Blood on the Leaves Read online

  “He should name me campaign manager,” said Reynolds. “I’ve provided enough assistance.”

  “You really think he’ll take the stand?”

  “He’s dreaming about it as we speak.”

  “At least he’s getting some sleep. Which is what I intend to do.” Sinclair opened the door to leave. “You want my advice, you’ll do the same.”

  “I just need to go over a few things.”

  “Go home, James. The world will be here waiting for you in the morning.”

  “To carry its weight on my shoulders, no doubt.” He unsealed another box and removed the contents.

  Sinclair took a step back into the office, then stopped. “You almost made me feel guilty enough to change my mind and stay.”

  “You’re welcome to take a seat,” he offered.

  “I said almost.” She looked at her watch. “See you in six hours.”

  “Good night, Lauren.” He watched her depart, then went back to scanning a set of pathology reports and autopsy documents. Two hours passed before he found himself unintentionally reviewing the same work he’d earlier completed and set aside. He needed to get home, catch a couple of hours’ sleep, shower, dress, and face the defendant with some semblance of coherence.

  Thoroughly exhausted, he exited the building and made his way through the parking lot. Upon reaching his car, he placed his briefcase on the top of his hood, then fumbled for his keys. It was darker than usual, and he noticed shattered pieces of glass around his vehicle. He checked his headlights, which were fine, then looked up and discovered that one of the lot’s overhead lights had been smashed. He returned to the car door and inserted his key into the lock but never had a chance to turn it. He felt a sharp blow to his right kidney; then someone grabbed his head and forced it violently against the automobile’s side mirror.

  Two men held him while a third pummeled his body and face with heavy punches. They slammed him against the car, and a masked assailant gripped him around the neck. “You get one warnin’,” said the voice behind the mask. “This is it. No more questions. No more searchin’. You wanna know who killed that nigger? Next time we visit, you’ll be able to ask him in hell!”

  Reynolds made an effort to free himself, but the man yanked him forward by the hair and crushed him with a brutal head butt, then viciously kneed him in the groin. Someone struck him over the head with a hard object. He collapsed to the ground, where they kicked and stomped him until he lost consciousness.

  The little boy ran desperately through the darkened woods. He stumbled but wouldn’t fall, for he knew if he stopped now, his life would end. He looked ahead and saw a stream glistening in the moonlight. Ghosts couldn’t swim, and even if this one did, the boy would drown before he’d ever allow it to take his life. He hurdled a fallen tree and prepared himself to leap beyond a patch of mud, but the fingers finally trapped him within their bloodstained grasp. The boy frantically pounded his tiny hands against the monster’s chest, but instead of a beast he saw the frightened face of a beaten black man, who pleaded with him: “Help me! In Jesus’ name, please help me!” Then the little boy saw the mob of angry white faces carrying torches and a long knotted rope. They surrounded the man and carried him to a large tree illuminated by a burning cross. Somehow the child overcame his fear and found the courage to rush into the middle of the crowd. “LEAVE HIM ALONE!” he shouted, to the amusement of the mob that had already placed the noose around the black man’s neck. He clutched the man’s hand, determined to pull him to safety. From the center of the blazing symbol of salvation he saw the swiftly moving blade of an ax slicing the air and striking the man’s wrist. He heard the awful sound of crunching bone that left him holding the severed limb. The boy screamed in horror and dropped the bloody fingers that had chased him for so long. Someone slapped the boy across his cheek, knocking him to the ground. He looked up to see the black man swaying a few feet above him. He noticed a sharp metal knife sparkle underneath a fiery torch. A white hand thrust the blade into the man’s chest. Blood spurted from the dead man’s heart and splattered onto the child’s face. He wiped his eyes and mouth, then stared at the blood on his hands. He rubbed his palms against his legs, but the blood remained—if anything, he’d only managed to spread it. A ghost hadn’t chased him after all, but a man with dark skin similar to his own. The man needed his help but he’d failed him, brought him farther into the marsh and closer to his executioners. Jimmie Reynolds laid his body prone on the cold, damp earth, hoping beyond hope never to see those bloodstained fingers again. He closed his eyes and shut his mind to what had happened, then pretended to be dead.

  Reynolds woke up in the hospital with Cheryl by his side. The doctor said there were no broken bones but he’d be sore for a couple of weeks. He required several stitches on his forehead from the head butt, and he’d been given a prescription for pain, which he refused to fill. He hated medication of any kind, particularly when he needed to think clearly. He didn’t want to delay the trial but, under the circumstances, would request a day or two. He’d ask Judge Tanner to inform the jury he was involved in a minor car accident. Given the number of times his body had struck his vehicle, that would hardly be a lie.

  He filled out a police report while still confined to his room and demanded to be released. At six years old, he’d spent a week in the hospital to have his appendix removed. While there, he counted seven people who died—one a day for his entire stay. After that experience, he vowed never to return unless as a visitor. Until tonight, the last time he’d been in a hospital was nine years ago, for the birth of his son.

  Cheryl drove her husband home, and he lay down on the couch. She sat on the floor next to him and held his hand.

  “Help me up, will ya?” he asked.

