Blood on the Leaves Part 32

Miller stared ahead. "Would you mind very much if I had a few moments alone?"

"You stay as long as you want," Allen said. "If you need help with his things, just let me know." He reached the door and held it open. "Mr. Miller?"

Miller faced him.

"Would it be all right if I attended his service?"

Miller's heart raced, and his legs felt heavy. "I'm sure my father would like that." He watched Allen leave, then sat down in a chair next to the bed and unconsciously tapped his left thigh three times. He'd managed to live much of his adult life refusing to shed any more tears for the man who'd caused him so much pain. Yet since his last meeting with his father he'd cried twice for him. Now he'd do it once more, but this time it would be for himself.

CHAPTER 59.

IN AN EFFORT to give Miller sufficient time to handle his family matter, Tanner scheduled the hearing for three o'clock. Miller arrived two hours early and sat in the courtroom alone. He paced back and forth in front of the empty jury box, envisioning where each person sat. He moved to the podium and measured the distance between himself and the judge's bench, then crossed to the prosecutor's table. He counted the steps from one place to the other and mentally ch.o.r.eographed his presentation to make it as seamless as possible. When he felt comfortable with the dry run, he repeated it and made his final adjustments. Then he took his seat and waited for the performance to begin.

He thought about the burial grounds and how lovely they looked. Cemeteries are kept clean for the dead, while the streets are allowed to stay filthy for the living. "Go figure," he mumbled to himself. He laid his father to rest just outside Holly Springs, underneath the proverbial old oak tree on the much sought-after "high bluff overlooking the river's edge." His father had actually acquired several plots many years ago, known simply as the "family grounds." Miller's mother was buried there along with his four grandparents and an uncle. Despite his disinheritance, which he learned his father had revoked in the most recent will, Miller also had a preferred spot on the hill, slightly lower than his father's, of course, but still under the shade and within spiritual spitting distance of the water.

Reynolds attended the funeral accompanied by his wife and children. Mr. Allen brought flowers and cried. The Presbyterian pastor recited a prayer about the power of redemption and asked Miller if he'd like to say a few words over his father's grave. He declined, but not because he maintained any residue of anger. If those feelings hadn't left with the phone call, they'd certainly disappeared by the time he finished meeting with Nelson Allen. Miller's last words to his father had been a one-way conversation to someone hiding behind a wall of shattered memory. But at least that person was alive. He wouldn't speak to his father through the mahogany lid of a coffin, not when the man inside had been so fond of yelling, "Look me in the eyes and say that again. Go 'head, I dare ya!"

Miller smiled at the recollection. Whenever his father got really angry or had one drink too many, the first thing to desert him was the ability to modulate his voice lower than a roar, followed almost immediately by the abandonment of the beginning or ending letters to a third of his words. While they may have been shortened, their p.r.o.nunciation took considerably longer. When everything else begins to leave, one can always count on southern accents to return, sometimes with a vengeance.

The court's rear doors suddenly opened, and the stampede began. The seats filled within two minutes, and shortly after that, all court personnel were in place. Sinclair arrived and offered condolences to Miller, who thanked her for her thoughtfulness in sending a beautiful wreath of flowers. They shook hands and for the first time in the trial showed no combativeness or hostility.

The jury had been told the second delay was caused by an unexpected judicial appeal that required the judge's immediate attention. Tanner wanted to avoid any sympathetic response to Miller's loss. He'd earlier told both attorneys he hadn't lied this much since he was seven years old and "my daddy took me to the woodshed, had me pull down my trousers, and introduced my behind to his truth-detectin' leather belt."

While he indicated to counsel he was beginning to enjoy his sudden "predilection to fabrication," he'd just as soon not have to devise any new stories for the duration of this trial. They promised to do their best not to create any more delays.

The bailiff called the court to order and announced Tanner's entrance. The judge had a light bounce to his walk and a huge smile on his face. He greeted the jury. "I hope you're as happy to see me as I am to see you."

