by Jeff Stetson
He’d never grown accustomed to paying the black tax: the penalty, imposed on him by the color of his skin, that made it impossible to be certain of someone’s intent. If a stranger on the elevator ignored his greeting, he was forced to decide whether it was rudeness or racism. If at a meeting he made a suggestion to which no one responded, he wondered if he hadn’t been heard or if no one wanted to acknowledge his existence. If someone told him with sincere amazement that he was very bright and articulate, he considered whether to accept it as a compliment or feel insulted that his intelligence generated such astonishment.
When he had started at the DA’s office, he contended with a large number of white people who made him extremely uneasy by trying terribly hard to make him comfortable. He never realized basketball was so popular until everyone felt the need to discuss it with him. He suddenly became a connoisseur of soul food; he regularly was asked for recommendations when the staff ordered barbecue from the takeout menu. The thing that bothered him most, though, was when his advice was sought about the things that bothered him most.
He was expected to serve as official barometer for the thoughts, feelings, and behavior of all black people; to explain their hopes, aspirations, fears, achievements, shortcomings, and, most of all, what they really wanted. He was their ambassador for goodwill and good times, attending cocktail parties on their behalf and assuring white folks they were both forgiven for past indiscretions and loved for their present benevolence.
His position showcased him as the model for success; proof positive the system worked; a prime illustration of what could be achieved through hard work, fair play, and civility. He also functioned as an ongoing reminder to less fortunate blacks of their own personal inadequacies in failing to climb the ladder. After all, wasn’t this ladder readily accessible to all those of fine character and high moral upbringing? To demonstrate it, the vast powers of the state were available and conveniently at his disposal to prosecute those who jeopardized his exemplary existence.
He played the role of gatekeeper, safeguarding those in power who needed a guarantee that the enemy had been infiltrated and thereby emasculated. In truth, he was little more than a boiler valve that could be used to ease pressure and prevent an explosion. Rather than serve as a catalyst for change, his dissenting voice validated the virtue and fair-mindedness of the system that now paid his salary.
Matheson promised to be a major threat to that system, a greater danger than all the inner-city gangbangers and hard-core gangsters who passed through life’s revolving door as convict or parolee but were permanently unable to win entrance to the place where opportunity truly existed. Vanzant used the term “boy” to describe and define Matheson in an effort to minimize him. It was his method of expressing anger that someone given the keys to the kingdom had reverted to the streets, perhaps even preferred them to the carpeted suites provided to those who relinquished their rage, no matter how justified.
Reynolds believed all this as deeply as he’d ever believed anything. Yet he knew the people who sat around the table were incapable of accurately measuring how he felt about Matheson, because they’d never truly comprehended how he felt about them. Although, to be fair, he’d devised a virtual labyrinth of escape routes and secret passageways that saved him on countless occasions from the moral obligation ever to tell them.
“Is Matheson still being detained?” Reynolds asked.
“He was escorted home more than an hour ago,” said Vanzant. “I’d hoped a casual visit might convince the professor to change the subject of his research before these folders got any thicker.” Vanzant puffed meditatively on his pipe. “You don’t agree with what he’s doing, do you?”
Reynolds knew this question was calculated to test his allegiance, not to the law but to the cause. His answer would ultimately have to prove they had no reason to doubt his loyalty, because, after all, he was one of them.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t. And—this might surprise you—I’m not even sure I like him.” So far, Reynolds’s response was satisfactory, even commendable. “He’s still got the right to speak the truth—no matter how uncomfortable it makes us.” He’d given his boss the gun but, for the moment, withheld the ammunition.
“The truth?” said Vanzant, scowling. “You wanna go tell the families of those butchered homicide victims exactly what your version of the truth is?”
“Matheson didn’t invent the list. He just compiled it.” Reynolds had found his way onto the slippery slope and couldn’t stop himself from taking the next huge leap. “You can’t blame him for wanting the same thing we’re all sworn to uphold—real justice, regardless of color or creed or . . . You know the rest.” He studied his colleagues but knew the traitorous damage had been done.
