Cry Me A River (17 page)

“Well, if he didn’t, who did?”

Tyrone looked at him, stunned. “You think he did it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Captain Jack said, becoming defensive. “I’ve worked this case tirelessly for the last five years. I did all I knew to do. I defended him as best I could.”

“But you think he did it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Captain Jack repeated.

“Well, what are you saying?” Tyrone asked.

“I am saying that the nature of this crime is so heinous that it’s highly unlikely that anyone will believe your son is innocent unless we can tell them who is guilty. Mr. Stokes, a fifteen-year-old girl was raped and strangled, and her nude body was stuffed in a drainage ditch. A jury of twelve found your boy responsible. Public sentiment is firmly against him…. I wish that there was something else that I could say or something else that I could do, but there just isn’t.”

“So, that’s it?” Tyrone said.

“There is just no other recourse.”

“Just like that.”

“I don’t want to say that there is absolutely no hope, but, Mr. Stokes, I must be frank. The governor was our last chance. And now that he has refused to intervene, I’m afraid that your son is going to die unless someone can produce irrefutable evidence proving his innocence.”

“In other words find the killer?”

“I’m afraid so.” Captain Jack nodded. “We have four days.”

Tyrone looked at him. His eyes began to water. “I need to see my son again.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow. “

“I’ll see what I can do.”

T
yrone arrived at the prison somewhere around ten o’clock the following morning, and as before, he was searched and led into the visitation room where he sat before the thick Plexiglas window awaiting Marcus. As he waited, he wondered whether Marcus had heard the news about the governor’s refusal. Perhaps he should have told Captain Jack not to tell him. At least not right away. At least not until he had a chance to talk to him first.

He was sitting with his head bowed, thinking, when he heard the door clang shut on the other side of the window. He looked up, and instantly, he knew. Yes, Marcus had been told. He could tell by the dazed look he saw in his sad, tired eyes and the lifeless posture of his limp, shackled body. Suddenly, he felt the weight of a thousand pounds pressing tight against his chest, compressing his lungs, constricting his air. He couldn’t breathe. His stomach began to churn. He became tense. Nonetheless, he sat perfectly still, trying desperately to conceal the intense agony he felt searing
through his tormented soul. Oh, for a cigarette or a shot of whiskey, or anything that could calm his whirling nerves or dull the pulsating pain he felt in his pounding heart.

He watched the guards guide Marcus to the chair, then back away. As Marcus eased awkwardly onto the chair, he did not look directly at Tyrone; instead, he picked up the phone with downcast eyes and spoke into the receiver.

“Papa,” he said, then paused. His voice was low and sullen, and though his face was averted, Tyrone could tell that he had been crying.

“Hi, son,” Tyrone said; then there was an awkward silence. He felt the need to say more. He searched for words, but none came. As he looked at his son, Tyrone felt himself being overtaken by emotions. He told himself to be steady; he willed himself to be calm.

“You heard?” Tyrone asked.

Marcus nodded and continued to stare off, now visibly struggling to fight back pending tears. Tyrone watched him lower his head and dab the corner of his eye with the back of his chained hand.

“This ain’t over,” Tyrone said. He tried to sound forceful; he tried to sound assured. “It ain’t over by a long shot. You hear me, son? This ain’t over.”

Again Marcus nodded. He seemed broken, resigned, defeated. A single tear fell from his eye. Yes, he had quit. He had surrendered. Suddenly, Tyrone inched his face closer to the glass. He furrowed his brow and squinted his eyes.

“You ain’t giving up, is you?”

Marcus shook his head slowly, then spoke, his voice hardly above a whisper.

“No, sir.”

Tyrone looked at him. He could see that his hands
were trembling. Deep inside, he wanted to console Marcus but he did not know how.

“Good,” he said. “‘Cause I’m gone get you out of here. I’m gone get you out of here, I promise.”

There was silence.

“You hear me, son?” Tyrone asked.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said, his voice low, lifeless.

“I mean it,” Tyrone said. “I’m gone get you out of here.”

He paused and waited, but Marcus remained silent. Tyrone leaned away from the glass and adjusted the phone in his hand. He looked at his son for a moment, then asked, “You need anything?”

Marcus shook his head.

“You sho’?”

“Yes, sir,” he said softly, “I’m sho’.”

