reynolds said sincerely. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Miller?” inquired Tanner.

  “I’ll spare Mrs. Reeves any more testimony,” answered Miller.

  The judge dismissed the witness and called for a lunch recess. The jury lingered behind, leaving their box as slowly as possible. Reynolds knew they were waiting for the obvious reunion. He’d hoped this would happen outside their presence, but why should his luck change anytime soon?

  Mrs. Reeves proceeded directly to the defense table and shook hands with Miller, then embraced her son for a long time. The two guards stood by respectfully and watched the emotional embrace. After a moment, the Reverend Matheson joined them. He hugged his ex-wife just as the last two jurors left the room. The Matheson family joined hands with Miller, bowed their heads, and prayed, led by the Reverend Matheson.

  After the recess, the state rested its case, and Miller asked for an adjournment so that he might consult with his client and advise the court in the morning whether the defense would also rest. Tanner granted the request and dismissed the jury for the rest of the day.

  Miller met with Matheson in the court’s holding room. “I’m going to ask for a directed verdict,” he informed the professor. “It’s pretty standard fare, but I think we might have a chance, even with this judge.”

  “I don’t want to take that risk,” advised Matheson.

  “What risk?”

  “That he might rule favorably on your motion,” answered Matheson.

  “Excuse me,” said Miller, looking bewildered, “but isn’t that why we went to trial . . . to win?”

  “I don’t want a victory based on an edict from a judge who feels the state hasn’t reached some imaginary threshold,” responded Matheson. “I want you to put on a defense.”

  “We don’t need a defense,” Miller said. “The state hasn’t proven anything. The longer the trial goes on, the more time they have to discover additional evidence or locate a new witness or . . .”

  “They can’t find what doesn’t exist,” Matheson said sharply. “We follow the plan. It’s served us well thus far.”

  “Martin, you’re making a mistake in prolonging this trial. Either the judge rules in our favor, or we rest and the jury hands you an acquittal. Either way, you walk out of here a free man.”

  “I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Miller. As a fighter for civil rights you surely must know that freedom is never given; it has to be taken. I intend to do that.” Matheson stood and patted Miller on the shoulder. “We keep the trial going until I’ve told my side of this story.”

  “I’ll put on our defense, but I don’t want to hear anything about you taking the stand,” warned Miller.

  Matheson smiled. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” he said with a glimmer in hi
s eyes. He waved the guards into the room and stood motionless as they secured chains around his hands and ankles.

  Late that night, Reynolds stood in front of the kitchen cabinet and stared at the door he wanted to open. He turned away and rested against the refrigerator. Cheryl entered the room and watched him for a moment.

  “Anything you need me to do?” she asked.

  He studied her, then shifted his gaze to the floor. “Would you have allowed Angela or Christopher to demonstrate during the Civil Rights Movement?” He walked toward her. “I mean, if this were forty years ago, and they were needed for a protest to desegregate a school or a lunch counter or a bus”—he made eye contact with her—“and there’d be the possibility of violence, even death, would you have let them participate?”

  She considered the question and shrugged her shoulders. “Actually, I had in mind making you some coffee or a sandwich. If I knew this was gonna be one of those children-in-the-lifeboat questions, I might not have volunteered.” She smiled, but he didn’t.

  “I wouldn’t have allowed it,” he answered. “Not to face those angry crowds and the taunts and the threats. No way would I have exposed them to that hate.”

  “They wouldn’t have had a choice,” she replied. “Back then, kids were in the struggle whether they wanted to be or not. I don’t think I could’ve denied them the right to confront cowardice with courage and hate with love.” She leaned back and released a deep breath. “But I would’ve been on the rooftop with a rifle, just in case they needed their mommy.”

  He smiled weakly, then sighed. “I need their mommy now.”

  “Is that a protest or a demonstration?”

  “Depends if I have to overcome or just come over,” he answered teasingly.

  She extended her index finger and beckoned him. He turned out the light and took her by the hand, and together they marched out of the room.

  CHAPTER 51

  SOMETIME AFTER SIX on the morning of April 4, the day that marked the assassination of his friend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the Reverend Matheson saw his church, which he’d built with his own hands, burn to the ground. Three hours later, he stood outside and stared at the structure ravaged by flames. The fire department had done all they could. A bomb had ripped off the church’s rear doors, and fire spread quickly throughout the main chapel. A second bomb, planted near the side of the building, had created a gaping hole in the ceiling and exploded the stained-glass window containing the image of Jesus reaching toward the heavens.