  “I thought you didn’t want to go to bed,” she said as she carefully assisted him to his feet.

  “I don’t.” He walked with some difficulty and proceeded into the kitchen. He opened one of the cabinets but couldn’t reach inside because of the soreness of his ribs.

  “What do you want?” Cheryl asked, concerned. He looked away. She retrieved the bottle of bourbon and placed it on the counter. “Is that what you think you need?” she asked disappointedly.

  Reynolds didn’t answer. He took the bottle and removed the top. He moved to the sink and poured the contents down the drain. She watched the last few drops leave the bottle; then he tossed it into the wastebasket.

  She moved closer to him and placed her arm around his. “You told me you were going to keep that forever.”

  “I thought I’d need it that long. But I don’t. Not anymore.” He walked gingerly to the breakfast table and sat. Cheryl took the seat across from him.

  “It always frightened me when you used to wake up in the middle of the night and reach for that bottle.”

  “Did you think I was gonna drink it?” he asked.

  “No. I guess I was just afraid you couldn’t come to me or to anyone else with whatever was troubling you. You needed that thing more than you needed your wife.”

  “Most of my life I’ve been afraid of a ghost who I thought was out to hurt me.” The corners of his eyes glistened as he spoke softly. “I finally discovered it wasn’t a ghost at all, but a man who needed my help. I couldn’t give it to him.” He found it more difficult to speak. The words constricted his throat as he fought back tears. He looked at Cheryl, and the sight of her tears released his own in a steady stream. “They killed him, Cheryl! Mutilated that man as I held him!” His voice broke with anger and pain. “They hung him right in front of me and put a knife into his heart, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it!”

  She held him, and they both wept.

  He slept throughout the day and most of the night. Cheryl called Sinclair, who immediately requested a forty-eight-hour delay in the continuation of the trial. Tanner agreed and notified the jury and all the participants of “the unfortunate automobile accident.” The judge went on to say: “We’re all pleased that Mr.
Reynolds wasn’t severely injured, and I’m happy to report he’ll be able to continue with us in two days. I’ve been told he’ll be a little sore, but that’ll make it easier for me to control him. Now, if I could just find a way to do the same with opposing counsel, oh, what a world this would be.”

  The jurors and courtroom spectators laughed except for Matheson, who studied the jury’s reaction and focused on Aubrey Munson, who for some reason needed to take notes.

  CHAPTER 56

  THE BIG MOMENT had arrived. Reporters, unwilling to risk losing the precious seats that entitled them to a ringside view of the “event,” ate sandwiches, shared chips, and guzzled sodas that they had managed to sneak into the courtroom. Politicians and dignitaries had flown in from around the country and tried to use their influence or connections to gain admittance, to no avail. Court spectators chatted in excited anticipation and told jokes to release the tension. It had all the appearances of a championship fight or a superstar rock concert. Even the jurors dressed for the occasion, with new blouses and dresses for the women and freshly pressed jackets and ties for the men. Something special was about to take place, and everyone knew it, especially the two opposing lawyers and the witness who’d just taken the stand.

  “State your name for the record,” requested the court clerk.

  “Martin Samuel Matheson.” The professor sat down at the precise moment his attorney asked the first question.

  “Dr. Matheson, did you kill Earvin Cooper?”

  “I did not.”

  “Have you killed anyone?”

  “No.”

  Miller walked near the jury box and attempted to make eye contact, but they were all focused on Matheson. “Why did you teach a course on civil rights history focusing on unsolved murders, ‘unpunished murderers,’ as you called them?”

  Matheson turned toward the jury, and immediately several of the women improved their posture. “People sacrificed their lives during a turbulent period in this nation’s history.” He spoke carefully and clearly. “If we remember them, their blood is in our veins. If we forget them, their blood’s on our hands. We’ve forgotten them, which is why so many young black men find it easy to destroy each other.” Matheson looked at Reynolds, who sat motionless at the prosecutor’s table. “I tried to teach my students that black life is valuable—that you shouldn’t be able to take it without consequence.”

  Miller glanced at the jury. “I have no further questions.”

  Tanner placed his hand over his mouth, which had unexpectedly dropped open. The jury shared the judge’s shock that the testimony had ended so abruptly.

  Miller strode to his table and confidently sat down.

  Reporters wrote furiously in their notebooks.

  “Mr. Reynolds, it seems as if it’s your turn,” remarked Judge Tanner. “I assume you wish to take it.”

  “I do, indeed; thank you, Your Honor.” Reynolds’s voice echoed inside his own head, and he thought he heard his heart beat rapidly. He rose and wondered if his jacket was rumpled or his shirt collar crooked or if the jury could tell his legs shook. “Good afternoon, Professor Matheson.” He wanted to be respectful without appearing friendly. Direct without being hostile. He wasn’t sure how he sounded.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Reynolds. I’m sorry about your . . . accident.”

  The professor’s attempt at concern snapped Reynolds back into reality and allowed him to focus on the matter at hand. “Dr. Matheson, how could you be so certain the persons you put on your list were guilty of any crimes?”

