Cry Me A River (13 page)

He crept along, until finally, near the end of the road, he spotted the tiny trailer nestled close to the edge of the woods and surrounded by a poorly kept yard that was cluttered with old scrap iron and car parts, and other odds and ends that could only be described as junk.

He gazed at the yard, dumbfounded. His lips parted.

“Trailer trash,” he mumbled. The thought fired the fury smoldering deep within him as his incensed mind grappled with the unsettling fact that his son had been condemned to die on the word of po’ white trash.

He collected the pad and pen and stepped from the truck. He started toward the house, but weak, nervous legs made him stop. What would he say when he got there? How would he get her to talk? His anxious mind hurriedly sorted vague ideas and faint possibilities until
it stumbled on an idea that was not good, but under the circumstances seemed better than the others. He was a reporter, not just any reporter, but a sympathetic reporter from Shreveport—no, New Orleans—doing a follow-up story on the imminent execution of Marcus Stokes and its impact on the people of Brownsville.

Calmed by his plan, he approached the house; but before he could mount the steps, the door opened, and a white woman stepped out.

“What you want?” she snapped.

“Looking for Theresa Weatherspoon.”

“What you want with her?”

“I’m a reporter,” he lied. “I want to ask her a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Questions regarding the execution of Marcus Stokes.”

She looked at him, then at his truck.

“Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

“Excuse me?” he said, feigning ignorance.

“You that nigger’s daddy, ain’t you?”

Her question made him wince. Stupefied, he drew a deep breath to calm himself. He tried to think of a quick response, but his mind was blank; his tongue was tied. Shame made him look away. How did she know? How could she know?

“I heard you was back,” she said, unconsciously answering his unspoken question. “And I knowed, sooner or later, you’d be coming ‘round here, begging, and pleading, and trying to git me to change my story. But I won’t. ‘Cause I seen ‘im grab her that night. Seen ‘im just as good as I see you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “He wouldn’t do nothing like that.”

“You calling me a lie?”

“No, ma’am,” he recanted. “I ain’t disputing your word. It’s just that he my son. And I know he wouldn’t do what you said. He just wouldn’t.”

“He did it,” she growled in a tone void of doubt. “And now he gone git what’s coming to him.”

“Ma’am, you must be mistaken.”

“Git off my property.”

“Ma’am, please. My boy’s life at stake.”

“I said git!”

He started to say something else, but he saw her reach inside the house and retrieve a shotgun. The sight of the gun made him submit. He raised his hands above his head and began to slowly back away. He turned toward the truck. He could hear her feet descending the steps as he pulled the truck door open. Then he heard her yell, “You come back here again, I’m gone put the law on you, you hear?”

W
hen Tyrone reached the main highway, he pulled to the side of the road and stopped. He looked at the road ahead, then back over his shoulder toward the house. Gun or no gun, he had an overwhelming desire to go back and confront her. Desperation urged him back, but common sense stopped him. It was no use; she would not talk. He looked ahead, then back again. What should he do? His frayed nerves were on edge, and his confused emotions made it difficult for him to think. He straightened, and exhaled hard, then slumped head-long upon the wheel. He was in a whirlwind. He felt himself spinning.

“Daddy, help me.”

He straightened again. The cry was clear, but faint. It was as if it had emanated from the deepest, darkest hollow of his tormented consciousness. He clutched the wheel with both hands and gazed abstractedly ahead.

What should he do?

He spurned the force pulling him back and plowed ahead. No, she would not talk to him, but perhaps the
girl at the bank would. Through the window, he watched the highway rise and fall before him. Now and then, a car whisked past. Occasionally, a passerby waved, but not him. He saw them, yet he did not notice them. His mind was preoccupied. As the truck slowly swallowed the highway, he thought of the girl. How would he get her to talk to him? Inside his chest, he felt his heart pounding. Inside his head, his mind grappled with the probability that she would not be alone. There would be other white people about her, watching his actions, listening to his words. And if she would not talk to him, he did not know what he would do or what he could do. He longed for the sun to rise and illuminate the darkness that housed the terrible nightmare that had become his life.