“Well, I guess that tells us whose side you’re on,” summarized Vanzant.
“That’s unfair, Melvin,” said Sinclair.
Reynolds rose to leave.
“The meeting’s not over,” pointed out Vanzant.
“I wasn’t invited, so technically I’m not here,” replied Reynolds, who’d reached the door.
“You got something better to do?” queried Vanzant.
“I’m gonna make sure Professor Matheson wasn’t detained against his will.” Reynolds left without closing the door.
Vanzant cleaned out his pipe. “Some folks would feel more at home practicing criminal defense,” he remarked.
CHAPTER 4
REYNOLDS PLAYED NO role in facilitating Matheson’s release. In the eyes of the church, that didn’t matter. A request had been made, a prayer answered, and now someone had to share credit with the Almighty.
Reynolds decided to go to church without his family. He’d rather they not participate in a celebration he neither wanted nor fully deserved. That didn’t prevent the congregation from offering their foot-stomping, hand-clapping, heart-thumping congratulations. A Baptist church didn’t need much of an excuse to praise God, even less to bless his servants.
The church welcomed just about any opportunity to sing and dance for the Lord. But when the pastor’s son circumvented imprisonment—a miracle due partly to divine intervention and partly to a courageous black deputy DA—well, then, there was little left to do but shout hallelujah while striving your best to avoid getting slapped unconscious by the choir’s whirling robes.
As James Reynolds, the hero of the hour, sat two pews behind Professor Matheson, the organist shamelessly engaged in showcasing his talent. He received a signal from the Reverend Matheson that Jesus wasn’t going to be impressed any further, so it might be best to stop now and remain in His good grace. The choir, not to be outdone, continued their harmony a cappella, repeatedly singing the verse “I Just Wanna Praise Him . . .” The Reverend Matheson didn’t mind; in fact, he actively encouraged them with a rhythmic nodding of his head and a syncopated gesture of his left shoulder in coordination with his right leg. He even lifted his arms straight into the sanctified air—a sure sign the spirit had entered the building and planned on staying.
Professor Matheson turned and acknowledged Reynolds, but the deputy DA quickly shifted his attention to a large stained-glass window containing images of angels reaching for the sky. He studied the multicolored panes, hoping to find an escape hatch somewhere between the white clouds above and the red windowsill below.
The Reverend Matheson assumed the conductor’s responsibility and led the choir to a rousing finale, alternately shifting focus from Jesus to Reynolds and back again. The song hadn’t finished reverberating when his booming voice called the congregation to order. “There’s a special feeling in this church today!” He elicited murmurs of agreement.
“We enjoy a newfound sense of power and strength!” Hands waved and eyes closed in search of a deeper message.
“We sing because we’re happy!” He had them now.
“We sing because we’re free!” Shouts of “Yes, Lord” and “Speak the truth!” drew him to the front of the pulpit and caused him to abandon the ele
ctronic amplification.
“His eyes are on the sparrow, and I know He watches me!” Bodies were spiritually lifted from their pews. Hands came together in sustained applause. Laughter echoed throughout the sacred walls. Men and women stripped away their masks, revealing themselves to be children of God.
To Reynolds, the Reverend Matheson was living proof there was no greater theater than the church, no finer actor than the one who auditioned every Sunday before the Creator of all things. The Reverend Matheson extended his right arm toward Reynolds as if commanding the Red Sea to part and exalted his audience to rise. “I’d like to thank Brother James Reynolds.” The congregation shouted their unbridled support.
“Used to be a time when people were taken from their homes in the middle of night, brought to a jail cell never to be seen alive again. But no more!”
Reynolds wanted to disappear but couldn’t help being captivated by the younger Matheson’s curious smile.
