Cry Me A River. Ernest Hill

opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. He turned and watched a young black lady poke her head through.

      “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you were with a client.”

      “That’s okay,” Captain Jack said. “Come in.”

      Tyrone followed the woman with his eyes as she entered the room and paused before Captain Jack’s desk.

      “Janell, this is Tyrone Stokes,” he said. “Mr. Stokes, this is Janell Rainer. She is my part-time paralegal.”

      “Hi,” Janell said, extending her hand.

      “Hi,” Tyrone said, rising and taking her hand in his own. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Rainer.” He released her hand, then sat back down.

      “Janell, Mr. Stokes is Marcus’s father. We were just discussing the status of his case.”

      “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said apologetically.

      “That’s okay,” Captain Jack said. “Did you need something?”

      “No, sir,” she said politely. “Just letting you know that I am here.”

      She turned and left the room, and Captain Jack resumed.

      “Mr. Stokes, the courts are not perfect. Neither are the people who sit on juries. They’re just ordinary folk subject to the same biases that affect us all.”

      He paused, let out a deep sigh, then resumed again.

      “You have a pretty sordid history. And because of that, it didn’t take much for the prosecutor to convince the jurors that Marcus was just another pea in a pod. His father was a ruffian, and so was he. The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree.”

      Tyrone looked at him but did not speak.

      “Mr. Stokes, I hurt for you, and I hurt for your family. God knows I do. But I can’t say any more to you right now than I was able to say to your wife. A jury has said that Marcus brutally raped and murdered an innocent young girl. And for that, a court of law has ruled that he must pay with his life. And so he will, if the governor says the same.”

      “There has to be something.”

      “If so, I don’t know what,” he said. “I have done all that I know to do. I filed an appeal based on the fact that we were denied a change of venue. I filed a separate appeal based on the fact that our petition to have the jury sequestered was denied. I even challenged the composition of the jury. Mr. Stokes, as far as the appellate courts are concerned, your son had a fair trial, and the verdict will stand.”

      “What about a DNA test?” Tyrone asked.

      “There is nothing to test.”

      “Didn’t they say he raped her?”

      “No semen,” Captain Jack said.

      “How could that be?”

      “Prosecutor’s explanation … He could have worn a condom.”

      “What about—”

      “Mr. Stokes, I will petition the governor. That’s all I can do.”

      There was a long, awkward silence.

      “I want to see him.”

      “I can arrange that,” he said. “The warden is an old friend of mine.” He paused. “But I can’t do anything before tomorrow.”

      Tyrone rose to leave, then stopped.

      “How is he?”

      “Scared,” Captain Jack said. “Real scared.”

      Tyrone looked at Captain Jack, but Captain Jack was no longer looking at him. Instead, he had begun fiddling with some of the papers scattered over his desk. For him, the conversation was over. He was thinking of something else now—his next meeting, his next client, his next case.

      “How will I know?” Tyrone asked.

      “Know what?” Captain Jack responded, looking up briefly.

      “When I can see him.”

      “Leave your number with Miss Rainer,” Captain Jack told him. “I’ll call you as soon as I know something.”

       Chapter 5

      When he left Captain Jack’s office, he did not go straight home. Instead, he drove to the small church just west of town. He did not attempt to enter the church, but rather walked around back, crossed the small, wooden footbridge, and passed through the short stand of trees that led into the tiny cemetery. Toward the middle of the cemetery, a fresh grave had been opened, and the loose, dry, excavated earth had been heaped to one side of the grave and covered with a sheet of thick white plastic. The sight of the open tomb made him uneasy, and he pressed on, navigating his way between one headstone after another until he finally stood before a well-manicured grave.

      “Hi, Papa,” he said, then lowered himself to the ground, pulled his feet underneath him, and looked away. From where he sat, he could see a small herd of cows grazing in the lush green pasture just east of the graveyard, and beyond the pasture, he could hear the low, dull roar of a tractor plowing in one of the adjacent fields. On the far end, he could see the old man everyone called Dirty Red. He had been mowing the cemetery; but it was breaktime now, and he had parked the bush hog underneath a tree and was sitting on the ground resting.

      Just beyond the headstone marking his father’s grave, he saw a tiny rabbit emerge from the sparse woods, pause, rise to its hind legs, and begin nibbling on the leaves of one of the low-hanging branches. The sight of the small furry animal caused him to smile. It was ironic, but the cemetery, this most dreaded place of death, calmed him. It was so quiet, so peaceful, so tranquil.

      “You got a nice spot here, Papa,” he said, glancing at the headstone, then looking away. Two black men had entered the cemetery and were inspecting the grave that had been opened. One of them wore a pair of black slacks and a short-sleeve shirt, and the other wore a dark blue jumpsuit.

      “I’m sorry I wasn’t at your funeral … I wanted to pay my respects. But … I—”

      Tyrone’s voice became heavy. His eyes became full. A tear fell from one eye, then the other. He picked up a small stone from the graveside and threw it into the woods. The sound of the stone tearing through the trees startled the rabbit. It fell to its feet, scampered a few paces to the right, paused, then disappeared into the darkness of the woods. Tyrone reached up and wiped his moist nose with the back of his hand. He filled his lungs with air and let out a deep sigh.

      “I didn’t want to disgrace the family no more than I already had by showing up at your funeral in handcuffs and chains.”

      Again, his misty eyes filled, and a long stream of tears fell from the corners of his eyes. He paused a second time, took a deep breath, then compressed his lips and struggled to maintain control of his voice.

      “Mama, Sarah Ann, and René all doing fine. Mama and Sarah Ann act like they happy to see me, but René act like she don’t know if she ought to be happy I’m out or scared I’m gone do something else to hurt the family.”

      Tyrone was interrupted by the roar of an engine. Breaktime was over, and Dirty Red had climbed atop the little red tractor and resumed his work. It was hot, and though he had not removed his shirt, he had unbuttoned it down the front and pulled it out of his pants. He did not have on work gloves, but he was wearing a straw hat on his head and a pair of dark shades over his eyes. A slight breeze was blowing, and Tyrone could smell the sweet fragrance of the freshly cut grass riding the wind, scenting the air. Involuntarily, his gaze fell on the tombstone, and inside his head, he heard himself reading: Albert Stokes. October 22, 1923-May 16, 1997.

      Suddenly,