Cry Me A River (7 page)

“Did you work on my son’s case?” he asked after a brief silence.

“Well, yes and no,” she said. “I was not working here when his case was tried, but I did work on his appeal.”

“Then, you’re familiar with the case?”

“Very,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

Tyrone glanced at her, then looked away. Her desk was in the corner on the left side of the room. It was too large for the space and had been turned catercorner with one end extending to the far wall and the other to the door leading into Captain Jack’s office. There was a couch and a few chairs on the right side of the room, next to the window. A plain, wooden coffee table that had been covered with several rows of neatly arranged magazines sat in front of the couch. There was no television, but there was a small radio atop her desk. It was on low, so low, in fact, that it was barely audible.

“Who hired Mr. Johnson?” he asked bluntly.

“Marcus’s grandfather,” she said, seemingly confused by the question. “Why?”

Tyrone paused again and measured his words. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He didn’t want to offend her.

“I heard the governor has given his assurance that my son will die.”

“Given assurance to whom?” she asked, her tone indicating shock.

“The victim’s relatives.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“That’s what I heard,” Tyrone said, looking deep into her eyes.

“That’s unlikely.”

“But is it possible?”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s possible.”

“Is it legal?”

“It’s legal.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sir, both sides have a right to argue their case before the governor,” she explained. “He can listen, if he chooses, but he is not obligated. Ultimately, it’s his decision.”

“How well do you know these people?”

“What people?” she asked.

“The governor … Mike Buehler … the girl?”

“Not well,” she said. “I’m not from around here.”

“Where you from?”

“Monroe,” she said.

“That’s a long ways from Brownsville,” he said. “How in the world did you find a job way over here?”

“There was a job bulletin posted at the law school for a part-time paralegal. It seemed interesting, and since I’ve always wanted to practice law in a small town, I decided to give it a try. I called Mr. Johnson, he hired me, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“You a student!”

“Yes, sir.”

“You ain’t a real lawyer?”

“No, sir, not yet. I’m a third-year law student.”

There was silence.

“How well do you know Mr. Johnson?”

“Excuse me!” she said, probably louder than she had intended. Tyrone hesitated. She was black like him, but how honest was she? Could he speak to her freely? Would she be forthright?

“Why did he ask my son to cop a plea?”

“Have you ever tried a capital case?” Hers was a rhetorical question that required no answer. “Do you know what it’s like to have somebody’s life in your hands? Yes, he advised Marcus to plea. But his motives
were not sinister, as you seem to be implying; he was simply trying to save your son’s life.”

“But he didn’t try to get him off, did he?”

“The town was in an uproar.”

“So, he sold him out?”

“He fought for your son’s life,” she said. “I’ve watched him sleep in this office for days at a time, looking for an angle, or a mistake, or anything to save Marcus. And he’s still looking.”

“Looks to me like he’s done gave up.”

“He’s doing everything he can.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Would you feel the same way if Marcus was your son?”

“Yes, I would,” she said, looking at him with stern eyes. “Let me tell you something about the man whose character you are questioning.”

“No,” Tyrone interrupted her. “Let me tell you something about the person they trying to kill. I was hard, but not my son. I stayed in trouble, but not him. He was always a good kid. A do-gooder. A mama’s boy … Yesterday, a friend of mine tried to convince me that he has changed, but I know better.” He paused. “Does he have a record?” he asked, then quickly added, “I mean, before all this happened?”

“No, sir,” she said. “But you know the prosecution’s response to that, don’t you?”

“No,” Tyrone said. “What?”

“They contend that his clean record does not mean that he has not done anything; it simply means that he had not been caught.”

“He ain’t done nothing,” Tyrone said emphatically. “Not Marcus. No way.”

“How can you be so sure?” she asked.

“Because I know him,” Tyrone told her. “When he was a little boy, I tried to change him … I tried to make him tough … I tried to make him mean. But no matter how hard I tried and no matter what I did, I couldn’t. He just stayed the same … wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Why did you want to change him?”

