Blood on the Leaves Read online

  “Does,” answered Angela.

  “Does not!”

  “Does!”

  “That’s enough,” refereed Cheryl. “You know so much about God, young man, you can say grace.”

  Christopher stared at his sister and mouthed the words does not. He bowed his head in prayer. “Dear Lord, thank you for the food we’re about to eat and knowing which people to punish and which ones to leave alone.” He gave another warning stare at Angela, who turned up her nose, asserting her superiority and defiance. The gathering mumbled, “Amen,” and Cheryl passed around platters of food.

  “James tells me you taught him a lot about the law,” Sinclair said to Miller.

  Miller nodded. “He would’ve made a great defense attorney except for one fatal flaw: He had an uncompromising desire to punish people.”

  “My dad’s beaten Mr. Miller twelve court cases in a row,” Christopher proclaimed.

  “Let’s not rub it in,” Reynolds interjected. “And it was thirteen,” he said with great enjoyment.

  “Eleven. I plea-bargained two.” Miller placed a spoonful of whipped butter on his corn muffin. “So, Lauren, how many innocent people have you successfully persecuted? I meant, prosecuted.”

  Cheryl placed a bowl of steaming potatoes under his chin, forcing Miller to inhale the aroma. “Mashed—just the way I prefer all my food,” he said sincerely.

  She dumped three large servings onto his plate. He quietly signaled “enough” and smiled his appreciation.

  Angela passed a bowl of vegetables to her father without taking any for herself.

  “Did you forget to put some of this on your own plate?” he asked.

  “I thought since we had guests I should give up my portion,” Angela responded sincerely.

  “How thoughtful,” Miller said. He took the bowl from Reynolds and studied it. “And I bet you really love spinach as much as I do.” He passed the bowl to Sinclair without taking any.

  Angela was reaching for the gravy when Reynolds grabbed her hand. He looked at it carefully, then glanced toward his wife. “Why are her fingernails blue?” He wouldn’t let go of her wrist.

  “To match her toenails,” Cheryl answered.

  Angela and her mother both rolled their eyes and uttered the same word, “Duh!”

  Releasing Angela’s hand, Reynolds lifted the tablecloth and peered underneath the table to check his daughter’s feet. He dropped the cloth back into place. “Her toenails are blue.” He searched the faces gathered around the table. “Why are my daughter’s toenails painted blue?”

  “To match her fingernails,” Christopher explained.

  Miller and Sinclair rolled their eyes and spoke in unison, “Duh!”

  Reynolds shifted his attention to Miller, but his son interrupted. “Dad,” Christopher asked, “can I get my ear pierced?”

  “Not on purpose,” responded Reynolds.

  “Dad!” protested Christopher. “I’m serious.”

  “You want serious?” asked his father. “Here’s serious. Absolutely not.”

  “Not both of them! Only one,” explained his son.

  “Not one. Not two. Not ever.” Reynolds reached for some chicken, selecting a breast and a drumstick.

  “But I wanna wear an earring!” Christopher pleaded.

  “Wear clip-ons,” Reynolds countered calmly, and then suddenly froze. “Forget what I just said about the clip-ons. No earrings of any kind anyplace on your body, do you understand?”

  “Oh, man!” Christopher’s shoulders hunched upward, then settled back into place.

  “Mr. Miller has pierced ears,” Angela observed.

  Reynolds took a biscuit and buttered it. “Mr. Miller also has a long ponytail, but I don’t hear either one of you asking for one of those.”

  Miller reached for his braid of hair and placed it forward over his shoulder, patting it defensively.

  “I think you have lovely hair, Todd.” Cheryl touched Miller on the hand. “It gives you a mark of distinction.”

  “Then can I grow my hair like that, Mommy?” Christopher offered in compromise.

  “Not in this or any other lifetime,” his mother said unequivocally, then smiled politely at Miller.

  Christopher reached behind his head and tried to manipulate his very short hair into some form of ponytail.

