Blood on the Leaves Page 7

  “No, Mr. Jackson, this is justice.”

  Jackson, in a rare miscue, lost track of the red light and stared blankly into the wrong camera. He quickly corrected his error and used the lull in action to readjust his glasses. “And will the person or persons murdering the alleged ‘murderers’ on your list be brought to justice?”

  “Score one for Tommy.” Reynolds tried to maintain his optimism, but his hopes were fading fast. He watched Matheson create a sense of drama. The professor leaned back, tilted his head, shifted his eyes, and lightly touched his lower lip, preparing to share a truth that would make his listeners follow him anywhere. He possessed a sense of timing any actor would envy.

  “Mr. Jackson, in recent years this nation’s been embroiled in a violent campaign designed to protect the freedom and safety of its citizens. It pursues international criminals as well as those who harbor them and does so without mercy. When this country was attacked on its own soil, no one suggested we should turn the other cheek. We didn’t seek to understand our enemies in order to love and forgive them. We branded them evil cowards and then did everything in our power to destroy them. Is there any greater evil than bombing a church and killing innocent little girls engaged in prayer? Are there any more despicable and cowardly terrorists than those who conceal their faces beneath white hoods while they lynch black men and women?”

  The professor put the fingers of both hands together in a flexible pyramid and continued. “I’m not certain what will happen to anyone who feels compelled to take matters in his own hands. We’ll just have to place our faith in the existing legal system and let American justice be our conscience as well as our guide.”

  “Damn, he’s good.” Reynolds placed the final domino in its desired position.

  “Dr. Matheson, you made reference to the attack on America. Some people have suggested your actions jeopardize the unsurpassed unity experienced by citizens of all races.”

  This news anchor obviously hadn’t learned his lesson, thought Reynolds.

  “Unsurpassed unity when combined with unexamined fear and hypocrisy is a formula for genuine disaster,” Matheson pointed out. “I doubt this ad hoc solidarity would have existed had fanatical racists taken over those planes and traveled a few miles uptown to a Harlem neighborhood or black elementary school. If that alternative scenario had occurred, do you honestly believe billions of dollars would have been devoted to destroying racist organizations in this country, let alone chasing neo-Nazis in Germany or skinheads in Great Britain and France?” Matheson waited for an answer Reynolds knew would never come.

  “Professor Matheson, I’m afraid we’re out of time. Thank you for joining us tonight.” Jackson put down his pen and shuffled some three-by-five cards.

  “It was my pleasure, Thomas; thanks so much for inviting me.” Matheson could afford to be gracious.

  The professor had let the cat out of the bag and thrown it in the face of millions of viewers. If the first casualty of war is truth, then what is the cost of a crusade against terror? Reynolds wondered. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that in order to eradicate evil we must begin to emulate the evildoer. And if you label your enemy “evil” long enough, you justify even the most immoral act as noble. Wasn’t Matheson living proof of that?

  He retrieved his remote control and turned off the television. Just as the set went black, the unit slipped out of his hand and struck the domino that moments earlier had completed his architectural achievement. He watched helplessly as the piece set off a chain reaction. One domino knocked over the next, mimicking a thousand Radio City Rockettes collapsing in perfect symmetry.

  CHAPTER 11

  APPEARING FROM BEHIND a red satin curtain at the university’s performing arts center, Matheson bowed to thunderous applause. He crossed the stage proscenium and stood behind the podium. Acknowledging the enthusiastic reception, he raised his hands several times to quiet the crowd, but they remained on their feet, cheering wildly.

  Brandon and Regina, in the front row, saluted him in triumph. He looked into the sea of proud faces and noticed a figure standing at the back of the theater, a safe distance from the main activities. After a few moments, the man took a seat in the very last row. Matheson recognized Reynolds and gave him a slight welcoming gesture. Reynolds clapped three times slowly, then stopped to tip an imaginary hat in the professor’s honor.

