Power in the Blood (29 page)

I looked up at Laura and said, “Anna, Merrill, this is Laura Matthers. Laura, this is Anna and Merrill.”

They all laughed. “We know each other pretty well by now,” Anna said.

“We’ve been in here looking over and praying for your white ass for the past three days,” Merrill said.

“I don’t remember.”

“You’ve been resting,” Laura said.

I was puzzled, which must have registered on my face.

“You been out cold, man,” Merrill said.

“What? For three days?”

They all nodded.

“How do I look?” I asked.

Laura started to speak, but Merrill beat her to it. “You look like you went fifteen with Foreman and him fighting with a tire iron.”

“You look ruggedly sexy,” Laura said. Anna nodded in agreement.

“That’s two against one for ruggedly sexy. Sure you don’t want to reconsider your assessment?”

“I calls ’em likes I sees ’em, boss. We never lie to a white man, boss. Nosuh.”

“You got a mirror? I’d like to judge for myself.”

“Doctor say no mirror for at least a month. He scared you off yourself if you see what you look like,” Merrill said.

By the time Merrill had finished saying that, both Anna and Laura were offering me mirrors. I tried to take one. It didn’t work.

“Here, let me,” Laura said as she held the mirror in front of my face. Anna backed away gracefully.

My nose was taped up with some sort of plastic device to support it. Both eyes were black. There were a few cuts and scrapes on my face, many already well on their way to healing. The underside of my chin was split open pretty bad, but there didn’t seem to be any stitches, just butterfly Band-Aids.

“A ruggedly sexy raccoon. Why am I not dead?” I asked.

“You look pretty bad, but it’s not worth ending it all just because you ugly,” Merrill said. “You’s ugly before.”

“I guess you’re right. Why didn’t they kill me? What happened?”

“Some loud Negro in a big-ass pimpmobile-looking car scared them off.”

“What were you doing driving your uncle Tyrone’s car?” I asked.

“He needed my truck to haul his old lady’s dresser. She leavin’ again. Twice every year he has to borrow my truck. Once to move her big black ass out and again to move it right back in. Come to think of it, it’s four times a year. Her ass is so big it take two trips each way.”

“How many years have they been doing this?” I asked.

“As long as I can remember. Anyway, Anna told me to look out for you. She say you could probably use a big, strong, handsome, black bodyguard ’bout now.”

“She was right. What took you so long to snatch me from the jaws of death?”

“You’s drivin’ everywhere. Never stopping. I didn’t know how long you’s gonna ride. I finally had to stop for gas.”

“That’s what I should’ve done,” I said.

“You can say that again.”

“That’s what I should have done. What happened when you pulled up in the pimpmobile? Did they come over and ask you for some ladies?”

“I made a lot of noise coming in—horn honking, firing a gun. They took off.”

“White flight,” I said. “It happens when you black pimpmobile-driving hoodlums move into the neighborhoods.”

“I suppose so.”

“Did you see who it was?”

“Sure did. Now they in your daddy’s jail. I’ve heard complaints of police brutality, but I said that police don’t be brutal to no white men, especially fellow law-enforcement officers.”

“Especially them,” I said.

“Skipper’s going to pay for what he’s done,” Anna said. “Merrill and I went forward with everything you had told us. He’s already been arraigned. Now he’s just waiting for a probable-cause hearing.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Murdering Johnson and Maddox, of course,” she said. She could tell by the look on my face that something was wrong. “Are you all right? What is it?”

“What other charges were filed against Skipper?”

“Just attempted murder, for what he did to you. The DA said that was enough. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“No. It’s not nearly enough,” I said.

“Why?” Anna asked.

“Because he didn’t do it.”

“He tried to kill you twice,” she said emphatically.

“Yes, but he didn’t kill Maddox or Johnson.”

“Of course he did. Who else would have killed them?”

“I’ve got some ideas, but it doesn’t matter. I’m no longer involved. I’m suspended, and I feel like I’m lucky to be alive. They won. I quit.”

“I think he’s guilty,” Anna said. “Skipper’s the worst kind of cop. He’s rotten to the core.”