  Matheson nodded as if approving of the question and eager to answer it. “Based on my research, there were a great many people who deserved to be placed on my list. However, I selected only those where there was irrefutable evidence of guilt, including individuals who’d openly bragged about committing the crimes. Even in those cases I relied on eyewitness identification or information contained in court records.”

  “In compiling and publicizing your list, you were placing dozens of lives in jeopardy. Did that ever bother you?”

  “What might happen to them in the future troubled me far less than what they’d done in the past,” Matheson replied matter-of-factly.

  “You’re aware, are you not, that in the last few years several men involved in some of the most notorious murders committed during the Civil Rights Movement were finally convicted of their crimes?”

  “I’m aware of that, with particular emphasis on the word finally.”

  Reynolds kept his focus and continued the questioning. “Yet you chose to advocate a campaign of personal harassment against the men on your list instead of using the research you uncovered to seek justice in the courts.”

  “Using the judicial system to penalize criminals three and a half to four decades after they commit their crimes isn’t justice, Mr. Reynolds. It’s a mockery of justice, and an insult to the victims’ families.”

  “You didn’t believe prison sentences would be sufficient.” Reynolds moved closer to the jury. “Would that be a fair characterization of your attitude?”

  “If your child had been viciously murdered and the person responsible allowed to enjoy his freedom, travel, socialize, lead a full and complete life until he reached the twilight of his years, would you be satisfied using your tax dollars to provide his retirement housing?” Matheson touched his mouth with the tip of his index finger and waited for Reynolds to respond.

  “I’m sorry, Professor, this isn’t one of your classes where you get to ask the questions. That’s my role.” Reynolds maintained his cool demeanor. “I take it your answer to my inquiry is no?”

  “My answer is a definite no.”

  “So you felt they needed a more severe form of punishment?”

  “I did.”

  “Something similar to what they allegedly did to their victims.”

  “That would be impossible to achieve.”

  Reynolds inched closer to the witness. “You mean you’d never be able to make them suffer enough?”

  Matheson directed his reply to the jury. “The crimes they committed were not simply against individuals. They were allowed to terrorize an entire race of people. Blacks were confronted with incontrovertible evidence their lives didn’t matter. That they had absolutely no value.”

  Pointedly Matheson continued without turning back to face Reynolds. “The victimization of the black community left deep and permanent scars. We see the effects of that psychic damage every day in the way that black youth treat each other. They have no respect because they were never respected. More important, they’ve come to believe they never deserved to be.” He made eye contact with each individual member of the jury. Some nodded their heads, acknowledging they agreed or at least understood.

  Reynolds thought about cutting off the lecture but preferred to let Matheson share his philosophies. With luck, he’d say a bit too much.

  “If you punish a murderer within a reasonable time after the crime,” continued Matheson, “there’s a possibility of healing. In a strange sense, it provides an opportunity to recognize and embrace how precious and fragile life is, to gather strength from pain and forge it into a renewed sense of optimism and hope.” He folded his hands together and placed them on the edge of the witness stand. “But if that life’s taken without the slightest chance of achieving justice, then your view of yourself and the people around you becomes distorted and ultimately abusive to those you love, assuming you’re capable of loving at all.” He finally looked at Reynolds. “You’re correct, Mr. Reynolds. I could never make them suffer enough for their cowardly acts or for the lasting effects their crimes had on a community forced to act cowardly.”

  “I surmise by your response that I’m likely to have difficulty in getting you to answer a question with a simple yes or no?”

  Matheson smiled. “I apologize. When I took the oath, I assumed you wanted me to give as complete and thorough an answer as your question deserved, particularly since you won’t accord me the right to ask my
own.” He smiled more charmingly. “But I do admit my years as a professor have caused me at times to take the longest distance between two points in order to make two more. I’ll try to be brief in the future.”

  “That’s quite all right, Dr. Matheson; please take as much time as you need. After all, you’re on trial for capital murder, not your teaching style.”

  “That remains to be seen, but I appreciate your patience.” Matheson poured himself a glass of water.

  “Why did you use your students to achieve your rather unique brand of justice?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean by ‘use.’”

  “Well, let me try and clarify it for you.” Reynolds took a step toward the jury. “In your personal crusade to correct past injustices, rather than rely on impressionable students, did you ever make an effort to enlist the support of black leaders?”

  Matheson took a sip of water. “Mr. Reynolds, I avoid people who fill in the words black leader under the category marked occupation.” He placed the glass of water on the ledge in front of him. “I generally find they charge too much and accomplish too little.”

  “Isn’t your father a black leader, Professor Matheson?”

  “My father’s a minister and a fighter for civil rights. Since you were, until very recently, a member of his church, you’re fully aware he’s never had any interest in inflating his ego at the expense of the people he tried to help.”

  “I’m aware of a great many things about your father, but I’m far more interested in having the jury learn more about his son,” Reynolds said with the first real sign of hostility.

  “They say the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” replied Matheson.

  “They also say the apple was Adam’s downfall, and we all know where that obsession led the world.” Reynolds spoke with less animosity, but there still existed an edge to his words. “Speaking of obsession, would that describe your behavior in dealing with Earvin Cooper and the other men on your list?”