Isaac’s Call 4y4k49

Isaac’s Call

A Novel

Cynthia Kuespert

Copyright © 2017 by Cynthia Kuespert. Cover art by Ann Wyllie Jarrett. Author photo by Charles A. Huffman. Images by Charles Ford.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017910711 ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-5434-3577-1 Softcover 978-1-5434-3576-4 eBook 978-1-5434-3575-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 07/22/2017

Xlibris 1-888-795-4274 www.Xlibris.com 761634

Contents

One The Offer

Two A Reverie—1989

Three Storms

Four The Thaw

Five Reality

Six Two-Fourths

Seven Mama

Eight Digging for Pearls

Nine Then Again

Ten Sankofa

Eleven Stories

Twelve Repairs

Thirteen Blind Justice

Fourteen Teamwork

Fifteen Running

Sixteen Truth to Power

Seventeen The Encounter

Eighteen Matters

Acknowledgments

A beautiful blue heron glides freely across the bay, graceful, powerful, and free.

But Isaac thought, it has taken more than five generations for my people’s slow flight to freedom to take wing in this environment.

Map of Chestertown, Maryland

To my husband, Don, this is for you for your ever-steady belief in me.

And with thanks to my muse, Karen Somerville, whose love for all people transcends generations of injustice.

CHAPTER ONE

The Offer

I SAAC DOUGLAS SLIPPED his white Oxford cloth shirt onto his slim frame, fumbled with the top button, and tried without luck to force the tiny button through the starched buttonhole. “Shauna,” he called to his wife, “did the cleaners shrink this shirt?” “Don’t think so,” she hollered back. “Could it be you’ve had too many fried chicken dinners?” Isaac winced, secretly wishing she would be a little more ive of his interest in Maryland politics. Before selecting his tie, he checked his calendar: “8 a.m., meeting with new client; 10 a.m., conference call; 12 noon, lunch with partner.” New entry, written in red by his secretary, said, “2:30 meeting with Governor Adams.” “Hurry down,” Shauna said. “Trey’s got a surprise for you.” “Coming.” “Aa, I see you’re wearing your new tie. Big day?” “Big enough,” Isaac said. Three-year-old Trey impatiently tugged at his daddy’s jacket. “Look, Daddy, look! It sprouted. It’s got a leaf.” Isaac gently held the little paper Dixie cup, filled with black soil, and inspected one tender stem bearing a tiny tendril.

“I planted it myself.” Trey glowed, bouncing his dark curls. “Good job, Trey. Now don’t forget to water it.” Shauna closed the dishwasher door and picked up her car keys and Trey’s costume. “Isaac, I hope you can get away this afternoon to see Trey’s program at school.” “I’m going to be the sunflower, Daddy!” “C’mon, Trey. We’ve gotta go!” she said, blowing a kiss somewhere in Isaac’s direction. It’s spring, so I guess they must be having a unit on growing things, Isaac thought. Isaac’s day went on schedule until 2:15 p.m. when an opposing attorney called, demanding access to a deposition by 5:00 p.m. today. His rant continued for several minutes as Isaac explained that the transcript was being prepared now and the courier would deliver it on time. Isaac looked at his watch. It was 2:25. His throat tightened in a brief moment of panic. With only five minutes to spare, Isaac’s thoughts spun around. I must show respect and not be late for this meeting with the governor. He raced across the brick-paved street that separated his law office from the statehouse in Annapolis, ing his other races on the Chestertown High track team, running the 440 with crowds in the bleachers cheering and hollering from the stands for him to “run, run, run!” He heard applause but knew there were the whispers, the murmurs, and the nodding behind hand-covered lips. “That black boy can really run!” Today he slowed his pace, climbed the steep steps to the rotunda, nodded to the doorman, ignored the ancient elevator, and vaulted up the marble steps, two at a time. He paused outside the governor’s office, caught his breath, straightened his tie, and greeted the receptionist. “I have a two thirty appointment with Governor Adams.” “Yes, he’s expecting you. Come with me,” she said.

