Blood on the Leaves

by Jeff Stetson

  Cars parked near the church were destroyed or severely damaged by the blast. The hood of one car folded in two. An avalanche of bricks and concrete flowed into walkways that once provided access to the children’s Sunday school service. Water flooded the area and caused narrow streams to carry away tiny pieces of the church along with uprooted earth and ash.

  Police were on the scene interviewing neighbors and searching for clues. Reynolds drove his car as close to the area as possible. He turned off the engine and exited his vehicle, then headed directly to his former pastor. The Reverend Matheson stared at the rubble of the home he’d spent a lifetime safeguarding for God. He stood on a street cracked and shattered by the force of the explosion.

  “Whoever did this, I promise you we’ll find them,” Reynolds said with determination.

  “Like this country’s found all the others?” replied the Reverend Matheson softly. He placed his unsteady hand on Reynolds’s arm. “I baptized your wife in this church . . .”

  Reynolds provided support to keep the Reverend Matheson on his feet. “You can build it again. All of us will help.”

  “. . . and both your children.” The Reverend Matheson looked at Reynolds. “I’ve never done anything to hurt you. Why are you trying to destroy my son?”

  “You may not believe he’s a murderer, but in your heart you know he’s responsible.”

  “The people responsible are the ones who committed those murders over thirty years ago. The ones who encouraged them or looked away—judges, juries, politicians, sheriffs, businessmen, housewives.” He looked at his church in ruins. “The arsonists and bombers who hid in the shadows of indifference and cowardice.” His eyes filled with tears. “The same ones who today are outraged and appalled never offered a single word of protest when it would have mattered. When it could’ve made a difference. Don’t blame my son for a world he didn’t create. He only called attention to it.”

  The Reverend Matheson’s knees buckled. Reynolds held on to him and motioned for one of the officers to provide help. The proud preacher stepped back and refused assistance.

  “I’ve stood on my own two feet and fought battles more difficult than this. If I have to lean on anything, it’ll be my faith in God.” He stood more erect and steady. “He’s brought me this far, and no bomb or racist or false prosecution of my son will force me to turn away from what I believe to be right.” He looked in the direction of the destruction. “Now, you go on and do what you have to do. This is still the Lord’s house, and I want to pay tribute to Him.”

  Reynolds walked away but stopped when he heard his name called.

  “James,” the Reverend Matheson said firmly, “I will keep you and your family in my prayers.”

  Reynolds nodded his head in appreciation. “And you shall remain in mine,” he said affectionately, then walked away without ever looking back at the fallen church or its weary pastor.

  CHAPTER 52

  VANZANT HELD THE photo of the lynching of Frank Edwards’s father. “It was thirty-five years ago,” he said, frustrated.

  “It was murder,” answered an unwavering Reynolds.

  “You’ve already got a case; worry about that one.” Vanzant tried to return the photo to Reynolds, who refused to take it.

  “I want Beauford arrested,” Reynolds said firmly.

  “For getting his picture taken?” Vanzant argued. “For being there? There’s no proof he was involved.”

  “Let a grand jury decide that. If he didn’t do it, he knows who did,” pushed Reynolds.

  “And what if he claims he can’t remember or says the persons responsible are dead? What do you want us to do then?” Vanzant paced in front of his desk. “For Christ’s sake, James, the police have murders that happened this morning and they don’t have enough resources to investigate those adequately. Now you want me to add this to their workload?” He held out the photo.

  “Just look into it. That’s all I’m asking,” requested Reynolds.

  The two men stared at each other for several moments, and Vanzant finally relented. He placed the photo on top of his In box. “I’ll call the sheriff myself, but I’m not makin’ any promises.”

  Reynolds let out a sigh of relief. “I appreciate it.”

  “I guess I owe you one after Gelon,” admitted Vanzant.

  Reynolds smiled. “If you ever want a good pair of boots, he gave me a discount card.”

  Vanzant laughed. It was the closest the two had been in quite some time. “Who’s Miller gonna call as his first witness?”

  “Trust me,” said Reynolds, massaging his temple to release stress. “You really don’t want to know.”

  Vanzant sank into his seat and stared at the photo of the lynching. “You said the guy with the big smile was named Beauford?”

  Reynolds nodded in agreement. “Gates Beauford. I wrote his address on the back.”

  Vanzant turned over the photo and wrote down the information on a slip of paper. He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  As his first witness Miller called Dr. Charles Hunter. “Dr. Hunter, what is your current employment?” Miller asked.

  “I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I’m a behavioral assessment specialist, or what might be commonly referred to as a profiler. I collect information on a variety of serious crimes and, based on my personal and professional experience, establish a personality profile of the type of criminal involved.”

  “And you had special training to do this?”

  “The Bureau has extensive training programs in all facets of crime investigation. As you know, we’re considered the foremost agency in the world when it comes to crime fighting.” Hunter came across as extremely confident, bordering on arrogant, with the smugness made famous by FBI agents.

  “In addition to your agency training do you have any other experience or education that qualifies you to perform your work?”

