Blood on the Leaves Part 34

Reynolds admired her and didn't care if it showed. "There are a lot of ways to take advantage of someone, Regina. The worst ones don't involve touching." He put the tips of his fingers together and briefly touched his lips. "Tell me something if you can: If you learned he murdered any of those people, would you still feel the same way about him?"

She looked away for a moment and conveyed a troubled expression, then answered, "I'd respect him even more."

He didn't believe her, but the answer stunned him anyway. "Then I guess I was wrong about you," he said disappointedly. "You really do know how to lie."

Her eyes s.h.i.+fted to the floor.

"At least I hope that's a lie, Regina."

She finally looked at him.

"For your sake as well as mine." Reynolds didn't have the desire or wherewithal to ask her any more questions. Regina left the office.

CHAPTER 63.

THE JURY DELIBERATED for less than four hours, then notified the bailiff they were ready to see the judge. Reynolds a.s.sumed the worst. Jurors don't make decisions quickly in murder cases unless the defendant's a real sc.u.mbag. Long deliberations were impossible to guess; he'd be better off flipping a coin. But when the jury was out for less than half a day, it was a pretty good sign there'd be a vacancy in the state's correctional facilities.

Reynolds glanced around the courtroom, which was more packed than ever. No one wanted to miss the verdict or, for the moment, breathe.

"Madam Forewoman, have you reached a verdict?" Tanner's voice boomed throughout the hushed courtroom.

"We have, Your Honor," stated Blaze Hansberry.

"Please hand your decision to the bailiff."

Hansberry gave a slip of paper to the bailiff, who delivered it to the judge. Tanner glanced at it and showed no emotion. He folded the paper and handed it back to the bailiff. "Before I have the verdict officially announced, I warn the members of this courtroom that I will not tolerate outbursts or demonstrations of any kind." He s.h.i.+fted his attention to each major area of the room and displayed an expression that conveyed he meant business. "Bailiff, please return the verdict form to the jury forewoman."

Blaze Hansberry took the paper, and Reynolds noticed that her hand trembled slightly.

"The defendant will rise and remain standing for the reading of the verdict," ordered Tanner. He looked at the court reporter. "Madam reporter, you may read the charges."

"Case zero, zero, five-three-seven-seven, the State of Mississippi versus Martin Samuel Matheson. With regard to count one, murder in the first degree, how say you?"

"We, the jury in the above ent.i.tled action, find the defendant, Martin Samuel Matheson . . ." Hansberry paused for a moment and gave Matheson a hint of a smile.

Hundreds of black students and community supporters outside the courthouse erupted in cheers and applause. News cameras and photographers captured their celebration as they jumped up and down, joyously hugging each other. Brandon raised his fist high. Delbert wept openly. Some of the media focused attention on the dozens of white protestors who'd gathered across the street. Most remained quiet, stunned. One man tore up his sign and slammed it to the ground. A mother cursed a black newspaper reporter while her adorable five-year-old son waved a tiny Confederate flag.

Inside the courtroom, Judge Tanner reviewed and signed paperwork. Sinclair sat quietly next to Reynolds, who had his elbows on the table and his fingers pressed against his lips. While he didn't want to observe the reaction at the defense table, his eyes moved slowly in that direction and spotted Miller with his hand on Matheson's shoulder. Both men had their heads bowed while the Reverend Matheson led a silent prayer. The professor looked up momentarily and made eye contact with Reynolds, then lowered his head again and continued the prayer.

Reynolds stood behind the prosecutor's table and glanced at the members of the jury filing out of their booth, pleased with their verdict and happy the ordeal had ended. He turned and discovered April Reeves sitting in her seat looking at her son. She displayed the expression of a concerned mother, but Reynolds found it impossible to discern the real cause of that concern. He thought it revealed a combination of relief and regret, but he couldn't be certain which dominated her emotions.

Behind her sat Ruth Cooper, staring at the jury. Reynolds had no trouble determining her true feelings. She clenched the bench in front of her tightly with both hands and cried in between her anguished utterances.

He hadn't noticed Vanzant making his way toward him. Once he did, he prepared himself for the worst. Surprisingly, Vanzant extended his hand. Reynolds hesitated, then shook it.

"You did a great job with a weak case," Vanzant said admiringly albeit grudgingly. "Maybe you were right: I brought the charges too soon." The admission crept out uneasily. "But we'll get him next time." Vanzant acknowledged Sinclair with an approving nod. "You both will." Vanzant walked down the aisle and left the courtroom, ignoring the hordes of reporters who surrounded him with questions.