“Where exactly in Monroe do you live?”

“Castle Rock,” she said.

“What kind of place is that?”

“A quiet place. Peaceful.”

“Suburbs?” he asked.

“That’s right,” she said.

“Crime?”

“Not much.”

“Ever seen a rat?”

“Sir, what does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything!”

“Mr. Stokes, this is not about me.”

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s about my son, and me, and where we’re from.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Where we live, you have to be tough to survive. Get them before they get you. That’s what I tried to teach my boy. But he couldn’t learn it. It just wasn’t in him. That’s why I know he didn’t kill nobody. It ain’t in him. He couldn’t hurt a fly. It just ain’t in him.”

She looked at him but did not speak.

“Ma’am,” he said. “The state got my boy, and he running out of time. I just need somebody to tell me what to do.”

“He’s exhausted his appeals,” she explained.

“I understand that,” Tyrone said.

“We’ve petitioned the governor.”

“There has to be something else.”

“There is,” she said.

“What?” he asked.

“Prove he didn’t do it.”

“I want his file.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Come back in an hour.”

O
utside the tiny office, traffic was beginning to build. It was three-thirty; the Glove Factory had just let out, and a long stream of workers were slowly making their way through town. Some of them stopped to do a little shopping, but most continued on, eventually connecting with one of the various highways leading them away from town and carrying them home.

He hadn’t eaten since morning, and since he had close to an hour to burn, Tyrone decided to pass the time at the little deli just east of town. As he sat in traffic, inching along, he noticed a black lady sitting in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn, just beyond one of the many large oak trees that populated the property. She appeared to be fifty-four or fifty-five years old. She wore the clothes of a domestic—a white dress, brownish-colored stockings, white flat-soled shoes—and she had a rather large purse sitting on the bench next to her. Perhaps she worked in one of the large homes nearby, and now that her long, arduous day was over, she was
waiting on her ride in the cool, peaceful solitude of the courthouse square.

Some school children were huddled in front of the tiny ice cream stand just east of the courthouse. Like the old lady, the difficult part of their day was over, and now it was time for a chocolate malt, a vanilla shake, or a strawberry cone, or a bag of chips, an ice cold soda, or any small treat to celebrate another day endured.

Drained by the events of the day, he methodically navigated his truck through one signal light after the other, slowly creeping past the old abandoned theater and the hardware store, before finally turning off Main Street into the large parking lot surrounding the deli. The deli was not only a deli; it was also a gas station, a grocery store, and a drop-off and pick-up point for passengers traveling on the local Trailways bus line. Like many of the commercial establishments around town, the deli was not fancy, but it was clean, inexpensive, well stocked, and located in a perfect spot for stranded travelers looking to pass a little time. There was a Wal-Mart department store next door, and beyond Wal-Mart, there was a supermarket, beyond which sat an old train depot that had recently been converted into a pizzeria. Across the street, there was a large Methodist church where the white folks worshiped. Next to the church, there was a bank and a car lot, across from which was a dollar store. When he was a kid, the dollar store had always been a favorite hangout of his. Only then it had been called the Five and Dime. And though he had rarely patronized the store in the truest sense of the word—hard, cold cash for merchandise—it had been the primary establishment that he and his contemporaries frequented to kill a little time or to replenish their dwindling stock with a comb, a brush, some penny
candy, a comic book, or anything that they could snatch from the shelves and stuff underneath their shirts without being detected by the watchful eye of the attending cashier.

As soon as he pulled into the lot, he could tell that for them, today was a busy day. There were cars at both of the gas pumps out front, and there were cars waiting behind each of the cars being serviced. There were two elderly men sitting on a bench that had been positioned in front of the building, against the wall, underneath the large bay window. The few front parking spaces were filled, and he had to circle the small building twice before finding a spot close to the rear in one of the side lots.

