Blood on the Leaves Part 13

The two men looked at each other for a moment.

"At least, not from me," added Matheson.

"You ready to leave?" an officer asked.

Miller glanced one more time at Matheson, then closed the door and left.

CHAPTER 27.

REYNOLDS SAT AT his kitchen table and poured Miller a gla.s.s of orange juice.

"Don't you have any beer?" Miller asked.

"It's seven-thirty in the morning."

Miller looked at his watch. "Then I'll have the hard stuff."

"You need to stay sober."

"No one should be that needy." Miller drank the juice.

"I'm going out to inspect your client's home this afternoon. Wanna meet me there?"

Miller glanced around the room. "Where's the wooden horse?"

"No tricks. No deceptions. Just extending you a courtesy."

Miller poured himself more juice. "I have to get a court order to be anywhere near one of your evidence-collecting trips. Now I get a personal invitation. Why the change of heart?"

"Let's just think of it as a goodwill gesture."

"Or a public relations ploy. Are you trying to use me, James?" Miller sipped his juice. "I was planning on being there with binoculars and a film crew, but if you need me to validate the fairness and integrity of your office, I'll play along."

Reynolds smiled. "Tell the truth, Todd. You've waited a long time for a case like this."

"In my wildest imagination, I never thought there'd be a case like this. But yeah, I'd wait for it. Forever."

"If we handle this wrong, we could tear the community apart, maybe the whole country. You know that, don't you?"

"The country's been torn apart for years and it doesn't even realize it."

"You think we can help mend it?" asked Reynolds.

"No, but I've been wrong before." Miller finished his juice. "My grandfather would turn over in his grave if he'd any idea what I'm about to do to the family name."

"I thought you told me he was a respected judge."

"And a lifelong member of the Klan. My dad followed in his footsteps serving as legal counsel to the White Citizens Council."

"You must've had one h.e.l.l of a family reunion."

"I was definitely the outsider as a child. Had one close friend, a skinny black kid named Sanford who smiled constantly and walked as if his shoes were too small-because they were."

"Did Daddy Miller approve?"

"I made the mistake of inviting him into my bedroom one afternoon. We played blissfully until Dad arrived and caught us laughing and hugging each other. Sanford gave me a friendly kiss on the cheek that sent my father into a rage. I imagine he felt that black boy had violated his home and soiled my purity or, at the tender age of seven, my manhood."

"What happened?"

"He kept screaming at me. Demanded I beat him. I started swinging wildly, trying to block out my father's voice and Sanford's cries. I don't know where I hit him or how many times. I didn't even notice his blood on the carpet. If it hadn't been for my mother's intervention and Sanford's whimpering pleas, I don't think I would've stopped." Miller looked away for a moment and tried to regain control of his emotions. "I'll never forget Sanford's eyes. There was such sadness in a place where there should've been unrelenting hate."

Reynolds hesitated. "Was he all right?"

"Just a b.l.o.o.d.y nose and a few scratches. But I never saw him again. My father ripped up the stained carpet and burned it in the backyard so there'd be no trace of the incident or sign of a friends.h.i.+p destroyed by one tiny childhood embrace." Miller paused, then cleared his throat. "You know that quote about men living lives of quiet desperation?"

Reynolds nodded.

"It's not true. The desperation's very loud."

"Hi, Mr. Miller." Christopher stood at the doorway.

Miller studied the young boy and smiled; then his eyes filled with tears. "h.e.l.lo, Christopher," was all he could say. He left without looking at Reynolds.

Police vans lined the street outside Matheson's home. Yellow tape cordoned off an area that had quickly become a magnet for curiosity seekers armed with handheld video cameras. The growing crowd of onlookers was ordered to stay fifty yards away from the residence while detectives and lab technicians conducted an investigation of the premises.

Detective Lanny Shaw, a twenty-year veteran, greeted Reynolds at the front steps and advised him of the progress of the search. Miller arrived seconds later, but two officers quickly stopped him.

"He's authorized to enter," Reynolds informed the group. "But if he tampers with any evidence, shoot him."

Miller approached Reynolds. "You go in yet?"

