Dying Declaration (23 page)

36

TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER,
as Sean Armistead made funeral arrangements, the Virginia Beach inmates were baking in waves of heat from the late morning sun as they picked up trash along Interstate 264. It was a thankless job and a humiliating one. If the orange jumpsuits weren’t enough to put the whole world on notice that these men were convicts, the dregs of society, then certainly the guards with their rifles held loosely by their side would do the trick. At least the guards had the decency not to require the men to wear leg irons or to be chained together like slaves.

The men moved slowly and methodically, bending occasionally to pick up some trash only if the guards were looking, determined not to expend too much energy on such a meaningless task. Buster was one of the most lethargic and sullen. He took pride in the fact that he only bent to scoop up large items, like pieces of cardboard or empty boxes. It would sometimes take him nearly an hour to fill a single bag.

Thomas Hammond, on the other hand, was a workhorse. He would always bring up the rear of the work crew, picking up all the little pieces of trash that the other men missed. The first day out he constantly told the others to slow down and be more careful—they were missing a lot of junk. He eventually realized that this was the whole point of what they were doing, cherry-picking the easy stuff, leaving the small and nasty items—half-eaten hamburgers, disposable diapers, used snot-rags—for suckers like Thomas. He didn’t mind. And he still filled up nearly as many bags as two or three of the others put together.

Thomas had just tied a bag, topped off with a couple of beer cans and an apple core, when he saw Buster walking back toward him. It was not unusual for Buster to come back and hang out next to Thomas, griping and sulking while Thomas worked. Buster dragged his empty bag behind him while Thomas filled his own. Then, without breaking stride, the men would switch trash bags and continue on until Thomas filled the second bag as well.

“What up, Pops?” Buster asked.

“Nothin’. Gonna be a hot one.”

“What’re you smokin’? Already is.”

An SUV stuffed with teenage boys drove by. They had their windows down and hooted at the inmates. A Hardee’s bag flew from the vehicle and landed about fifty feet in front of Buster and Thomas.

Buster cursed the boys, causing Thomas to wince.

“Punks,” Buster snarled. “I’ll waste ’em when I get out of this joint.”

“How you gonna find ’em?” Thomas asked, heading for the Hardee’s bag.

“I’ll find ’em,” Buster promised.

The two men worked on in silence, Thomas waiting for the bellyaching to begin again in earnest. But for some reason Buster was strangely quiet this morning, and it worried Thomas a little.

“You all right?” Thomas asked.

“Been thinkin’,” the big man replied.

“’Bout?”

“’Bout what the rev said. You really buy that stuff, Pops?” Buster, staring ahead at the shoulder of the road and the other inmates, didn’t even look at Thomas as he asked the question.

Thomas stopped stuffing his bag so he could concentrate on his answer. He didn’t want to push too hard, but this was the first time Buster had ever asked about spiritual things. Thomas didn’t want to blow this opportunity, couldn’t live with himself if he did, but he really didn’t know quite how to respond. He had never been to seminary, didn’t have any formal education at all, as a matter of fact. Where was Pastor Charles Arnold when you really needed him?

“’Course I believe it,” Thomas said.

Buster walked a few steps and kicked a soda can. “If it’s true, why’d God let your kid die?”

It felt like Buster had punched Thomas in the gut all over again. It was the same question that had haunted Thomas every second since Armistead pronounced Joshie dead.
“Why’d God let your kid die?”
He wouldn’t blame it on God.
Couldn’t.
How could he serve a God like that? It had to be his own lack of faith, his own failure to believe. God wanted Joshua healed,
and Thomas just harbored too much doubt. It
had
to be that way, didn’t it?

How could he ever explain this to Buster?

“Can’t say as I know why,” Thomas said softly. He walked a few more steps and picked up a foil wrapper. He had blown it. He didn’t have a clue what else to say.

Wisdom,
he prayed.
Just give me wisdom!

He scoured the ground and took a few more steps in silence before a new thought hit him. “Maybe,” Thomas said haltingly, “one reason’s so we could meet. So I could save your neck and tell you ’bout Christ.”

Buster gave him a skeptical look, his hard face twisting into a frown. “Since you brought it up, Pops, I’ve been meaning to ax you, why
did
you keep me from gettin’ shanked?” Buster’s deep voice sounded a little thick with emotion. He had never uttered a word about the stabbing incident since the day he and Thomas had dinner together.

Thomas shrugged. “Don’t reckon I really thought about it. Just did it.”

Thomas waited for a response, but Buster just kept shuffling along, squinting off into the distance again.

What do I say now?
“But don’t focus on me,” Thomas continued. “Pete’s sake, I just
risked
my life. Focus on Jesus; that man actually
gave
His life—
died
’so you could be forgiven.”

This time Thomas decided to wait for a response even if it took all day.

