CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Two days after Labor Day, Jayson, with Stone at his side, cautiously walked a gauntlet moving away from the rear of the Suffolk County Jail. The voices of over two dozen shouting reporters blended with those of roughly eighty protestors.
“Jayson, were you surprised the SJC refused to even hear the appeal?”
“How does it feel to get away with murder, you pig?”
“Brian, whatcha gonna do now that you’re a free man?”
“Do you see the face of the little black girl you killed in your dreams?”
Photographers, camera operators and sound technicians jostled for positions closest to the just released jail inmate. Jayson stayed close to Stone, who carried a duffel bag containing his personal belongings. The latter wore a slight smile and the long-sleeved dress shirt and tie he had worn for court nearly three weeks before.
With the bright sun overhead and the one o’clock temperature in the mid-seventies, Jayson wished he were at a Red Sox game. He read the various, bobbing, handmade signs wielded by the mostly black, teeth-baring, angry protestors, which included “No justice, No peace!” and “Child Killer!” Reverend Bradley of course, stood at the head of the crowd—or mob, depending on one’s point of view—urging them on.
Jayson whispered to Stone. The nervous young man nodded, then after approaching a waiting rented van, turned around to face the reporters. He cleared his throat and prepared to answer a few questions. An hour previously, he and Jayson had reviewed a few remarks they hoped would play well on the afternoon and evening news.
“How do you feel, Brian?”
Stone smiled. “Um, I feel good.”
“Were you surprised the SJC didn’t even hear the appeal?”
“Um, I think Mr. Cook should answer that,” Stone replied, as he had been advised should any questions about the legal aspects of his situation come up.
Jayson smiled. “We were very pleased and not at all surprised that the Commonwealth’s Supreme Judicial Court saw no reason to review the ruling by Judge O’Hare.”
Michelle Ling squeezed between her colleagues to get closer to Stone and brandished her microphone. “Brian, did you feel confident when you discovered your attorney would be an African American?”
Jayson maintained a neutral expression. He respected Michelle. They both understood that although romantically interested in Victor, she had a job to do. Besides, none of the questions asked so far—including that one—had been unanticipated.
“Well, I don’t have much experience with lawyers, ma’am,” Stone said, “but Mr. Cook is a fine lawyer who treated me with respect and worked very hard for me.”
“Whatcha gonna do now, Brian?”
“I–I’d like to find someplace where I can get some ice cream,” Stone answered.
The reporters laughed and proffered more questions, but Jayson held up his hands. “Come on now, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we have to be going.” He nodded at Stone, who promptly turned toward the van. “Get in the back seat quickly and sit behind the driver,” Jayson instructed. Stone followed orders. Jayson climbed into the front seat and closed the door.
Victor, behind the wheel, checked the rearview mirror. “Everybody buckle up,” he ordered. “We’ve got to get past the protestors.”
Jayson pressed his back against his seat and spoke to Stone. “Look straight ahead. The television cameras are rolling. Don’t do anything you don’t want rebroadcasted on the evening news.”
Stone nodded. “Okay, I just want to get out of here.”
Jayson faced the front. “Okay, Victor. Nice and easy.”
Victor drove the van slowly past the protestors, who were being collectively restrained by Boston police officers. Jayson couldn’t help but be struck by the irony of the situation: Boston cops protecting a man whom Boston cops had unfairly put in prison. One protestor, a young African American man, broke past the human barricade. He ran to Jayson’s side of the van and pounded on the door with his fists.
“Fucking Uncle Tom,” he yelled before a police officer grabbed him and pulled him backwards. “You let me catch you on the street, nigga!”
Embarrassed, Jayson winced and wished the brother hadn’t uttered that word, especially in front of a white man. The crowd disappeared from view as Victor turned onto Nashua Street and joined the stop-and-go dance of vehicles entering Storrow Drive. Jayson turned to check on his client. “You okay?”
“Yes, thank you. Where’re we going?”
Jayson faced the front again. “Like I told you, we’re taking you to a motel out of town.” He felt uncomfortable talking to Stone about anything but the case. “Connie’s already booked a room for you under her name. You shouldn’t be bothered.”
“What about my things? My car, such as it is, my clothes, my, um personal things.”
“What’s left of your clothes are at the motel,” Jayson informed him. “Your landlord sold your furniture. The police still have your car, computer and books. My guess is right now the feds are looking for anything they can, hoping to get you on federal charges.”
Stone covered his mouth with his fist. “Can they do that?”
Jayson shrugged. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Let’s just get you to your room so you can rest.”
“Who’s paying for the hotel?” Stone asked.
“Motel,” Jayson corrected him. “It’ll be part of the tab the state picks up for your legal costs. I chose an out-of the way place that a former cli—um, someone I know owns. It’s got woods and not much traffic, so you can walk around. I figured you’d want to do that.”
