Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

But he don’t tell me nothing.”

      “Marcus!”

      “I just want it to be over.”

      “Marcus!”

      “I just want to go home.”

      “Marcus!” Tyrone shouted into the phone. He leaned forward, his tensed face against the thick glass separating them. “I want to help you, son,” he said. His voice was stern; his teeth, clenched. “But you got to pull yourself together.”

      Marcus stared blankly at his father; then his moist eyes dropped, and he slumped in his chair, quiet. Tyrone looked at the guards. There was a smirk on what had been stoic faces. This was what they wanted. Now that the day had been chosen and the time had been set, they wanted to see him squirm. They wanted to see him cry; they wanted to see him suffer. They wanted him to beg like that little girl had begged. He had shown her no mercy, and now the state would show him none.

      “Tell me what happened, son.”

      “I don’t know what happened,” Marcus declared fervently. His eyes searched his father’s face, pleading for understanding. “I swear to God I don’t.”

      “Why were you in that store?”

      “Mama sent me,” he said. “She was cooking.” His voice had become soft, childlike. “She needed some onions and pepper and a can of milk.”

      “But you didn’t buy anything.”

      He had heard that line of reasoning before, and hearing it again caused his tired, dreary eyes to well. It had been his downfall. Proof offered by the state that his had been a devious plan, hatched in a sick mind, executed by a cold-blooded killer. The store was a ruse. He was a stalker. She had been his prey.

      “I was checking prices like I always do,” he explained. His voice was deflated, and the tears from his eyes rolled down his face and connected underneath his chin. “That’s all,” he said. “Just checking prices.”

      “So when you left, you went to another store.”

      “Yes, sir,” he mumbled.

      “Did anybody see you?”

      “I don’t know.”

      “Think, son. Think!”

      Marcus’s wet eyes were blank. Several times he opened his mouth as though he was going to speak, but no words came.

      “Did you buy anything?”

      He nodded.

      “What?” Tyrone wanted to know.

      “Onions, pepper, milk.” He was talking, but he was no longer there. The words were coming from a place deep inside of him. A place that was dark, lonely, painful.

      “Can you prove you were there?”

      He dropped his eyes and shook his head. He frowned. His mind flashed back, and again, he was rambling. “He tried to get me to make a deal.” He raised his head and stared straight ahead. “He wanted me to plead guilty.” Marcus paused, thinking. “I didn’t know what to do. He kept saying if I didn’t confess, I was gone die, but I couldn’t. I didn’t do what they say I did.” His voice faded, and he became introspective. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I ain’t gone get another chance. Maybe I’m gone die. But I just couldn’t say I did something I knew I didn’t do … I just couldn’t.”

      “Who told you to confess?”

      “Captain Jack.”

      Stunned, Tyrone opened his mouth to speak, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guards moving toward his son. He saw one whisper something to the other, then yell, “Time!”

      Marcus rose clumsily to his feet, and they grabbed him by both arms. He turned and looked back at his father with sad, pleading eyes.

      “I’ll be back, son,” Tyrone mouthed. “I’ll be back.”

      Marcus nodded, and Tyrone watched him hobble away.

       Chapter 9

      After leaving the prison, Tyrone drove back to Brownsville with a staunch determination to know the man whose charge it had been to save his son’s life and to rid himself of the nagging questions gnawing deep within his troubled soul. There was in him the feeling that the contest for his son’s life had not been a battle in which Captain Jack had fought to win, but a game in which Captain Jack had played not to lose. There had been no knights, or pawns, or kings or queens, but there had been talk of deals, struck between friends, in quaint little rooms, over cordial glasses of brandy or stiff shots of gin.

      When he pushed through the door of Captain Jack’s office, Janell was sitting behind the desk up front, with her head bowed and her arms folded before her. There was a cup of coffee on one corner of her desk, several large books on the other, and an open file lying before her. Their eyes met. She smiled at him, and he approached the desk, ever aware of the lingering scent of her perfume in the cool, dry air.

      “Can I see Mr. Johnson again?” he asked.

      “I’m sorry, he’s out of the office until tomorrow,” she said. “Can I help you with something?”

      Tyrone hesitated before answering. He had looked at her earlier, but he had not seen her. She was tall, five-seven or five-eight. That, he had noticed before. But he had not noticed her straight white teeth, or her big, beautiful brown eyes, or her long black hair that was pulled back and clamped behind her head, exposing her high cheekbones and her smooth brown skin. He had noticed her professional demeanor, but not the exquisite manner in which she dressed. She wore a navy blue skirt, a matching jacket, and a white shell. Her nails were sculptured and finished in a French manicure. She did not slouch, but sat tall with her back straight and her shoulders erect. She had a thin herringbone chain about her neck and two tiny gold studs in her ears. Her fingers were bare save for the single pearl that she wore on the ring finger of her right hand.

      “I was here earlier,” he said. “I’m—”

      “Marcus’s father,” she interrupted. “I remember.”

      Tyrone nodded but did not speak.

      “What can I do for you?” she asked.

      Her question caught him off guard. He had not anticipated Captain Jack being away from the office; therefore, he had not anticipated a conversation with her. There was a window to his right. Through the window loomed a gas station. A pig farmer had pulled a truck and a trailer filled with hogs next to one of the pumps and was filling his truck with gas. Tyrone was looking at the oversized man, who was adorned in overalls and wearing a big cowboy hat, when the man set the nozzle back in place and screwed the cap back on the gas tank, but he was not seeing him. He was collecting his thoughts; he was formulating his next question.

      “Did you work on my son’s case?” he asked after a brief silence.

      “Well, yes and no,” she said. “I was not working here when his case was tried, but I did work on his appeal.”

      “Then, you’re familiar with the case?”

      “Very,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

      Tyrone glanced at her, then looked away. Her desk was in the corner on the left side of the room. It was too large for the space and had been turned catercorner with one end extending to the far wall and the other to the door leading into Captain Jack’s office. There was a couch and a few chairs on the right side of the room, next to the window. A plain, wooden coffee table that had been covered with several rows of neatly arranged magazines sat in front of the couch. There was no television, but there was a small radio atop her desk. It was on low, so low, in fact, that it was barely audible.

      “Who hired Mr. Johnson?” he asked bluntly.

      “Marcus’s