Governor Marshall Adams stood by his oversize mahogany desk with his back to the door, shouting into his speakerphone. “Well, find him, dammit! It’s been three weeks!” Frustrated and hot with anger, the governor slammed the phone down and punched the phone’s Off button hard. He was sweating, and his face was still flushed as he turned to greet Isaac. “Pardon me, Isaac, sorry you heard my frustration, but I’m desperate for the police to find Bradley’s killer. We simply must find him.” Adams didn’t need to explain much more. Everyone in Maryland knew about the recent tragedy, the mysterious death of Bradley Reynolds, the announced candidate for lieutenant governor and Adams’ black running mate. He was last seen alive, carrying a picnic basket, while boarding his eighteen-foot American daysailer. Two weeks later, just south of the Severn River, Reynolds’s skull was found, caught in the tongs of a skipjack drudging for oysters, and dumped unceremoniously onto the culling board. The coroner ruled that he had died from a large gunshot wound to his head, possibly self-inflicted. Last week they found his unmanned sailboat floating downstream. Recovering a bit, Adams turned to Isaac, shook his hand, and said, “I didn’t mean to greet you that way. I thank you for coming over. But you might as well know that my hide’s on the line—the hide of the party’s on the line if we can’t get our so-called efficient state police force to catch the killer. Put our best men on the case, but I have no more clues. I’m convinced he didn’t commit suicide. Had no reason, just a happy guy out sailing his sailboat. Someone must’ve had a reason to wipe him out. Did you know him?” “Yes. He was a good man. Do you think he invited some of those union guys out for a sail?” Isaac asked. “More likely it was one of the racist goons fighting to block his parole reform bill.” Isaac knew the “goons.” Now forty years since the last reported lynching, many assumed the cowards in white sheets and pointed hats had disappeared. Isaac knew their venom was still potent and suspected they didn’t want a black man in a powerful office. “Could have been the rockfish poachers getting even,” Adams said.

“Or might have been something personal,” Isaac said. “He’d been seen out with a white woman.” Both men may have been thinking that it could have been that Maryland was not, as some liked to say, ready for a black man to hold a powerful office. Both men paused and looked at the floor, afraid to speculate any more. For just a moment, the two men stood side by side, the fifty-ish Adams and the not-yet-forty-year-old Douglas. Both were energetically handsome. Both were just over six feet, slim, fit, and erect; they were remarkably similar except for their age, their race, and the color of their eyes—Governor Adams’s English gray, Isaac Douglas’s nearly black in contrast to his light honey-colored skin. Motioning to two leather chairs in front of large windows overlooking the bay, Adams said, “C’mon over here, more comfortable. Here, sit down, sit down. We need to talk about something more pleasant. Again, thanks for coming on such short notice. Say, I was watching you out on the club’s course last week. Long straight shot. Lookin’ real good, Isaac. Lookin’ on the top of your game. Shootin’ par?” “Well, not quite, Governor. It’s only about the third time I’ve played and never on that course.” “The club is happy to have you. You’re a natural athlete.” Feeling embarrassed, Isaac knew he must be the only African American in that club. He ed that his high school prom was held there twenty years ago and that his friends were not allowed to attend. Isaac didn’t want to think about that, so he glanced around the room, noting the gallery of portraits of four former governors and the painting of George Washington. Was that the painting by Rembrandt Peale? It didn’t seem the right time to ask. Two flags—the red, white, and blue of the nation and the blue and gold of Maryland—stood at attention behind the governor’s desk, bracketing a large seal of the Commonwealth of Maryland on the wall. Any other day, Isaac would have been interested in studying the artifacts enclosed in the display cases, but today he was curious to learn why he had been summoned and could see that, after these formalities, the governor was ready to get on with their meeting. Mustering his self-control, he tried to remain calm.