"I wanted to share this Kodak moment with you. Have you met Detective Shaw?"

"I've had the pleasure of discrediting his testimony on many occasions. It's nice to see you again, Detective."

"Always a pleasure, Counselor."

"Well, let's take a look at what we've got." Reynolds motioned for Miller and Shaw to follow. They entered Matheson's brightly lit home through a large circular foyer, which contained a colorful variety of well-maintained plants. A spiral staircase provided access to the second floor. They proceeded down a walkway and glanced at the original paintings displayed on the richly paneled walls. The fine-art gallery led to a sunken living room. They stepped down two marble steps and were surrounded by cases filled with books and wood and bronze sculptures. They observed a wide-screen television built into the back wall, which featured an elaborate audio and video editing system. The men admired the features.

"Looks like a murderer's room to me," quipped Miller. "Definitely a killer CD player, wouldn't you say, Detective?"

"I'd kill for it," answered Shaw.

A rookie policeman approached. "Mr. Reynolds? I think you need to take a look at the den."

"Detective," Reynolds said, "why don't you maintain control of this area. I'd like a photographer sent to the den as quickly as possible."

"We've already got two there, sir," said the policeman.

"Then I'll try not to make any more obvious suggestions and let you continue to do your jobs," apologized Reynolds. "Officer, lead the way."

Reynolds and Miller followed the cop down a long hallway and into the den. The area stood in stark contrast to the elegance and comfort of the living room. Cold, dark, and undecorated, this place felt confined and depressed, with no furnis.h.i.+ngs other than a desk, chair, and two file cabinets all crammed together into the farthest corner of the room. Due to lack of fresh air, the place had the odor of a closet filled with old sweaters and worn shoes.

Police photographers were taking pictures of the area near the desk but stepped aside to allow Reynolds and Miller access. They studied two large displays containing photographs of blacks murdered during the Civil Rights Movement on one side and the alleged murderers on the other. The display of murderers was further subdivided into those "executed" and those "still alive." The photos of the blacks were particularly gruesome, especially when compared to the smiling faces of the white men who'd allegedly murdered them. Both Reynolds and Miller stared intently at the exhibit, unable to look away or at each other.

Banners attached to the bottom of both displays contained quotations by Thomas Jefferson. Underneath the display of tortured and mutilated black victims were the words I tremble for my country when I reflect G.o.d is just. Beneath the photos of smiling white men hung the inscription The tree of liberty should be refreshed with the blood of tyrants.

Reynolds found a gold replica of the scales of justice between the two displays. It held a heavy weight on one side, which caused the scales to tilt in favor of the whites. He placed a weight on the opposite side, and the scales were now balanced.

"If justice were only that simple," remarked Miller.

"We make it more difficult than it has to be," Reynolds responded.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet." Miller placed another weight on the opposite side, and the scales tipped in the other direction, leaning toward the black victims.

The men remained in the den for another ten minutes. On his way out, Reynolds asked the police photographer to send copies of his work to the DA's office as soon as possible. He also asked Detective Shaw to furnish him with duplicates of the display-mounted research materials, including exact reprints of each photo.

Reynolds and Miller spent the next hour touring the rest of Matheson's residence and agreed to meet later that afternoon at Earvin Cooper's home.

When they arrived at the Cooper home, most of the area had been cleared, but there remained a small portion sealed off as part of the crime scene. Members of the Criminal Investigation Department were present along with forensic scientists from the special unit of the FBI. Reynolds spoke with some of the staff, then walked with Miller alongside the burned-out rubble.

"You think this nightmare's ever gonna end?" asked Miller.

"I'm not exactly an expert on solving nightmares," answered an equally reserved Reynolds. "Ever since I was a kid, I've had this dream of a black man chasing me."

"You're supposed to have that dream. It's the bogeyman, and he's always black."

"I wake up before he can hurt me."

"That's supposed to happen, too," Miller said. "That way you can look for him during the day. If you don't find him, any black man will do."

Reynolds stopped walking and looked inquisitively at Miller. "You sure you don't have a little Afro-American blood in you?"