“Now we not only have pressure on the outside, but we also have pressure from the inside. Next election, I say we eliminate that word deputy from Brother Reynolds’s title and just go ahead and make him district attorney!”
The congregation roared approval. Reynolds reluctantly rose and accepted their adulation. He sat back down and graciously smiled throughout the next half hour of praise and commendation. He listened to every other word, then every other sentence. After fifteen minutes, he filtered only bits and pieces of the pastor’s speech, just enough to nod at the appropriate places. He nodded agreement at “the importance of character,” again at “courage,” and twice more at “the power of faith.” Mercifully, the sermon ended before he sustained permanent neck damage.
At the rear of the church Reynolds continued to accept expressions of heartfelt gratitude from members of the congregation, all of whom promised to vote for him the next time. He thought he’d shaken his last hand and endured his final backslap when he felt the presence of his pastor.
The Reverend Matheson had taken off his robes but still walked with the air of royalty. “I meant what I said in there. You can count on me to support your candidacy next year. If we’d put together a better coalition the last election, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I appreciate that, Reverend, but I didn’t deserve any special recognition today. The police just wanted to talk with Martin. He’d already been released before I got involved.”
The two men approached the entryway and stood near the huge mahogany doors lavishly decorated with religiously inspired hand-carvings.
“Forty years as an activist has taught me to take victories wherever you find them.” The pastor touched Reynolds on the shoulder in a secret pact. “If none exists, you better make up one. Just be damn sure it’s useful and will attract a lot of attention.”
Reynolds respected this man who’d never cashed in his moral authority by pimping for the camera. The Reverend Matheson fought for causes that stood no chance of being covered by the media or supported by the powers that be. He did so based solely on the principle that it was the right thing to do. His appreciation, even when it wasn’t deserved, meant a great deal.
“James, I’m grateful to you. I know you and my son may not always see eye to eye on certain matters.”
Before Reynolds could downplay any difficulties, real or perceived, the pastor motioned toward his son. “There he is now. I’m sure he’d like to thank you himself.”
“That’s not necessa—” Reynolds couldn’t avoid this gracefully. Matheson joined them just as his father found a convenient reason to leave.
“I’ll go tend to the new garden we’re planting out back. I’d planned to have a little patch of cotton for old times’ sake, but I’d forgotten how ugly a plant that was.” He placed his arm around his son’s shoulder. “Martin, I think you and James ought to share a moment of prayer—together.” The Reverend Matheson descended the church steps, leaving the two men alone.
Reynolds twiddled his jacket and tried to do something useful with his hands.
“I hope you didn’t ruin your standing in the DA’s office on my account,” said Matheson.
Reynolds squelched the urge to slap the smirk off the professor’s face. “Your father asked me to help. It was the least I could do.”
“My father does have a way of getting the most out of his congregation.”
“I hope our fine police department treated you with the respect you deserved,” replied Reynolds. “If you don’t mind my asking, what did they want from you?”
“They wanted to know about my students. If I thought any might be capable of violence. I think what they really wanted was for me to cancel the course.”
“Given the circumstances, that might not be a bad idea.”
“Bad or good are ambiguous concepts in the secular world—not unlike villain or hero. It all depends on who pays the historians.” The two men proceeded down the steps into the sunlight.
“This thing you’re doing at the college . . .”
“By ‘thing’ I take it you mean education?” Matheson walked directly alongside Reynolds. They reached the bottom of the stairs. Reynolds searched for solid ground.
“Two men on your list are dead and two others are missing. How long are you going to keep this up?”
“Until justice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream.” Matheson dropped the sarcasm, but it didn’t fall too far. “I don’t normally quote Dr. King or the Scriptures, but I’ve always liked that passage. It has a refreshing ring to it.”
Reynolds felt a surge of animosity, but he kept it in check. “Your course may have contributed to murder. Doesn’t that affect you?”
