Once meals were consumed, Lazarus wiped his mouth with his right palm and said, “We got a long way to go, y’all. This is only the beginning. I’m out, but I’m not free. Not yet. I might not ever be.”
They nodded.
“We have to believe!” The Comforter said. “The last word is never a human word. Never! Let Spirit speak!”
The Family grunted. They tried to conceal doubt behind silence, but in wayward eyes doubt moved about, cloudy and unsure. Even in the dark it was visible, shifting to and fro, causing one to blink repeatedly and another to stare into the purple distance. They wanted to believe, to mirror The Comforter’s confidence, yet limited to one realm alone they didn’t know what she knew. They knew only what they knew, so they fought to trust her completely. Some won; some didn’t.
* * *
“I gotta meet the lawyer in the morning. Trial’s in six weeks.”
“Six weeks?” Legion blurted. “So soon?”
“High-profile case. That’s what they said. Normally it wouldn’t happen before six months, but this case isn’t normal.”
“No, it’s not,” Cinderella muttered.
Sympathy and sorrow laced her voice. Her and Lazarus’s eyes met briefly, long enough to reignite feelings smoldering in her heart.
“They wanna charge somebody quickly and bring this case to a close. That’s what my lawyer said. Show America its system of justice works.”
“But it doesn’t!” Legion protested.
“Doesn’t matter. They need to act like it does.”
The Comforter lifted her hands, feeling the energy in the air. Something was coming. She sensed it. The wind confirmed it.
Cinderella asked, “Any leads yet?”
“No. Nothing,” Lazarus said.
The blare of a siren drowned their voices. Afterwards, with squinted eyes, Elisha declared, “We’re missing something.”
The Comforter nodded vigorously. “Yes! That’s right.”
Each rummaged memories for something ignored, abandoned, forsaken, yet there were no revelations.
Joining hands, The Family stood in The Upper Room and, one by one, offered prayers of thanks. More than usual, each pleaded with God to lead them, keep them, and protect them from harm. Legion asked for sight and clarity, even if it cost es life. Truth was it already had.
When Lazarus awoke the following morning, everyone was gone. It was as though, overnight, they’d been caught up in the rapture. The world was still, quiet, pensive. It frightened him initially, such ubiquitous silence, but then he saw a rat dart into the sewer and knew the apocalypse had not come. Perhaps The Family had left in order that his sleep might go uninterrupted. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t consider it now. He had to meet his lawyer and devise a way to save his life.
Cloaked in the only good clothes he had—semi-used brown slacks and a yellow and white pin-striped shirt—he marched downtown from The Upper Room like a real American citizen, as if his homelessness had been a mere social experiment from which he’d been released. Yet his shoes and hair gave him away. No self-respecting resident walked about with crusty toes protruding from dilapidated brogans and dreadlocks swinging in fountains of nappy disobedience. Still, his aim had been the look of confidence, even if he wasn’t, and he felt as if his goal had been achieved. “Sometimes you have to will a thing into existence,” his mother used to say. “Don’t wait for it to come to you. Go get it.” Lazarus hoped he was doing precisely that.
Approaching the corner of Peachtree and Eighth, Lazarus paused, winded. The appointment was for 8:00 A.M., and he didn’t want to be late. The office was three blocks away, so if he persevered swiftly he’d be on time. Sweat had not begun to roll, but it had gathered at his forehead and armpits, so Lazarus exhaled repeatedly, trying to cool his body temperature so as not to enter the office disheveled. Yes, he was homeless, but he didn’t want to seem so.
“Mr. Aaron Freeman, please,” Lazarus announced at the security desk. The officer frowned, not because he hadn’t heard him clearly but because Lazarus’s articulation contradicted his appearance. So Lazarus repeated himself, overenunciating every syllable, mocking with joy the man’s insulting assumption.
The officer’s eyes narrowed. “Third floor. Room fifteen.”
“Thank you,” Lazarus sneered, and smiled. “And might your day be bless-ed.”
At room fifteen he knocked lightly.
“Come in.”
Aaron was semi-distracted with a client on the phone. Aaron’s lifted index finger pardoned him and pointed for Lazarus to have a seat.
The office felt cold and official. Legal documents lay about in no particular order, and the smell of expensive coffee made Lazarus believe Aaron had probably been there all night. His baby-blue and white paisley tie was loosened, complementing a navy-blue pin-striped suit. Fatigue reclined in his eyes. They sagged slightly, those big brown puppy dog eyes, as if, overnight, he’d lost weight. Yet his countenance sparkled like a dazzling stone. Lazarus wondered if this was Aaron’s natural exuberance or if, this morning, some prescription might’ve helped.
