The Justice Project

by Michael Betcherman

  Matt didn’t have any problem finding clips from the Oklahoma game tape to show the team. On play after play, Jamelle Holieway ran the wishbone to perfection. He really was cool as a cucumber.

  That’s when it hit him. Leon Patterson had said that Ray walked down the alley cool as a cucumber. But Ray said he’d run out of the house and down the alley in a complete panic.

  Matt reached for his phone.

  Leon confirmed what Matt suspected. He hadn’t actually seen Ray’s face. All he’d seen was someone wearing a Lakers hoodie.

  Matt didn’t know if he’d be able to find television listings from twenty-one years ago, but Google came through. The movie Leon had been watching, The Dirty Dozen, ended at four thirty. The basketball game Ray had watched at the Linsmore ended at five fifteen.

  Leon didn’t see Ray Richardson in the alley. He saw the real killer.

  Matt reached for his phone again. It rang five times before Sonya answered.

  “What’s up?”

  “Ray’s innocent. And we can prove it.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “How do you know Ray stayed at the bar until the basketball game ended?” Angela asked the next day when Matt and Sonya announced they’d cracked the case wide open.

  “Because he won a bet on the game with the bartender,” Matt said.

  “Ray was at the Linsmore when Leon saw the killer leaving the Richardson house,” Sonya said. “That proves he’s innocent.” She and Matt exchanged high fives.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jesse said, uttering familiar words of caution that put the brakes on the celebration. “We can’t take Ray’s word that he was at the bar when the game ended. We have to prove it.” Then he pretty much ended the whole damn party. “And after all these years, that’s not going to be easy to do.”

  Matt was on the bus, headed to the Linsmore to meet Sonya, when his dad called.

  “How did practice go?”

  “Coach Bennett liked the clips I chose, but being out on the field was tough,” Matt said. “Tougher than I thought.”

  A lot tougher. Watching his former teammates run up and down the field had been a painful reminder of who he’d been. And his awkwardness each time he took a few steps to demonstrate the wishbone was an agonizing illustration of who he’d become.

  “I wish I had some magic words to help you,” his dad said. “But trust me. It will get easier.”

  “That’s the theory,” Matt said as the bus pulled up in front of the Linsmore, a squat red-brick building with grimy windows. “I gotta go. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Sonya was waiting outside. She stepped out of the way as a man in a plaid shirt stumbled out of the bar and burped loudly. “Nice place,” she joked as Matt approached. “I’ll have to come here with Morgan.”

  The Linsmore was as dingy inside as it was outside. The walls were painted dark brown, and the floor was covered with sawdust. It looked like it hadn’t changed in the twenty-one years since Ray had been there, and probably not in the twenty-one years before that. Two men slumped on stools at a long bar manned by a bartender with a shaved head and a tattooed neck. Others sat at the scarred wooden tables, staring into their beers.

  As if on cue, all eyes turned to Sonya. “I gotta stop drinking,” one man called out. “I’m starting to hallucinate.” The others laughed.

  “Over here, honey,” a burly man in a Celtics baseball cap shouted from a nearby table. “Got a seat right here for you.” He patted his lap. Some of the other men hooted.

  Two awkward steps brought Matt to the table. He glared down at the man. “What did you say?”

  The room went silent. The man met Matt’s eyes for a moment, then lowered his head. “Didn’t mean anything by it,” he muttered.

  Matt gave him a final glare. His heart was beating a mile a minute.

  “My hero,” Sonya whispered as they walked over to the bar.

  The bartender handed a glass of beer to one of his customers. He looked at Matt and Sonya, stone faced. “You got ID?”

  The Linsmore is more law-abiding than it was in Ray’s day, Matt thought.

  “We don’t want a drink,” he said. “Does Skinny still work here?”

  “Say what?”

  “We’re looking for a man named Skinny. He worked here about twenty years ago.”