They signaled agreement, and he took his seat behind the bench with the customary flapping of his long black sleeves. He pressed his hands together in a quick isometric exercise and rotated his head in a full circle, repeating the action in the opposite direction. He removed a freshly sharpened pencil, tested the point, and prepared himself for action.

"I note for the record the defendant is present in court alongside his counsel, and I also observe that both Mr. Reynolds and Ms. Sinclair are in attendance to represent the state. The jury appears ready. Madam court reporter, I see your machine's in place and your paper's filled to capacity." He wiggled his fingers. "Are you limber, or do you need more flex time?"

"Ready, Your Honor." She smiled and sat straight.

"Very well," Tanner said, clearing his throat. "We will now proceed with the closing argument from the defense side. Mr. Miller, you have the floor."

"Thank you, Your Honor." Miller rose and proceeded to the podium. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, for your patience and your attentiveness throughout this trial." He rubbed his palms together, then placed his hands on either side of the lectern.

"Thirty-five years ago, I wouldn't be able to stand in front of a jury that looked like you." Miller pointed to his client. "Dr. Matheson wouldn't be having a trial. The key to his cell would've been secretly slipped to someone hidden in darkness." Miller touched the back of his ponytail and walked toward the jury box.

"When the morning came, there would've been one more photo taken of one more victim." He rested his hands on the rail in front of Mrs. Whitney and looked at her. "But that form of justice can't happen again. Because you won't let it happen."

Miller crossed to Matheson and put his hand on his shoulder. "The district attorney for this county publicly condemned this man, held him morally responsible for a string of murders even though he admitted Professor Matheson had broken no laws." He walked slowly toward Reynolds. "Perhaps my client did something much worse. He violated custom. Wouldn't remain quiet. Didn't know his place. Insisted on s.h.i.+ning a light on our deepest and darkest secrets."

He turned his body so that the jury could observe Reynolds as he gestured toward him. "Thirty-five years ago, Mr. Reynolds wouldn't be sitting at a table like this one. Not as a prosecutor for the people. Times have changed." He looked directly at Reynolds. "We demand more from our system of justice." Miller turned his head toward the jury and spoke solemnly. "We must begin to demand more from each other."

Reynolds watched his adversary cross once again to the jury. He thought about yanking the back of his hair and throwing Miller off stride.

"You can't silence a man because he dares to remind us of things we'd rather forget. You can't convict a man because he wrote some things too frightening for us to read, let alone believe." Miller extended his arms in front of him and raised his palms out toward the courtroom observers. "This isn't thirty-five years ago!" his voice boomed. He waved his hand and pointed an accusatory finger toward the prosecutor's table. His voice rose.

"We need more than speculation and anger and resentment and outrage to take a man's life!" He cradled his hands together and moved them in the direction of the jury. He either offered a precious gift to the twelve men and women before him or else he pleaded for one. "We need proof beyond a reasonable doubt." He walked toward the prosecutor's table and spoke with indignation.

"Not ridiculous probability figures based on a sample of five! Not evidence reported lost at the very police station that now accuses him! Not blood subject to contamination and error! And certainly not wild speculation that a man would slip a size-thirteen boot on a foot that measures nine and one half for the express purpose of committing murder and getting away with it!"

He separated his hands and dropped them to his sides. He moved to his table and stood next to Matheson. This time he spoke more softly and ended on a whisper. "We no longer live in the past." He looked sympathetically at Reynolds. "We can no longer allow the past to live in us." He moved in front of his chair and spoke his final words with absolute conviction. "I ask you to reject the state's case and find Dr. Matheson not guilty." He sat down, and as he lowered his head, the silver braid of hair slipped across his left shoulder and rested near his heart.

Tanner took a breath and expanded his chest. "I hadn't expected counsel to be so brief, but in fairness to everyone, since we started rather late in the day, we'll stay on schedule and adjourn for the evening. When we reconvene tomorrow morning, Mr. Reynolds will conclude with the state's closing arguments. The jury is once again directed to abide by the court's usual admonition regarding discussing this case." He struck the gavel, and the jury quickly filed out.

