The Crossing (8 page)

“Carson Reno,” she said with a big smile, “you don’t remember me, do you?”

I was staring at a very attractive colored woman who appeared to be in her early twenties.
 
Her hair was medium length and neatly contained in a bun behind her head.
 
A red sweater was tied loosely around her neck, and she had a smile that consumed almost her whole face.

“I guess not,” I finally uttered, “and that’s shame on me.
 
I don’t know how I could have forgotten anyone as attractive as you!”

“Well, I’ll forgive you this time,” she laughed. “The last time you saw me I was only four, probably covered with dirt and had a runny nose!
 
I’m Colleen Walker, Henry’s little sister!”

“I’ll be damned,” was all I could manage.

I walked around the car and got into the passenger seat.
 
After sharing a few stories about our childhood, I leaned back against the door to get a better look at Colleen Walker.
 

In addition to the smile, that I’m sure had broken many a young man’s heart; she had a figure that showed she was taking very good care of herself.
 
However, the one thing the smile and figure could not hide was the swollen eyes and tear tracks across her light make-up.
 
Colleen had been crying and crying a lot and I understood why.

“Colleen,” I finally managed to say. “I know you are here to talk about Henry, and you didn’t have to come.
 
I would have been looking for you when I got the time.”

“I know, and that’s the reason I’m here. I needed to talk with you before you came to the house.
 
Carson, I have a house full of people that are from the
‘Nazarene Baptist Church’
in Memphis.”

“What!” I shouted.

“They showed up yesterday, lead by Reverend Jeremiah Higgs.
 
Evidently, he is the minister of this
‘Nazarene Baptist Church’
and has brought part of his congregation here to Humboldt to show support for Henry.” Colleen was shaking her head.

“I don’t believe it,” I said with disgust.

“Me either, but it’s the truth.
 
And, according to some conversation I heard last night, there are also other groups in town.
 
I guess they are staying at various motels, but this group decided to move in with me!”

“What do they want?
 
What are they trying to accomplish?
 
Have they told you?” I asked.

“According to this Reverend Higgs, they want to see that Henry gets a fair trial and isn’t railroaded because he’s colored and the dead girl is white.
 
He said they are already raising money and have hired an attorney to represent Henry.
 
I think he’s supposed to be in town sometime tomorrow.”

“Shit,” I said. “Excuse the profanity, Colleen, but this is only going to make things worse – not better!”

“Carson, what can I do?” Colleen asked quietly.

“I wish I knew,” I uttered. “Just keep me informed and give Henry all the love and support you can.
 
I’m trying to keep a lid on this thing and it seems everybody else is trying to pull it off!
 
I guess that is a sign of the times we are living in.”

“I know, Carson, it is terrible and now it’s come to our little town.
 
I’m so sorry.” Colleen was crying again.

“Colleen, it’s not your fault and it’s not Henry’s fault.
 
It’s just something we’re going to have to deal with as adults, assuming everyone can act like an adult!”

Colleen put her well-used handkerchief to her eyes and I let her cry for a few moments before continuing our conversation. “Colleen, what can you tell me about Henry’s problems?
 
You have any ideas how this dead girl ended up wearing his shirt?”

“I wish I did,” she said shaking her head. “I do all the laundry for Henry, and that includes washing his shirts.
 
I have washed and ironed that shirt a hundred times, along with all his others.”

“Oh, really?
 
What do you do with them after you launder them?” I asked.

“I take them over to his house and hang them in the closet.
 
I go there once a week and pick up dirty clothes, always on Saturday.
 
I wash everything and iron the shirts, then I take back the clean clothes on Sunday, same way every week.”

“Were you aware that the shirt the murdered girl was wearing had Henry’s name and phone number written on a piece of paper in the pocket?”

“No, but I can tell you it wasn’t there when I laundered the shirt.
 
Henry and Yarnell are always leaving stuff in their pockets and I never forget to empty them before washing.
 
So, I can guarantee you there wouldn’t have been a clean shirt with paper in the pocket.
 
Guess that’s bad – huh?”

“Not necessarily.
 
 
Do you know how many shirts Henry has?” I asked.

“I sure do,” Colleen answered quickly. “Seven and that has been a problem I have been after Henry to fix.
 
He works six days a week, so it’s hard to keep him a clean shirt for everyday.
 
I’ve been telling him to buy another shirt, but he never has.”

“Okay, so every Saturday you pick up six dirty shirts and he’s wearing the seventh.
 
You give him six clean shirts on Sunday and the cycle starts over again. Right?”

“Right, and it would be much easier if he had an extra, maybe two, but he doesn’t.”

“Colleen, that’s interesting and will help me answer some questions about that shirt.” I said while thinking.

“Really, how?” she asked.

“I want you to go by Henry’s house and count how many clean shirts are hanging in his closet and also count how many dirty shirts he has.
 
Henry is wearing one shirt and there should be two dirty shirts – one from Saturday and one from Monday.
 
At least it will tell me if the shirt she was wearing was a clean one or a dirty one.
 
Understand?”

“Yes, but I told you his clean shirts would not have had anything in his pocket.
 
Remember?”

