Blood on the Leaves

by Jeff Stetson

  Miller pointed to the projected image. “I call your attention to the broken and tortured body of a truck driver, a family man. He committed no crime other than being black. And for that violation, he suffered this unspeakable atrocity.” He walked to the opposite side of the screen. “Notice the people who stand around his bleeding corpse. Smiling, carefree, posing proudly for a picture with the man they’ve just sacrificed in tribute to their ideology of bigotry and hate.”

  Reynolds had kept his head lowered throughout the last section of Miller’s presentation, looking up only to concentrate on the impact it had on the jurors.

  “This is part of our shameful history,” Miller said with his back to the screen, his long shadow cast in the direction of the jury. “A history Professor Matheson felt compelled to share with his students so that it might never be repeated.”

  Reynolds stood. “Your Honor, this jury has been subjected to more than enough of these brutal and sickening displays of the past.” He approached the screen and stared at the photo. “I ask you to put an end to this gruesome and tragic—” He suddenly stopped. His knees buckled, his body bent slightly, and he brought his hands to his chest. His eyes remained fixated on this flickering photographic depiction that in one form or another had haunted his dreams throughout most of his life. The fiery cross seemed to dangle from the night sky just as it had in his frightened imagination. He studied the man’s beaten face. Where had he seen it before? He focused on the mutilated hand. Did it somehow contain the secret to the mystery of the bloody fingers that had constantly pursued him? “Your Honor, can we have a brief recess?” He bowed his head. “I feel . . . ill.”

  “Mr. Miller, you may turn off the projector,” instructed Tanner. “Bailiff, can we have the lights, please?”

  The lights were turned on, which caused the jurors to readjust to the brightness. Rather than look at the screen, they focused on Reynolds, who, up until this intervention on their behalf, hadn’t spoken a word since the trial began. No one paid greater attention to Reynolds than Matheson, who studied him with keen interest.

  “Mr. Reynolds, are you gonna be all right?” asked Tanner.

  “I apologize, Your Honor,” he answered weakly. “I just need a few moments.”

  Sinclair went to his aid and gave him a glass of water. He took a sip and glanced at the jury. Vernetta Williams, the nurse within the group, appeared ready to scale the jury box and come to his rescue.

  “Perhaps this is an appropriate time to adjourn.” Tanner shifted through some paperwork. “The jury is admonished not to read news articles, watch television accounts of the trial, or discuss this case among yourselves or others. Have a restful weekend. I’ll see you Monday, nine o’clock sharp.” He rose from his seat and grabbed a thick folder. “I’d like to see counsel in chambers. I’m confident you haven’t forgotten how to get there since your last visit of . . .” He looked at his watch. “. . . two hours and forty-seven minutes ago.”

  Tanner left the bench and headed quickly to his chambers while the bailiff escorted the jury out of the courtroom. Munson walked with Hardy Wilkins, the only other white man on the panel, and gave him a friendly pat on the back.

  Matheson motioned for Regina and, when she arrived, took her aside. “Find out as much as you can about that photo,” he whispered. She nodded. He glared at Reynolds, who’d recovered by now and made his way toward the judge’s chambers.

  Miller and Reynolds once again took their seats in front of Tanner, who sat behind his desk.

  “Gentlemen,” said the judge disdainfully, “as Ricky advised Lucy, you got some ’splainin’ to do.” He gripped the edge of his desk and stared at Miller. “Counsel, I thought we agreed to handle your forty-five-minute presentation with dignity and decorum and not attempt to inflame the jury.”

  “I tried to do that, Your Honor. Mr. Reynolds obviously pulled some theatrical stunt to try and—”

  “Outdo your theatrical stunt,” stated Tanner. “He was quite effective. I think he bonded with the jury. And, if he tries it again, he just might have to post bond.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I think it was probably something I ate.” Reynolds avoided eye contact with both Tanner and Miller.