  The bartender shook his head. “Never heard of him. You kids gotta go. I could lose my license if the cops find you in here.”

  “Can we talk to the owner?” Sonya asked.

  “You’re looking at him.”

  “Do you know anybody who was around back then?” Matt asked.

  The bartender shook his head again. He pointed at the door.

  “There must be somebody,” Sonya pleaded. “It’s important. A man’s life is at stake.”

  The bartender laughed.

  “It’s not a joke,” she snapped.

  The bartender’s smile disappeared. “Take it easy, darlin’.” “I’m not your darling, and I won’t take it easy.”

  “We’re not going anywhere until we get an answer,” Matt said.

  The bartender smirked and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Anybody remember a cat who used to work here, name of Skinny?” Everybody looked up momentarily before turning back to their beer. “Happy? Now get the hell out of here.”

  Sonya gave him a dirty look, and then she and Matt pivoted and headed to the door.

  “What do you want with Skinny?” an old man asked as they passed his table. His ears stuck out sideways from his head.

  “You want to talk to these kids, Jughead, you take it outside,” the bartender called out angrily.

  “No problem, Boss.” Jughead got to his feet. He wasn’t much taller standing up than he had been sitting down. “Dickweed,” he whispered. “Skinny was a prince compared to that clown.”

  “Do you know where Skinny is?” Matt asked when they got outside.

  “Last I heard he moved down south. Florida, I think.”

  “When was that?” Matt asked.

  “Ten, fifteen years ago.”

  “Do you know his real name?”

  “Nah. Everybody just called him Skinny. His brother’s in the nursing home over on Barton.”

  “What’s his name?” Matt asked.

  “Shorty.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The nursing home on Barton was called Ashland Gardens. A thin strip of pavement flanked by a few empty benches led to the front door. The closest thing to a garden was an urn near the entrance, sprinkled with a handful of wilted flowers.

  The interior was equally depressing. A few patients were parked on faded furniture in the lobby, staring blankly at a TV blaring in the corner. Others watched from their wheelchairs. A man in a white uniform mopped the cracked linoleum floor.

  “I’ve never been in one of these places before,” Matt said.

  “My grandma was in a nursing home for a year before she died,” Sonya said.

  “Was she the one Jolene reminds you of?”

  Sonya nodded. “Good memory. She called it God’s waiting room.”

  “Can I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  “We’re here to visit one of the patients,” Sonya answered.

  “We call them residents. What’s the name?”

  “Shorty. That’s all we know.”

  “That would be Jim Thomas. Room 412.”

  “How’s he doing?” Matt asked.

  “Like everybody else. He has his good days and his bad days.”

  Matt and Sonya got off the elevator on the fourth floor. An old man slept in a ratty chair by the nursing station, his mouth open and a fleck of spittle on the corner of his lips. An old woman shuffled by in her pajamas, muttering to herself.

  God’s waiting room, Matt said to himself. It was hard to believe that all these ancient people were once his age. And even harder to believe that one day he would be theirs.

  The television in room 412 was on, but the room was empty. A momen
t later an elderly man came out of the washroom across the hall. He stooped to get through the doorway. That’ll be Shorty, Matt thought.

  “Mr. Thomas?” Sonya asked.

  The man broke into a big smile when he saw them. “My, my,” he said to Sonya. “Look at you. All grown up. Last time I saw you, you were yay high.” His hand trembled at his waist.

  It took a couple of minutes before they gave up trying to explain to Shorty that Sonya wasn’t his granddaughter Elaine.

  “Is this your boyfriend?” he asked.

  “We’re just friends,” Sonya said.

  “Guess he’s having one of his bad days,” Matt whispered.

  “We’re looking for your brother, Skinny,” Sonya said.

  “He’s down in Pensacola.” Shorty pointed to a picture on his bedside table. “That’s the two of us on the beach near his home.” Matt suppressed a smile. Skinny had to weigh at least three hundred pounds.