Isaac watched as Adams leaned forward and pressed the tips of his fingers together like a church steeple. In other meetings, Isaac had noticed this habit, which usually meant that the governor was about to deliver his compelling, irrefutable opinion. Usually, no one escaped from that sanctuary because the subject, whatever it was, was not debatable. “Isaac, I confess I’ve watched you, not just on the golf course but in your testimony before the House of Delegates and before the court. I’ve got a tough election coming up in just five months. Frankly, we’re in a tough spot. Reynolds’s death leaves a big void on the ticket. What’s even worse, it exposes our sloppy state police work and crooked prison system since there is a rumor that they may be involved.” Isaac cleared his throat and paused before interrupting Adam’s monologue. “Yes, I understand,” he said. Adams rushed on. “We’ve got work to do. Got lots of work to do. I want a strong, new face on my team. Someone who can head the Governor’s Small Business Commission, someone who can help us regulate pollution, someone who can stand up against the lobby protecting high health costs.” Then looking directly at Isaac, he said, “Isaac, you’re the man for the job. I want you to be on my team, running with me. I want you to be Maryland’s next lieutenant governor.” It was a statement more than a request. People did not say no to Governor Adams. Isaac’s hand flew up to cover his mouth. For a second, his eyes closed. Regaining some composure, Isaac repeated with amazement, “Lieutenant governor? Lieutenant governor?” “That’s what I said!” To cushion Isaac’s shock, Adams stood up and walked toward his trophy case. “Maybe this will help you.” Adams picked up a small bronze statue of a naval seaman. Dressed in a navy pea jacket and flat plebe’s cap, the figure’s hands were thrust deep into his pockets. “This is what I do when I need to make a big decision,” he said as he placed the miniature sculpture lovingly on the table facing Isaac. The legs of the seaman

were planted forcefully on the ground, seeming to brace the plebe against a strong wind. “Have you ever seen the The Lone Sailor, the sculpture outside the Navy Memorial in Washington?” Adams asked. “He’s a bluejacket who represents all the past, present, and future seamen. He stands alone, duffel bag and gear beside him, ready to report for duty. Braced for turbulent seas. My dad was the model for the seaman, so the sculptor gave him this small bronze replica of the larger sculpture. When I need strength, Isaac, I just consult this likeness of my father. I ask him if I’m doing the right thing.” He handed the seaman to Isaac. Isaac turned it around and studied the faraway look of stubborn determination on the replica’s face. He seemed young yet a seagoing veteran. Isaac wondered, Could my father have looked like this? Before the boating accident, was my father tough or gentle, wise or a coward? Was he white or black? Why have I never asked Mama? Did I think it would make her too sad? How odd I never knew him. Carefully, he gave it back to Adams. Seeing Isaac’s faraway look, Adams wrapped his linen pocket-handkerchief loosely around the bronze figure, gave it a few polishing strokes, and put back in the case. Thinking that Adams was very lucky to have such a father, Isaac finally asked, “What would your father say?” “He always asked, ‘Is your com pointed due north?’ I never saw my dad steer away from his course.” “Tell me more.” “He was asking, ‘Are you doing something you believe in?’” Adam’s gray eyes stared directly at Isaac. “Doing what’s right, regardless of the risk. You know, Isaac, in this job, many times, I need to stand alone. Being at the top is a lonely course. I’d like to have you stand with me.” Isaac wished he had a father he could ask. But he liked Marshall Adams, knew of his ion for reform, knew him to be honest and sensed that the governor’s favorite phrase, “Doing what’s right, regardless of the risk,” was more than a campaign slogan. “I like that, sir. What thorny issues are you expecting?”