Matheson left with the deputies, and Miller remained in his seat. Reynolds approached and took the seat next to him. The two adversaries sat together in silence and remained that way until the courtroom cleared. "You remember when I told you about my nightmares?" Reynolds asked.

"The black bogeyman?" Miller inquired without looking at him.

"Turned out he wasn't trying to hurt me at all. Just needed my help."

Miller finally looked at Reynolds. "My friend, if I've learned anything from my time on earth, it's that the people who need you are also the ones who can hurt you most."

Reynolds gently patted his colleague on the back and left.

Miller remained in his seat and stared at the empty jury box.

CHAPTER 60.

REYNOLDS STOOD ALONE in his backyard. A full moon created a sense of calm he hadn't felt in months. In twelve hours he'd face the jury for the last time and try to convince them the man who'd out-dueled him from the witness stand was a murderer. He knelt on his left knee and used his fingers to gently plow the earth in an area of freshly planted flowers. The act of gardening presented a more meaningful alternative to therapy and always resulted in growth.

He preferred working at night. His son had advised him he wouldn't have to see bugs or other "yucky stuff" that way. He also wouldn't have to see the mistakes he'd made until the next morning, which worked out well since he checked progress only during the evening. Just before he placed his other knee into the dirt to double the therapeutic impact, he heard the screen door close and sensed his wife's presence.

"You want me to listen to your closing?" Cheryl asked.

Reynolds shook his head. "I'm not sure I have one."

"You'll come up with something appropriate. You always have."

He stood up from the flowerbed and moved close to her. "I became a prosecutor because I wanted to make the world safe. Put all the bad people away-the ones who terrified little boys while they slept. Now I'm not sure who the monsters are."

"Sometimes they trick us," she said. "That's why they're monsters." She touched his face and moved it toward her. She waited for him to look at her. "What's important is that we always recognize our heroes."

"Sometimes we should fear them most of all." He kissed her gently. "I better get ready for tomorrow."

"You want me to be there with you, at the court?"

"You haven't heard one of my closings in a long time."

"Yes, I have. I just never let you know I was there. This time I'll sit where you can see me."

He smiled and placed his arm around her shoulder. They walked together across the yard and entered their house.

Reynolds proceeded down the hallway and stopped outside his son's bedroom. Christopher heard the knock on his door and quickly shoved his Playboy magazine inside his school folder and hid it underneath his pillow.

His father entered. "You still awake? It's late."

"I know, Dad. Just finis.h.i.+ng some homework." Christopher crept into bed and pulled the covers over his body. He rested his head on the pillow. "You feelin' okay?"

Reynolds approached his son and sat on the side of the bed. "A little sore, but I'll live." He rubbed his son on his head. "At least in your fight you got off the first punch."

"Didn't you get to hit any of 'em?"

"No," Reynolds answered dejectedly. "But I must've chased them off while I was unconscious." He winked at his son. "I'm dangerous with my eyes closed."

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, yourself."

"What's up?" Christopher asked. "You got that look on your face."

"You mean the one with the dark bruises and split lip?"

"No. The one you use when I'm in trouble and you have something serious to tell me. Like when I got a D in science and you said I was gonna miss out on college."

"I never said that."

"I couldn't watch television for two whole weeks! Even people in prison can watch TV."

"What does that tell you?" asked his father.

His son thought for a moment. "They got good grades in science?"

Reynolds gave the boy a strange look. "That's the best you can do?"

"Hey, I'm only a kid and we're havin' an adult conversation."

Reynolds studied his son and searched for the right words. "I got another question for you. This one's important."

"I knew I was in trouble."

"You ready?"

Christopher braced himself and signaled to go ahead.

"You know the difference between justice and revenge?"

