speak.
“Mr. Clayton brought Mama some fish this morning,” she said. “You feel like cleaning ‘em?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I’ll clean ‘em.”
“When you git through, I’m gone season ‘em so René won’t have so much to do when she come in.”
“I’m sho’ she’ll appreciate that.”
“Reckon y’all gone want potato salad with that fish?”
“I don’t,” he said. “But they might.”
“Well then, I might as well peel a few mo’ potatoes while I’m at it.”
She removed a few potatoes from the bottom cabinet and placed them in the sink. Then she turned on the faucet and began to wash them.
“Can I ask you something, sis?”
“Yeah, what?”
“I heard Mr. Clayton talking a little while ago.”
“Un hunh.”
“Reckon it’s possible?”
“Is what possible?”
“That they’ve already decided about Marcus.”
“I don’t put nothing past them people.”
“Guess that’s why Captain Jack didn’t say much. Maybe he already know.”
“Could be.”
Suddenly, his doubts rose. His concerns grew. He wondered about Captain Jack. Who was he? Was he competent? Had he been hired or had he been appointed? How vigorously had the attorney fought for his son’s life? Had he really fought at all?
“I was thinking about going back over there,” he said. “What you think?”
“For what?” she wanted to know.
“To see that lawyer again.”
“Well, I don’t ‘spect you gone be able to rest if you don’t.”
He received the phone call from Captain Jack’s office by eight o’clock the following morning. He wasn’t asleep when the call came. He had gone to bed and had tried to sleep, but when sleep would not come, he passed the night lying on his back, listening to the soothing sound of crickets chirping outside his bedroom window and the loud, monotonous ticking of the small wind-up clock sitting atop the television in the adjacent room. When twilight dawned, he was still lying in bed fully conscious of the sounds of a well-rested world rising to face another day.
At five he heard Mrs. Alberta’s rooster crow. At five-fifteen, Mr. Lonzo’s old Ford truck rumbled past. He was on his way to work; he had to be at the plant by six. By five-thirty, the trash collectors arrived. He heard the garbage truck when it pulled off the road in front of his house and he heard the men talking amongst themselves as they worked.
“What time is it?” Tyrone heard one of them ask the other.
“Too early to start watching the clock,” he heard the other respond.
“Look like it’s gone be a hot one,” came an unrelated observation.
“Weather man say it suppose to rain,” the other retorted.
“Well, he didn’t tell the good Lawd, ‘cause it ain’t a cloud in the sky.”
Suddenly, the men were quiet. Then Tyrone heard a loud grunt followed by the sound of trash hitting the bottom of the truck. A few seconds passed before the empty barrel hit the ground. The engine roared, and the truck rolled on.
At six-thirty, he took a shower. By seven, he had dressed and eaten a simple breakfast—two slices of bacon, one slice of toast, and three scrambled eggs. He had spoken to Janell by eight, and he was on the road by nine.
As he drove, his mind was preoccupied, and his actions were mechanical. He passed through towns without seeing them. He stopped at signal lights without thought. Instinctively, he drove over hills and through curves, automatically adjusting his speed to negotiate turns or to execute lane changes. With dulled senses and a muted mind, he pressed onward until some abnormality forced in him a temporary state of awareness. Just outside the small village of Epps, it was a slow-moving pick-up truck driven by a middle-aged white man with curly black hair. There were three black boys riding in the back. One stood against the cab, and the other two sat on the railing. They were farmhands. He could tell by their dirty bodies and their tattered clothes. Maybe they drove tractors, or hauled hay, or tended livestock. But more than likely, they worked in a potato field; after all, this was potato season, and by their appearance, they had already spent the early part of the morning riding a potato setter.
In Wilmington, it was a freight train, the Southern Pacific, going who knew where, carrying who knew what. He sat at the crossing for what seemed an eternity, clutching the wheel, counting passing cars … two engines, fourteen flat cars, forty-two boxcars, and finally the caboose.
The train passed, and he guided his truck across the tracks and through the center of town. There were a few people milling about Main Street, but not many. It was Tuesday. Most of the adults were at work, and most of the children were in school. He drove another two or three miles before turning off the highway and onto the ramp which led onto the interstate. Again, his tense body relaxed. He loosened his grip and leaned back against the seat, his mind lulled by the hypnotic motion of four rubber tires gliding over the smooth concrete highway. Physically, his tired body yearned for rest, but his hyperactive mind, fixated on the plight of his son, yearned for answers to questions, the implications of which meant the difference between living and dying. The sound of a siren made him check the mirror. Flashing lights caused him to change lanes. He slowed and pulled to the right. An ambulance raced past, and he watched it disappear into the horizon. In a brief moment of awareness, he recognized that it was a beautiful day. The medians were green; the air was fresh; the sky was blue.
He arrived in Shreveport at eleven-fifteen, and from high atop the interstate he could see the skyline of the city with its tall, majestic buildings glistening under the hot summer sun. Two miles outside the city limits, he exited the interstate and drove down a long stretch of country road. The prison was twenty miles hence in what for most people probably seemed the middle of nowhere, but for inmates like his son, it had become the center of everything.
When he arrived at the penitentiary, he parked his truck in the large lot just outside the gates and climbed out onto the pavement. To his left and through a haze of heat loomed a series of drab, gray buildings neatly situated behind a tall chain-linked fence. From where he stood, he could see the sharp, menacing razor wire spiraling ominously across the top of the imposing fence that circled the compound and fortified the prison. There were two guard towers rising high above it all, manned by men who watched all who came and who no doubt gave final approval to all who would depart. As Tyrone walked toward the entrance, he inclined his head and looked toward the tower. There were two men on each tower, one armed with binoculars, the other with a high-powered rifle. All of them wore uniforms. Navy blue pants, baby blue, short-sleeved shirts, and shiny gold badges. Three wore hats; one did not.
He felt their eyes on him. His tepid skin flushed hot as searing blood surged through his pulsating veins and spiraled to his light, giddy head. He approached the gate cautiously, ever aware of the small surveillance camera mounted just above the entrance. The gate swung open, and he followed the sidewalk to a huge metal door. His stark eyes fell on the bold black letters posted on the wall: No weapons. No drugs. No alcohol. All visitors will be searched. All violators will be prosecuted.
He pulled the door open and stepped inside. Directly ahead of him was a second door. To his left a uniformed man sat in a small office behind a large Plexiglas window. He was a portly man, in his mid-to-late fifties. The hair on his balding head was black save for the tiny patches of gray about his temples. His pale white skin