Cry Me A River (3 page)

“Marcus,” Tyrone said. “Just found out a little while ago.”

Beggar Man lowered his eyes and began fumbling with his food.

“Came by to see what you know about it,” Tyrone said.

“Just what I heard,” Beggar Man said, averting his eyes.

“What’s that?”

“Word on the street he did it.”

A lump of terror rose from the pit of Tyrone’s stomach and lodged in his throat. He looked at Beggar Man, and Beggar Man lowered his eyes.

“That’s hard to believe,” he said.

“That’s the word,” Beggar Man assured him.

“What happened?” Tyrone asked.

Beggar Man sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“It happened five years ago. White girl come up missing,” he said, with a look in his eyes that a person had when he was remembering something that he had long since tried to forget. “Looked for her for three or four days straight. Finally found her in a ditch beside one of ole man Peterson’s tater fields … butt naked.”

He paused and looked at Tyrone, but Tyrone did not respond. Beggar Man lifted the can to his mouth and took another swallow.

“They say Marcus grabbed her from that grocery store just west of town. They say he took her down one of them back streets. They say he raped her and killed her and dumped her body out there in Peterson’s field. Ole man Willis found her Wednesday evening. Police picked Marcus up that Friday night. They say he the one. They say ain’t no doubt about it; he the one.”

“Who is they?” Tyrone asked.

“The law,” Beggar Man told him.

“What make ‘em think it was Marcus?”

“Say somebody seen him.”

“Who?”

“Two white girls.”

“Must’ve seen somebody else,” Tyrone insisted. “Wasn’t
Marcus. Couldn’t’ve been. No way. Just couldn’t’ve been.”

“Man, he was on the tape.”

Tyrone looked but did not speak.

“Had a camera in the store,” Beggar Man explained. “Your boy and the girl was on the tape. She left; then he left right behind her. They say he didn’t even buy nothing …just followed her out the store. She walked a piece-a-ways ‘round the corner, and that’s when them two girls say they saw him grab her and throw her in his truck and drive off.”

“Naw.” Tyrone shook his head. “They lying.”

He rose from his chair and walked to the window and looked out. An old lady, with a huge straw hat atop her head, was walking down the street, leading a small child by the hand.

“Can’t see it,” he said, refusing to believe what he had been told. “Can’t see Marcus killing nobody. Not the Marcus I know. I just can’t see it.”

“He changed, Ty,” Beggar Man said. “When you got locked up, look like he got depressed or something. He took to keeping to hisself. He went to acting real strange like he didn’t care ‘bout nothin’ no mo’. We figured he would’ve been all right if he could’ve seen you. But Miss Pauline wouldn’t allow it. Ty, maybe he killed that girl so he could be with you. Maybe he didn’t figure on them giving him death like they did. Maybe he thought he’d just go to the pen … seeing how he was only seventeen.”

“I don’t know, Beggar Man. I—”

“Ty, there’s something else you ought to know,” Beggar Man said. “They found a pair of drawers behind the seat of his truck. They say they belong to that dead girl.” He paused, then added, “And they say he failed a lie detector test.”

Tyrone looked but did not speak.

“It looks bad, Ty. I hate to say it, but look like they got him dead to right. Look like his time short. Look like it’s real short.”

“Where they got ‘im?”

“Over in Shreveport.”

“They allowing visitors?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Beggar Man said. “But I know who can.”

“Who?”

“Captain Jack.”

“Who?” Tyrone asked.

“His attorney,” Beggar Man said.

C
aptain Jack’s office was located on Elm Street in a converted building just north of the post office and just west of the courthouse. Like most streets in Brownsville, Elm was not marked with a street sign, and like most streets, it was not difficult to find. Not only did Elm cross Main Street, but it was also one of the streets forming the popular configuration the locals called the Courthouse Square.

When Tyrone turned off Main Street onto Elm, he did not park at Captain Jack’s office. Instead, he drove to the end of the street, turned left onto Bowman Avenue and pulled into the large parking lot surrounding the courthouse. In his mind, things were moving too fast. It was as if he could hear the ticking of an internal clock, and he could see the sun literally rising higher into the sky. Death was on her way. She had selected her prey. The day had been chosen. The hour had been set.