  “You’ll be eatin’ crow in front of the jury if you push me too far. I don’t know what the two of you are doin’ out there, but if you want to be dramatic in my courtroom, you gotta wear one of these here robes. Otherwise, you’ll both be dressed in jail fatigues. Understood?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” responded the attorneys.

  “Now, gentlemen, we all know there’s an elephant in that courtroom, and he keeps invitin’ his six bigger brothers. They may all be victims of homicide, but they’re very much alive in the minds of this jury.” Tanner unbuttoned the top of his robe and ran his palms along both sides of his head, pressing his hair back as far as it would go. “Mr. Reynolds, unless I missed somethin’ very important, I counted only one murder charge against the defendant.”

  “That hasn’t changed, Your Honor,” answered Reynolds.

  “You’re both treading dangerously close to a mistrial before either one of you calls your first witness. All this talk about other victims ain’t gonna help the jury focus on Earvin Cooper or his murderer.”

  “Judge,” replied Miller, “I’m obligated to provide the most vigorous defense of my client that I can possibly present. The state raised the issue of motive and has attempted to taint Dr. Matheson with the murder of every person on his list.”

  “Just the ones who wound up dead,” corrected Reynolds. “In case you haven’t noticed, there haven’t been any more murders since your client’s arrest.”

  “That underscores my point,” argued Miller. “Professor Matheson is being linked to multiple homicides through innuendo and wild speculation. The fact there haven’t been additional murders suggests nothing more than a possible relationship between the course being taught and some psychopath inspired by it.” Miller appealed to Tanner. “Judge, as you so aptly recognized in granting me permission to continue my presentation, Mr. Reynolds opened the door to this subject, and I fully intend to demonstrate the lack of—”

  “I expect this to be a murder trial, not a history lesson,” Tanner said angrily. “Either one of you play the race card, the only place you’ll be practicing law in the South is south California. Now, get the hell outta here ’fore I make you go fishin’ with me in the mornin’.” Tanner removed his robe and rubbed his neck.

  “My grandson don’t like puttin’ worms on the hook. And if you ain’t learned by now, I don’t take kindly to bein’ baited.” Tanner watched both men head for the door. “Oh, by the way,” he added as an afterthought, “the bailiff slipped me a message after we reconvened.” He unfolded a small note and glanced at it casually. “You both received death threats.”

  Miller and Reynolds stood perfectly still.

  Tanner walked to his liquor cabinet. “Some black folks want Mr. Reynolds dead, and a few white folks would like to return the favor by killing you, Mr. Miller.” He poured himself a glass of brandy. “We also got us some fair-minded people just want to blow up everybody.” He took a sip and looked at the two lawyers. “Have a pleasant weekend.”

  He turned his back on the lawyers, who remained at the doorway for a moment and then left.

  CHAPTER 40

  REYNOLDS SAT IN his darkened den, listening to Billie Holiday singing “Strange Fruit.” The music flowed quietly from a small cassette player. “Southern trees bear a strange fruit . . .” He held a copy of the photo last exhibited by Miller in court and lightly moved his finger along its edge. “. . . blood on the leaves and blood at the root.” Enough moonlight filtered through the window to allow him to stare at the image of the black man hanging lifelessly from a tree. Perhaps it was a poplar tree similar to the one mentioned in the song’s haunting lyrics.

  “Why are you sitting in the dark?” Cheryl asked, interrupting his concentration.

  “It wasn’t dark when
I first sat down,” he answered.

  She switched on the overhead light and entered the room. “What are you listening to that for?”

  “It’s what Matheson listened to when he worked at home.”

  “That might drive anybody to kill.” She walked toward him, unaware of what he held.

  “So you’re finally coming around to accept he did it?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said . . . My God!” She saw the photo and studied it in horrified revulsion. “What kind of animal would do that to a human being?”

  Her husband placed the photo down on his desk. “What kind of human being is produced when people are treated like animals?”

  Cheryl turned away. Reynolds noticed her discomfort and knew it had to do with more than the photo. “You still don’t think I should be prosecuting him, do you?”