  “When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

  “A couple of days ago. We talk all the time.”

  “Do you have his phone number?” Matt asked.

  “Yup.” Shorty aimlessly rummaged through the desk drawer.

  “Maybe it’s in here,” Matt said, picking up a dog-eared address book.

  “That’s it.”

  Skinny’s number was scrawled beside his nickname. Matt entered it into his cell phone.

  “You come see me again, Elaine,” Shorty said. “And bring your boyfriend with you.”

  “That was easy,” Sonya said as they walked down the hallway.

  “Let’s just hope Skinny remembers betting on the game with Ray. It was a long time ago,” Matt said.

  He waited until they were outside before making the call. The phone rang and rang and rang. He was about to give up when a woman answered the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “May I speak to Tyrell Thomas, please?”

  “Who’s calling?” the woman asked angrily. Matt explained who he was. “Damn. Didn’t Shorty tell you? Tyrell’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Matt echoed.

  “He passed two months ago. I guess I don’t have to ask how Shorty’s doing. What’s this about?”

  Two questions raced through Matt’s head. Did Skinny tell his wife about losing the bet to Ray? And if he did, would it be admissible in a court of law?

  He didn’t get to question number two. Skinny’s widow had never heard of Ray Richardson.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “How was your date with Caitlyn?” Sonya asked on Sunday morning. They were driving to the prison to see Ray, hoping he could come up with the name of somebody who could confirm he’d been at the Linsmore when the basketball game ended.

  “Okay, I guess,” Matt said.

  “You going to see her again?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t see it going anywhere.”

  “Why not?”

  “My limp freaks her out.”

  “She said that?”

  “It’s just a sense I got.”

  “If it bothered her, she wouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place.”

  “I guess.”

  “Do you like her?”

  “I do. She’s funny and she’s smart.”

  “And you said she was attractive.”

  “She is.”

  “Funny, smart, attractive. I can see why you don’t want to go out with her again.”

  Matt’s nerves were on edge as he and Sonya waited for Ray at a table in the visitors’ room. There was a lot at stake. Unless somebody could corroborate Ray’s alibi, he wouldn’t be getting out of jail. And after all this time, it was a lot to hope for.

  A banner that said Bon Voyage Bill was strung along the far wall, reminding Matt that Bill Matheson was getting out of jail the next day.

  The news that Bill was innocent had hit his daughter, Heather, like a ton of bricks. At first, she’d told Jesse she didn’t want to talk to her father. She felt too guilty, knowing she’d believed for all these years that he had killed her mother. But Jesse was able to persuade her that her father didn’t blame her, and that night Bill spoke to his daughter for the first time in thirty-seven years.

  Ray hurried over as soon as he saw Matt and Sonya. “Did something happen to Jolene?” he asked anxiously.

  “She’s fine,” Sonya said, handing him a can of Coke.

  “I’m real worried about her. I know the doctor said she’d be okay, but having a heart attack at her age, even a mild one, is scary.”

  “We should never have told her about Harold Holt,” Matt said.

  “Don’t go blaming yourself.”

  Ray didn’t show a flicker of emotion when he learned that Leon Patterson had seen the real killer, and he didn’t show any when they told him Skinny was dead.

  “Can you remember anyone else who was at the Linsmore that day?” Sonya asked.

  Ray closed his eyes, stepping back in time. He shook his head. “I know there were other people there, but I can’t come up with a face, let alone a name. All I remember is sitting at the bar, making fun of the Celtics after Skinny paid off on the bet. Knowing me, I probably made a real ass of myself.” Judging from the look on his face, he could have been talking about the weather, as if it was no big deal that his only chance of getting out of jail had just gone up in smoke.

  Matt felt the air go out of him. He’d expected as much, but it didn’t make his disappointment any less acute.

  “Does Jolene know about this?” Ray asked, draining the rest of his Coke. Matt shook his head. “Don’t tell her. She’s been through too much already.”