Reynolds felt numb and accepted his condition gratefully. He didn't want to feel anything for at least a week. He didn't trust his emotions at the moment, and it was best they remain dormant and unprovoked. He proceeded to Tanner's chambers, where he'd ask the judge for permission to use the private exit.

CHAPTER 64.

REYNOLDS SAT ON his porch and considered everything he could have done differently. He thought about Vanzant's last comment: ". . . we'll get him next time." He wondered if that meant Matheson would face charges on the previous murders based on the collection of future evidence, or if the a.s.surance unwittingly predicted more victims. He didn't believe Matheson would continue with the list. The professor had made his point, and those who were named would forever look over their shoulders and live in the terror they'd once enjoyed causing. Many had already left their homes and moved away, and with the announcement of this verdict, Reynolds knew others would leave as well.

Matheson would have the satisfaction that people throughout the country had embraced his cause and developed their own retaliatory strategies. Soon there'd be lists in every state, with their own unique targets. The professor had won. He'd broken the law in order to mend it and in the process configured a patchwork of justice that had a little bit of something for everyone. That something, contemplated Reynolds, was revenge, and the blanket woven from that desire would smother us all.

Cheryl joined her husband on the porch. "No matter how long you stay out here, the jury's verdict isn't going to change."

"I'm actually thinking about indicting myself, but I can't decide on an appropriate punishment."

"I think you've suffered more than enough."

"I failed them," he said.

"Failed who?"

"Those black victims in the photos. I promised I wouldn't let it happen again. Wouldn't let color decide justice." He took a step away and looked into the darkness of his backyard. "I didn't believe those pictures were real at first. I thought Matheson had altered them. When I showed them to Vanzant, he said maybe some well liquored-up Klansmen committed atrocities, but no way would normal, everyday decent Americans partic.i.p.ate in that kind of butchery."

He turned and studied his wife. "Maybe it wasn't race Matheson manipulated, or even our desire for revenge. Maybe it was something as simple as knowing we don't want to believe ordinary people are capable of profound evil. And when it happens, we rally behind a flag or a G.o.d or a set of tribal customs to rationalize continuing the madness. After a while we're too busy burying each other to remember who threw the first stone or why."

"We're also capable of extraordinary acts of generosity and decency and love," countered Cheryl. "And eventually, that'll make all the difference. Not in one day or one trial or even one lifetime. But good wins out, James. You've got to believe that. And you've got to help our children believe it, too." The phone rang. Cheryl looked at her watch. "It's after midnight. Who'd be calling us this late?"

"I'll get it," said Reynolds. "It's probably one of my many fans wanting to offer their congratulations." He reached inside the doorway and grabbed the wall phone. "h.e.l.lo."

Cheryl watched his face grow increasingly tense.

Reynolds listened to the recognizable voice. "I'm sorry you couldn't make it to my celebration," Matheson said. "I wanted to let you know there are no hard feelings." Reynolds wanted to respond, but the veins in his neck wouldn't allow him.

Matheson continued. "I was recently advised of the nature of your distress. There's no need to thank me, but . . ."

Cheryl touched her husband's arm, but he never looked at her.

"You won't be haunted by nightmares anymore."

Reynolds gripped the phone receiver and stopped breathing until he heard the voice again.

"At least not any from your childhood."

Reynolds's throat finally opened wide enough for him to speak, but by that time Matheson had hung up. He loosened his grip on the phone and listened to the dial tone.

"Honey?" Cheryl said.

His eyes filled with fear and rage.

"James, you're frightening me."

Ignoring the desperate pleas of his wife, he rushed out of his home and raced toward his car. He quickly started the engine and speeded out of the driveway, leaving Cheryl standing in the middle of the front yard, pleading with him to come back.

Reynolds never thought about the absurdity of his effort. He'd driven all this way, recklessly violating speed limits and racing through traffic signals and stop signs. He didn't know if he'd locate the place this late or, even if he did, how he could be so sure he'd find what he feared most. He slowed down the car and searched aimlessly for the entrance. The moon helped a bit, but every pathway looked the same at night.

He parked the car and decided to follow his instinct. He opened the glove compartment and removed a flashlight. He ran alongside the outer fringes of the state park and headed down one entrance, but stopped after a few yards. The path should have been narrower, with trees s.p.a.ced apart more evenly. He left the area and returned to the side road.

