Cry Me A River (20 page)

Captain Jack looked at him, stunned. “Can you prove that?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But I know he was the one.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was the one they saw that night.”

“Who?” he said. “What do you mean?”

“The two witnesses … the maid … They saw P. K., not my son.”

“Mr. Stokes, you’re grasping,” Captain Jack said. “We need proof.”

“No,” Tyrone rejected his assertion. “The blue truck. The way the girl acted that night. It all makes sense.”

“We need proof,” Captain Jack reiterated. “Not conjecture.”

“It was P. K.,” Tyrone insisted. “She knew him. That’s why she acted the way she did that night. That’s why she got in that truck with him. They were dating.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know.”

“We need proof.”

“Find P. K. and you’ll have all the proof you need.”

Captain Jack paused and pondered the possibility.

“Why would he kill her?” the attorney asked.

“What!” The question agitated Tyrone.

“If they were dating. And he loved her. Why would he kill her?”

“I don’t know,” Tyrone said, perturbed. “When we find him, you can ask ‘im.”

“You’re grasping.”

Tyrone paused and looked at him with frustrated eyes. “Do you believe in my son?”

“Mr. Stokes, your theory just doesn’t make any sense.”

“Makes sense to me.”

“There is no motive.”

“How do you know?” Tyrone said. “We don’t know what was going on between them two. Maybe they fell out. We don’t know.”

“Mr. Stokes, lovers don’t usually kill their partners and dump their nude bodies in the middle of a field. No, this was no acquaintance murder; this was a rape. A brutal, savage rape probably perpetrated by a stranger.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Tyrone said, his unbridled anger now boiling to the surface.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stokes. I know you’re frustrated. We all are. But in my heart, I just don’t think you’re on the right track with this.”

“So you telling me you ain’t gone help me?”

“If you want me to look for P. K., I will. But even if we find him, and I seriously doubt that we will, I don’t think we’ll be able to build a murder case against him in two days. Especially since your son has been tried and convicted, and that conviction has been upheld by the highest court in the land.”

“Well, what would you have me to do?”

“Spend some time with your son.”

“What!” he exclaimed, not believing what he was hearing.

“Mr. Stokes, I just had to tell your son that the governor of Louisiana has refused to stay his execution. Right now your son is afraid. Probably more afraid than he has ever been in his life. Tomorrow they’re going to move him to the execution building. The next day they’re going to allow him a contact visit and a last meal. The day after that, they are going to execute him. In the meantime, there’s a phone in his cell. If you want to help him, help him get ready for what’s going to happen. Mr. Stokes, they’re going to execute your son. He’s scared. Spend time with him.”

T
he parole office was located in Franklin Parish some five miles from Tyrone’s mother’s house. When he arrived, his parole officer was sitting behind her desk, staring at an open folder. Before he entered the office, he took a deep breath, and from his partially concealed vantage point, just beyond the open door, he stole a nervous glance at her. She appeared to be a tall, burly woman, he guessed, somewhere between one hundred seventy and one hundred eighty pounds. She wasn’t old, probably between forty and forty-five. The hue of her skin was dark, her hair was short, and her hard, plain face was such that one immediately got the impression that she was neither friendly nor nice. He cupped the palm of his hand in front of his mouth and blew. On the way, he had sucked a lemon, but he wasn’t sure that it had worked. He lowered his hand. Yes, the scent of liquor lingered. It was faint, but still there. Oh, for a stick of gum or a breath mint. Alcohol was a parole violation. One whiff, and it was back to prison. Well, he would not stand close to her. He would try to avoid her
without being too conspicuous. He closed his eyes, exhaled, then stepped from behind the door.

“Ms. Dixon,” he called her name softly, politely.

“You Tyrone L. Stokes?” She looked up at him with eyes of contempt.

“Yes, ma’ am,” he said. “I am.”

He looked at the empty chair before her desk. He wanted to sit, but she had not asked him to. So, for what seemed an eternity, he stood awkwardly before her desk, wondering whether he should sit or whether he should stand. When no instruction came, he sat timidly on the chair and folded his arms across his lap. Yes, this was uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than it had to be.

“Were you issued a Conditions of Parole pamphlet upon your release?” she snapped. She was no longer looking at him. Her contemptuous eyes were glued to the papers.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He made his voice soft, subservient, submissive.

“Can you read?” She looked up and glared at him, cold and intimidating. He glanced at her, then dropped his gaze again.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in a small, timid voice. “I can.”

There was a long, awkward moment, and he could feel her piercing eyes staring at him for what seemed an eternity. He wanted to move, squirm, but paralyzing fear held him still.

“Did you read it?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with averted eyes.

She paused and leaned back in her chair, and he knew it was to let him know that she was in complete control of his destiny. She knew it, and she wanted to ensure that he knew it. He glanced at her, then quickly looked away.

“Do you have a problem with comprehension?”

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“So you did understand that you were to report to your parole officer within twenty-four hours of your release?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“But you chose not to.”

The question was a trap. He looked at her but did not answer.