At the bank, he parked in the large lot on the north side of the building and stepped down from the truck onto the pavement. He looked around, gawking at the hordes of white people loitering near the entrance of the bank. Though expected, their presence unnerved him, and in an instant he was claimed by a loathing so intense that he had the sensation of being outside of himself, watching them through squinted eyes dimmed by utter contempt. He took a deep breath and advanced toward them, secretly hoping that once inside, as if by some gratuitous act, he would find her momentarily isolated in a discreet area where he might steal a guarded moment of her much demanded time.

Once alone with her, what would he say? Should he pretend to be a potential customer in search of sound financial advice? Or should he identify himself and hope that she would grant him a moment to plead for his condemned son’s life? Uncertainty mounted, and the weight of his burden heated his anxious body as
warm beads of sweat began to fall from his now tepid skin.

He reached the building, and he felt the muscles in his tense body tighten even more as he swung through the door to the lobby. He stood for a minute, staring at the long counter behind which sat a line of tellers. Which one was she? He shuffled clumsily to the back of the line and strained, staring squint-eyed at distant name tags. The line inched forward until he stood at the forefront, staring at blue eyes, hearing the low drone of a soft voice call “next.”

He advanced to the counter, balmy palm clasped against balmy palm.

“How may I help you?”

“Can I see Miss Gautreau?”

“Lori?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She’s in New Accounts.”

He squinted.

“Over there.”

He followed the line of her eyes to a lone lady sitting unoccupied behind a large, cluttered desk. He looked at her. She was young. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-two. Her dress was professional, a conservative navy blue suit. Her hair was pulled back, and her tan baby face was accented with light make-up. Her thin lips were softly matted with an application of an earth-tone lipstick. He walked to her desk with firm, hurried steps.

“Are you Miss Gautreau?”

She lifted her head, and their eyes met.

“Yes, I am,” she said, then rose and extended her right hand. He took her hand in his own, shook it gently, then released it.

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

“I want to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Please have a seat.”

He sat on the edge of the chair and scooted close to her desk.

“Are you opening an account with us today?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, then waited.

“Well, how can I help you?”

He looked at her. Then paused. She seemed nice enough. Maybe he could be straight with her.

“Ma’am, my name is Stokes,” he said. “Tyrone Stokes.”

“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Stokes.”

“I want to talk to you about my son.”

She looked at him with a blank stare. A moment passed; then her confusion faded, and in an instant she was aware of who he was. Suddenly, her face tightened. Her tan skin flushed red, and she looked at him with eyes pronouncing the conversation was over.

She leaned back in her chair, uncomfortable, and said, “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Ma’am, I just want to ask you a couple of questions.” He protested her request while at the same time trying to calm the tension he saw rising in her.

She glanced at him; then her anxious eyes quickly shifted to a uniformed white man lingering near the door. Tyrone looked over his shoulder. The man was a security guard, and he was looking in their direction, alarmed.

Tyrone looked back at the woman, then whispered through clenched teeth, “Ma’am, please.”

He saw her nod, and without looking again, he knew that she had signaled the guard, even before he heard him say, “Is there a problem, Lori?”

“Yes,” she said. Her tone was low, but serious. “Please remove this man.”

Tyrone felt a firm hand grip his shoulder.

“Come on, buddy, let’s go.”