Stone nodded. “Thank you, Jayson. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
Jayson leaned closer to Victor. “Everything set?”
“Yeah,” Victor replied. “Let’s keep our fingers crossed.”
Jayson could feel the tension inside the car and again noted the irony. An African American and an Asian were protecting a white racist. He and Victor started talking about the third year law student’s new term at Northeastern Law School, which had just begun. Eventually, they drifted to a polite argument about the best contemporary baseball sluggers in the game.
Jayson reached for the radio and found a country music station. Normally he would have no idea where to locate such music. However, he recalled that in one report concerning Stone’s car, the investigator had made note of the radio station. Jayson chuckled and adjusted the volume loud enough for Stone to hear but soft enough to keep the sounds from irritating him or interfering with his chat with Victor.
Jayson flipped down the sun visor near his head, uncovered the mirror attached and again checked on his client. Stone stared out the window like a curious child, obviously getting reacquainted with freedom.
After about twenty minutes, traffic began to thin out. Jayson and Victor shifted to discussing the engines of cars. Jayson stretched to see the driver’s console and asked aloud, “How much gas do we have?” He lowered his voice. “Nobody’s following?”
“The tank’s full,” Victor replied loudly. “Nope, I kept an eye out,” he whispered.
“Um, Jayson?” Stone called.
Jayson suddenly felt uncomfortable again. “Yes?”
“About those books and things the police have…”
“Yeah, what about them?”
“Um, as far as I’m concerned, they can keep them,” Stone said. “I mean, I won’t be needing them anymore.”
Jayson nodded. “Okay.”
•
“We’re here!” Jayson called to his snoozing client.
Stone awoke and sat upright. “W–where are we?”
“We’re at the motel in a small town called Norwood,” Victor replied, “about fifteen miles from Boston.”
Victor had parked at the end of the sixteen-unit complex, away from the main street, such as it was. The three men walked to the last room and stopped in front of a door marked 116. Jayson knocked. Connie opened the door and stepped outside, litera
lly blocking their entrance. She wore a burnt orange dress and had tied her hair back with a matching scarf. She closed the door behind her and stood next to Jayson.
“Congratulations, Brian,” she said.
“Thank you,” Stone replied. He looked puzzled. “Aren’t we going inside?”
Jayson stepped between Stone and the door, and took a deep breath. “Not yet.”
“Why not?”
Jayson opened his hands. “Brian, I’ve—we’ve taken the liberty of doing something we think is in your best interest.”
“What do you mean?”
Jayson sighed. “Well, the bad search ruling is only good for this case by the state of Massachusetts. The evidence they found can still be used in a civil case against you. Also, I can guarantee you the Justice Department has a team of lawyers working on some way to pick you up sooner rather than later—and they’ll find something. Trust me, they will.”
Stone shook his head. “So you’re saying that my freedom won’t last long.”
“I don’t think so,” Jayson conceded. “Now, we came up with this idea, but we don’t know what you’ll think of it, but it was all we could do to keep you out of court—maybe prison, for many years.” Jayson turned and knocked on the door.
“Come on in,” a soft voice on the other side said.
Jayson grabbed the doorknob, turned it and pushed the door open.
A short, portly, African American woman about sixty-years-old got to her feet with the aid of a hand-carved wooden cane. She wore thick glasses and a simple, long blue dress spotted with small, white flowers. She made no attempt to move forward as the four adults entered the room and spread out. Victor closed the door and turned off the television. All eyes focused on Stone.
Stone took two steps toward the woman and stopped. He widened his eyes in terror and pressed his knuckles against his lips. “Two Mama?” he asked.
“Yes, child,” the women answered in a gentle voice.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. King,” Jayson said. “What did he call you?”
The old woman smiled. “He called me ‘Two Mama.’ All my children who I took care of call me that. They say I’m their second mother.” Her voice indicated southern roots.
Stone’s breathing became labored. He glared at Jayson. “Why’d you bring her here? You had no right!” he shouted. “I told you not to go—”
“It’s my job to do what’s best for you,” Jayson interrupted, remaining calm. “As you obviously know, this is Rosetta King, the widow who took you in for a year when you were a child in Arkansas. It wasn’t easy, but we found her and contacted her.”
Stone shook his head. “I told you not to pry! You shouldn’t have dragged her into this.”
“Mrs. King volunteered to help,” Connie asserted, stepping forward. “She did.”
“That’s right,” the woman insisted. “I ain’t never turned my back on one of my children no matter how much trouble they went and got themselves into.” Victor helped her sit down. She thanked him and continued. “Over the years I done raised over a hundred children in my house. Later, sometimes they’s in jail or in trouble, and I takes my Bible and goes down to see them, do what I can.” She held out her arms. “Come on, child. Come to Two Mama.”