“Some of my ideas are not popular, so it won’t be an easy ride. We’ve always got the budget issues, pollution regulation, pressure to build casinos, and now the drastic need for prison reform.” “Since I’ve never held elective office, why did you pick me? Looks like you want to replace one African American with another black candidate. Sounds risky.” “I will not cave in to racists. Would you?” Before Isaac could answer, Adams went on. “Like I said, I want a fresh face, someone without baggage.” Isaac was skeptical. A fresh black face? Someone, as the fans in the bleachers used to say, “someone who runs like the wind.” “I’ll have t’give this a lot of thought. Taking time away from my practice will have a big effect on my three partners, although we have hired two more associates recently. And frankly, I’m not sure what Shauna will think.” “I hope you’ll think fast. I know I’m asking a lot from you. But the election is just 145 days from today. We’ve got work to do with the unions, the watermen. We need the Democratic caucus on our side and we need to start working with the committee. Got t’get name recognition for you. Personally, I sure like the sound of ‘Adams and Douglas.’” “Does have a certain ring to it.” Isaac smiled. “Lots of close races this year. Isaac, I want you to come aboard. We’ll be a great team. So talk to the little lady, talk to your partners, and get back to me in a few days. By Monday would be OK.” Interview over, the governor stood up, pressed his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and escorted him to the door. Isaac thanked him for the honor and nodded politely but wordlessly to the secretary on his way out. So many leaders had ed through these halls. Isaac wondered if they ever felt as unprepared as he did at this moment. He felt plucked out of his comfortable routine, a busy life but one he could manage. He owed his time to his firm, to Shauna, and especially to little Trey. Shauna and he had worked hard to build a comfortable life together. Would the stress and the extra work erode their private life?

Yet in 2012, it was a chance to prove another black man could lead. Isaac knew it was here, 225 years ago, that Washington delivered his famous speech reg as head of the Continental army. Was that a tough decision? Did he also feel alone? Symbolically, it meant that the country would be governed by civilian, not military, rule. Symbolism, leadership, risk—is this the stuff expected of leaders every day in public office? How will I balance my personal risk and values with what’s right for the state? Does it fit with my ambitions? Do I want to be a successful lawyer or a judge, or do I want to be elected to high office? Head spinning, Isaac grasped the handrail and walked slowly down the marble steps leading to the first floor of the rotunda. He longed for a father like the navy seaman. As he was leaving the statehouse, the faithful white security guard nodded, opened the heavy outside door, and greeted him by saying, “Mighty fine day out there, Mr. Douglas.” “Nearly perfect, Sam.” “Taking work home again?” “Sure, no rest for the… ?” His voice trailed off, but he savored the moment, unusual even in these days. Still stunned by the governor’s request, Isaac strolled, trancelike, around the brick walkway circling the lawn in front of the statehouse. Breathless, he sat for a moment on one of the ornate iron benches and watched four adults herd a crowd of unruly children up the steps. He saw costumed guides who regularly conducted field trips for Maryland children to see the capital. Would they understand the power of this place, the oldest capital in the nation? The bell in the tower rang three times, suddenly reminding Isaac that, being Wednesday, it was his turn to pick up Trey from play school. But first, he had to stop by his office. A brass plaque, “Thompson, Cohen, Funk, and Douglas,” marked the entrance to his office in a two-story brick building built in 1885. Cohen had pushed the firm to rent on this spot, opposite the capital and courthouse, because it made their new firm look well established, solid. “In a rush, Mr. Douglas?” asked Gloria, the receptionist.

“Yes. Can you help me?” “Sure. Anytime.” “Just let me dictate an e-mail to the partners. Better send it to the associates too.” “Ready.” “Dear colleagues. It is urgent that I meet with all of you tomorrow (Thursday) at nine a.m. to discuss an opportunity that may have a significant impact upon this firm. I must make a decision by Monday but first need your evaluation and . If you are in court or have another unchangeable obligation, please let me know so we can talk privately. Thank you.” “That’s all?” she asked. “Quite enough. Oh yes, sign it ‘cordially, Isaac.’ And thanks a lot. I’ve got to run.” “As always.” She shrugged. He hauled his briefcase to the statehouse parking lot, unlocked the car, hung up his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, turned on the stereo, and shut out the moist air wafting in from the bay. It was one of those moments when he asked himself, How did I get here? He had just come from a meeting with the governor; had been asked to run for the second-highest elected office in Maryland; lived in a charming, historic town; had a beautiful wife, a healthy son, and a busy law practice; and was a long way from being the great-grandson of a slave lynched in front of the courthouse in Chestertown. He pulled out of the parking lot and drove down the narrow street circling the harbor. A group of tourists dressed in docksiders and nearly identical Izod shirts crossed in front of him, oblivious to traffic or Isaac’s state of mind, so intent were they, gawking at the luxurious sailboats anchored at the dock. During the familiar short route to Trey’s school, he wondered again why the governor wanted him, a political novice, on the ticket. The most obvious answer was that he might need him to get the black vote. But was that realistic? Which groups would help him? The black ministers’ society? The caucus of black attorneys?

