Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

      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.

       Chapter 4

      Captain 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