Stone took a step forward but stopped. He put his hands over his face and started sobbing. “I can’t, Two Mama. You don’t know what I’ve done. I didn’t mean to, but I’ve done a terrible thing.”
Mrs. King kept her arms extended. “I knows all about it, and if you did what they said, you’re right. You done a terrible thing.”
“God won’t ever forgive me!” Stone wailed. “I’m going to hell!”
“God forgives anybody who asks for forgiveness, child,” Mrs. King said. “And the good Lord ain’t never turned His back on you and neither will I.” She shook her arms. “Now are you gonna come here or do I have to get up?”
The hum of the air-conditioner and Stone’s sobs produced the only sounds in the room for several seconds. Jayson watched with compassion as Stone slowly shuffled to the woman, fell on his knees and rested his head in her lap. He cried so hard and shook so violently Jayson feared he might pass out. Jayson glanced at Connie, tears rolling down her face, and Victor, who quickly used his index finger to wipe under his right eye.
Jayson smiled and sighed. So his mother’s advice had finally trumped Seth Greenberg’s. What Stone needed now a lawyer couldn’t give him, but a mother could. This kind woman, with her meaty arms wrapped around his guilt-oppressed client, seemed to be just what…well, in this case, what the lawyer ordered.
Jayson knelt next to Stone. “Listen, Brian,” he said. “Mrs. King has a vacant room above the garage at her home in Arkansas. She’s agreed to let you stay there. Nobody will know. We only know about her because you told us. There was a fire so all the records were destroyed.”
“No!” Stone said without lifting his head. “I can’t bring her any more pain than I have.”
“Brian, you’ve got to understand,” Jayson insisted sternly. “You’ve got to disappear or in a week or a month you’ll be back in court and there’ll be nothing I can do.”
“Yeah,” Victor agreed. “You should change your name.”
“And grow out your hair and grow a beard or something,” Connie added.
“You wouldn’t be able to fight the Justice Department,” Jayson declared, and stood. “They’ve got millions of dollars at their disposal.”
Stone wiped his eyes with a tissue Connie gave him, and blew his nose. “But I don’t have a job or any money to pay for my room and board.”
Mrs. King smiled. “I’ve got so many things that need fixing and looking after on that big ol’ place. And I still take care of young’uns. You could help out there too. Oh, you’d earn your keep, all right.”
Stone closed his eyes and whispered. “But Two Mama, I’m…I mean, I used to be…I mean, I was all mixed up…I mean…I–I…”
“Well, used-to-be don’t count,” Mrs. King declared. “I used to be thin at one time.” She laughed.
Jayson smiled at the woman’s self-depreciating humor and addressed Stone. “It’ll be okay for you to stay here for a day or two, then you’ve got to get out of Massachusetts and vanish. There’s nothing about Mrs. King in any of the background material I read about you. They don’t know anything about her.”
Connie nodded. “So no one would think of looking for you there.”
Stone wiped his nose again. “What about the county sheriff there?”
Mrs. King pointed at herself. “He used to be one of my boys, just like you. He won’t bother nobody.”
Stone stood and faced Jayson. “After all that I…well, after everything, the way I talked to you—and Connie. Why’re you doing this for me?”
Jayson shrugged. “To be truthful, I’m not really sure.” He shrugged again. “Let’s just say I’m doing this not just for you, but for my One Mama.”
•
Later that evening, Jayson, still wearing his suit, sat on the floor with the Duchess Jennifer and sipped imaginary tea. For five minutes he had listened to his daughter, wearing a plastic tiara, speak enthusiastically about her second-grade teacher and the homework she had recently completed. Eventually, she switched to the subject of one of her classmates.
“I showed Marie, one of the new girls, how to check out a book at the school library,” Jennifer said. She arranged the unused cups into a straight line and continued. “I like Marie. She has an accent because she’s from Haiti.”
“That’s good you helped her,” Jayson said.
“And how was your day, Milord?” Jennifer asked. “Did you help someone today?”
Jayson smiled at his precious little girl. The “Milord” bit was new, but he recognized the question. It had been the theme for the previous month at their church. She, Renee and he frequently posed that question when inquiring about each other’s day. Jayson stared into Jennifer’s large brown eyes and privately conceded the child did st
rongly resemble Leslie. However, she expressed herself like he and Renee did. She was definitely their child, not hers. “Yes,” he finally answered. “I did help someone today.”
“What did you do, Milord?” Jennifer asked.
Jayson smiled. “Well, I helped someone who was lost find his mother, then she bought him some ice cream.”
Jennifer smiled. “I’m sure he liked that.”
“Yes,” Jayson agreed, and took a sip from his tiny cup. “Yes he did.”
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