Not in the Heart (2 page)

On the front door was a legal document stating that whereby and forthwith said mortgage company had begun said process with an intent to foreclose and otherwise vacate said occupant's tail onto the street to wit and wheretofore so help them God, amen. I had received several such letters in the mail, filing them carefully, hoping the rising tide of foreclosures would save my little cottage until I got a new job.

I ripped the notice down and used it to wipe the sand from my feet. And then a thought struck. A horrible, no-good, bad thought. The newspaper. They published my name with each intent to foreclose. That meant others would know where I was. Others, as in people I owed. Bad people.

Another car passed, slowly. Tinted windows. A low rumble of expensive metal and fuel.

I hurried to the back of the little house and pulled out every suitcase I could find and stowed everything of value. Books. Pictures of me with newsmakers. Cloudy memories of trips abroad, war zones, interviews with generals and dignitaries who went on to fame or perished in motorcades that didn't make it through IEDs.

It was hard not to sit and absorb the memories, but the passing car gave urgency. I jammed every journal and notebook in with the pictures, then put one suitcase with clothes in the trunk of my car and took the rest on my shoulder down the sandy path to the Grahams' house. Sweet people. He retired from the Air Force and they moved for the sun and salty air. Both should have died long ago from arthritis and other maladies, but they were out walking the beach every day like two faithful dogs, paw in paw.

Jack and Millie were on the front porch, and I asked if I could borrow some space in their garage for a suitcase or two. “I need to take a trip. Someone new will be living in my house.”

“Relatives coming?”

“No, someone from the Bank of America wants it.”

Millie struggled to get out of her rocker and stood by a white column near the front door. “If you need help, Truman, we'd be glad to.”

Jack nodded and the gesture almost brought tears to my eyes. “How much are you short?” he said.

“Just a spot in the garage is all I need.”

“What about your cat?” Millie said.

“Murrow's going with me.”

“If we can do anything at all . . . ,” Jack's voice trailed.

“I appreciate it. I appreciate both of you. Thanks for your kindness.”

“We pray for Aiden every day,” Millie said.

The garage was spotless. Everything hanging up or neatly placed on shelves. I should have joined the Air Force. In the back I found an empty space near some gardening tools. I shook Jack's hand gently and gave Millie a hug. I only turned and looked at them once as I walked back to the house. They stood like sentinels, the fading light of the sun casting a golden glow around them and their house.

When Murrow saw the cat carrier, she bolted under the sofa and I threatened to sell her to the local Chinese restaurant. An open can of StarKist and my tender, compassionate voice helped coax her into the carrier, and we were off.

I texted my wife:
Will call your friend tomorrow. Can I use Abby's room?

The phone buzzed in my shirt pocket as I drove along the causeway into darkening clouds.
Key under frog. No cats.
The next text gave Oleta's number and a short message.
You were made for this story.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was the one for this job. One loser telling the story of his kindred spirit. I sure didn't have anything better to do. But with the window down and my hand out, being pushed back by the cool air, it felt less like the start of a new chapter and more like the end of one.

C
HAPTER
2

29 DAYS BEFORE EXECUTION

I awoke with the distinct feeling that I was someplace I shouldn't be, mainly because Michael Jackson and Justin Timberlake stared at me from opposite walls. I've had this feeling a few times, waking up in places where I didn't remember the previous night. The pink covers were disconcerting, but not half as terrifying as the knock I heard at the front door and the fact that I'd left my suitcase in the car and stripped down to my underwear, leaving my clothes outside in order to observe the “no cat” rule.

I jumped from the bed and moved toward the kitchen, glancing out the front window. The only clothes of mine in the house were stored in a closet in Ellen's room. I had taken everything else or it had been given away. I found Ellen's robe in the bathroom, something Aiden had given her a few Christmases ago, and threw it on. My manhood isn't diminished by the color pink, but I try to avoid going out in public in terry cloth.

“Mr. Wiley?” a woman said at the front door.

Another creditor? I reluctantly moved to the door and noticed Ellen had relocated our wedding picture from the mantel to the piano. Was that good or another dead seagull?