What did one do when his fate had been sealed? What did he do when there was no place to run? What
did he do when there was no place to hide? What did he do when there was nothing to do?

Feeling powerless, Tyrone pushed the door open and stepped to the ground. The bright yellow sun had disappeared behind a huge white cloud, and the warm morning air had given way to a cool summer breeze. Nervous and anxious, he hurried to the street, checked for cars, then dashed to the other side. He looked at the building into which he would enter. It was old and poorly kept. There was a small metal placard on the solid wood door bearing the name Jack Elroy Johnson, Attorney-At-Law. Tyrone flinched; the door opened, and a young white woman came out followed by a middle-aged white man. Tyrone nodded and spoke, then stepped aside. They cleared the doorway, and a second white man appeared. He looked at Tyrone, and Tyrone waited for him to speak.

“What can I do for you?” he asked. His voice was strong and professional, and his tone was pleasant but authoritative.

“I’m looking for Captain Jack,” Tyrone said, then quickly added, “I mean, Mr. Jack … I mean, Mr. Johnson.”

“I’m Johnson,” the man said. “How can I help you?”

“I heard you my son’s lawyer.”

Captain Jack furrowed his brow and tilted his head, but did not speak, and Tyrone realized that he was waiting for him to say more.

“Marcus Stokes,” Tyrone said, then paused.

“Ah, yes,” Captain Jack said. “Come on in.”

Tyrone edged through the door, observing Captain Jack as he entered. He was an older man in his late sixties or early seventies. He wasn’t fat, but he was slightly overweight. His silver hair was combed to the back and
neatly cropped just above his ears. His clothes were neat, but they did not appear to be expensive. He wore a plain white shirt, with a bow tie, and a pair of dark-colored slacks that were secured with a pair of bright red suspenders.

“Come this way,” he instructed.

Tyrone followed him through the small room into an even smaller room.

“Take a seat,” he said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Tyrone took a seat in a plain wooden chair that had been positioned before an old oak desk that seemed too large for the quaint, little, windowless room. Captain Jack excused himself, and Tyrone looked over his surroundings. Besides the chair that he sat in, and the file cabinet behind the desk, the only other furniture was a bookshelf that someone had set in the far right corner. The papered walls were bare save for a clock that hung on one wall and an arrangement of frames containing Captain Jack’s diplomas that hung on the other.

Tyrone heard a toilet flush followed by the sound of water running. Then he saw the door open, and he watched Captain Jack enter the room and take a seat behind the desk. The lawyer closed a folder that was sitting before him, pulled open a drawer, and slid it inside.

“So, you would be Tyrone Stokes, correct?” he said, after he had closed the desk drawer and leaned back in his chair.

“Yes, sir,” Tyrone said. “That’s me.”

“Well, what can I do for you?” he asked, then waited.

“I want to know where things stand with my son,” Tyrone said.

“Not good,” Captain Jack told him. “The court
handed down its ruling late yesterday evening. Our appeal was denied. The verdict stands.”

“Now what?” Tyrone asked, then slid to the edge of his chair and stared deep into Captain Jack’s eyes, anxiously waiting to hear some clever legal trick that would save his son’s life.

“We will petition the governor for a stay of execution.”

“And then what?”

“That’s all we have left.”

“Will it work?”

Captain Jack did not answer immediately. He cupped his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

“He is not showing any remorse,” he said after a brief silence.

“Because he didn’t do it.” Tyrone was adamant.

“There will be no stay without contrition.”

“So he’ll have to lie to live?”

There was silence.

“Mr. Stokes, even then, he would most certainly die.”

“Do you believe he’s innocent?” Tyrone asked.

“I believe I did all I could to defend him,” he said. “There was just too much to overcome. The evidence … his life … you.”

Tyrone opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. He turned and watched a young black lady poke her head through.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were with a client.”

“That’s okay,” Captain Jack said. “Come in.”

Tyrone followed the woman with his eyes as she entered the room and paused before Captain Jack’s desk.

“Janell, this is Tyrone Stokes,” he said. “Mr. Stokes, this is Janell Rainer. She is my part-time paralegal.”