His own church? It didn’t seem like a very long list. He knew the groups who would oppose him. Almost all rednecks. The stillactive and murderous KKK. Even a few black groups, now that he was obviously upscale. Isaac had earned the enmity of poor blacks and revengeful fanatics. They would claim he was out of touch. What would Shauna think? How would this affect little Trey? Would his law partners agree? How would time spent in politics affect his career? Sweating profusely, he turned the AC to high. Oh my God, he thought, I missed Trey’s program. Trey was near the curb, holding hands with his teacher and two playmates, and still singing, “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.” “We was playin’ London Bridges, Daddy!” “Sounds like great fun.” “Too bad you missed the program, Mr. Douglas.” It was a statement from his teacher. Although a wave of guilt hit him, Isaac managed to say, “Sorry I missed your program, sport,” as he swung Trey up in his arms for a big hug. Since there was no explanation suitable for a three-year-old, Isaac ignored the teacher’s accusatory look. “Well, children are very forgiving,” she murmured under a raised eyebrow. After settling Trey into his car seat, Isaac said, “By the way, sport, we say ‘we were playing,’ OK?” Last year the young Douglas family had moved into a new three-story condo in a mixed neighborhood at the end of a cul-de-sac populated by professional families with a few, but not many, children. A two-stall garage occupied most of the lower level. An L-shaped living / dining room and kitchen on the second level were usually bathed in light from large Palladian windows overlooking a park. Two bedrooms and a small study filled the third floor. It was a home they could grow into. A home where Trey could play safely, so different from the homes Isaac and Shauna grew up in over in Chestertown. Near home, Trey

bounced up and down, begging to be a postman. Carrying mail from the box at the end of the wide driveway up to Isaac and Shauna’s condo made their threeyear-old feel very grown-up. A little reluctantly, Isaac said, “OK, OK, Trey, but be careful.” Trey jumped out of the car, skipped happily toward the street, and then glanced back and flashed his daddy one of his ready smiles, so like his mother’s when she was happy. On tiptoe, he tugged open the latch and pulled out a bunch of circulars, some magazines, and a few letters bound together by a rubber band. He lugged the pile of mail up the driveway to meet his father. Trey pointed his light-brown finger to one of the addresses and asked, “Daddy, what does this say?” “That’s my name. Well, it’s your name too. See, it says ‘Isaac.’” Trey was eager to read, so Isaac started to spell. “I-s-a-a-c.” “No, I’m ‘Trey.’” “Yes, ‘Trey’ is your nickname. Trey means three. We call you Trey because you are the third Isaac in our family. Trey, I want you to be proud of your real name, ‘Isaac.’” Isaac’s thoughts went back again to 1918 when the first Isaac risked everything and lost his life by secretly teaching himself to read. Risk seems to be our lot. Risk, progress, and then more risk, he thought as he watched Trey juggle the heavy pile of mail. “Here, Daddy,” Trey said, transferring the heavy, disorderly burden to Isaac. Stuffed into the pile of ubiquitous circulars was a large envelope with no return address, only his home address scrawled in an unsteady hand. Tucking the load of mail under his arm, Isaac handed Trey the key to the front door. “Well, now, big man, can you help me unlock the door?” Trey struggled awkwardly with the key and then, with a little more help, proudly opened the door. In the kitchen, Isaac poured a glass of milk for his son, then he set most of the mail aside but tore open the large envelope addressed, curiously, to “Isaac T. Douglas, lawyer.” Six pages of a yellow legal pad were covered in

the same script, some of it barely readable. As he suspected, the signature was from James Randolph Worthington IV, known to all as Cap’n Jim, written from his prison cell at the Maryland House of Correction.