Minutes later, Aaron said, “Okay … right … sounds good.… Let’s touch base again in a day or two … can that work?…” (Long pause.) “Good, good … talk to you later.” Then he pressed “end” on his iPhone and sighed. “All right, Mr. Lazarus. I’m all yours. Let’s get to work.”
From beneath a pile of papers he extracted a yellow eleven-by-fourteen legal pad, and prepared to write. Suddenly he laid the pen down and grabbed his coffee mug, swallowing its last bit of vigor.
“You a coffee man?”
“Nope. Never have been.”
“Well, I am. Most days it’s about all I get.”
Aaron chuckled. After setting the coffeemaker to brew another batch, he resumed his seat and continued, “This isn’t going to be easy. They have a dead body, an assumed motive, and the best lawyers in the country. But I still think we can beat it. We just have to put our heads together and come up with something.”
Lazarus had tried, but he’d not thought of anything.
“The scarf,” Aaron whispered. “Did you find the scarf?”
“Um … no … I didn’t.” Lazarus lied for fear the scarf would indict him and, more important, to let Cinderella dream, to give her, finally, a taste of the life she should’ve had.
“What about her husband?” Lazarus asked. “What do we know about him?”
“Not much. At least not yet. I’ve been thinking about him, too.”
“And what about Mrs. Dupont?” Lazarus asked. “Did she have any enemies we know of?”
Aaron shook his head. “Not that I can find. We’ve been snooping around, but she’s pretty clean. Everyone seemed to like her. Excellent student in college, favored socialite, friendly disposition. We can’t seem to find any reason someone would want to kill her.”
Lazarus huffed and reclined. There had to be an answer. He couldn’t go back to jail. Certainly not for a lifetime. Or, worse, lose his life for a crime he didn’t commit.
He asked, “Any ex-boyfriends or past lovers she might’ve had tension with?”
“None that we know of. Seems as if her husband was her first and only lover.”
“There’s gotta be something, man,” Lazarus moaned.
They searched the ceiling, walls, and floors for a clue.
“You didn’t see anyone else at the house that day?”
“No, I didn’t. I never went inside.”
“What about a car? How many cars were in the driveway?”
“One. The same one they drove from Whole Foods.”
He made a note.
“Did you notice any tension between them? Strained body language, curt comments, awkward silences?”
Lazarus thought a moment. “No, I don’t think so. They seemed pretty regular to me. She was giddy about her garden and he was obviously supportive.” He shrugged. “That’s all I saw.”
Aaron made other notes, which Lazarus couldn’t see. Lazarus thought to ask what he was writing but didn’t want to pry.
“I’ve gone over this a thousand times in my head,” Lazarus said, “and still I come up with nothing.” He stood and paced.
Aaron nodded. “I think our greatest defense is going to be you.”
“Me?” He turned abruptly. “I thought you don’t put the accused on the stand?”
“Usually you don’t, but we might need to. No offense, but you’re not the regular, desperate, mentally challenged homeless man looking for a handout.”
Lazarus frowned. Was this a compliment?
“So if you tell your own story, I think the jury’s assumptions about you and your state of mind might change. I don’t know. It’s the best we’ve got.”
Lazarus sighed, like a dying man. He didn’t want to face a jury of his peers, who, of course, wouldn’t be his peers. Everyone knew a black man, of any station, was guilty before proven guilty, so Lazarus had hoped to remain silent as things unfolded. Yet for his life he’d speak. He’d have to. He didn’t intend to die.
“Okay.”
“And we need to make a list of character witnesses. People who’ll testify to your integrity and overall good nature.”
He nodded.
“Got any names?”
“Well … I think so.”
How horrible, he thought, to be alive and no one be able to speak well of you.
Aaron hoisted a pen and waited.