  “Would you like another drink?” Sonya asked.

  “I won’t say no,” Ray answered. “I had a girlfriend who looked like her,” he told Matt as Sonya headed to the vending machine. “Charlene Stewart. Sweet girl. She dumped me when I started doing drugs. Can’t say I blame her. I wrote her once after I got here, but she never wrote back. Charlene Stewart,” he repeated dreamily. “I haven’t thought about her in a long time. You can’t think about that stuff in here. It’ll drive you crazy.”

  Matt thought about asking Ray if he would ever change his mind about seeking parole, but he knew the answer. They can have my body, but they can’t have my soul. Matt didn’t think he would ever understand. Ray had been his age when he went to prison. He had lived more than half his life behind bars. It blew Matt’s mind that he would rather spend the rest of his life here than utter a few words that would give him back his life. And it broke his heart to think of Jolene making that long, lonely trek to the prison every two weeks for the rest of her life.

  “Here you go,” Sonya said, handing the can to Ray.

  He cracked it open and took a swig. “I know sugar’s the new tobacco, but damn, that tastes good.” He gestured toward the banner. “We’re having a party for Bill tonight. I’m happy for him, but I’m really going to miss him. He’s been like a father to me.” He turned back to Matt and Sonya. “When did Skinny die?”

  “Two months ago.”

  “Two months,” Ray said flatly. “Two months,” he repeated, this time in anger. The realization that he had come so close to obtaining his freedom seemed to finally pierce his armor. He slammed his hand on the table. A guard looked over at him. Ray gave him a thumbs-up to show that everything was under control. Then he buried his face in his hands. When he removed them, the mask was back on. “You guys should get going. You got a long drive ahead of you.”

  “I wish we had better news,” Matt said.

  “Thank you for trying,” Ray said as they all stood up. “It means a lot to know that people out there believe in me—that I’m not all alone.” He stared solemnly at Sonya and shook her hand and then did the same with Matt. On his way out of the room, he stopped under the Bon Voyage Bill banner, turned toward them, gave a little wave and then disappeared through the door.

  It was the saddest sight Matt had ever seen.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “There you go,” Ma
tt’s dad said after adjusting the knot on Matt’s tie. “You’ll be the best-looking man at the fundraiser.”

  Matt checked himself out in the mirror. Not bad. His hard work at the pool had paid off. His blue suit with the herringbone pattern fit perfectly.

  “You’ve been through a lot since you last wore it,” his dad said.

  Matt nodded. The last time was at the press conference when he and Anthony announced they were going to USC.

  His dad was looking for his car keys when Matt noticed that his MVP trophy from the state championship was back on the top shelf of the cabinet, the football player standing on its pedestal.

  “I didn’t think you really wanted to throw it away,” his dad said, catching his eye. “But we don’t have to display it if you don’t want to.”

  Matt took a closer look at the bronze figure. There was a line across the knees where his father had glued it back together. “No. I’m glad you kept it.”

  “I’m happy you didn’t end up moving to Florida. I would have really missed you.”

  “I would have missed you too.”

  “No regrets?”

  Matt shook his head. He remembered how he’d thought that things would be easier in Florida, where nobody knew who he was or what had happened to him. But it would have been harder. He couldn’t have gotten through the past few months without the support of the people who cared about him. And, except for his mother, all those people were here in Snowden.

  “Now give me a big smile,” his father said, aiming his cell phone at Matt. He snapped the photo, then studied it. “I’m going to frame this and send it to your mom.”

  Matt got to the hotel an hour before the pre-dinner reception was due to start. The donated items were arrayed on long tables. The signed Falcons jersey was draped on a mannequin he had obtained from Teller’s department store.

  Sonya was going from table to table, putting name cards in place. She wore a plain white dress. Matt had never seen her look so beautiful, and that was saying something.

  “You look sharp,” Sonya said.