When he entered the building, he realized that not much about the deli had changed since he left. On the right side of the room were the same shelves of food and assorted merchandise. On the left side were the same tables and chairs, and up front was the same service counter and deli. There were between ten and twelve people inside the deli. Some were milling about the shelves of food, but most of them were sitting at the tables, eating.

Two white women stood behind the counter. Both were middle-aged, and both wore full-body aprons. One was working the cash register while the other filled orders. Through an open door at the rear of the deli, he could see three other people. One, a short, robust black man, appeared to be tending the fryer, and the other, a young white fellow with long, stringy blond hair, was making sandwiches. The third man seemed to be in charge. Perhaps he was the supervisor, or maybe he was the manager. Like the others, he also wore a full-length apron, but unlike them, his appearance was more formal. Underneath his apron, he wore a white
dress shirt, a tie, and dark-colored slacks. There was a pen in the front pocket of his apron, and he was holding a clipboard in his left hand.

As Tyrone approached the counter, he nodded at the woman behind the register, then focused his eyes on the huge menu board hanging on the back wall.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Three-piece chicken dinner,” he said, then added, “All dark.”

“Anything to drink with that?” she asked.

“Coke,” he said.

“Here or to go?” she asked.

“Here,” he said.

She ran her hands across the keys of the cash register, then paused and looked up at him.

“Anything else?”

“No,” he said. “That’ll do it.”

She rang up his bill, and while Tyrone was paying her, the blond lady dished up the food and placed it on a serving tray—two thighs, a leg, one ear of corn, and a small container of mashed potatoes and gravy. After he finished paying, she placed the tray on the counter and gently slid it to him.

“Enjoy your meal,” she said. Her voice was soft. Her tone, friendly.

“Yes, ma’am, I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

He moved to an empty table next to the window. Not the large bay window at the rear of the store, but the small window on the east side of the building. From where he sat, he could see into the large Wal-Mart parking lot. A stock boy had collected a long string of stray shopping carts and was pushing them from the far end of the lot back to the store. Tyrone watched him for a minute, then lifted a piece of chicken from his plate.

He had just sunk his teeth into the warm, tender
meat when he heard someone say, “You Tyrone Stokes?”

Startled, he looked around. Standing in the aisle behind him was a white woman. She was of average height, five-foot-four or five-foot-five. She was slender and appeared to be in her early forties, but she could have been older. Her hair was dark, slightly curly, and hung well below her shoulders. She wore plain clothes. A white blouse and a simple, multicolored skirt that fell about her ankles. She had on some make-up, but not much. He did not know how she knew him, but he did know that he did not know her.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I am.”

“You got some nerve coming around here.” She did not avert her face, but looked directly at him. She had pretty brown eyes, but now they were hard, cold.

“Ma’am, I’m just trying to eat a piece of chicken.”

“Eat it somewhere else!” she demanded.

“I bought it here, and I’m gone eat it here.”

The man with the clipboard must have heard him, because as soon as Tyrone said that, he hurried from behind the counter and rushed to the table.

“What’s the problem, Maude?” he questioned.

“Jake, you ought to be more particular ‘bout who you let in here,” she said.

An eerie silence fell over the room, and though Tyrone did not turn and look, he could feel the eyes of everyone on him.

“Mister,” he said calmly, “I don’t want no trouble.”

“You are trouble,” the woman said.

“Maude!” the man said in a stern, terse voice. Tyrone could tell by his tone and by the confused look on his face that though he did not fully understand the nature of her problem, nevertheless, he wanted her to keep her voice down.

“Jake, this here’s Tyrone Stokes,” she explained.

The man studied Tyrone but did not speak.

“He the one that stole Danny’s truck a few years back. His boy killed Buddy’s daughter.”

She stopped talking, and Tyrone could feel the tension mounting. Suddenly, there was in him a keen awareness of the force of his pounding heart and the tingling of the skin on his nape.