by Jeff Stetson
In truth, the young Reynolds didn’t know what a lawyer did. For some reason buried in the secret aspirations of youth, he hoped the answer might make his father proud. He turned off the flow of water and waited for a reply that never came. Instead, he watched his father’s face go through a myriad of expressions. At first, he saw the normal display of pride, followed by a look of tenderness that took his breath away. Just as quickly it changed to doubt and pain and insecurity and fear. Although only a child, he instinctively knew there was something in his world his father couldn’t protect him from—something about the lives of others like himself that made it impossible for grown men to believe they’d ever be able to help their children realize their dreams.
After that day, Reynolds never told his father what he intended to become. His father never again dared to ask, yet the memory of that original question, and the subsequent expression of pain it generated, would linger a lifetime. It would haunt Reynolds long after he earned his law degree, and way beyond the morning a coffin containing a diploma and the man who called his son “little Jimmie” was lowered into a darkened grave. It was a terrible thing to see a child’s dream die on a father’s face. That look, far more than any other, eventually drove Reynolds to leave his home in search of a place where grown men and the children who loved them were not destroyed by a single wish.
He’d left the South, intending never to revisit. But he’d forgotten about funerals and voices from the past and dreams that had a right to flourish and how good water tasted when shared from the same hose. Reynolds obtained his undergraduate and graduate degrees while living in Boston. The day he learned he’d passed the bar, he received notification his father had passed away. He returned home with his degrees and the results of his law exam. He neatly folded and placed them inside the pocket of a dark blue jacket, the first and last suit he’d ever seen his father wear. He buried the man who’d given him three precious things: life, a nickname he initially detested but grew to love, and the motivation to empower fathers to believe they could help their children obtain any goal.
He stopped for a moment and observed a young couple seated on a blanket in the shade of a dogwood. The woman read aloud to her male companion from a slender volume of poetry. He stroked her arm and fed her a strawberry. She closed the book, and they shared a kiss. Reynolds smiled and continued his journey. He thought of his wife and felt fortunate he’d been given another chance to rediscover the South and meet his one true love. After leaving home in an effort to find it, he’d settled down in the town he’d almost renounced.
He immediately found himself inundated with offers to join every major firm specializing in criminal law, international finance, corporate takeover, or any other endeavor that promised more money than anyone should ever need. He rejected them all in favor of putting away bad people so they’d never hurt the innocent. After a dozen years of success, measured by his conviction rate and by the number of overcrowded prisons, he wondered if he’d made the right choice. He still wanted to put away the bad and protect the innocent, yet no longer felt certain about who belonged in which category. More troubling, he worried whether innocents even existed anymore. He feared they might have become casualties of the war on drugs—a war that made criminals of the sick and destroyed families under the pretense of saving them. Even a rookie prosecutor knew he could convert one drug conviction into a dozen. From there he’d multiply that dozen into a pyramid scheme. The result would be a series of career advancements built upon the broken lives and contaminated needles of junkies who would gladly set up their neighborhood minister for the promise of a lighter sentence.
Was it any wonder he’d be thinking of giving up that life for the chance to walk across a campus that began anew each September? His musings had taken him to the entrance of the humanities building. Inside, the cooled air from an efficient machine replaced the purity of a fresh breeze. Reynolds took the staircase to the second floor and walked down a long corridor filled with the distinctive scent of learning. He saw a small group of highly animated black students leaving an office, which suggested he’d found the right place. To make certain, he read the name inscribed in gold lettering on the lightly smoked surface of beveled glass: Dr. Martin S. Matheson, Chair, Department of History.
He didn’t have to wait long to be ushered into Matheson’s private quarters, but it took a while for the professor to acknowledge his presence. Reynolds used the time to study the many plaques and awards neatly arranged on each wall, evidence of Matheson’s scholarly achievements and community service. There were also a significant number of certificates and honors presented by appreciative students and alumni. The citations hung alongside smiling photos of Matheson with dignitaries, celebrities, and business and civic leaders.
Reynolds studied a large framed picture of the professor at the helm of a small boat. Beside him, his father, the Reverend Matheson, proudly beamed over a batch of freshly caught bluegill, speckled trout, and king mackerel. Reynolds browsed through the collection of leather-bound books—probably rare first editions, from the way they were showcased. He admired the distinctive display of original paintings and sculptures adorning the room. Everything about Matheson’s resplendent office shouted perfection, which made Reynolds feel both envious and uncomfortable.
“James, what a pleasant surprise. All my classes are overbooked, but if you’re sincere about wanting to register, I can make an exception.” Matheson motioned for Reynolds to sit, then finished going through some statewide tourist catalogs and brochures. He reviewed a road map and jotted down some notes.
“You handing out directions on how to find the people on your list?” Reynolds asked.
“If you don’t know where you’re going, it’s easy to get lost,” Matheson responded.
Reynolds couldn’t resist the temptation to spar. He picked up a travel brochure and flipped through it. “Taking a vacation?” he asked.
