Terrence
January 5, 1942
Jailhouse sounds jerked Terrence out of a deep sleep. Keys clanked. The cell door squealed as it opened.
A gravelly voice followed. “You got visitors, kid. Get up and get dressed.”
Terrence pulled himself up and sat on the edge of the cot, rubbing his eyes.
“Come on, boy. I haven’t got all day.”
He pulled on prison-issued pants and slippers and followed the guard to the visiting area.
A gray room. No windows. No pictures. Only a table and four chairs. Momma sat in one chair. Though she smiled, her eyes were puffy and red. Next to her, a man Terrence had never seen before. She stood and kissed Terrence on the cheek.
“Hi, Momma,” he said and stared at the stranger.
“Son, this here is Mr. Edward Blake, the attorney who be handling your case.” She started crying.
“What’s wrong, Momma?”
She covered her eyes with her handkerchief and turned away from him.
Edward Blake’s steel-blue eyes studied Terrence through round, wire-rimmed glasses that looked like they held the weight of a single bushy red eyebrow. His full, red moustache—practically the size of a squirrel’s tail—moved up and down with words spoken in a Southern drawl.
Blake extended his hand. “Mr. Harris—”
“Call me Terrence,” he said, surprised at the strength in the attorney’s handshake. He watched Momma, wondering why she was crying all of a sudden. “Momma, what is it?”
Blake touched Momma on the shoulder, then took his glasses off and began to wipe them. “Terrence, I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news.”
Now what? Daddy was dead. Terrence was in jail for beating up a man. What news could be worse than that? Then, he knew. And he felt like someone hit him so hard in the stomach everything was gonna come up. He stared at Mr. Blake, waiting for him to say what he already knew.
“We learned yesterday that Mr. Kimura died. The prosecutor is going for a murder charge.”
Momma cried out, then blotted her eyes with her handkerchief.
Terrence’s knees weakened and he fell into a chair. Sure, he already knew what Mr. Blake was going to say, but hearing the words … a cold sweat broke all over him and his brain overflowed with thoughts until it was so full words began to flood out of his mouth. “Dead? I thought he was in the hospital. He can’t be dead. Hell, I didn’t mean to kill nobody, Momma. Oh, my God, I killed Nobu’s father? We were just roughing him up some. I didn’t mean to kill him.”
“I believe you,” Blake said, popping open his worn briefcase. “Now, take a deep breath. We’ve got to get to work on your case.” He stared at Terrence for a moment. “You okay now?”
Terrence nodded.
Blake opened a file folder, then licked his finger and flipped through its pages. “I’ve read the police report.” Running his hand back and forth along a paragraph, he continued. “Found some extenuating circumstances I think will help your case …” He looked over his glasses. “With the right attorney. That’s why I contacted your mother.”
Terrence wiped his forehead with his shirt sleeve, then narrowed his eyes, and considered what Blake was saying. Why would a white man want to represent a colored kid? What was he up to? Trying to cheat Momma out of money or something? Maybe make a name for himself?
Blake pulled out a chair and opened a notebook. “Tell me what happened that day at the park.”
Terrence sat across from the attorney and stared him full in the eyes. There was a part of him that was grateful to have a lawyer defending him, especially now that Mr. Kimura was dead. But there was another part of him that just couldn’t understand why a stranger—a white stranger—would want to defend him. “No sir. You go first. Why’d you decide to take my case? What’s in it for you?”
Momma stood in the corner and crossed her arms. She cleared her throat and gave her son one of those glances that needed no words.
Even Blake caught her unspoken scolding. “It’s okay, Mrs. Harris. A valid question.” He straightened, slapped his knees, and gazed at the ceiling, then cleared his throat. “When I was a young man—I’d just started my law practice in Berkeley—I received a telegram from my mother, asking me to come home to Arkansas. Said she had something important to tell me. Well, I knew she didn’t have much money. And for her to send a telegram, and with my pa off fighting in the First War, well, I had a bad feeling.” He stood and started pacing. “So I wired Ma that I’d take the next train home. She met me at the station, and when I saw the look on her face, it confirmed my fears. Pa was dead. Killed by the Germans.” He turned around and looked at Terrence. “I still remember the anger—no, the rage I felt. Thought I might go crazy for a bit.”
Hearing those words, seeing Blake’s piercing eyes, Terrence’s heart raced. Rage. Yeah, that’s just what he’d felt the day he learned the Japs killed Daddy.
“I couldn’t imagine not ever seeing Pa again. Couldn’t imagine Ma living alone.”
Terrence understood the distant look in Blake’s eyes. Sorrow. Loss.
Anger returned to the attorney’s face. He continued, his voice hoarse. “I hated the Germans. Hated them! I wanted to go over there and kill every one ’em. But when we found out Pa was dead, the blasted war had just ended. There’d be no revenge.” He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket and wiped his forehead.
Terrence pressed his hands to his eyes to stop the burn of tears. He could tell Mr. Blake still felt it. Did this mean the anger would never end? “How’d you get over it?”
Blake wiped his glasses. “The night of Pa’s funeral, my ma told me something I’ve never forgotten. Countries may go to war, but that doesn’t mean that there needs to be a war between people.”
Between countries, not people. Was that why he didn’t feel better after beating up a Japanese man? Matter fact, he felt worse. Now, he had sorrow and guilt. It was like swallowing bad medicine every time he remembered seeing the little girl’s eyes. Hearing her cries.
“I don’t think you ever really get over the death of a loved one,” Blake said. “But with time, you learn to live with it. I still remember how I felt, so I understand a little about what happened the day you found out about your daddy.” He sat again. “And now you know why I wanted to take your case. That, and I’m a good attorney.” He chuckled. “We’ve got a lot of work to do before your trial begins. Now, are you ready to tell me your side of the story?”