  Matheson hushed the crowd and motioned for them to be seated. He adjusted the microphone attached to the podium. “I’m speechless, which is a day too late for Thomas Jackson.”

  The students laughed and applauded again.

  “I take it from your generous reception a growing number of you subscribe to cable and are satisfied with your service?”

  Regina climbed to the stage and proceeded to the wing. She pushed a button, and the curtain slid open. She flipped a switch, and dozens of spotlights illuminated a series of movie posters featuring several generations of Hollywood’s leading men, from John Wayne, Gary Cooper, and Humphrey Bogart to Harrison Ford, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Sylvester Stallone.

  Reynolds studied the high ceilings, admiring the delicately etched designs on the carved wooden moldings. He counted the small private opera boxes sprinkled along the second and third levels. The upper balconies protruded a few feet from the walls. He wondered how many plays, poetry readings, and concerts had been performed in this magnificent venue; he predicted that the drama about to unfold would surpass them all.

  Matheson picked up a long, narrow stick and held it in his left hand, then spread his arms as wide as they would reach. With his face lifted toward the rafters and bathed in a warm blue-and-gold-filtered glow, he performed his best rendition of Moses: “Behold the faces of the great American hero; bow down before them at the altar of eternal servitude or face the unrelenting wrath of Western European history.” Matheson dropped the stick along with his impersonation.

  “For those who think the stress of last evening’s telecast may have driven me over the edge, let me assure you there’s a purpose to my madness.”

  There always is, Reynolds thought.

  “History devoid of analysis and truth ceases to be history and instead becomes propaganda and myth, both of which are drugs far more powerful and dangerous than any narcotic or hallucinogen.” Matheson walked in between the posters, at times disappearing behind each one. It created the effect of an invisible voice speaking on behalf of the exhibited images.

  “The actors represented on this stage have gender and race in common. They personify the classic heroic figure that will seduce you with false images of beauty and morality and tempt you to replace the protective cloak of your heritage and history with a coat not of your making. They’ll rob you of your desire to dream and, if you’re not careful, capture your very soul.”

  Watching Matheson from afar, admiring his eloquence, Reynolds felt a nervousness nagging at him. He wondered to what end this teacher would use his extraordinary gifts.

  “American cinema, literature, media, history—all have endorsed a code of conduct, a definition of right and wrong, that is embodied in the people we call heroes. And playing those heroes are the white male actors whose images you see before you. They let nothing prevent them from achieving victory, acquiring honor, defending their family, their country, their God. And they do so by any means necessary.”

  Matheson scanned the rows of faces in front of him, then shifted his attention to Reynolds for a moment.

  “Our heroes—black heroes—aren’t accorded the same respect, because they’re not allowed the same means to achieve it. White heroes take up arms to battle their enemy while our heroes are expected to turn the other cheek and pray for divine intervention. There are a great many things you can do while on your knees, some of them pleasurable. But, my friends, gaining freedom and fighting for liberty are not high on the list.”

  Against his better judgment, Reynolds laughed with the students.

  Matheson removed his jacket and hung it on the side of the p
odium. He walked to the edge of the stage and sat down. His legs hung over a shallow orchestra pit that had been converted by his wizardry into a heavenly cloud. “It’s time we put our faces up there alongside those white faces that for so long have represented courage in the service of virtue. If our town is being terrorized, then it’s imperative we dispatch our black Gary Cooper before the train arrives and the moral clock strikes not high noon but rather darkest midnight.”

  Reynolds searched the faces of Matheson’s adoring students. He had no doubt they’d sacrifice their lives for this man. He worried they might also kill for him.

  “Sojourner Truth called attention to the dilemma of race in relation to the obstacles confronting her more advanced white sisters, by uttering her now famous question. She wasn’t speaking for herself, but for all black women when she asked, ‘Ain’t I a woman, too?’ Well, with all praise to Sojourner, I humbly ask on behalf of our ancestors who were courageous enough to sometimes act cowardly so that we the descendants of their suffering would never have to: America, after all this time, ain’t I a hero, too?”