“I do.
 
But, if it turns out to have been a freshly laundered shirt on the dead girl, then we know the name and phone number didn’t end up in the pocket by accident.
 
Does that make sense?”

I got a big wide smile from Colleen. “I’m so glad Henry has you for a friend.
 
I know you are going to clear this thing up and get Henry back home.”

“I’m also glad to have you and Henry for a friend, and I’m going to try to clear this thing up quickly, Colleen.
 
I’m going to try,” I repeated.

We talked for a few more minutes, and I sent Colleen on her way with my promise to talk with her tomorrow.

I spent the next two hours on my barstool listening to that grinding country music.
 
I intend to ask Nickie tomorrow if she can put some Dave Brubeck jazz records on the jukebox; but I’m quite certain it will be a waste of my time!

The air smelled like rain, when I finally walked across the parking lot and made my nest in Cabin 4.

~

I
broke one of my rules and got an early start this Thursday morning. Skipping coffee and breakfast, I made the short drive down to Humboldt City Hall.
 
City Judge, Barney Graves maintained an office there, but I didn’t have an appointment and was just hoping to get lucky and catch him in it.
 
He was and I did.

Unfortunately, I saw what I didn’t want to see gathered on the sidewalk outside the building. There were two small groups already assembled and they were distinctly apart and different in their members and objective.
 
A dozen colored men, dressed in suits and ties, were mingling near the courthouse steps.
 
Each was carrying a sign, reading: ‘FREE ROBERT HENRY WALKER’.
 
They weren’t marching or making noise; they were just talking among themselves, while watching the other group that had gathered across the street.

On the sidewalk across the street from City Hall were a half dozen young white men standing and staring at the colored men and their signs.
 
These men weren’t carrying signs and didn’t have any weapons that I could see, but they had trouble written all over them.

What I did NOT see was the presence of any law enforcement.
 
Neither the local police, nor the sheriff’s office had any officers watching these gatherings.
 
I wondered why.

No one spoke to me as I walked past both groups and then up the stairs into City Hall.
 
But, getting a good look at all the faces confirmed what I already knew; I didn’t recognize any of them.

Judge Graves’ secretary invited me to have a seat, and said he would be available to see me in about fifteen minutes.
 
However, before I could sit down, he opened his office door and motioned for me to come in.

“Carson, good to see you,” he said as he took a seat behind his large desk. “Make yourself comfortable.
 
Would you like some coffee?”

“Judge, that would be terrific, I haven’t had mine this morning,” I answered as I found a place in one of his overstuffed chairs.

He buzzed his secretary and ordered coffee, then folded his arms and looked at me. “Leroy told me you were coming, and said that this Robert Henry Walker is a childhood friend of yours.
 
Is that true?”

“Yes sir, it is.
 
Henry’s father worked for my grandfather and we spent a lot of time together as kids.
 
When he was arrested, he called me and asked for my help, that’s why I’m here,” I answered frankly.

“It is a bad situation, Carson, and it’s probably going to get worse before it gets better, but I guess you already know that.
 
So what can I help you with this morning?” Judge Graves was being brief and direct.

His secretary entered unannounced and sat two cups of coffee on the edge of his desk.
 
I thanked her and then waited until she left and closed the door before speaking. “Jack Logan has been trying to reach you and request that you wait about transferring Henry until he can get here.
 
I’m not sure of Jack’s schedule, but I feel sure he will be here tomorrow, at the latest.”

“I’ve seen some messages from Jack, but why is he involved?” He asked bluntly.

“Jack’s representing Henry in this matter!
 
You didn’t know that?” His question caught me off guard.

“Actually, no, I didn’t know that.
 
I have not talked with the prisoner and don’t intend to.”

I really wanted to stand up and shout BIGOT, but exercised restraint and tried to keep my cool. “I wouldn’t have expected you to talk with Henry, but you have talked with Leroy and he knows Jack has been contacted by Henry.
 
In fact, it was Leroy who put Henry in touch with Jack.
 
That’s why Jack has been calling you for the past three days!”

“It’s been two days, Tuesday and yesterday,” he corrected. “And, outside the fact that I have been busy, I typically don’t return calls to out of town lawyers – even those I know.”

This conversation was not going well and we both knew it. “Okay, Judge.
 
Now you know it, so can we delay his transfer until Jack gets here?”

“I see no reason why we can’t wait, unless the DA has some other ideas or objections, and I don’t think he does.
 
I do, however, have another problem,” he said as he leaned back in his oversized chair and stared at me.

“What is the other problem?” He was making me ask.

“I received written notice that Robert Henry Walker was being represented by a Mr. Benjamin Abernathy, he is an attorney out of Nashville.
 
The notice was via a letter that was hand delivered to this office yesterday and I consider it official,” he said frankly.

“What?” I shouted.

“Carson, I did not stutter.
 
Was something unclear?”

“No, just crazy!
 
Does Henry know about this?” I was confused.

“I agree about the crazy part, but you’ll need to ask Henry Walker about Mr. Benjamin Abernathy.
 
The letter that was delivered to me was accompanied by an affidavit signed by Robert Henry Walker.”