“He is rotten, and he’s guilty as sin, but he didn’t kill those men, and they’ll figure that out.”

“Who?”

“The inspector, FDLE, the sheriff’s department. Somebody.”

“And, if they don’t?” Anna asked.

“He get what he deserve anyway,” Merrill said.

“Right,” I said.

“No, it’s not right, and you know it. If you really believe Skipper didn’t kill them, you have to do something. You can’t just allow this to happen. You’re not even sounding like yourself.”

“Anna’s right,” Laura said. “You’re not a quitter. You have to see this thing through.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but quitting is what I do best. I’ve been practically fired and practically killed, and I’ve had enough. If you all are so concerned about Skipper, go and do something about it. I’m not. I don’t have nine lives.”

“He’s just upset,” Anna said. “He’s been through so much.”

“That’s not it. You were right,” I said. “I had no business getting involved in the first place. I was meant to be a chaplain, and now I’ve screwed that up, too.”

“There are other jobs,” Laura said. “I’m just grateful you’re alive.”

“So you not going to do anything about Skipper?” Merrill asked.

“No. My religion forbids retaliation. I’ve turned both cheeks, and he’s pulverized them both. You going to do anything about him?”

“I haven’t decided yet. Are you going to do anything about your job?”

“Clearing my name, all that stuff? I don’t know. We’ll have to see what happens.”

“What about this?” Merrill asked and slung a newspaper on my chest.

“Merrill, no,” Anna said, “now’s not the time.”

I attempted to pick up the paper. When I had struggled with it for maybe five seconds, Laura picked it up and held it in front of me. It was the
Tallahassee Times
. The headline just above the fold and to the right read: “Former Atlanta Pastor Charged with Sexual Misconduct Again.”

A wave of sickness crashed over me, and I began to heave—a deep, painful, dry heave. It was happening again. My world was closing in on me. I felt as if I were suffocating.

“I told you he didn’t need to see that now,” Anna said. “My God, he’s been in a coma for three days.”

“He need to see it now more than ever. He need to finish what he started.”

“Merrill’s right. I needed to see it. I can’t hide from it.”

I looked up at Laura. Her eyes were warm and reassuring. “Lucy,” I said in my best Cuban accent, “I got some splainin’ to do. I’m just not up to it right now.”

She smiled at my lame joke and said, “You have nothing to explain to me. I’ve spent the night with you, remember? I know you. Besides, Anna told me everything.”

“She doesn’t know everything,” I said and laughed.

“She knows a lot,” Laura said and smiled.

Anna smiled, too.

It was overwhelming.

After they left, I went back to sleep. I slept the rest of the night and most of Friday, only waking long enough to eat and move around the room a bit at the doctor’s insistence. Late Friday night I eased into my wheelchair and slowly, dreadfully rolled to Mom’s room. I felt so guilty, a feeling not uncommon to our relationship over the years. I couldn’t believe it had taken me being put in the hospital myself to make me visit her. I had told Laura how important it was for me to reach out to people when they were in crises—death, terminal illness, loss—and that was all true. But, I found that going into the room where my own mother lay dying I had nothing to say—no words of hope, inspiration, comfort. Such is the hypocrite I am.

“Mom,” I whispered when I had rolled up beside her bed.

She didn’t respond. Her back was to me. I sat there and stared at her for a while before I attempted to rouse her again. She was emaciated. Her hospital gown, which she should not have had to wear because I should have brought her one from home, was only tied at the top, revealing a backbone and ribs that protruded so far out as to make her look like a sack of bones. She reeked of urine, sweat, drool, and a few other chemicals that were foreign to me.

“Mom,” I said a little louder this time.

She slowly raised her head and then let it fall back down again. I wheeled around to the other side of the bed. What I wanted to do was to wheel back out of the room and say, “Well, I tried.”

“Mom,” I said even louder and this time directly towards her wrinkled, seemingly lifeless face.

Her eyes opened, and in them I saw fear—fear of death, fear of life, pure fear. In that moment, all of my rage toward this wounded old woman seemed to melt like the numerous candles I had lit for her. Now, in liquid state, it ran out of me, across the floor, and out the door.

