Free Cry Me A River by Ernest Hill Page B

the picture was clear. His son had not been tried, but persecuted by a court eager to righta wrong and calm a town by slaying the deviant that lived among them.
    “He was railroaded,” Tyrone said. “Pure and simple.”
    “Possibly,” she said. “But from what I’ve seen, Mr. Johnson did the best he could with what he had.”
    Tyrone looked at her but did not speak.
    “He defended your son like he was defending his own.”
    “Hunh,” Tyrone grunted. “I don’t think so.” His voice was low, cynical.
    “He really did,” she said. Her eyes were narrow; her expression, serious.
    “Would he have asked his own to cop a plea?” Tyrone asked. His question caught her off guard.
    She hesitated a moment then quickly said, “Probably.”
    “Yeah, right,” Tyrone mumbled.
    “He had no choice,” she said, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes.
    “Why?” Tyrone asked. “Because he thought my son did it?”
    “No,” she said. “Because he knew that he could not prove that your son didn’t. It was that simple.”
    “What ever happened to innocent until proven guilty?” Tyrone mumbled, more to himself than to her.
    “That’s theory,” she said. “This is reality.”
    Tyrone started to respond, then stopped. He lifted the box from the desk and cradled it in his arms.
    “I’ll look through this tonight and bring it back tomorrow. “
    “Keep them long as you like,” she said. “We have copies.”

Chapter
12
    I t was five-thirty when he arrived home. His mother was no longer in her bedroom but had moved across the hall into the tiny living room and was sitting in the recliner with her feet propped up. Her eyes were closed, and a damp cloth was draped across her forehead. She was resting, but he could tell by the slow, steady rocking of her left foot and the occasional twitching of her closed left eye that she was not asleep.
    “How you feeling this evening, Mama?” he called to her softly, as he slowly approached her chair, his eyes fixated on the callused soles of her bare feet, and his ears keenly tuned to the pained sound of her heavy, labored breathing. The sound of his voice aroused her, and she opened her eyes and slowly turned her head toward him. Their eyes met, and she smiled, then grimaced, before her lips parted and she answered his question.
    “Head worrying me some,” she said. “Other than that, I do all right.”
    He moved closer to the chair on which she sat and took her hand into his. Instantly, he felt the grip of her warm, moist hand tighten, followed by the soothing sensation of the tip of her tiny thumb gently caressing the back of his large, hairy hand. The skin covering her old, wrinkled hands was no longer soft. Years of cleaning white folks’ houses had made her skin hard, tough, leathery.
    “Mama, why don’t you go lay down?” he said, looking deep into her tired, blood-shot eyes. “Least ‘til your head quit hurting.”
    “I will directly,” she said, and he felt the tension in his arm as she pulled herself upright. “Been in the bed better part of the day. Just felt like sitting up a while.”
    “Need me to get you anything?” he asked, then waited. All was silent save for the sound of her struggling to catch her breath. Pulling herself upright had winded her.
    “Just sat with me,” she said. “Keep me company.”
    He released her hand and sat on the sofa next to her. Beside the large sofa on which he sat, there was a much smaller one pressed against the short wall on the opposite side of the door. A few feet in front of him was a plain wooden chair, the back of which stood against the window that overlooked the front yard. To the right of the chair, crammed in one corner, was a television. To the left of the chair, crammed in the opposite corner, was a space heater. The curtains on the window behind his mother’s recliner were open, and from where he sat, he could see out into the garden. As he stared through the window, absentmindedly eyeing the short