“Do you think I’m talking to myself?” she asked in a cold, stern voice.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

He glanced at her again, then looked away. He knew what was coming. He could see the writing on the wall. He had violated parole, and he was going back to prison. Inside his chest, he could feel his heart pounding. In his tense, frightened mind, he could feel the cool steel cuffs digging into his tightly bound wrists. He could smell the stench of his old cell block, hear the jingling of dangling keys. He could see the puzzled looks; he could anticipate the anxious questions; he could hear all too well the all-knowing “I told you so.” Suddenly, he felt his tense body go limp with submission. He felt his frayed emotions sink. He felt his entire body slowly fall under the spell of a gloomy cloud of dread.

“You just decided you weren’t coming, is that it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he heard himself say. He wasn’t answering now. He was inside of himself, listening to rote responses from that preprogrammed, institutionalized part of himself that knew all too well the futility of challenging absolute authority.

“Explain to me why I shouldn’t send you back to the penitentiary right now.”

“I can’t,” he mumbled. There was no explaining. The
power was hers to use or not to use. She alone held his fate. She alone would decide.

“You better tell me something,” she said angrily, “or that’s just what I’m gonna do.”

“I should have reported in,” he said. “I didn’t.”

“Why not?” she asked in a tone demanding an explanation.

“My son is on death row.”

“What does that have to do with this situation?” she asked.

“I wanted to see him … I mean, help him.”

“Do you like prison?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you want to go back to prison?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, you better start acting like it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t like excuses,” she said. “I don’t like ‘em at all. Parole is a privilege, not a right. You abuse it … you lose it. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Let’s get one thing clear,” she said. “I’m not your friend, and I’m not your counselor. My job is to supervise your reacclimation into the free world. I’m here to protect society, not you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’re a loser,” she said. “This folder I’m looking at tells me so. And that’s just how I’m gone deal with you. So, hear me, and hear me good. You so much as sneeze and it’s back to the big house for you. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, let’s get down to business.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, then waited.

Deflated, he raised his head and watched her flip through the folder, then pick up a pencil. Yes, now it
felt official. He was a parolee, an excon, a nobody. One of a thousand black men, just like himself, living in a white world (one step beyond prison, two steps short of freedom) ever mindful of the watchful eye of the system suspiciously monitoring his movements and blatantly threatening his freedom, seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. Yes, he was still in the system. Only now he was in prison without bars.

With his wroth emotions teetering somewhere between dread and nervous anticipation, he watched his parole officer lick her thumb, then shuffle through the folder until she had found the document for which she had been searching. Then, as if in a hypnotic state, she studied the document for a moment, lifted it from the folder, and leaned back in her chair.

“Your conditions of parole are as follows:

“Do you understand these conditions as I have explained them to you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do you understand that violation of any one of these conditions will immediately result in a warrant being issued for your arrest?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She removed the document from the folder and slid it to him along with an ink pen.

“Sign it at the bottom near the X, indicating that you have read and understand these conditions as stipulated.”

He grasped the pen with trembling fingers and, under the watchful, intimidating eye of his parole officer, scribbled a near illegible name in the appropriate place. He slid the document to her, and she glanced at it, then slid it back.

“Date it,” she demanded, frustrated.

“Oh,” he muttered anxiously. How had he forgotten that, he thought. He wanted to relax, but his body would not cooperate. With downcast eyes, he hastily scribbled in the date, then pushed the paper back across the desk. Again, she inspected the
document. Satisfied, she inserted it in the folder, then selected another.

“Do you have any identifiable marks, scars, piercings, tattoos, etcetera?” she asked in a dry, mechanical voice.

“No, ma’am,” he said.

“Have you found a job?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Have you looked?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Why not?”

“My son,” he said. “I’ve been trying to help my son.”

“You understand that you are required to have a job, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“By our next meeting, I want you to provide this office with proof of employment or proof of your efforts to find employment. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, as far as the necessary tests are concerned, I will personally administer the required blood, urine, and breathalyzer tests, whether it be in this office or out in the field. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Suddenly he began to sweat. Blood test. He had not thought of that. Why had he drank that alcohol?
Please, God
, he silently prayed.
No blood test. Please. Not now. Not today
.

He watched her scribble something on one of the documents, then push away from the desk and rise to her feet.

“Come on,” she directed. “Follow me.”

Suddenly, his heart plunged. Maybe he should confess and throw himself at her mercy. Wordlessly, he rose from his seat and stood on wobbly, unsteady legs. He looked back at the open door. Maybe he should run. Yes, maybe he should run before she had a chance to
test him. No, that would be foolish.
Please God, help me. Please
.

Confused and petrified, he followed her through a side door, out of the office, and into a small adjoining room. Inside the room, he shrank, not knowing what to expect. It was some type of lab. Before him stood a vast, shiny white wall. Next to the wall was a counter upon which were assembled several trays and a strange assortment of plastic cups and bottles. Yes, this was it. She was going to test him. He stood, paralyzed, watching as she moved behind the counter. “Please, God,” he whispered to himself. “No blood test. Please.”

She stooped and reached underneath the counter, then issued an order.

“Stand in front of the wall and face me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he heard himself say.

From in front of the wall, he saw her emerge from behind the counter and walk back to the door, then turn back toward him. She was carrying something. His gaze fell on the object. It was a camera. Yes, she was carrying a camera. She was going to photograph him; that was all. He stood upright and stared longingly into the lens, wishing this was over and he was out of this place. She snapped the picture, and his eyes strayed aimlessly to the large clock on the wall. It was almost five. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was all they would have time for today.