Christopher considered the question by staring at the ceiling. He then offered his best guess. "One's a noun and the other's a verb?"

Reynolds shook his head and gave a bittersweet smile. He put his hand on his son's arm and spoke solemnly. "One's worth your life, the other will destroy it." He looked at his son and studied him. "You understand?"

Christopher gave his dad a puzzled look. "Not really."

Reynolds squeezed his son's arm encouragingly. "You will." He leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "I love you."

Christopher looked at his father curiously. "I love you, too," he said.

Reynolds walked to the door.

"Dad?"

He turned and faced his son.

"You sure I didn't do something wrong?"

Reynolds shook his head and opened the door. "But get rid of that magazine under your pillow."

Christopher's face turned stone-cold guilty.

Reynolds smiled and said, "Good night."

CHAPTER 61.

HARD-EDGED MEDIA professionals shuffled their papers, picked at their fingernails, and anxiously awaited the judge's entrance. Reynolds sat quietly at the table next to Sinclair, who knew enough not to disturb him. The loneliest and most exhilarating moment in the life of any prosecutor had arrived. What would happen next required a combination of legal ac.u.men and intuitive recklessness. Twelve men and women, strangers to each other, would listen to Reynolds ask them to decide the fate of another human being. Most of these people didn't have the power to choose the time they took work breaks. Now they'd determine the life or death of a man they'd never spoken to. And they'd have the courage or audacity to do that based in large part on which lawyer gave the best speech.

Reynolds watched the door crack open and caught a glimpse of the judge's black robe. The bailiff announced Tanner's arrival and commanded everyone to rise. Tanner took his place at the bench and followed the same protocol that hadn't changed much in his thirty-odd years as a judge. But for Reynolds, nothing seemed commonplace anymore-not the room, not the jury, and certainly not Tanner's words.

"Mr. Reynolds, are you ready to begin your closing argument?"

Reynolds stood and held on to the back of his chair. "Yes, Your Honor." He proceeded to the podium and placed his hands on either side. He'd never noticed how long a walk that entailed. The faces of the jury blended into a watercolor painting. He glanced at Miller, then Matheson. He took a look at the Reverend Matheson and for a moment thought he saw him nod his head in acknowledgment. He once again faced the jury and felt relieved they'd come back to life.

"We're taught from an early age that Pharaoh's army drowned in the Red Sea, which caused Moses and his people to give praise." He moved away from the podium and extended his hands to the jury. "And so the cycle continues even today." He walked toward the defense table. "We seek to be delivered from evil. Destroy one enemy only to create another, except this next foe is far more powerful and dangerous. We find temporary safety ultimately at the expense of peace. We call upon a new Moses to step forth, and when he doesn't, we anoint anyone who tells us what we need to hear. We give this leader a different name and greater authority over our lives.

"The Bigger Thomas of today no longer hides in the shadows of submissiveness, concealing his rage with bowed head and a quiet *yes sir' and *no sir.'" Reynolds stood in front of the jury railing. "He's no longer frightened by the painful memories of a humiliating past but is fueled by the expectations of a distorted future filled with images of reprisal and retribution." He walked slowly and looked at each individual juror.

"Today's Bigger Thomas wears a tailor-made suit. His hatred is hidden in the language of the articulate. He has all the advantages: a good family, fine education, a respected position in the community, a successful career." His voice sounded reasoned and self-a.s.sured. "But somewhere"-his voice suddenly changed and offered a warning alarm-"somehow"-he placed his hands on the railing-"this model of achievement was severely damaged and twisted by an overwhelming desire to return hate for hate, pain for pain, indignity for indignity, and blood for blood."

He removed his hands from the railing and placed them to his side. "What does it cost a society to call a five-year-old child a *n.i.g.g.e.r'?" He allowed the word to linger in the air for several unchallenged moments. "What price does that innocent but fragile child pay for our ignorance?" He turned toward Matheson and looked at him along with the jury. "That's the price."