  “I have a Ph.D. in psychology with a specialization in personality disorders. I also have a master’s degree in criminal justice.”

  “And where did you obtain your degrees?”

  “Princeton University.”

  “Princeton?” Miller asked. “Isn’t that in . . .” He paused with a pained expression and spoke without any accent. “New Jersey?”

  “Yes,” answered Hunter with a trace of resentment.

  “Were you unable to gain admittance into one of our fine southern universities?” asked Miller.

  Reynolds rose to his feet but didn’t have to formally object.

  “I’ll withdraw that comment,” volunteered Miller.

  “Let’s not make a habit of having to do that,” Tanner said sternly.

  Reynolds knew Miller was attempting to get under Hunter’s skin and feared he might be succeeding.

  “Dr. Hunter, isn’t it true you were assigned to assist the state’s office of the attorney general in investigating a series of murders associated with Professor Matheson’s list?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did you and your colleagues develop any profiles regarding the person or persons most likely to commit these murders?”

  Hunter reviewed the types of people profiled and the reasons they were considered. He described the rationale behind targeting Caucasian activists or radicals. He admitted under grueling examination that he himself had identified several of Matheson’s students as likely suspects, including Brandon Hamilton and Delbert Finney, who just happened to be the next two witnesses on Miller’s list. After Hunter finished going over all the categories listed as meeting the personality profiles of the murderer, the only person who seemed to be excluded was the professor.

  “So let me see if I understand you correctly,” summarized Miller. “The type of person likely to commit these heinous acts, including the murder of Earvin Cooper, would fall into the category of (a) a leader who saw himself as a person of action, like a football hero, or (b) a complete loner, isolated from
his community and wanting desperately to do something to curry favor, like a shy, quiet kid from a rural section of the state, or (c) a white person.”

  “That’s not what I said, sir,” Hunter protested.

  “I can have your testimony read back to you if you like. But let’s spare the members of the jury the time. I’m sure they can request those portions of the court transcript if they feel a need. Now, let me ask you one or two more questions.” Miller opened a folder at the podium and made some notes. “In your substantial experience in these types of matters, have you ever come across a serial killer who liked to wear boots three sizes too large for his feet, and if so, what kind of personality would that suggest?”

  Several of the jurors smiled, while others snickered.

  Hunter placed his hand under his chin and responded with obvious annoyance. “It would suggest the personality of someone who wanted to conceal his role in the crime.”

  “Well, Dr. Hunter,” Miller postured, “you don’t need to have a Ph.D. from Princeton to know that if your goal is to conceal something you’d be better off wearin’ smaller shoes, not big ol’ giant ones.”

  Miller continued toying with Hunter until he’d gotten his wish. The profiler lost control of his temper, whereupon Miller asked the judge for permission to treat him as a “hostile witness,” which Tanner approved. The designation allowed Miller to lead Hunter even more than he’d already managed to do. By the time Hunter left the stand, Miller had used one of the investigation’s chief advisers and experts to undermine the state’s theory of the case. He’d now set the stage for the students to march into the courtroom and show the jury the true psychological profile of their professor and the effect he had in shaping their personalities.

  Reynolds asked for an early lunch break in a weak effort to delay the inevitable.

  CHAPTER 53

  HE MADE AN impressive witness even before he spoke his first word. Clad in a dark blue suit that fit perfectly around his broad shoulders, he walked to the witness stand with a dancer’s grace. When he raised his hand to take the oath, he struck a young soldier’s pose.

  “Could you please state your full name for the record?” asked the court clerk.

  “Brandon Edward Hamilton.”

  “The witness may be seated,” said Tanner. He nodded toward the defense table. “I believe the court’s ready for your direct, Mr. Miller.”

  “Thank you, Judge Tanner.” Miller moved to the podium. “Mr. Hamilton . . .” Miller hesitated and took a small step to the side. “Do you mind if I call you Brandon?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “You’re a graduate student at the university where Professor Matheson teaches, is that correct?”

  “Yes. He’s my dissertation chairman as well as my mentor.”

  “You have a good relationship with Dr. Matheson?”

  “I’d do anything for him. He’s been like a father.” He looked at Matheson, and both men smiled. “Maybe it would be better if I said older brother.”

  Matheson laughed, as did most in the courtroom.

  “Yes, I think that might be a more prudent choice of words,” Miller said. “Particularly since he still chairs your doctoral committee.” Miller displayed a warm, friendly smile to the jury, then focused on Brandon. “How and when did you first become a student at the university?”

  “I started five years ago as an undergraduate on a full football scholarship.”

  “Were you offered any other scholarships at the college?”

  “Yes. In baseball, basketball, and track.”

  “And what about other universities? Did you have an opportunity to go to school elsewhere?”

  “I received scholarship offers from numerous universities around the country. I believe they totaled well over a hundred.”

  “And were they all for your athletic ability?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you ever been offered a scholarship because of your academics?”

  Brandon smiled slightly. “Not until I started applying for graduate school.”

  “I noticed you smiled at my question, but we’ll get to that in a moment. Could you tell the jury when you first met Professor Matheson?”