Buster took his eyes from the horizon and glued them on the ground. “For
me
,” he said, the sarcasm dripping from his words. “Then God must be dumber’n I thought. Must not know what I’ve done.”

Thomas
was
ready for this. “What you’ve done don’t matter,” he insisted. “I risked my life for you when you was showin’ me nothin’ but hate. And the Bible says that Christ died for us while we were yet sinners. It don’t matter what you’ve done.”

“You don’t know, Pops. This black man’s done some things.”

“It don’t matter.”
Thomas dropped his trash bag on the ground and turned toward Buster. He was getting animated now, forgetting about his insecurities.
“Don’t you remember what Pastor Charles told us about the thief on the cross? That man was prob’ly a murderer. Least you never kilt nobody.”

The silence from Buster caused the coil of tension in Thomas’s neck to tighten a few more turns. His cellmate—a killer. Could God really save Buster?

“Even if you had—” Thomas watched Buster’s face for a reaction, saw nothing—“it just don’t matter. God loves you, warts and all.”

“Warts and all”—that was a dumb thing to say,
Thomas thought. It always sounded good when his pastor said it from the pulpit, but Thomas was speaking to a murderer. Warts seemed a little tame for this guy.

The silence lingered for what seemed like an eternity. But what else was there to say? Thomas had done his duty and stuck up for his God even as his mind swirled with unanswered questions. He’d done the best he could, though he’d said a few stupid things. But what more could God possibly expect of him?

“What does matter?” Buster asked. He stopped walking and studied the ground between himself and Thomas.

The question made Thomas tingle with nervousness and excitement. He looked around, half-expecting God to just send Pastor Charles driving down the highway to stop by and help Buster sort this out. But there was no pastor, no angel. It was all up to Thomas.

“Just kneel down and pray to God,” Thomas said with a shaky voice. “Just admit you’re a sinner, tell God you’re sorry for your sins, accept Christ as your Savior, and ask Him into your heart. He’ll change everything.”

Just then a car buzzed by and swerved toward the shoulder. The driver blew his horn, and the passenger flipped off the prisoners. The guards, still fifty yards back, just laughed. Buster didn’t seem to notice.

“That’s easy for you, Pops. But I’ve never talked to the Big Man in my life.”

Thomas took a step toward him. “Tell you what. If you’re ready to do this, if you’re ready to git saved right now and git things right with God, you just kneel down next to me right here, and I’ll tell you what to pray.”

For the first time Buster looked up at Thomas. His eyes were red and wet, and now they widened with the realization of what Thomas was asking. “We gotta
kneel
?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Here?”

“Yeah.”

Buster looked around and nodded at the guards behind him and the other inmates ahead. “What ’bout them?” He said it in a near whisper, though they were still fifty feet away. “What’re
they
gonna think?”

“If that’s all you care about, what others think, then you’ll just go to hell,” Thomas stated, authority and conviction deep in his voice. He surprised himself with this boldness.

Buster jerked his head back and gave Thomas an astonished look. The comment seemed to rattle him. In all their time together, Thomas had never uttered even one curse word.

“Says who?”

“Says the Bible, that’s who. If you’re ashamed of Christ before men, He’ll be ashamed of you before the heavenly Father.” Thomas paused to gather his thoughts. “It takes a real man to believe in Christ, Buster, no matter what others think.”

Buster looked front and back, then at Thomas again. His eyes were still red. “God can change
me
—Buster Jackson—shot caller for the ES?”

“Yep.”

“Then let’s do this thing.”

Without another word, right there on the shoulder of the interstate, with cars buzzing by and the prison guards glaring at them from fifty feet away, the two huge men in their orange jumpsuits sank to their knees, folded their hands like little children, and got ready to pray.

“Make it quick,” Buster mumbled.

37

CHARLES THOUGH
T about what to say and how he would say it the entire two-hour drive to Richmond. He could have called Denita but decided that something this important really needed to be done in person. He owed her that much.

He tried to judge his motivations and gain a clear picture of his turbulent heart. He had moved beyond resenting Denita for the opportunity she had. Some serious prayer time had helped. And while he didn’t share her views on many legal issues, that was really none of his business. The senators would have to plumb those depths. His role, his only role, was to decide whether he should disclose the fact that his wife had an illegal abortion four years ago, using a drug that had not been approved in the United States at the time and was even now the object of great controversy.

To complicate matters, Denita had managed to keep her views on the volatile issue of abortion secret throughout her legal career. Charles suspected that was one of the reasons both sides had settled on her as a compromise candidate. Only Charles knew the truth. She not only favored abortion rights, she had a personal history that would make it impossible for her to remain objective.