He remembered that Edwards had pointed to a trail covered by thick brush that he'd pulled back to enter. He grabbed at hedges and branches and anything that moved until he found a spot that seemed familiar, then made his way through the bushes and discovered the trail. As he ran, he heard the night sounds and imagined the fingers chasing behind him. He raced past wild brush and through a thicket of tall gra.s.s. Slipping on the moist dew, he fell to the earth, striking his face against dirt and stone. He got up and sprinted as if possessed, flinging his arms to the side, pus.h.i.+ng back branches that sliced his hands and ripped his clothing. He gasped for breath and felt his heart pounding. The past reverberated around him, and he saw himself as a child running from the ghost.

He heard a man's voice screaming, "Help me! In Jesus' name, please help me!" He saw the mob and the handheld torches and the long knotted rope and the glistening stream and the ax blade that sparkled and fell brutally beneath the fiery cross. He heard a child's voice yell, "Leave him alone!" and through that child's eyes he saw the knife plunge into the dead man's heart. The person who placed it there turned and grinned, posing for his photo at the foot of his victim.

Reynolds lost all feeling in his body as his emotions spiraled through pain and terror. He left the narrow trail, stumbled into a clearing, and saw the silhouette of a man hanging from a gnarled tree a few feet from a burning cross. Against his will he moved closer and watched Gates Beauford twist slowly in the night breeze until he became the corpse of Frank Edwards's father, then changed back into Beauford, with his neck broken and his hand severed and a knife protruding from his heart.

Reynolds collapsed to the ground and pounded the earth with his fists. "No!" he screamed. "G.o.dd.a.m.n you, no!" He suddenly became aware of the thick warm liquid underneath his body. He stared at his hands, now stained with the victim's blood. After thirty-five years, it had returned to mark him once again.

CHAPTER 65.

MATHESON REMOVED SEVERAL plaques and framed certificates from the wall behind his desk and wrapped them with protective plastic. He placed them carefully in a cardboard box, then took the last row of leather-bound ma.n.u.scripts from the top shelf of the built-in bookcase and stacked them neatly on the floor. He'd begun putting them into a heavy-duty carton when his office door opened.

"You have a moment?" asked the Reverend Matheson.

"Come on in," replied his son, who continued packing. "I've been invited to give a series of lectures around the country. We can use the fees to help rebuild the church."

The Reverend Matheson hesitated, then moved toward the desk and a.s.sisted his son in sealing one of the boxes. "During the time you were in jail, there weren't any murders. You're out less than two days and another man dies."

"Wasn't much of a man," Matheson answered as he tore off a piece of masking tape and ran it across the lid.

The Reverend Matheson stopped helping his son and stepped back to address him. "All my life I've fought against hatred."

"Wasn't much of a fight." Matheson finished with the tape and placed the box against the wall. He wrote some identifying information on a label and pasted it on the side of the cardboard.

"It was a struggle. And we won!"

Matheson placed the top on the Magic Marker and tossed it on the desk. "Those black kids who slaughter each other every day-what did you win for them?"

"Freedom. A chance." The Reverend Matheson never wavered.

"You didn't give them a chance. You gave them a death warrant." Matheson started filling a second box with books. "You sacrificed them on some civil rights altar to conceal your own confusion and cowardice. You begged for acceptance from your enemies and lost the respect of your own children."

Matheson slammed the last set of books into the box and angrily confronted his father. "You had a duty to protect your family, your community, your d.a.m.n self! But you were so busy wanting to be an American, you forgot what Americans do best. They buy guns and they kick a.s.s. And they never, ever apologize for it."

He took a step back from his father and spoke despondently. "You have any idea what happens to a people who don't believe they're worthy of protection or that their lives matter? All that pain and hurt becomes self-loathing, the loathing turns into rage, and that rage has no choice but to strike out in the only way it can." He moved closer to his father and once again sounded accusatory. "Your pleas for nonviolent resistance made it easier for us to accept our own destruction. And now the murder of black people is not only tolerable, it's justifiable. The really tragic thing is, white folks don't need to brutalize us anymore, because we're doing that to each other." Matheson looked away for a moment, then faced his father and smiled sadly. "It's ironic, isn't it? You wanted us to love our enemy, and we wound up hating ourselves."

He lightly touched his father's shoulder. "Dad," he said, choking back the tears. "Can't you see that once you betray the dead, you've no choice but to condemn the living?"

The Reverend Matheson stared at his son with more than a hint of anger, then moved away, remaining silent for several moments. He regained his composure and turned toward him. "I remember when that man called you *n.i.g.g.e.r,'" he said sympathetically. "Remember your face. Remember how the tears just seemed to fill your eyes, frozen, too afraid to come out." The Reverend Matheson closed his eyes briefly. "I was praying to G.o.d, *Don't let those tears fall.' I told myself it was because I didn't want him to have the satisfaction of knowing how much he'd hurt you." He smiled sadly. "But I knew the truth."