"It's the South," said Miller, shrugging. "All things are relative, especially your kin."

Ruth Cooper anxiously approached the two men. She pointed her finger at Reynolds. "You the one gonna prosecute that professor?"

"Yes."

"He took away the only man I ever loved."

"You must be Mrs. Cooper," Reynolds said sympathetically. "I'm very sorry for your loss."

She a.s.sessed the damage to the property and gazed at the barn in ruins. "I hope his n.i.g.g.e.r soul burns in h.e.l.l." She walked away from the two men.

Reynolds watched her proceed toward her home and enter it, slamming the door behind her.

Miller tugged on the sleeve of Reynolds's jacket. "Thanks for not introducing me," he said.

CHAPTER 28.

VANZANT GATHERED HIS senior staff in a small auditorium located in the building's bas.e.m.e.nt. Reynolds and Sinclair sat together in the front row and listened to their boss as he held a hand microphone and roamed the stage. "Christmas vacations are canceled. New Year celebrations are put on hold. At my request, the attorney general has provided staff to a.s.sist our efforts to find evidence that implicates Matheson in the other murders. We've got a dozen federal agents investigating more than three hundred leads phoned in to a special hot line established by the governor."

Vanzant stopped pacing. "The State of Mississippi versus Martin S. Matheson is our number one priority, and a finding of guilty is the only acceptable outcome. He didn't just kill an individual. He's defied the forces of government by subst.i.tuting his judgment for our entire judicial system. Justice itself is on trial, and I promise you, it's gonna prevail."

Reynolds didn't expect to get much sleep in the next few months. He'd have to forsake precious time with his family, so he wasn't in the mood for any more of Vanzant's political bl.u.s.tering. But he endured it for another twenty minutes-along with Sinclair, who'd been a.s.signed to a.s.sist him. After Vanzant concluded his "pep talk," the two spent the afternoon reviewing materials and developing a tentative schedule to interview prospective witnesses. They hoped to establish more than a circ.u.mstantial case against Matheson to increase the likelihood of gaining a conviction. For the moment, that was all they had.

Under normal conditions they might have waited longer before bringing a murder indictment against the professor, but that luxury didn't exist. The public wanted to put a halt to Matheson's courses, and they clamored for someone to be arrested. When the opportunity presented itself to accomplish both, Vanzant seized on it. It was now left to them to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the son of a prominent minister and advocate of nonviolence had committed murder. In a little over three months, they'd have their chance before a jury of Matheson's peers.

That hardly provided sufficient time to prepare for most misdemeanor a.s.signments, let alone adjudicate an emotionally charged murder case. But the defendant had exercised his right to a speedy trial, and it was so ordered without any further delay from the prosecution. A great deal of work needed to be accomplished in a limited amount of time, and Reynolds couldn't afford to waste any of it.

"Here's Matheson's resume." He handed the paperwork to Sinclair. "We need to get copies of his books, articles, speeches-anything that gives us a fix on his beliefs or personality."

"I don't get it." Sinclair shook her head in amazement. "Why would a guy like Matheson butcher a bunch of old men?"

"Why did Hannibal Lecter eat people?"

She raised her eyebrow in wonderment. "He was crazy?" she answered tentatively.

"Matheson has a genius IQ combined with a hero complex. That could result in some nasty repercussions." Reynolds picked up a cardboard box and placed it on a large work desk.

"Nasty enough to make him a murderer?" Sinclair asked.

"Let me put it this way"-he removed forensic reports from the box and organized the files around the conference table-"if he invites you to dinner and serves fava beans just before uncorking a fine Chianti, excuse yourself from the table and get the h.e.l.l out of Dodge."

"I'm glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor." She helped him with the doc.u.ments. "You're going to need it."

"Along with a new pair of gla.s.ses." Reynolds retrieved several books from a package and started reading the first one.

Sinclair glanced at the paperback. "Why are you researching James Baldwin? I thought he believed in nonviolence."

"He also believed most black people hated white people."

"Baldwin said that?" Sinclair exclaimed.

Reynolds put the book to his side and touched her shoulder consolingly. "He meant it in a kind and affectionate way."