Yet now, Lazarus wasn’t so sure. Should he name Quad, his only-begotten son, the one whose anger boils whenever he thinks of his father? Or should he ask Lizzie, who’d never stopped loving him? Of course the problem would be what she couldn’t say, what she couldn’t affirm, the years of his life for which she couldn’t account, and that would leave her flustered, believing she’d hurt his case, and from then on she’d be burdened with guilt she couldn’t bear and the hope of a fresh start or even a long-awaited reunion would forever be tainted by pauses and lapses in memory that were not her fault but might still help to destroy her father. He’d rather live out his days in prison—or die—before watching an indifferent court disassemble his daughter’s image of her father. He’d never ask Deborah to come—he hoped she didn’t even know, although he was certain she did—since she was the reason he left home in the first place. Her disappointment had not subsided over the years. He knew that. He knew her. And it just might please her to come now and tell the world how irresponsible he’d been to walk off and leave a wife and children because he “felt” he needed something in the world. How childish was that? No, she didn’t think he was a murderer, she’d say, but she couldn’t swear to it.
Perhaps his best testimonies would come from Upper Room residents. The Comforter would say something conciliatory, surely, exposing him as a man of strength and character, but who would believe her? Cloaked like Mary, the mother of Jesus, The Comforter would take the witness stand and, in the voice of a rejected cherub, speak her convictions about Lazarus’s excellence, and jurors would frown undoubtedly from their inability or unwillingness to believe her.
Elisha, on the one hand, wouldn’t want to testify, although he’d do it. At best, he’d give one-word responses, and that would make the jury skeptical, wouldn’t it? He might simply nod and say nothing, and the judge would dismiss him, having been no help at all. Legion, on the other hand, would welcome the opportunity to talk about Lazarus, but es belligerence might be off-putting. Nothing and no one could bridle Legion’s tongue if he thought his words might save Lazarus. Legion would definitely be helpful. Still, Lazarus sighed and said, “I’m thinking.”
Cinderella was the obvious choice. She was white and obedient, which of course meant jurors would find her likable and sympathetic, and that’s what Lazarus needed—someone they trusted. Of course she was haggard like the rest of them—actually worse—but still she was white, which to whites (and blacks) meant she was redeemable. There was hope for her. In her squeaky sweet voice she could tell them that Lazarus had not simply been good, but good to her, and that would, she hoped, quell their desire to watch him die. Even if they thought he’d killed a white woman, they would hear that he had been good to one, too, and that would at least complicate an otherwise simple guilty verdict. He hated it had to come to this, but he also hated being guilty because he was black. Cinderella would understand. She’d seen how blacks were treated, even her comrades, and she’d spoken against it. On occasion, she’d even expressed a desire to change things, to level the playing field, as she’d said, to dismantle once and for all this ugly thing called racism in America. Legion had laughed and said, “Chile, please! Good luck with that! White folks wouldn’t know how to act without it!” Cinderella responded, very simply, “Maybe not, but I would.” Now, Lazarus thought, she’d get her chance.
“Cinderella. Her name’s Cinderella.”
“Who is that?”
“A friend. She’ll testify on my behalf. She’s white and they’ll believe her.”
“How well do you know her?”
Lazarus nodded. “Well. Very well.”
“Where is she?”
“Same place I’ve been. Under the bridge.”
Aaron relaxed the pen. “She’s homeless, too?”
“Yep.”
Doubt pressed his lips together like those of a corpse. “Do you know anyone else?”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“We need someone credible, Lazarus, someone who looks the part.”
“She is credible. Believe me. And she’s white. That’s the important thing.”
“But she’s homeless, man, and this is the case of the murder of a rich white woman. I don’t know how much help this Cinderella woman would be.”
“I think it would work.”
“It might have to if we can’t find anyone else, but I’d rather go with someone more in line with Mrs. Dupont’s social class.”
“Well, I don’t know anyone like that.”
Aaron smirked. “Okay. Then we’ll list her. What about family members? Mother, father, children, nieces, nephews, cousins, anyone?”
Lazarus sighed. “My mother’s dead and my father … well … is unavailable. My kids and I have been estranged over the years, so I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m an only child, so…”
“I understand. We’ll start with Cinderella then. Is that her actual name?”
“Yes. Well, no, but I don’t know her actual name. Guess I can ask.”
“Do that, please, and let me know what it is.”
“Okay.” Against his earlier judgment, he said, “I have other friends, too, who would definitely speak for me, but they’re homeless and black. Just like me.”
Aaron smiled. “No, thank you! You are more than enough. We don’t need more of that element!”
Fuck you, motherfucker! Lazarus wanted to say, but didn’t. The last thing he needed was to go to trial with no lawyer.
“I gotta go now!” Lazarus declared instead. “Got some business to handle.” He stomped toward the door, snatched it open, and let it swing wide behind him.
“Damn,” Aaron muttered. “Was it something I said?”