  “I registered for one of his courses at the beginning of my sophomore year.”

  “What was your major at that time?”

  “Playing sports, primarily.” He looked at the jurors with some embarrassment. “Technically, I majored in sports psychology, but I’d be hard-pressed to tell you what that consisted of.”

  “And why did you enroll in one of Dr. Matheson’s classes?”

  “He had a great reputation on campus, and to be quite honest, I thought taking a black studies course wouldn’t be that demanding.”

  “Were you wrong?”

  “I’d never worked that hard in all my life.” Brandon’s eyes closed halfway as he shook his head at the recollection.

  Matheson laughed, and a number of the jurors chuckled.

  “It was also the most eye-opening experience I’d ever had.” Brandon looked at each member of the jury individually. “Professor Matheson’s the type of teacher you dream about having but usually never do. I was fortunate to meet him when I did.” He glanced at Matheson. “I think I’d be a very different person if he hadn’t played a role in my life—one I probably wouldn’t have liked too much.”

  “How did Dr. Matheson influence you?”

  “I’d been thinking about leaving campus and turning pro. I had a great freshman year and set several collegiate records in multiple sports. A number of football and basketball scouts wanted me to quit school and make myself eligible for the draft.”

  “Did Professor Matheson talk you out of leaving?”

  “Even if I needed to be persuaded, that wasn’t Dr. Matheson’s style. He believed students should make their own choices, but only after considering all the options and consequences.” He looked at the journalists clustered in the first few rows. “He’s the only teacher who ever treated me as if I had something of value to offer besides scoring touchdowns or dunking basketballs.” He smiled at Mrs. Whitney. “Once I began to take academics seriously, I discovered how much I didn’t know.”

  “And you wanted to learn more?”

  “I wanted to learn everything. I realized I’d allowed myself to be exploited at the expense of my education. So I resigned from sports, took out several student loans, and selected a real major. I asked Dr. Matheson to be my adviser.”

  Miller leaned against the lectern and generally treated Brandon much more casually than he’d treated any other witness. “Did he agree?”

  “On one condition. He told me I needed to display as much dedication to developing my mind as I’d devoted to excelling in sports.”

  “Were you able to accomplish that?”

  “With his help and faith in me, I went on to win two international academic fellowships. When I got notified of the first award, it was the proudest moment I’d ever experienced. It surpassed any feeling I’d accomplished in sports.” He paused for a moment and tried to contain his emotions.

  The members of the jury were touched by Brandon’s testimony. Vernetta Williams dabbed at her eye with a tissue; Cindy Lou Herrington, Harriet Dove, and Mrs. Whitney provided motherly smiles and encouragement while several of the men smiled in admiration.

  “Brandon, were you ever in trouble with the law?” The nature of Miller’s question startled the jury, but Reynolds knew the wily defense attorney had set up the next line of inquiry brilliantly. Now that he’d gotten the jury to care about the witness, he’d introduce the enemy and make them angry enough to take out their outrage on the prosecution.

  “Yes, only once, and it occurred at the end of last year.”

  Miller finally walked away from the podium and proceeded closer to the jury. “Could you tell us the nature of your problem and what led to it?”

  Brandon faced the jury. “I’d been active in leading protests or demonstrations against the men
on Professor Matheson’s list. I, along with another student, went to Earvin Cooper’s home and placed a sign on his front lawn. We wanted to inform his neighbors of the type of man they lived next to. Before I was able to leave, Mr. Cooper and I got into a verbal confrontation. He wrote down my license plate number, so I knew there was a record of my visit. A day or two after the confrontation, Mr. Cooper was murdered.”

  Miller turned toward his client. “And now Professor Matheson stands accused of that murder.”

  “Yes.”

  “Initially, the police assumed you were responsible for the crime, isn’t that true?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” shouted Reynolds. “Assumes facts not in evidence. Mr. Hamilton was never charged with Mr. Cooper’s murder, nor was that the reason for his subsequent arrest.”

  “Sustained,” Tanner ruled. “The jury’s instructed to disregard the question.”

  Miller paused and gave the jury sufficient time to think about the question Tanner had just told them to ignore. “Brandon, why were you arrested?”

  “I did something pretty stupid, but at the time it seemed a good idea.”

  “Isn’t that always the case?” Miller studied the jury, but they gave no indication of their feelings. They waited patiently for an explanation.

  “Could you tell the jury what you did to cause the police to arrest you?”

  “As I said, Mr. Cooper died shortly after our argument. I’d just finished classes and was about to take Thanksgiving break. As I walked to my car in the student parking lot, I noticed two police cars searching the area.” He made eye contact with Mrs. Whitney, then shifted to the young, attractive juror who sat next to her. “They stopped and one of the officers pointed at me. Both cars then turned around quickly and headed in my direction. I panicked, got in my car, and tried to get away. They pursued me for a mile or so before I crashed into a hydrant or a signpost. They may have rammed their cars into mine; it happened so fast I wasn’t clear on the exact sequence.”