  The rest of the meal went along smoothly, which meant that the diners barely avoided confrontations involving politics, religion, and most especially the criminal justice system. Sinclair tried to be civil. Miller tested, taunted, and complained. Reynolds, while showing his friend due respect, at the same time tried to tell Miller how much he’d changed.

  “I remember when no one in my office wanted to go up against you,” Reynolds said with a mix of nostalgia and regret.

  “That’s when I had righteousness on my side.” Miller looked at Sinclair. “I wanted to save the world. Well, maybe not the world—the South. That’s no small accomplishment.” He put two spoonfuls of sugar in his cup, stirred the coffee, and sighed. “Life was so much more gratifying when my clients were victims instead of victimizers.”

  Sinclair touched a cloth napkin to her lips and commented to Cheryl, “Well, I can’t tell you when I’ve had such a pleasant time.”

  “I hope you have greater credibility with a jury,” Miller said, mildly amused.

  “I was being courteous.” Sinclair put down the napkin near the side of her plate. “But if I have to answer under threat of contempt of court, I got tired of your self-serving, melodramatic whining about an hour ago. If you didn’t feel so sorry for yourself, maybe your clients might have a better chance.” She turned toward Cheryl and smiled graciously. “It was a lovely dinner; thanks so much for inviting me.”

  “If I knew you were going to be insulting,” Miller said seductively, “I might have warmed up to you a lot earlier.”

  “Good night, Todd,” Cheryl stated with finality.

  “Am I leaving?” he asked.

  She nodded yes.

  “Oh, well,” he said, then mockingly imitated Sinclair. “It was a lovely dinner; thanks so much for inviting me.” He looked at Sinclair and gave her a killer smile.

  Reynolds retrieved Miller’s jacket and helped him with it. Miller gave Cheryl a good-bye hug, kissed Angela on the forehead, and squeezed Christopher’s cheeks. “Don’t give up on that earring.” He took Christopher to the side. “If you need a good lawyer to sue your father, I’m your man.” He took Sinclair’s hand. “And that’s ditto to you.” He kissed the back of her hand and gave a gentleman’s bow, which allowed Cheryl to pinch his behind.

  He looked at Reynolds. “I think your wife has a thing for me,” he said lasciviously.

  “We all do,” replied Reynolds. “It’s called a headache.” He opened the front door. “I’ll push your car,” Reynolds whispered loud enough for everyone to hear him. “No need for you to suffer any further embarrassment.”

  “Thank you,” Miller said sarcastically. “Particularly for the discreet manner in which you handled my humiliating circumstance.” The two of them walked outside. “While we’re on the subject of humiliation,” Miller continued, “why don’t you arrange one of our little Sunday night card games.”

  “I can do that. Let’s shoot for next week. I’ll check everyone’s schedule.”

  Miller reached his car and pried open the door. “I sort of miss that baby doctor blowin’ cigar smoke around the table just before he cheats.” He wedged himself into the driver’s seat and started pumping the accelerator.

  “You need to get a life,” Reynolds suggested.

  “I’ve already had one; trust me, life’s greatly overrated.”

  “Lauren was right: Wallowing in self-pity gets old real fast.” Reynolds placed the weight of his body against the driver’s door to help Miller close it.

  Miller rolled down his window until it stuck. “She never said, ‘wallowing in self-pity.’ Her exact words were ‘self-serving, melodramatic whining.’” He turned
the ignition, and the car sputtered. “If you’re gonna agree with her, have the decency to quote her accurately.” Miller playfully nudged Reynolds. “Did you see that certain sparkle in her eyes when I walked by her? I think she wants me. . . . She’s probably gonna follow me home.”

  “If she does, call the police.”

  “I don’t trust the police. They’re in bed with the DA’s office.” The car backfired, then started. “Speaking of bed, if she asks for my number, give it to her.”

  “The woman holds you in contempt.”

  “Being held is not a problem.” Miller poked his face out the window. “It’s the letting go that hurts.” Miller drove off, with the damaged-muffler sound increasing appreciably as the car gained speed.

  Reynolds headed toward his house as Sinclair left it. They walked to her car.