  She hesitated. “You’re being used. You know that?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “If you win, you’re going to be despised by black folks.”

  He looked at the floor, but she gently lifted his chin and made direct eye contact. “If you lose, whites are gonna doubt your ability and question your loyalty. Either way, everything you’ve worked to achieve will be destroyed.” She softened. “You really want to risk all that for somebody else’s political agenda?”

  “He’s guilty,” he said firmly.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “We’ve already been over this, Cheryl,” he snapped. “I’ve been with him!” he said with a degree of anger that surprised him. He softened his tone. “Been in his home. I’ve seen the photos plastered on the wall like some sick monument. You look at them too long, it’s like drinking poison.”

  “Drink it slowly enough, you build a tolerance,” she said.

  “But you destroy the soul,” he responded softly.

  She picked up the photo and brought it closer to him. “How long have you been looking at this?”

  “I’m not sure, maybe all my life.”

  She put the photo facedown on the desk. “You and Martin have more in common than you want to admit. Just make sure you’re prosecuting him and not yourself.” She kissed him and left.

  He closed his eyes to fully appreciate the song’s sorrowful concluding lyrics. He envisioned birds scavenging for the sacred fruit, or watching it rot beneath the burning sun, only to be washed away by the cool night rain. He opened his eyes and studied the photo, wondering just how bitter this strange crop had become with time.

  He ejected the cassette cartridge from the player and put it carefully into its case. He placed the photo in a gray manila envelope, retrieved his keys from his jacket, and left the room, carrying the photo with him.

  CHAPTER 41

  REYNOLDS DROVE HIS car slowly through a winding residential neighborhood in Natchez. He looked at the digital clock in his instrument panel and hoped his mother wouldn’t be too tired to answer his questions. It had been a while since his last visit, well over a year—actually, now that he thought about it, closer to two. Cheryl enjoyed bringing the children to his mother’s home. Christopher always liked going into the room where his father had grown up. He found it hard to imagine his dad as a child confined to a room without a television or computer or PlayStation. There had been a record player, though!

  Reynolds smiled as he remembered his mother taking it out of his old closet and showing it to a stunned Christopher, then around five. She’d given him three chances to guess what it was. After his third choice—a rotisserie for pancakes—she placed a funny-looking vinyl disk that looked like a flattened black CD on the thing called a turntable. Christopher’s eyes gleamed with amazement when he heard scratchy music blare from two cloth-covered box speakers that hung on side hinges, connected by long, thin, entangled plastic-coated wires. He asked his grandmother to play the song twelve straight times. After the fifth repeat, he started anticipating where the needle would skip or ride a bump. “Cool!” he said, with each accurate prediction.

  Reynolds pulled into the driveway and turned off the car engine. He left on his headlights and observed his parents’ home in the darkness. It had seemed much larger to him in his youth. He once thought he could run in his backyard for days before reaching the end. Now he realized there wasn’t enough room to throw a football very far. He noticed his mother standing at the doorway. He turned off the lights, then exited his car, carrying a night bag and a large gray envelope.

  His mother appeared younger than her sixty-five years. Even in the darkness he admired her clear skin that neither needed nor often used artificial ingredients to make her look lovely. Her silver hair glowed majestically in the moonlight and curved around her head in short, tight curls.

  “James, I’ve been so worried ever since I got off the phone with you.”

  “Why?” He kissed her on the cheek, and they both entered the house.

  “You sounded so strange. I was afraid something happened to Cheryl or the children,” she explained.

  “You mean you weren’t worried about me,” he teased, then dropped his bag onto the floor. He held the envelope to his side.

  “I know there’s nothin’ ever gonna hurt you.” She grabbed his shoulders and turned him completely around. “Let me get a good look at you.” She studied him carefully. “Have you lost weight? I made extra chicken and baked macaroni for you to take back to my grandchildren, but I think you could use some tonight. I’ll heat up some greens, too.”