Tyrone saw one of the officers glance at his watch, then look away. He was still looking at the officers when silence gave way to the weak, feeble drone of his son’s voice.

“You seen Mama?”

Tyrone lowered his eyes and looked at his son. “I seen her,” he said. “Seen her yesterday.”

Marcus lifted his head for the first time. His eyes were red, moist. “How is she?” he asked.

“Holding on,” Tyrone told him. “She holding on. And that’s just what you got to do, son. Hold on.”

Suddenly, Marcus’s lip began to quiver. He closed his eyes and dropped his head.

“You hear me, son?”

Tyrone paused and waited, but Marcus did not answer.

“Do you hear me, son?” Tyrone repeated.

“Yes, sir,” Marcus said, his low voice cracking under the heavy strain of his frayed emotions.

“Look at me,” Tyrone demanded.

As Marcus slowly lifted his head, Tyrone envisioned the maid, remembering her words while trying to piece together in his mind clues that would unlock the mystery and free his son from this hellish nightmare. Somewhere deep inside himself, he believed, even if no one else did, that what the maid had told him was crucial to proving once and for all that his son was innocent. Unconsciously, he blinked and in so doing awakened himself from his momentary daze. His eyes focused. He looked through the glass and saw his son staring back at him.

“Did you know her?” he asked.

Marcus looked at him, confused. He did not understand.

“The girl,” Tyrone said. “Did you know her?”

Marcus hesitated and looked at him blankly. When what he was being asked registered, his eyes grew wide, and he shook his head frantically. “No, sir,” he mumbled. “I didn’t. I swear.”

“Ever talk to her before?”

“No, sir, Papa. I ain’t never talked to her.”

“Ever seen her before?”

“Once or twice.”

“Where?”

“School.”

“So you did know her?”

“No, sir.”

Tyrone appeared confused.

“She was a cheerleader,” Marcus explained. “I seen her before. But I didn’t know her. I just seen her around.”

“What kind of person was she?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she fast?”

“I don’t know.”

“She have any enemies?” Tyrone asked. “Somebody who might’ve wanted to hurt her?”

“I don’t know, Papa. I think she mostly kept to herself. But I’m older than she was, and she wasn’t in my class. So I don’t know.”

“She like black boys?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know if she fooled around with any of ‘em?”

“I don’t know, Papa. I don’t know nothing about her.”

“You ever hear anything?”

“No, sir.”

“Ever seen her with any black girls?”

Marcus paused and looked toward the ceiling.

“I don’t know.”

“Think, son,” Tyrone said. “This important.”

“Was one girl,” Marcus said. “Another cheerleader.”

“Black?” Tyrone asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And they was friends?”

Marcus shrugged his shoulders. “Seen them together sometimes. But don’t know if they was friends.”

“You remember her name?”

Marcus looked up again, thinking. “Believe her name Terri.”

“Terri,” Tyrone repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

“Terri what?” Tyrone asked.

“La Beaux, I think.” He paused. “Yeah, that’s it. Terri Lynn La Beaux.”

“La Beaux,” Tyrone said, pondering. “Don’t know no La Beauxs.”

“Papa, why you asking me all these questions ‘bout her?”

“Somebody else seen her that night.”

Marcus gaped at him, stunned.

“At the store?” he asked.

Tyrone nodded. “They seen her when she got in that truck. They figure she knew the driver. And I do, too. Can’t see no girl that age getting in no truck with no stranger. Especially no strange black man.”

“Papa, did they see him?” Marcus asked. “Did they see the driver?”

“No,” Tyrone said. “Least not his face.”

“It wasn’t me, Papa. I swear.”

“I know it wasn’t, son.”

“I ain’t never fooled ‘round with her. I keep telling everybody that. But won’t nobody believe me.”

“I believe you,” Tyrone said. “I do.” He paused. A thought pierced his consciousness. “What about your friends, son? What about one of them? They ever fooled around with her?”

Marcus thought a moment, then shook his head. “They wouldn’t do nothing like that.”

“Well, somebody did it,” Tyrone said.

Marcus shook his head again. “Not none of them.”

“Well, somebody did it,” Tyrone repeated. “And they done pinned it on you.”

“Maybe this how it supposed to be,” Marcus said. “Reverend Jacobs say everything happen for a reason. But I can’t find no reason. Except maybe this just how it’s supposed to be.”