“I’m sure your colleagues in the DA’s office would pay for the ticket, but I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint them. These are part of a lecture for tomorrow night. You’re welcome to attend.” Matheson smiled pleasantly.
“I appreciate the offer, but it doesn’t look that interesting.” Reynolds tried to match the professor’s smile.
Matheson took the brochure from Reynolds and referred to it as he spoke. “It’s important to know how your history is defined, James, even in something as seemingly innocuous as a tourist brochure.” The professor turned to the second page and began reading: “‘Almost every area of Mississippi boasts a battle site or antebellum home, timeless testimonies to the elegance and majesty of the Old South, and the tragedy and sorrow of the American Civil War.’” He looked at Reynolds with the charm that had influenced so many students.
“The South’s glorious past is nostalgically described as ‘elegant’ and ‘majestic’ until it was shattered by that evil insurrection which resulted in freeing the slaves. But fear not, the South has risen again, and as is so eloquently stated on page three of our tax-supported propaganda”—he retrieved the brochure and continued reading—“‘Mississippi represents the best of yesterday and the promise of tomorrow.’” Matheson tossed the pamphlet onto his desk and studied Reynolds. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“About the past?”
Matheson leaned forward the way a medical doctor might to issue a warning to a recalcitrant patient. “About the future.”
“Speaking of the unknown, I hear you’re about to embark on a show biz career.”
Matheson looked disappointed. “So that’s why you came by.” He studied Reynolds for a moment. “I’m sure CNN’s colorful news anchor Thomas Jackson is being coached as we speak. He was selected to play the role of the indignant and outraged citizen. It’s fascinating how they use us when it serves their purpose.”
“‘They’?” echoed a mildly amused Reynolds. “Isn’t the frequent use of that pronoun the first sign of paranoia?” He gave a trace of a smile, which Matheson seized
on.
“You ever notice how so many black professionals always smile whenever they’re around white folks? I imagine it’s a desperate attempt to make their bosses feel comfortable.”
“Maybe they wear the mask,” Reynolds countered, less in an effort to defend himself than to stand up for the rights of his fellow accused black professionals.
“I’ve actually seen the contours of a face change as a result of such frequent grinning, almost as if it’s become rubberized by necessity; should it get angry by mistake, it can be quickly reshaped to a smile before anyone notices.” Matheson rose from his seat and moved to the front of his desk. He leaned close to Reynolds. “The ones who can’t convincingly smile anymore suffer from severe stomach discomfort, but rather than take an antacid, they conceal their pain in the hope it’ll go away.” He studied Reynolds, then added secretively, “But it never does.” He bent over slightly and assumed the posture of a priest hearing a confession. “Tell me, James, do you smile a lot?”
Reynolds looked directly into Matheson’s face. “No. Just in case you’re wondering, my stomach doesn’t hurt, either.”
“Then I’ll assume you weren’t sent here to do your employer’s bidding but came on your own volition to wish me luck on my interview. Will you be watching me tonight, or has that function been assigned to someone else?”
“I volunteered to watch it. I’ve always been a huge fan of Mr. Jackson’s. You know, we black folks need to support each other.” Reynolds thought it now safe to smile, and did so graciously.
Matheson also smiled. Reynolds believed it to be genuine. The two men had tested each other, and neither was the worse for wear. Reynolds got up from his chair. “I better leave so you can prepare for tonight.”
“I’m on at six and again at nine should you miss the initial airing or be inspired to watch it twice.”
Reynolds started to leave when, to his surprise, Matheson offered his hand. Reynolds found himself taking it. The men stood eye to eye, hands clasped, and it seemed to Reynolds like another contest, perhaps to determine who’d be the first to blink or loosen his grip. They both ended the exchange at precisely the same moment, and Reynolds headed for the door, half expecting to hear a provocative comment about his wife.
“James?”
Here it comes, thought Reynolds. He turned, wanting to be ready with an appropriate comeback.
“Thanks for stopping by,” the professor said.
Reynolds nodded, waiting for the second round to be fired.
“Oh, by the way,” Matheson added, “do you think you’ll be needing any tapes from the show?”
“For Cheryl?”
“Actually, I had in mind your colleagues at the office.” Matheson sat on the top of his desk. “Although now that I think about it, I imagine they have ample equipment to record my activities.”
Reynolds left with the distinct feeling that practicing law was far superior than teaching it, after all.
CHAPTER 10
THOMAS JACKSON ENJOYED his reputation as a respected black journalist and cable network anchorman known for straightforward interviewing. He seldom became flustered or angry—at least, not on the air. He got along fabulously with his coanchors and guests no matter how extreme their political views or how annoying their observations. He was, in other words, the ideal foil for Matheson. His understated manner played well with a television audience that needed to be appeased or reassured. In the unlikely event a guest threatened the comfort level of Jackson’s viewers, he’d put them at ease by becoming shocked and outraged. His physical movements were stiff, arguably robotic, and therefore never dangerous. He had the requisite calm and soothing voice, and on those infrequent occasions when he showed emotion and laughed, he could be surprisingly charming.