“Hi,” Janell said, extending her hand.

“Hi,” Tyrone said, rising and taking her hand in his own. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Rainer.” He released her hand, then sat back down.

“Janell, Mr. Stokes is Marcus’s father. We were just discussing the status of his case.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said apologetically.

“That’s okay,” Captain Jack said. “Did you need something?”

“No, sir,” she said politely. “Just letting you know that I am here.”

She turned and left the room, and Captain Jack resumed.

“Mr. Stokes, the courts are not perfect. Neither are the people who sit on juries. They’re just ordinary folk subject to the same biases that affect us all.”

He paused, let out a deep sigh, then resumed again.

“You have a pretty sordid history. And because of that, it didn’t take much for the prosecutor to convince the jurors that Marcus was just another pea in a pod. His father was a ruffian, and so was he. The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.”

Tyrone looked at him but did not speak.

“Mr. Stokes, I hurt for you, and I hurt for your family. God knows I do. But I can’t say any more to you right now than I was able to say to your wife. A jury has said that Marcus brutally raped and murdered an innocent young girl. And for that, a court of law has ruled that he must pay with his life. And so he will, if the governor says the same.”

“There has to be something.”

“If so, I don’t know what,” he said. “I have done all that I know to do. I filed an appeal based on the fact that we were denied a change of venue. I filed a separate appeal based on the fact that our petition to have
the jury sequestered was denied. I even challenged the composition of the jury. Mr. Stokes, as far as the appellate courts are concerned, your son had a fair trial, and the verdict will stand.”

“What about a DNA test?” Tyrone asked.

“There is nothing to test.”

“Didn’t they say he raped her?”

“No semen,” Captain Jack said.

“How could that be?”

“Prosecutor’s explanation … He could have worn a condom.”

“What about—”

“Mr. Stokes, I will petition the governor. That’s all I can do.”

There was a long, awkward silence.

“I want to see him.”

“I can arrange that,” he said. “The warden is an old friend of mine.” He paused. “But I can’t do anything before tomorrow.”

Tyrone rose to leave, then stopped.

“How is he?”

“Scared,” Captain Jack said. “Real scared.”

Tyrone looked at Captain Jack, but Captain Jack was no longer looking at him. Instead, he had begun fiddling with some of the papers scattered over his desk. For him, the conversation was over. He was thinking of something else now—his next meeting, his next client, his next case.

“How will I know?” Tyrone asked.

“Know what?” Captain Jack responded, looking up briefly.

“When I can see him.”

“Leave your number with Miss Rainer,” Captain Jack told him. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

W
hen he left Captain Jack’s office, he did not go straight home. Instead, he drove to the small church just west of town. He did not attempt to enter the church, but rather walked around back, crossed the small, wooden footbridge, and passed through the short stand of trees that led into the tiny cemetery. Toward the middle of the cemetery, a fresh grave had been opened, and the loose, dry, excavated earth had been heaped to one side of the grave and covered with a sheet of thick white plastic. The sight of the open tomb made him uneasy, and he pressed on, navigating his way between one headstone after another until he finally stood before a well-manicured grave.

“Hi, Papa,” he said, then lowered himself to the ground, pulled his feet underneath him, and looked away. From where he sat, he could see a small herd of cows grazing in the lush green pasture just east of the graveyard, and beyond the pasture, he could hear the low, dull roar of a tractor plowing in one of the adjacent
fields. On the far end, he could see the old man everyone called Dirty Red. He had been mowing the cemetery; but it was breaktime now, and he had parked the bush hog underneath a tree and was sitting on the ground resting.

Just beyond the headstone marking his father’s grave, he saw a tiny rabbit emerge from the sparse woods, pause, rise to its hind legs, and begin nibbling on the leaves of one of the low-hanging branches. The sight of the small furry animal caused him to smile. It was ironic, but the cemetery, this most dreaded place of death, calmed him. It was so quiet, so peaceful, so tranquil.

“You got a nice spot here, Papa,” he said, glancing at the headstone, then looking away. Two black men had entered the cemetery and were inspecting the grave that had been opened. One of them wore a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, and the other wore a dark blue jumpsuit.