“Naw, son,” Tyrone said. “It ain’t supposed to be like this.”

Marcus looked at Tyrone, then gazed into the distance. “It’s gone happen, Papa,” he said. “I can feel it.”

“You can’t think that way.”

“Can’t help it,” he said. “Just got that feeling.”

“We still got three days.”

“They moving me tomorrow,” he said. “Moving me to the death house.”

“We still got three days.”

“Had to fill out some papers. They wanting to know where I want them to send my body.”

“Son, you got to stay positive.”

“Captain Jack say it’s over.”

“We still got three days.”

“But … the governor … he done—”

“Who you know drive a blue truck?” Tyrone interrupted him. “Who you know drive a dark blue truck with whitewall tires?”

Marcus paused. His lips began to tremble again. “They done set things in motion,” he said. “They getting things ready.”

“Who you know?” Tyrone raised his voice. “Who you know, son?”

“I just want this to be over.”

“Marcus, answer me.”

“I’m tired and just want this to be over.”

“Marcus!”

Marcus lowered his head and sobbed.

“Marcus!”

Tyrone waited, but Marcus did not respond.

“Marcus, look at me.”

He looked up, and Tyrone could see that his face was wet.

“Who you know?” Tyrone repeated.

Marcus shook his head.

“That woman what seen him say the killer was driving a dark blue truck. Back then … when all this happened … who you know drove a blue truck?”

“Nobody, Papa.”

“Think, son, think.”

He shook his head again.

“None of your friends?”

“Naw, Papa.”

“You sho’?”

“Papa—”

“You sho’?” Tyrone raised his voice.

Marcus looked at Tyrone, then averted his eyes.

“Yeah, Papa,” he said, dejected. “I’m sho’.”

Tyrone opened his mouth as though he was going to say something else, but at the last minute seemed to change his mind. He paused.

“That La Beaux girl. Where she live?”

“I don’t know.”

“What you mean, you don’t know?”

“Use to live ‘round by the Mason,” Marcus said. “But I don’t know now. That was a long time ago.”

“You know her people?”

“Daddy name Mr. John. Don’t know her mama’s name.”

“John La Beaux.” Tyrone mouthed the name softly.

Through the glass, he saw the officers moving toward Marcus. He heard one of them yell, “Time’s up.”

He returned his gaze to Marcus, but Marcus had drifted away. He had retreated within himself. He had surrendered his consciousness and was now lost in thought. The officers grabbed him underneath his arms, and Marcus stood, zombielike, and placed the phone in the cradle, then turned to leave. Tyrone tapped on the glass. Marcus looked back; their eyes met.

“Don’t give up, son,” Tyrone yelled. “We still got three days.”

O
utside, he leaned his weary body against the corner of the building, lit a cigarette, and took a long draw. His nerves were frayed. His weary mind whirled. John La Beaux. He didn’t know a John La Beaux. He stumbled toward his truck as if in a drunken stupor. His legs were weak. His muscles were taut. Inside the truck he fumbled in his pocket with moist, clammy hands. Anxiety rendered his fingers thick, immobile. Deep in his pocket, he clasped the keys with clumsy fingers, maneuvered them out, and inserted them into the ignition. The engine fired; the truck lurched forward. He cruised down the narrow streets through the desolate area away from the prison and back toward the freeway. Stress caused his head to ache. He lifted his right hand and gently massaged his temples, wondering how he would find the person for whom he was searching and pondering whether her discovery would be the missing piece to the puzzle that would end this nightmare once and for all.

They’re moving him to the death house
. The thought
raced forward and exploded inside his already pounding head. He stiffened. Nervous energy weighted his foot heavy. Subconsciously, he pressed his foot hard against the accelerator. He felt the violent thrust of the steering wheel as the tires of the vibrating truck raced unsteadily over the bumpy road. Instinctively, he tightened his grip, leaned forward on the edge of his seat, and guided the truck up an on-ramp and onto the freeway. As he drove, he stared out into the open vastness. Soon, the smooth, steady motion of the truck lulled his mind until he was no longer seeing the freeway, but instead, was contemplatively exploring his impending course of action. How would he find her? Where would he begin? Ah yes, he thought of something. Beggar Man would know her. He would stop by the club and ask him. That was what he would do. He would ask Beggar Man.