Charles also knew that this fact, if it ever seeped out in the press, would disqualify her immediately. The president would never stand for it. Senator Crafton would desert her in a second, throwing his weight behind some other female African American lawyer. And so it all came down to Charles and his decision whether to betray his ex-wife or imperil the future of so many unborn children.

Denita claimed she had changed. But one thing had not changed, could never change. He would be reminded of it later this afternoon,
after he talked with Denita, when he visited a small plot in a Richmond cemetery he had purchased a few days after he learned about the abortion. “Baby Arnold,” the marker said. It had been a little over a year since he had been there. He tried to make a pilgrimage every year, on the anniversary of the date Denita said she had induced the abortion. But this year he was a couple of weeks late.

When he arrived at the law firm of Pope and Pollard, Denita’s secretary told him that she was in Juvenile and Domestic Relations Court, putting in a few pro bono hours representing youthful offenders.
Her people,
Charles thought as he drove down to Richmond J&DR court. He wondered how long she had been doing this public service.
Probably started as soon as she learned about the possible nomination.

He found her in Courtroom No. 4 in the massive Richmond Judicial Center and was surprised at how comfortable she looked seated at the defense counsel table and whispering to the brooding young man sitting next to her, challenging the prosecutor’s claim of a parole violation. Charles watched her for about fifteen minutes before she turned and gazed in his direction. Her eyes popped wide; she raised an eyebrow and then shrugged her shoulders—a “why are you here?” look.

A few minutes later Denita had talked the judge into a quick break. She watched the deputies haul the defendant away to lockup,
then immediately made her way back to Charles.

“Quite a surprise,” she said, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “What’s the occasion?”

“Our conversation the other night.”

“Okay,” she said tentatively, removing her hand. She somehow sensed that a personal visit was not a good sign. “Can you stick around for lunch?”

Charles shook his head. He glanced around to make sure there were no eavesdroppers. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, Denita. Prayed about it.” He paused. This was harder than he thought. “I think you need to tell the senator.”

He heard the wind come out of her even as it brushed lightly across his face. Her strong frame suddenly looked so frail; the shoulders sagged for a moment but then straightened. She started nodding her head a little, as if she knew this was coming,
then looked him in the eye.

Charles felt his throat constrict, his mouth go dry under her intense gaze. “If you tell him,” Charles continued, “I won’t say anything to anybody else. You and the senator will have my pledge of silence. He may not yank the nomination, but at least he’ll know.” Charles watched her expression carefully as she weighed this proposal. Her face grew tight, the lips forming a thin line of rejection. “I will have done my part,” he said, “and I’ll be able to sleep at night.”

“It won’t work,” Denita told him without a moment’s hesitation. “The senator would disown me in a heartbeat.” She took a half step closer, and her eyes drilled down deeper into his. “You can’t pass this off on me, Charles. I’m not saying anything about it. I’ve already decided. If you can’t live with that, then do what you have to do.” She sighed as if she had been drawn into an argument she didn’t want. “I’ve made my decision, Charles. It’s none of the senator’s business.”

She glanced over her shoulder toward the front of the courtroom, raising a hand toward a prosecutor who was looking impatient.
“Just a second,” Denita called out. As the prosecutor nodded her assent, Denita turned back to Charles. “Thanks for coming all this way,” she said tersely. “I’m sorry you can’t accept the fact that I’ve changed.”

“Denita—”

But before he could explain himself, she turned and walked away.

On the way home he stopped at the cemetery to clear his mind and to honor the memory of Baby Arnold. He felt guilty that he had missed the anniversary of the baby’s death this year and that, if he weighed his feelings honestly, this had become more a pilgrimage of duty than something he wanted to do. In the first few years, he had felt a peace at this grave. His journeys here lessened the aching in his soul. But the last two years, kneeling to pray on the grave of his only child had just triggered more destructive emotions—resentment, frustration, a brooding questioning of God’s plan for this child. Instead of mourning,
he found himself arguing with God.

As he walked past the other familiar headstones that marked the graves of those who had lived long and full lives, he felt the sadness descend. It wasn’t just that Baby Arnold had never experienced the joys of life; it pained him equally that nobody cared even now. Other graves would be dotted with freshly cut flowers or landscaped with small plants growing around the headstone. Relatives would kneel at other headstones and say a silent prayer. But never at the forgotten grave of Baby Arnold. He would be the only visitor. Once a year. And this year he had come late and hadn’t found time to even stop for flowers.

And so it shocked him, literally sucked his breath away, as he stared at the freshly mowed gravesite for his child. He couldn’t believe what he saw, couldn’t believe what it meant.

Wilted flowers. Geraniums and pansies leaning against the tiny little headstone, as if they had been left there a few weeks ago. A small rosebush planted in front.

“People change,”
Denita had said.
“I’ve changed. . . . Let me prove it to you.”

Perhaps she really meant it.