He faced his son, speaking firmly. "I knew if so much as one teardrop fell, I would have ripped out that man's throat. Made sure no words ever came out that could ever harm you again." The Reverend Matheson leaned against the side of the desk and confessed to a surprised and attentive son, "If I'd done that, I would have become just like him. He would've succeeded in making me the one thing I knew you and I never were-n.i.g.g.e.rs. I wasn't willing to become that. Not for your respect." His voice crackled with emotion. "Not even for your love."

The Reverend Matheson moved from the desk and walked close to his son, speaking in a hushed voice. "I wonder if you realize that man finally succeeded in making you into something you were never born to be." He turned and noticed Reynolds standing at the doorway. The two men looked at each other but exchanged nothing more than eye contact. He walked past Reynolds and left the office. Reynolds slowly approached Matheson, who remained motionless.

"You murdered them all?"

"I thought we settled that in court. I was found not guilty. Isn't the same as innocent, but then, Jesus was the only perfect man, and we both know what happened to him."

"I'm going to bring you to justice," stated Reynolds. "No matter how long it takes."

Matheson nodded agreement. "It took more than thirty years to bring the murderer of Medgar Evers to justice. Almost thirty-nine to convict one of the men who dynamited the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church and murdered four teenaged girls." He moved closer to Reynolds. "Who knows? By that time you might even become man enough to take justice into your own hands."

Reynolds threw a right cross that landed flush on Matheson's jaw, knocking him to the floor. Matheson rubbed the side of his face and looked at Reynolds, who now stood directly over him. "Guess I should've been wearin' one of those slings you told me about," Reynolds said as an afterthought.

The professor rose from the floor. "Felt good, didn't it?" He stood in front of Reynolds. "There's a certain freedom when you decide you won't take any more-that you've finally had enough. You gain a genuine sense of relief, a feeling that perhaps for the first time in your life, you're really alive." The two men looked at each other and shared an uncomfortably intimate moment of mutual understanding. "I imagine that's what Bigger Thomas must've felt after he killed that woman," Matheson said softly. "G.o.d have mercy on his soul."

Reynolds walked slowly toward the door. When he reached to open it, he felt the gun just inside his jacket. He'd forgotten he brought it. He considered the havoc Matheson would create, the hatred and violence that would follow wherever he traveled.

"Did you forget something?" asked Matheson.

Reynolds didn't turn to face the professor. He simply closed his eyes for a moment and then answered, "Yes."

EPILOGUE.

Reynolds walked underneath the brick archway into the sunlight and saw students run toward him. He thought about what Cheryl had said and reluctantly agreed: He had more in common with Matheson than he ever cared to admit. But the thing that made him different also served as his salvation and kept him from crossing a line from which there'd be no return. The students brushed past him and rushed to their cla.s.ses.

His heart beat rapidly with the realization of how dangerously close he'd gotten to becoming Matheson. Ironically, the same people who condemned the professor would have honored and defended his action, considered him a patriot. They'd never recognize their own hypocrisy, and because of that, Matheson had won a victory to be repeated again and again. Hatred wouldn't end, because it would never be seen as hatred. Someone would always demand a pound of flesh and believe that it was justice rather than revenge.

That was the nature of "an eye for an eye," whether it was white against black, or nation against nation, or the state versus its citizens who for the moment were doomed to be judged by a jury of their peers. He remembered a question Matheson had asked him: What do you call the person who bombs a terrorist? Reynolds now knew the answer to the professor's riddle: a hero.

When he struck Matheson, he had felt a ferociousness he didn't know existed. And yes, he felt an enormous degree of satisfaction. But he also felt something else: an obligation to his children and the world they'd inherit-one he hoped would be free from a vendetta imposed upon it by history. He wouldn't betray Angela's and Christopher's future with violence and hate. He wouldn't lose the ability to touch or be touched by those he loved. Matheson wasn't worth that. Bigger Thomas would not claim his soul, too.

The final hour of one's life couldn't be wasted fighting heroic battles or settling scores. He'd reached that conclusion with an unparalleled degree of moral certainty. It must be devoted to making love or music or writing a poem or holding a child or wiping away the tears of those who mistakenly fear the unknown. The great challenge for him would be finding the courage to live life as if each hour were indeed his last, John Wayne and Miles Davis be d.a.m.ned.