Matheson spoke from a satellite news station in Jackson, an affiliate of CNN. For the past five minutes, he’d been fielding questions from Jackson, whose image filled a small studio monitor. He sat on a metal foldout chair whose legs were uneven. An intern had slid two matchbooks and a strip of cardboard underneath to prevent the chair from teetering whenever Matheson shifted his weight. Despite the lack of amenities, he felt relieved he wasn’t in Atlanta being interviewed in person. He feared that if he’d been seated right next to the bland host, his own personality might have seemed overwhelming.
Matheson needed a balanced debate format, or at least the illusion of one. If the discussion came off too one-sided, he risked being characterized as a bully, an ungrateful “angry black man” taking advantage of an award-winning member of his own race. Up until this point in the program, he’d been careful not to score points at Jackson’s expense. He would change tactics shortly.
“Professor Matheson, four men whose names and addresses you distributed were gruesomely murdered; two others are missing. Isn’t it understandable that reasonable people might conclude you’re directly responsible?” Jackson managed to ask the question without any fluctuation in his voice and, even more amusing to Matheson, without any facial expression.
“If reasonable people had fulfilled their duty decades ago, my course wouldn’t need to be taught.” The professor remained restrained and, notwithstanding the hot overhead lights, free of perspiration.
“No one would disagree with your right to teach such a course, but why insist on disseminating your list? Isn’t that an invitation to commit acts of reprisal?” Jackson’s eyebrow finally moved slightly.
“To teach about only those who were lynched places black people in a perpetual state of victimization, where they’re so demoralized they can’t fight back, or worse, so frightened they won’t fight back. Either way, they’re permanently defeated. Education’s about liberation, Mr. Jackson, not defeat.” Matheson contained his passion safely beneath the surface, wanting his message to get through.
“As for your suggestion that my teaching methodology is in reality a subtle call to punish those who’ve committed the most heinous crimes against innocent men, women, and children, to that indictment I plead guilty.” Jackson tried to interject a remark, but the professor continued. “The form of punishment I advocate isn’t a private execution. It’s a public ostracizing. I don’t ask my students to take an eye for an eye—quite the contrary. I insist they stand eye to eye with the men who’ve brutalized their fathers and grandfathers, and denounce those crimes. I ask that they pronounce life sentences on these criminals to guarantee they’ll never again commit violent acts against blacks without anticipating a moral, ethical, and political retribution.”
Matheson looked straight into the camera. “There’s a price to be paid for violating the laws of man as well as the laws of God. Since we’re a country that honors both, I feel fortunate to have students who wish to conduct themselves as patriots and Christians.”
Matheson delivered his message without coming across as a radical revolutionary or black-power fanatic. He portrayed himself as an attractive, articulate, and reasoned defender of the Constitution—or for that matter, the Old Testament. His persuasiveness even prompted a black cameraman to take his eye away from his equipment and exchange a nod of solidarity with a young Afro-American female assistant.
“Your father was a close friend and associate of Dr. King.”
“I’m named in his honor,” Matheson said proudly.
“Like Dr. King, your father’s a passionate advocate of nonviolence.”
Matheson knew where this was heading. “Since we’re dealing with history, I might remind you and your viewers that the man we honor as the finest proponent of nonviolence was murdered preaching it. Had some of his admirers turned their cheeks less frequently and reached for their weapons more often, Dr. King might be alive today.”
This first sign of defiance from Matheson unnerved Jackson. “Professor Matheson, you see nothing wrong in what you’re doing?”
“I ought to be applauded.” Amazingly, Matheson sounded humble.
Reynolds was watching the telecast at home. Turning up the volume, he admired an
elaborate configuration of standing dominoes spread across his living room floor. They resembled an imposing army of black plastic figures defiled by white-dotted numerical representations.
“You seriously think you should be congratulated for your behavior?” For the first time in the interview, Jackson leaned forward.
“I certainly do,” responded Matheson.
“By whom?” Jackson challenged. His stern demeanor was meant to signal—both to his viewers and the network’s commercial sponsors—that if any applause was forthcoming, it would come without his participation or endorsement.
“Be careful, Thomas,” warned Reynolds as he placed one of the dominoes on the floor.
“By the same people who hailed legislation permitting communities to know the identity and whereabouts of child molesters,” answered the professor. The camera moved in more closely on Matheson until he filled the entire screen. “Shouldn’t black people have the same rights as children and their parents to know who their predators are and where they live and work?”
“I tried to warn you,” mumbled Reynolds as the camera captured Jackson, listening to voices in his earpiece offering him conflicting suggestions.
“Those child molesters were convicted in a court of law,” claimed Jackson.
Reynolds wondered if that was the best response Jackson’s team could have generated for their outgunned moderator.
“Had justice prevailed, the murderers on my list would’ve been waiting in line to greet them.”
Reynolds had a hunch that tomorrow this interview would be endlessly debated around water coolers all across the country. By the time the cups were refilled, a new media star would be born.
“So this is payback?” asked the puzzled host.