  “Your friend’s obnoxious in a charming sort of way.” She unlocked her car door.

  “He used to give the most powerful and eloquent closing arguments I’d ever heard,” he said sadly.

  “What happened?”

  “Same thing that happens to all of us: It became a job, not a calling.”

  “You care for him a lot.”

  “He’s an honest defense lawyer. When was the last time you heard those words strung together in the same sentence? Plus he believes the sixties really happened. You gotta love a guy with that kind of sense of humor.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Drive careful.”

  “Thanks for dinner,” she said.

  He watched her drive until the car disappeared around the corner. He remained outside for a moment and thought about Miller. He shook his head and smiled, then walked toward the front door, quietly singing, “Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me ’round, turn me ’round, turn me ’round. Ain’t gonna let nobody . . .”

  CHAPTER 13

  AFTER RACHEL RECEIVED the phone call, she applied some light makeup to her cheeks—nothing too fancy or obvious—then worked on her eyelashes. God had blessed her with naturally long ones that seemed to invite the wrong type of strangers to gaze into her soul. Or so they tried. Occasionally she attracted the right men, who’d stay longer than the next application of mascara. She had a good life, better than her mother’s, better than she sometimes thought she deserved. But still there remained a second pillow, seldom used. She kept it by her side and waited for a good reason to fluff it. Perhaps tonight, she hoped.

  A loud sports car pulled into the driveway and sputtered. She smiled and brushed back her hair. She opened the door and went outside, making herself comfortable and attractive on the front porch.

  “Hi,” Miller said. “I hope I didn’t call you too late.”

  “There’s too late and there’s not at all.” They both smiled the same sad expression. “Have a seat, Todd.”

  “You’re not too cold?” he asked.

  “Would you rather be inside?” she responded with an accusing tease.

  Miller sat next to her on the swinging settee. “No, no, this will be fine for now.” He leaned back and looked at her. “Just didn’t want you to catch something. There’s a chill in the air.”

  She wet her index finger and stuck it high above her head. “There’s a lot in the air this evening. All of it ain’t cold.”

  Miller twiddled his fingers, and the swing swayed back and forth.

  “What’s wrong, Todd?”

  “Wrong?” He looked at her, puzzled. “Nothing’s wrong. I was just thinking about you and thought, since I was driving out this way, I’d give you a call to see . . .”

  “If I was lonely, too?”

  He stopped swaying.

  “Doesn’t matter why you called,” she continued. “I’m glad you did.”

  He smiled gratefully and started swaying again. This time she helped.

  “You’re dressed pretty spiffy. You have one of your late-night client meetings?”

  “Dinner with friends, nothing special. Talked law most of the night. Or to be more specific, justice.”

  “You can’t stop being an attorney even on a Saturday night.”

  “It’s in my blood, three generations.”

  “You ever think what you might be if you hadn’t become a lawyer?”

  “Probably a blues singer.”

  She laughed and leaned closer to him. They both stopped swaying. She shivered and lightly rubbed her arms. “Guess you were right about that chill,” she said playfully.

  “You think we should go inside now?” he asked cautiously.

  She stood and took his hand. “Think we probably should’ve gone in when you first suggested it.”

  They entered the house, and she double-locked the front door. After they’d made love, she studied with amusement the pillow wedged between the headboard and his face, and released a sigh.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said with a smile. “I’m just relieved that pillow got used. I was getting sick and tired of seein’ it puffed up so full and proper like a proud little man with a stuck-out, hairless chest.”

  He put his arm around her and drew her closer to him. She placed her head on his heart, and he held her.

  “How come you never had any children?” she asked.

  “I never wanted to be evaluated that honestly.” He stroked her hair.

  She kissed him on the cheek, then more softly on the lips.

  “What’d you do that for?” he asked.

  “I heard good lawyers avoid asking questions they don’t know the answers to.” She ran her hand down his leg. “You’re a good lawyer, aren’t you, Todd?” She grabbed his pillow and propped it under his head.

  “Is it time for the defense to rest?”