Dear Isaac, I’ve lived in this madhouse for five hellish years. Yesterday, I was visited (finally) by a doctor—(because my ankles are swollen.) In fact, I’ve almost lost all feeling in my feet, can hardly walk. You know what it’s like trying to walk when you can’t feel your fuck—ing feet? I doubt it. Well, anyway, the doctor says I’ve got advanced diabetes, type 2, I think he said. He said the only way to slow it down was to control what I eat. Ha! Control! Is he kidding? I’ve got to eat what they give me or starve!

“Can I have another cookie? Are you reading a story? Can you read it to me?” Trey asked, pointing to the yellow pages. “Yes, you can have another cookie, and now I need to read this letter.” Trey scampered off, cookie in hand, looking for his Lego set. Isaac didn’t think he would ever be ready to tell Trey the whole story about how the Worthington and Douglas families have been woven and tangled together. For over one hundred years, the Worthingtons had the power. Now helpless, the white descendant of his great-great-grandmother’s master was confined in prison and the roles were reversed. Isaac grabbed a cold glass of water and leafed through the rambling letter, wondering why Cap’n Jim, the modern-day scion of the white part of his family, was writing now. His conviction for second-degree murder and the reckless use of a firearm was five years ago. While he’d always cursed like a crusty old sailor and been somewhat on the rough side, now his writing was desperate as well as profane. What did he want? After five pages of disted thoughts, Isaac found his plea:

Isaac, you’re a big deal lawyer now. You know the ropes. There was a lot said in that courtroom that didn’t hold water. Lies. I didn’t kill that kid. Only time I even used a gun was for duck hunting or maybe for aiming up the air to scare kids away from the dock. Didn’t even own a rifle, just a shotgun. I’ve known you all your life. You must some good times at the Devon and everything that Miss Marion did for you. Don’t you think you could help me get out of here— maybe get a pardon from the governor? You know what to do. If you don’t, I’ll die here soon. Please come visit me so we can talk. Please.

Hopefully, James R. Worthington IV

Isaac pushed the letter away, hid it underneath his copy of the Maryland Bar Association journal, and loosened his tie. How dare this ghost of his past intrude in his life now? As though he didn’t already have enough on his mind. The nerve of that man! Just typical that a wealthy white man thinks he’s got more rights than our brothers. See him? Not now. Maybe not ever. Trey was tugging at his sleeve. “Daddy, can you make me a peanut-butter-andjelly san’wich? Isaac breathed deeply and pushed down his rising anger before covering a piece of bread with an extra-thick glob of peanut butter. Trey gulped his milk down in grateful slurping sounds. “When’s Mommy comin’ home?” “In an hour or so, after your nap. Now finish your sandwich and let’s go find Waldo.” Isaac garnered in his patience and hoped he could forestall his own rapidly growing fatigue. Fortunately, Trey fell asleep in his arms while he was carrying him upstairs.

Downstairs the late afternoon sunlight filtered into the Douglas’ living room through the small slats of vertical blinds. Isaac closed them tight, removed his shoes, and fell into his leather recliner, cradled in the peaceful atmosphere Shauna and he had created as their retreat from the world. He closed his eyes, sighed deeply, and in just moments, a slide show on fast-forward projected image after image onto the screen under his eyelids: the earnest face of Governor Adams, Maryland’s state flag, the small replica of The Lone Sailor, an oyster boat, a culling board, the gentle hands of Miss Marion, and finally, an aging inmate in a sailor’s cap and a Department of Corrections jumpsuit, with shackles binding his distended ankles. It was 1989 again.

CHAPTER TWO

A Reverie—1989

W HEN HE WAS nearly sixteen, like all other juniors at Chestertown High School, Isaac was itching to learn to drive. But unlike his white classmates, he knew he probably couldn’t qualify for drivers’ education. The permission form read as follows:

Must be signed by a licensed Maryland driver, a parent, or a guardian, responsible for supervising twenty-five practice hours with the student.