I opened the door and the humidity of the morning hit. I had driven through rain most of the night and the morning sun made it sauna-like outside. I'd meant to get Murrow out at sunup. So much for good intentions.

On the front step was a woman in her late thirties, I guessed, though to me African American women always look about ten years younger than they actually are. She was nicely dressed in a brown pantsuit and hoop earrings that spun like an amusement park ride when she moved. She cradled a leather Bible in one arm and had a full shopping bag in the other. I half hoped she would ask to come in and talk about the Bible so I could just close the door, but I guessed the bag wasn't full of
Watchtowe
r
s.

She did a double take at my robe, then glanced down at the clothes I had laid over the frog the night before. Part of me wanted to explain, but the best of me decided to let her think the frog had fashion sense.

“Can I help you?” I said.

“Depends on whether you're Truman Wiley or not.”

“I am.” I extended a hand.

She smiled and shook it firmly, like some old deacon had taught her well. “Oleta Conley. Your wife said to come over this morning. We need to get moving.”

She whisked past me into the house as though she owned the place.

“Yeah, come on in and I'll make us some coffee,” I said.

I followed her to the kitchen as she walked, resolutely, as if to an appointment with the Almighty. She plopped the bag in one of the chairs and scanned the cupboards. “I think Ellen keeps the coffee in here,” she said, opening the right door on the first try.

“If you don't mind, I'm going to grab some clothes. I'll be right back.”

She lifted a hand and waved me on without turning. By the time I returned, the aroma of freshly brewing coffee filled the kitchen. The smell instantly transported me to happier days with Ellen, sharing morning coffee over scattered newspapers. Oleta had cleaned a few dishes left in the sink and was firmly planted at the table scanning something from the middle of her Bible. The book looked thick enough to stop a bullet.

“How's Aiden?” she said to the page. “Have you heard anything today?”

“Not yet. I know Ellen's still at the hospital with him.” The information didn't seem to impress her.

“I've been praying for that boy almost as long as I've prayed for my own husband. Doesn't seem fair sometimes, the way God works.”

I peeked in the bag and grunted some kind of acknowledgment, but I wasn't about to go down the holy highway.

“That's all you're going to need as far as background,” she said. “Just about every scrap of newspaper and magazine reports from the time of the murder to all the years he's been in prison. There's transcripts from the court proceedings—at least the ones I could get my hands on. Video of the news reports that came out at the time and what was used at the trial. I had it put on DVD not long ago. And there's a recording of Terrelle's testimony. His spiritual journey.”

“Mrs. Conley, we need to back up a little. I don't know what my wife told you, but I'm a little skeptical about this project.”

“Skeptical? To tell you the truth, I'm a little skeptical myself.”

“How's that?”

“Skeptical of a man who doesn't visit his son in the hospital. Skeptical of the heart of a man who lets a wife fend for herself. Skeptical of a man who would rather play the slots.”

How insulting. I never play the slots, unless I only walk in with change.

“Skeptical of a man who would bring a cat in here when he knows his son is allergic to them.”

“I didn't bring her inside. That's why the clothes are out on the frog.”

“You left your cat outside in a rainstorm?”

“Look, I don't have to explain any of this to you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're going to find some way to mess this up. I know that.”

“If you're looking for perfection, I'm not the guy,” I said, grabbing the bag and holding it out to her. “Looks like you need to find somebody else.”

“My feelings exactly, before I heard about your past. And Terrelle seems dead set on you. I tried to talk some sense into him, but he wouldn't listen. Said God told him you were the one.”

I thought about the irony of her husband being “dead set” on anything. My arm got tired holding the bag and I set it on the table between us. “Well, this is just going to have to be another disappointment in his life, won't it?”

“You're turning us down?”

“I think that's a fair way to put it.”

She took the bag and moved it to the floor, keeping the sight lines open. “I didn't mean to come on too strong, but you seem like the kind of person who appreciates a straight shooter. And I'm shooting straight. I don't like what's gone on in your family, but I also know there are two sides to everybody's story, so I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“I don't need you to give me anything, Oleta. Now if you'll leave, I'll feed my cat and get over to the hospital.”

“Mr. Wiley, sit down.”