  “Not yet,” she answered seductively, then moved her body on top of his. Her eyelashes fluttered twice. “Not yet.”

  CHAPTER 14

  DELBERT FINNEY STARED at the tape recorder on the detective’s desk. “You gonna turn that on?” he asked.

  “Not right now,” answered the detective, who was reviewing his notes. He circled two sections and asked, “How often did you say you visited Professor Matheson’s home?”

  “Just that once.”

  “Sounded like you really enjoyed yourself.”

  Delbert’s smile lit up the small room usually reserved for interviewing criminal suspects. “Most beautiful place I’d ever seen. We watched movies on a giant screen built right into the wall and ate take-out chicken and popcorn. Nobody important ever paid that much attention to me or cared what I wanted in life.”

  “Did you tell the professor what you wanted, Delbert?”

  The slender young man nodded his head. “Told him I wanted to be happy. Popular.” He looked at his feet. “Not such a country hick. I wanted to be someone Sereta would like.” He looked at the detective. “She’s a freshman like me.”

  The detective wrote her name on his pad.

  “Most of all I wanted to accomplish something to make my parents proud, pay them back for all the sacrifices they made.”

  The detective wrote down the information and circled it. “While you were there, did anything unusual happen?”

  “The whole thing was special for me. When I left, he gave me a book of short stories by Langston Hughes and a volume of poetry by Paul Laurence Dunbar. I read ’em soon as I got back to the dorm. They were about people I knew, people like me. I never thought poetry could describe common folk and still be about love.” He scratched the back of his shoulder. “I read some of it to Sereta,” he said shyly. “We’re dating now.”

  “Seems like you owe the professor a great deal.”

  “I was miserable at that school when I first got there. It was so big. I threw up every night. I was the youngest of eleven, the only one to go to college, and I missed my family. Yeah. I owe Dr. Matheson everything.”

  “Would you kill for him?” The detective studied Delbert. “You know any other students who might do the same?”

  Delbert stared at the detective for an uneasy mo
ment. “Can’t read other people’s minds or hearts, but as far as me, I’d do whatever the professor asked me to do.”

  The detective turned on the tape recorder. “You mind repeating that? After you finish, you’ll be free to go.”

  “It’s good to be free,” Delbert said proudly. “Didn’t always feel that way. That was something else Dr. Matheson gave me. So go ahead and turn on your machine. Record that, too.”

  Delbert completed the interview. As he was leaving, he saw Brandon, who offered to give him a ride back to the campus after his turn with the detective. Delbert accepted the offer and wished Brandon luck. While he waited in the hallway, he exchanged greetings with other classmates and told them what questions to expect from the detective and how to answer.

  In the City of Brotherly Love, where the Liberty Bell is cracked but not broken, an eighteen-year-old black man with a history of mental illness had died at the hands of two white policemen. The off-duty officers shot him thirteen times. The coroner’s report suggested that one of the officers had fired his weapon as the man fell helplessly to the ground.

  This news story might have gone unnoticed by District Attorney Vanzant and his counterparts across the nation had it not been for several disturbing developments that made the incident unlike any previous police shootings of unarmed black men. First, the community didn’t erupt in violence. Second, protestors compiled a document referred to as “the list,” modeled after Matheson’s course. Local activists reviewed records of police shootings that had resulted in black fatalities going back a period of five years. The names and addresses of the white officers involved in those killings were published in newsletters and distributed throughout the city. Their photos and “unpunished crimes” were printed on wanted posters plastered on street signs and displayed in storefront windows. Minority officers were excluded from the list, which intensified hostility among white police, who refused to patrol certain communities at night and sought reassignments away from their black partners.

  “Listen to this,” Vanzant muttered as he quickly read an article faxed to him from one of his associates. “The head of the Fraternal Order of African-American Police held a news conference condemning the shooting and insisted reforms were long overdue, saying, ‘I appreciate the frustrations experienced by people of color, and I believe many of these problems could be alleviated, if not altogether eliminated, by hiring and promoting more black officers.’”