Defeated, he quietly rose to his feet and walked toward the door, feeling the presence of the guard shadowing his every step, marshaling him out of the building and into the parking lot. Once outside, he stood upon the sidewalk, wondering. Now where should he go? What should he do? The details of his son’s crime, though firmly etched in his mind, were not complete. He understood what supposedly happened, but in his mind, he could not visualize it—the store, the streets, the abduction, the murder. Suddenly, there was in him a desire to see the crime scene, and he found himself giving in to a burning impulse to drive to the store. He guided the truck out of the lot and drove west on Main Street, to Hawthorne Avenue, then pulled off the road, parking the truck next to Jones’ Grocery. Through roving eyes, he looked at the street, then back at the corner of the store. That was where the witnesses had stood. He leaned back and angled his head, looking toward the entrance. And that was the door out of which the girl had come. Adrenaline surged as he pushed his door open and stepped to the ground. He followed the short sidewalk around the corner, past the large glass window that traversed the front of the building. At the door, he stopped, then pushed through. A single cashier manned the register while several customers milled about the shelves, shopping. Nervous tension guided his steps. He moved between the shelves near the cashier, then lifted an item from the shelf with shaking fingers and pretended to examine it while his eager eyes cased the place. His gaze fell upon the camera. Startled, his eyes widened. His head became light; his chest began to swell. Unexpectedly, and unexplainably, time was transformed, and he was no longer himself, but his son, unaware of the ominous camera watching
his every move, recording his every act, sealing his tragic fate.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He needed air. He pushed through the door and out of the store and stood upon the sidewalk, swallowing large gulps of air in short, choppy spurts. He walked past the plate glass window, to the corner, and leaned against the jagged brick wall. He closed his eyes, and though he could not see, he could hear the steady stream of traffic a few yards in front of him on Main Street. He exhaled hard and opened his eyes again. A few seconds passed, and then he realized that he was standing in the exact spot where one of the witnesses reportedly stood. He turned toward the side street. A car passed and when it stopped at the stop sign, he looked hard. It was broad daylight, but from where he stood, he could not see the driver’s face. The discovery excited him, and he moved closer to the street and waited. A second car passed. He stared at the vehicle with a concentrated gaze. He watched the vehicle slow and stop at the stop sign. He shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight with his hands and stared. The driver was a man, of that he was sure, but he could not see his face. Inside his chest, he felt his heart pounding. If he could not see him by the light of day, surely they could not have seen Marcus under the cloak of darkness.

Tingling with excitement, he stepped from the building and lingered near the street, his eyes fixated on the stop sign, trying desperately to gauge the distance in his roused mind. Unsure of his calculation, yet determined to know, he paced the distance, counting each long stride, stopping on the shoulder, parallel to the sign. Twenty-seven yards. It was exactly twenty-seven yards. He looked about, his head on a swivel. Across the street, a short distance from the highway, he
spied a house. Could someone there have seen something? On an impulse, he went to the door and rang the bell, hearing the soft chiming within. He waited a few anxious seconds, then lifted his finger to press the button a second time; but before he could, the door swung open, and a woman appeared. A black woman.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He looked at her. She was a worker. Probably the maid.

“Can I see the owner?” he said.

“Miss Mabel?”

He looked at her, then nodded.

“She expecting you?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “She ain’t.”

“What’s your name, honey?”

“Tyrone, ma’am. Tyrone Stokes.”

“Awright, Mr. Stokes,” she said, “hold on.”

She closed the door, and he turned and looked back toward the street. Yes, from inside the house, someone could have seen the whole thing. Behind him, the door opened, and he spun around, startled. It was the maid again.

“Come on in,” she said. “Miss Mabel in the parlor.”

He followed her down a long corridor, taking in his surroundings as he walked. They were people of standing. He could tell by the shiny hardwood floors and the expensive-looking paintings he spied through open doors, adorning the walls of lavishly decorated rooms, lit by large, imposing chandeliers.

They entered the parlor, and he stopped just inside the door and looked clumsily at the old gray-haired lady the maid had referred to as Miss Mabel. Yes, she was a woman of standing. He could tell by the way she sat with her back straight, and her legs together, and her head held high. There was an open book lying
facedown across her lap and a cup of something, possibly tea, sitting on a silver tray on the table before her.

“Miss Mabel, this is the gentleman who wants to see you.”

She studied him a moment then spoke.