  The students leaped to their feet in sustained applause. Matheson also got to his feet and stood motionless, his slight fatigue dissipating as the clapping continued. He nodded an appreciative thank-you, then glanced to the very back row. The seat he focused on was empty. Reynolds was nowhere to be found.

  Reynolds didn’t know if he should wait any longer or return home. He was unsure why he’d decided to stand outside the auditorium in the first place. Maybe he owed Matheson the courtesy of a good-bye. He took a seat at the bottom of the steps leading to the arts center and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the campus at night. Students were leaving the building from several exits. He wondered if he’d selected the right one. He’d chosen the biggest, grandest portal opening into a lobby as big as a ballroom. Yes, Matheson would choose this path lined with rose petals tossed by young worshipers who would sing his praises as they followed him all the way to his horse-drawn golden chariot.

  “You didn’t stay to the end of the lecture,” Matheson called out heartily.

  Reynolds stood and was surprised to see the professor departing alone. The prosecutor smiled. “I’m not big on hero worship.”

  “Giving or receiving?” Matheson stepped down the stairs.

  “You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you?”

  “Immensely.” The professor paused for a second. “May I buy you a cappuccino? There’s a small café just off the campus that’s open late.”

  The two men took a shortcut through the faculty lounge to a staff parking lot and eventually to the rear entrance of the coffee shop. They were served quickly at the professor’s own private table. The waitress brought coffee, two slices of pie, and a freshly baked croissant, which emitted the aroma of cinnamon.

  They exhausted a few minutes in small talk before Reynolds asked, “What makes someone like you?”

  “The same thing that makes someone like you. Nature . . . nurture. Who’s to say one’s more important than the other?”

  “My office was notified you’ve received death threats.”

  Matheson stirred his coffee. “It’s a violent world.”

  “You’re not worried?”

  “My father taught me that death isn’t to be feared.”

  “What else did he teach you?”

  “That life is really frightening—although I’m sure he never intended to teach me that. It’s a natural by-product of Christian training. Something to do with loving thine enemy while despising yourself.” Matheson took a bite of his croissant.

  “You don’t strike me as a man who despises himself.”

  “Nor have I ever loved my enemy or blessed those who cursed me. Of all my accomplishments, I’m most proud of that.”

  A black woman in her fifties approached their table. She dismissed Reynolds with a perfunctory nod, then turned an admiring look at Matheson. “Excuse me, are you the professor who was on television last night?”

  “I’m afraid I am.”

  “I just wanted to tell you how proud it made me feel to see a courageous black man finally stand up for his people. I intend to say a prayer and ask the Lord to keep givin’ you whatever strength you’ll need to go on teachin’ those students the truth.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Matheson seemed genuinely touched.

  She smiled, then asked, “Could I impose and ask for your autograph?”

  “I’d be both honored and delighted to give you one.”

  She found a piece of notepaper inside her purse and handed it to him. Reynolds turned away. Matheson removed from his jacket a Mont Blanc fountain pen with a gold inscription down its side, designed especially for him.

  “Whom should I make it out to?”

  “Calpurnia.”

  “Like Caesar’s wife?” the professor asked with interest.

  “I don’t know anything about that, but it was a name good enough for my mother, her mother, and the mother before that.”

  Matheson laughed. “Thanks for reminding me that our contributions predate the Roman Empire.”

  “Predate everything else if you believe those old bones they dug up in Africa,” she said.

  Reynolds watched Matheson write his greeting. He’d mastered the art of reading upside down through years of stealing clues from opposing counsel while at the judge’s bench, although deciphering Matheson’s message from any angle required no deceptive skill. The man’s penmanship was eminently legible—one could say, impeccable. God, Reynolds thought, is there anything this man can’t do well?

  Matheson wrote, Dear Calpurnia, the real power of magic rests not in what we make disappear, but in what we discover. May your magic never fail you. Always, Martin Matheson.