“Quite deeply. A teacher never knows how much he’s inspired his students, or the positive difference he might’ve made in their lives. Changing people for the better is truly one of the more profoundly rewarding aspects of the profession.”
“Even if you’ve inspired one of your students to become a murderer?” Reynolds was looking to coax from Matheson some acknowledgment of regret, no matter how grudging.
“I don’t believe any of them are involved, but if I’m wrong, it might qualify for extra credit.”
Reynolds was contemplating Matheson’s apparent moral indifference when the professor suddenly changed his manner and tone.
“I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to sound so cavalier.” Matheson lightly touched his lower lip. “It’s been a rather disturbing week, and I guess my defense mechanisms have kicked in.” He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sure you want to get back to your family, so thanks again for coming to my defense with your boss. If I can ever vouch for you, please let me know.”
Before any trained reflex could force Reynolds to extend his hand, Matheson walked away. He’d completed a few strides when he suddenly turned back, allowing the sun to shine directly over his shoulders. It made him look taller than his impressive six-foot-two frame.
“Oh, James?” he said with remarkable warmth and sincerity. “Do give my love to Cheryl. I’m disappointed she wasn’t here to share our celebration.” He left with a smile too charming to be spontaneous.
CHAPTER 5
A HALF-CRAZED BLACK man stumbled to the marsh, his face made numb from the slashing attacks of wild brush and thick branches. He flayed his arms at the darkness and searched for the five-year-old boy, who could no longer distinguish the night sounds attacking his ears. The confusion caused the child to hear more than one voice. He thought about pleading with the man to let him live, but what if the thing chasing him was a ghost who wouldn’t listen to reason? The boy saw a cross, bright, dangling from the heavens. Surely this was a sign of deliverance. If he could pray before it, his life would be spared. The man’s breathing grew louder than usual. His fingers were longer and covered in more blood, appearing to have a life of their own. If only those fingers could speak, history might be revealed. Instead, they silently grabbed the child, who released a scream, ensuring innocence would be forevermore
lost.
Reynolds awoke from the nightmare that had never before been so vivid. The room felt smaller and dangerous, every object a potential weapon. He sat up in the bed, wanting to know why the terrifying image invaded his thoughts again.
His mother used to blame it on the chocolate he ate. “Shouldn’t eat candy before you go to bed,” she’d warn. He’d stopped eating sweets for a whole year. He lost the desire for chocolate long before he relinquished the vision of bloody fingers and a sparkling cross.
The clock’s red digital numbers flickered 3:15, casting a mellow glow on the small wedding picture. He needed assurance of his safety and found it in the warmth of his wife’s body. For seventeen years she’d provided him a permanent refuge, a place to escape the evil spirits that would have overtaken him by now if not for her protection.
He watched her breathe, touched her satin gown, and gently slid it down a few precious inches, exposing her shoulder then part of her breast. The sight of her bare skin used to drive him mad. Now it maintained his sanity. That was how he’d defined love: an anchor that kept you a proper distance from danger yet still provided the freedom to soar.
This anchor held him in place long enough to acquire a home, a son and daughter, a parakeet that chirped too much, a canary that sang too little, and a dog that barked at the wrong time—in other words, heaven. But the past threatened to ruin his happy world. He couldn’t be completely certain if it was his past or someone else’s. His grandfather used to say, “Once you sleep with ugly, there’s no tellin’ when or where it will show up in the genes. But you can bet your now-shared inheritance that sooner or later it will arrive and speak your name.” Whatever the cause of the nightmare, it called out to him. It would continue until he gave the response that would send it away once and for all.
Somehow he managed to leave the security of his wife’s bedside and found himself rummaging through the kitchen cabinet to locate the one bottle of bourbon he vowed never to throw away. It represented his private test, his poison elixir. He kept it out of sight but always within reach. It served to challenge his internal fortitude as well as the promise he’d made to himself. He would never become his father and find courage at the bottom of a bottle.