  He smiled sadly.

  “James,” his mother said seriously, “is something wrong between you and—”

  He extended the envelope to her. “I think you know about that,” he spoke softly.

  She looked at the envelope with concern, then took it from him. Reynolds walked away from his mother and gave her some privacy. When he turned to look at her, he discovered her holding the photo to her breast, startled. She placed her left hand to her mouth.

  “My God, who’d do such a thing?”

  “I thought you might be able to answer that,” he said.

  “I’ve never seen this before in my life.” She held the photo out to him. She wanted him to take it back.

  He approached her, but his hands remained at his sides. “Not the photo, Mama.” He stood close to her. “The incident . . . the man, hanging from that tree.”

  She didn’t want to look at the photo again, but she did. She moved to an end table and retrieved her eyeglasses. She put them on and studied the picture carefully.

  “I used to wake up seeing his face,” Reynolds spoke as his mother’s eyes stayed fixed on the photo in her increasingly unsteady hands. “He was always chasing me. No matter how fast I ran, he’d be right behind, his fingers reaching for me, tearing at my clothes.”

  Reynolds touched the side of a chair his father would have loved—wide and soft with high, cushy arms. He sat on the ottoman. “I fooled myself into believing he existed only in my nightmares,” he said, lightly rubbing his unshaved face. “You’d come into my room and tell me he—”

  “Wasn’t real,” she said, completing his sentence for him. She held the photo carefully and walked to her son. “I said that he was only in your—”

  “Imagination.” This time he finished her statement.

  She sat next to him and held the photo on her lap. She looked at it occasionally in between her short, deliberate breaths. “I even started to believe it.” She shook her head, ashamed. “Especially when you’d go weeks at a time without waking up frightened. There were nights when you slept so peacefully, followed by mornings when you woke up screaming you’d never sleep in your room again.” Her eyes filled with tears. He touched her hand. She put her fingers around his.

  “What happened to me?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

  “You wandered away from your school group, got lost.” She held his hand more tightly. “They’d organized a field trip at the county preserve. We searched all night for you. Your father and me were so afraid we’d never see you alive again. All we
could do was pray and leave it in God’s hands to bring you home safe.” She let go of his hand and walked to the mantel, which contained childhood pictures of Reynolds, including one of him seated on his father’s lap. He joined her and studied a framed picture of himself as an adult playing happily with his children.

  “Your father and some other men found you unconscious the next morning and rushed you to the hospital. I was there at your bedside when you woke up screamin’, ‘No! No! Please stop! Please!’” She bowed her head and wept uncontrollably. Reynolds held his mother and comforted her.

  “It’s all right, Mama. Everything’s all right. You don’t have to talk about this anymore.” He lifted her into his arms and placed her gently on the couch. He found a quilt and covered her, remaining by her side until she fell asleep.

  Reynolds entered his old room, which had been converted to an extra guest bedroom for the grandchildren. Despite his mother’s best intentions, he’d never allowed Christopher or Angela to sleep there. He said he didn’t want to share his special secrets with them just yet. They’d have to wait until they got older. Then, and only then, would they be worthy of discovering the magic of his childhood.

  His wife knew there was more to his edict than he’d ever admit—much more. She tried to get him to reveal his real reasons for denying their children—and, for that matter, herself—access to his past. She’d never been successful and long ago had decided not to force him to unlock whatever mysteries he’d worked so hard to keep hidden. For that, he’d remained grateful.

  He pulled back the curtain and opened the window that had once promised him a quick escape from any unwelcome visitations disrupting his sleep. On more than one occasion, he also used it to avoid a well-deserved whipping. In the end, his father or mother would find him outside, peeking from behind the large oak tree, and they’d make him endure twice the ordinary punishment for the additional trouble he caused. He’d learned to dread “seek and destroy missions” long before he ever fully appreciated “search and rescue.” When he turned away from the window, he discovered his mother standing at the doorway, holding the photo.