Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

      “The victim’s relatives.”

      “I don’t believe that.”

      “That’s what I heard,” Tyrone said, looking deep into her eyes.

      “That’s unlikely.”

      “But is it possible?”

      “Yes,” she said. “It’s possible.”

      “Is it legal?”

      “It’s legal.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Sir, both sides have a right to argue their case before the governor,” she explained. “He can listen, if he chooses, but he is not obligated. Ultimately, it’s his decision.”

      “How well do you know these people?”

      “What people?” she asked.

      “The governor … Mike Buehler … the girl?”

      “Not well,” she said. “I’m not from around here.”

      “Where you from?”

      “Monroe,” she said.

      “That’s a long ways from Brownsville,” he said. “How in the world did you find a job way over here?”

      “There was a job bulletin posted at the law school for a part-time paralegal. It seemed interesting, and since I’ve always wanted to practice law in a small town, I decided to give it a try. I called Mr. Johnson, he hired me, and I’ve been here ever since.”

      “You a student!”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “You ain’t a real lawyer?”

      “No, sir, not yet. I’m a third-year law student.”

      There was silence.

      “How well do you know Mr. Johnson?”

      “Excuse me!” she said, probably louder than she had intended. Tyrone hesitated. She was black like him, but how honest was she? Could he speak to her freely? Would she be forthright?

      “Why did he ask my son to cop a plea?”

      “Have you ever tried a capital case?” Hers was a rhetorical question that required no answer. “Do you know what it’s like to have somebody’s life in your hands? Yes, he advised Marcus to plea. But his motives were not sinister, as you seem to be implying; he was simply trying to save your son’s life.”

      “But he didn’t try to get him off, did he?”

      “The town was in an uproar.”

      “So, he sold him out?”

      “He fought for your son’s life,” she said. “I’ve watched him sleep in this office for days at a time, looking for an angle, or a mistake, or anything to save Marcus. And he’s still looking.”

      “Looks to me like he’s done gave up.”

      “He’s doing everything he can.”

      “Do you really believe that?”

      “Yes, sir, I do.”

      “Would you feel the same way if Marcus was your son?”

      “Yes, I would,” she said, looking at him with stern eyes. “Let me tell you something about the man whose character you are questioning.”

      “No,” Tyrone interrupted her. “Let me tell you something about the person they trying to kill. I was hard, but not my son. I stayed in trouble, but not him. He was always a good kid. A do-gooder. A mama’s boy … Yesterday, a friend of mine tried to convince me that he has changed, but I know better.” He paused. “Does he have a record?” he asked, then quickly added, “I mean, before all this happened?”

      “No, sir,” she said. “But you know the prosecution’s response to that, don’t you?”

      “No,” Tyrone said. “What?”

      “They contend that his clean record does not mean that he has not done anything; it simply means that he had not been caught.”

      “He ain’t done nothing,” Tyrone said emphatically. “Not Marcus. No way.”

      “How can you be so sure?” she asked.

      “Because I know him,” Tyrone told her. “When he was a little boy, I tried to change him … I tried to make him tough … I tried to make him mean. But no matter how hard I tried and no matter what I did, I couldn’t. He just stayed the same … wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

      “Why did you want to change him?”

      “Where exactly in Monroe do you live?”

      “Castle Rock,” she said.

      “What kind of place is that?”

      “A quiet place. Peaceful.”

      “Suburbs?” he asked.

      “That’s right,” she said.

      “Crime?”

      “Not much.”

      “Ever seen a rat?”

      “Sir, what does that have to do with anything?”

      “Everything!”

      “Mr. Stokes, this is not about me.”

      “You’re right,” he said. “It’s about my son, and me, and where we’re from.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Where we live, you have to be tough to survive. Get them before they get you. That’s what I tried to teach my boy. But he couldn’t learn it. It just wasn’t in him. That’s why I know he didn’t kill nobody. It ain’t in him. He couldn’t hurt a fly. It just ain’t in him.”

      She looked at him but did not speak.

      “Ma’am,” he said. “The state got my boy, and he running out of time. I just need somebody to tell me what to do.”

      “He’s exhausted his appeals,” she explained.

      “I understand that,” Tyrone said.

      “We’ve petitioned the governor.”

      “There has to be something else.”

      “There is,” she said.

      “What?” he asked.

      “Prove he didn’t do it.”

      “I want his file.”

      “Yes, sir,” she said. “Come back in an hour.”

       Chapter 10

      Outside the tiny office, traffic was beginning to build. It was three-thirty; the Glove Factory had just let out, and a long stream of workers were slowly making their way through town. Some of them stopped to do a little shopping, but most continued on, eventually connecting with one of the various highways leading them away from town and carrying them home.

      He hadn’t eaten since morning, and since he had close to an hour to burn, Tyrone decided to pass the time at the little deli just east of town. As he sat in traffic, inching along, he noticed a black lady sitting in the gazebo on the courthouse lawn, just beyond one of the many large oak trees that populated the property. She appeared to be fifty-four or fifty-five years old. She wore the clothes of a domestic—a white dress, brownish-colored stockings, white flat-soled shoes—and she had a rather large purse sitting on the bench next to her. Perhaps she worked in one of the large homes nearby, and now that her long, arduous day was over, she was waiting on her ride in the cool,