  He gave the woman her paper, which she handled as carefully as the holy scrolls. Thanking him profusely, she left with a glow on her face.

  Reynolds looked at Matheson, who acted as if nothing unusual had happened. The professor took a sip of coffee and noticed Reynolds wasn’t eating. He pointed to the food.

  “You should try the pecan pie; it’s to die for.”

  CHAPTER 12

  REYNOLDS GRIMACED WITH determination and made a frantic dash across the hot clay court. With a desperate heave of his out-of-control body he viciously swung his tennis racket, barely missing the ball. He fell to the ground and slid headfirst, mashing his face into the newly installed white mesh net.

  “Game . . . Set . . . Match.” On the opposite side of the net Miller raised his racket victoriously toward the sun.

  Reynolds rose to one knee and searched his body for any damage.

  “A tennis court is different than a court of law,” Miller proclaimed.

  “Okay, I’ll take the bait,” Reynolds said, rising to his feet. “How is it different?”

  Miller smiled. “The rich and powerful don’t always win.”

  Reynolds stared back at his opponent. “That’s it? That’s your pearl of wisdom?”

  Miller shrugged modestly. “It’s also a place where love means nothing—seems a rather hopeless sentiment.” With an unsportsmanlike chuckle he added, “As in six-love, the score of our final set!”

  Waving off a troublesome gnat, Reynolds began walking away from Miller, who followed alongside. “Oh,” Reynolds said, turning to his friend, “Cheryl’s invited you to dinner.”

  “Why?” Miller asked suspiciously.

  “Something about wanting our children to be exposed to different cultures, and you’re about as different as they come.”

  “I’ll assume that’s a compliment,” Miller replied, “but that doesn’t ease my fears.”

  They started toward the back of the court to retrieve their leather bags and check their pagers.

  “Is she trying to fix me up again?” Miller asked.

  Reynolds laid it on thick. “I can absolutely assure you my wife has no ulterior motive whatsoever. She wants merely to provide you with a pleasurable dining experience in the com
pany of friends.”

  “Whenever a lawyer speaks in long sentences without so much as a comma separating his thoughts, it’s a clear indication he’s got either a weak case or a powerful lie.”

  Reynolds waved good-bye and quickly made it off the court and into the parking lot.

  Miller leaned against the fence to ponder his fate alone.

  Miller removed his jacket and leaned close to Reynolds. “It wasn’t Cheryl. It was you. That’s low even for a prosecutor.”

  Reynolds took the jacket and hung it inside the hall closet.

  “Soup’s on,” Cheryl announced. She stood next to Lauren Sinclair, who looked radiant and uncomfortable. Cheryl ushered all of them to their seats at the dining room table. She placed Miller next to Angela and directly opposite Sinclair, who sat next to Christopher. Reynolds took his customary position at the head while Cheryl sat at the other end. “Well, don’t we make quite the family,” she said.

  “Cheryl,” Miller said, “if you knew my real family, you’d know how happy I’d be to join yours.”

  Cheryl lifted a glass of water and held it toward him in a toast. He nodded gratefully, then turned his attention toward Reynolds. “So what’s the latest on our esteemed Professor Matheson? I see that the powers that be have failed to silence him.”

  “Todd,” Cheryl intervened, “I’d rather not talk about that in front of the children, if you don’t mind.”

  Miller gave an apologetic nod.

  “He’s awesome,” chimed an enthusiastic Christopher. “I hope he’s still teaching when I go to college!”

  Cheryl made brief eye contact with Reynolds, who turned toward his son with raised eyebrows. “How much do you know about the professor’s class?” he asked.

  “He’s got a list of bad people and God’s punishing them,” answered Christopher.

  “God doesn’t punish people that way,” Cheryl responded.

  Angela dived in. “He sends them to hell, bucket-breath.”

  “Does not,” replied Christopher.