“No, this is my house.”

“This is not your house. You left your house and shacked up at the beach with some young thing.”

“Is that what Ellen told you?”

“Why else do men leave their wives and families?”

“Apparently someone has misinformed you. I didn't shack up with anybody. I needed some time to myself, to figure out life.”

“And you haven't done enough traveling to Kosovo or Baghdad or Afghanistan or any of the other places? Let me ask you this: How many birthday parties have you missed? How many Little League games? Piano recitals? Your daughter's first prom?”

It showed how much she knew—Aiden never played Little League.

“Your point?” I said.

“My point is, you've been a lousy father. Whether you shacked up or not isn't important. But you have a chance to do something with the talent you've been given. You can do something that will make a difference.”

“And the chance you're giving me is to prove your husband is innocent in thirty days or less.”

“It's twenty-nine now,” she corrected. “And I'm not asking you to prove anything.”

Oleta rose and got a mug from the cupboard like she could just ignore me. She poured a cup and sat.

“I know Terrelle's not coming out of Starke in anything but a hearse,” she said. “When he's out, he'll have a tag on his toe. I am resigned to that fact. And so is he.”

“So he admits he did the crime.”

“No, he doesn't admit it. He didn't kill that woman.”

“Then why don't you want me to prove that?”

“If you can, more power to you. I'd love to have Terrelle back again, but I'm not holding my breath.” The coffeemaker gurgled and hissed. “I would be a fool to hire you to prove my husband innocent when your son is in line for his heart. What do they call that—a conflict of interest?”

I nodded, still standing. Clearly this was a bulldog of a woman. Smart, too. I hate smart bulldogs.

“I'm not trying to stop his execution. If the Lord wants to intervene, I'm good with that. More than good. But I have enough faith to believe this path we've been put on is bigger than Terrelle's guilt or innocence. Joseph was thrown into prison for something he didn't do, and he wound up saving his entire family and the whole Jewish race.”

I vaguely remembered the story of Joseph's coat and somehow Donny Osmond's face flashed across the synapses along with Yul Brynner saying, “So let it be written; so let it be done.” Another sip of coffee brought me back.

“I want Terrelle's story told because it's going to help somebody,” she said. “The truth always does that. Might even help you.”

“Oh, I get it. That's your plan. You conspired with my wife. Prison ministry from the inside out. Terrelle tries to save my soul before he goes to the death chamber.”

She slowly shook her head. “Ellen didn't even come close to describing how mean you can be.”

“Me? You accuse me of infidelity and I'm the one who's mean?”

She rose to dump out the contents of her coffee mug in the sink and switched off the coffeemaker, as if I would forget.

“Looks like we got off on the wrong foot,” she said. “I apologize for how I sounded—”

“That's fine and I forgive you, and here's your Piggly Wiggly bag and good luck with life.”

She took the bag. “Just like that. You walk away just like that.” Her back was straight now, and she looked me in the eyes like a persecuting attorney. I know it's
prosecuting
, but the word seemed to fit her.

“Good-bye, Mr. Wiley,” she said as she walked out and closed the door.

I stood there, fuming, until I heard my cell phone ring in the back bedroom. I answered and glanced at Justin and Michael.

“Are you up?” Ellen said.

“Yeah. I met your friend Oleta.”

“Did she give you the check?”

“We didn't get around to talking about money, unfortunately.”

“What happened?”

“Let's just say we didn't hit it off.”

The doorbell rang.

“Tru, you need to go after her.”

“No, I don't.”

“Don't mess this up.”

I walked toward the front door. “Look, there's not enough money in the world for this job. I can't work with people like her.”

Through the small window in the door I saw brown hair and circling earrings.

“She's back; hang on.”

“Talk with her, Tru.”

I opened it. “Yes?” It wasn't the most polite
yes
in the history of door openings, but it was all I could muster.

“Just thought you'd want to know your car's gone.”

There was an empty spot on the driveway where I'd parked.

Oleta turned toward the sidewalk and I called after her, “Did you see who took it?”

“Some guy in a tow truck. You might want to call the impound lot.”

I put the phone to my ear. “I have to call you back.”