She closed her eyes again. I think the closeness of my eyes to hers made her uncomfortable. She probably needed a drink. I sure did. I rolled the chair back slightly, and this time, when she opened her eyes again, that is how they stayed.

“John, John,” she said, her voice warm and refreshingly sober.

“Hey, Mom, how are you?”

“I’m dying,” she said flatly.

Her honesty was so refreshingly simple that I decided to return it. “That’s what I hear. I’m very sorry. I love you.”

“JJ, what happened to you? Why are you in here?”

“I was in a little car accident, but I’m okay. Looks worse than it really is,” I lied.

“John, I’m so sorry.”

“Mom, it’s nothing really.”

“No. I mean for what I’ve put you through. You were always so sensitive. It’s no wonder you turned to the bottle with a mother like me. I just wanted you to know, if I could have stopped, I would have, for you. Hurting you is what hurt the most. God, forgive me.”

“He has,” I said, with as much conviction as I had ever said anything.

“Can you?”

“I have,” I said.

And though that was not the end of the pain or resentment, it was the beginning of the end.

I was lying on my couch, my head propped on several pillows. It was Saturday afternoon. Anna and Laura had driven me back to Pottersville from the hospital and tripped over each other trying to wait on me once we had arrived. They had already cooked and cleaned in preparation for my homecoming, and my tin house sported a dull shine and the smell of pine. Finally, after nearly three hours, I had convinced them to leave so I could take a nap. They agreed to do so only with the understanding that they would be back and soon.

I attempted to lean forward slightly and sit up some so that I could read the newspaper accounts of what was happening in my life. My entire body was stiff and sore. The pain, like small needles, shot through me in sharp staccato punctures. It took awhile, but when I was finally up, I pulled the papers up towards me, letting them rest in a neat stack on my upper abdomen.

The first story was in Tuesday’s
Times
. It said I had been suspended pending an investigation into sexual assault allegations. It detailed how the accusations concerned things done in the chapel of Potter Correctional Institution. The report went on to say that although there were no charges filed yet, they were believed to be forthcoming. The article quoted not one source and failed to mention that I had been hospitalized after being beaten by correctional officers.

There were three papers that carried the story on Thursday—the
Panama City Tribune
, the
Potter County Examiner
, and the
Tallahassee Times
. The
Tribune
repeated what the
Times
reported the day before, adding only a few minor details, including a quote from some local ministers who said that the Christian community did not need any more scandals and that I was in the hospital in connection with an automobile accident.

The
Potter County Examiner
, where my uncle was the editor, said that a man is not guilty just because some inmates or their families accused him and that everything the
Tribune
copies from the
Times
is not necessarily true. Thank you, Uncle Mike.

The most damaging report of all, however, came out of Thursday’s
Tallahassee Times
. It detailed the current charges in three paragraphs and then went on to report that the
Stone Mountain Home Journal
had carried a story nearly two years ago accusing me of sexual misconduct. It highlighted the best parts of the
Journal
’s articles, including my alcoholism, divorce, and being asked to leave my church. I felt all of the old embarrassment and depression rolling over me like a fog, but the worst was still to come.

Friday’s
Times
carried an additional article complete with quotes from some of the members of my church in Atlanta and my ex-wife, Susan. The members said how they never would have believed it and still couldn’t. I was, in their opinion, a wonderful pastor and a good man, but they somehow conveyed the impression that theirs was the minority opinion.

Susan said that she knew me better than anyone and that none of this surprised her. She said that, although it was never proven, I was suspected of stealing funds and having an affair with a depressed woman I had been counseling at the time. I was pond scum, she was convinced of it, and soon everyone would know it.

No one mentioned the Stone Cold Killer case or anything else about my work at the Stone Mountain Police Department.

I sat there in shock. My head was light, and the room was spinning. Thoughts shot through my mind at warp speed, and all of them were as black, cold, and empty as I was. I wanted to run away. I wanted to move to a foreign country where nobody knew any of this stuff and where nobody cared.