Isaac’s heart sank. He had no father, and his mama hadn’t learned to drive because she had never owned a car. Isaac pushed the permission slip down into his backpack along with other impossible dreams, like the order form for the twenty-dollar yearbook. That afternoon he stayed late at school to help his English teacher edit a few short stories for the students’ literary journal, so it was after four o’clock when he finally started slowly down the steep steps of the school, heading home. He was alone that day although, usually, his mama walked with him after finishing her shift at the hospital. During their eight-block walk home, Mama would pepper him with mother-type questions: “Isaac, did you do well on your math exam?” or “Have you finished reading Moby Dick?” That afternoon he turned right one block before the First National Bank to avoid suspicious glances from a cluster of men in dark suits, descendants of slaveholders. He despised their air of superiority, their patronizing glances, and their self-serving sense of charity. He imagined that the colonial merchants, captains, and shipbuilders who had founded Chestertown in the early eighteenth

century must have staked out that exclusive corner not far from their elegant homes along the river. Their cultivated tones of English gentility still reigned over the town and, not incidentally, attracted tourists eager to step back into another century. Isaac especially loathed the ancestors of these men, those plantation owners who kept his ancestors in slavery and raped and lynched them. The only way to win was to play their game. Someday he’d ignite the bile stored in his core, blast off, and show them. He’d win. He’d hide his hatred, study hard, get good grades, and use his brain to escape their grip. He’d pretend, be a hypocrite and grovel, if necessary. This afternoon he’d pretend that he was more comfortable walking down streets in the colored section of town where the blight of these streets were hidden from iring tourists and were not on the map of walking tours. He was lost in thought. With each step, Isaac kicked a small rock, letting it roll ahead of him before he tapped it again. The repetitive sound of kick, tap, roll, kick, tap, roll helped him think. At the next corner, he walked faster, ignoring a curly-headed girl who was sitting on her dilapidated porch. She was just a freshman and always seemed too interested in him. He wasn’t in the mood to flirt. Anyhow, she was too young. He just wanted to find someone who would sign the permission slip. Who would spend twenty-five hours supervising his driving? If his Granddaddy Jake were alive, he might have helped. But he died nine years ago. Isaac had no brothers, no uncle nearby, and couldn’t think of anyone with a car. He was tired of worrying about where to walk and just wanted to learn to drive. Facing a sharp breeze blowing into town from the Chester River, he zipped up his old windbreaker and stretched it over his long schoolboy arms. He headed home—the small home that former slave owners had given to his family, the Douglases. It was a tiny three-bedroom house near the river, barely twelve feet wide, on the colored end of the street. Mama and he still lived there, as had four generations of Douglases. Their house was just one short, but well-separated, block from the Devon, the mansion owned by the Worthingtons. Sometimes Isaac was grateful for the proximity—still one of several strings tying the families together. Ever since Isaac could , the present-day doyenne of the Worthingtons, Miss Marion, had always been kind to him, had showed him respect, had been ready to listen, had been ready to lend him a book, and had frequently slipped

him a few dollars to buy school supplies. She was the only white person he trusted. Confusing cords of black conflict and white gratitude were twisted together in Isaac’s teenage brain. He couldn’t forget Mama’s stories about the years of his ancestors’ servitude to the Worthingtons; the hot days when his great-grandmother, MizSue, eight months pregnant, hauled wet laundry up circular stairs; the rape of MizSue’s mother, Mattie, by Randolph Worthington. He wished Mama had not told him those stories. As Isaac got closer to home, the wind was blowing hard, creating whitecaps that stirred up the river. He pulled up his collar, buried his nose into his jacket, and nearly missed his mama’s call coming from the Worthingtons’ house. “Isaac! Isaac, baby! Isaaaaaac!” she yelled. “I’m over here. C’mon in!” She waved from the side door on the lower level of the Devon. “Isaac, c’mon in. It’s windy out there!” He ran toward the warmth of the Worthingtons’ downstairs kitchen, where the servants gathered. Often it was filled with aromas and memories he’d known since childhood—the yeastiness of rising bread, the pungency of curried chicken, the fragrance of an apple pie fresh from the oven. “Hi, Mama! I had to stay at school later, so I missed you. What’cha doing here?” “After work, I came to check on Miss Marion and help with a few chores. She’s had a bad couple of days.” Mama, Kate Douglas, once a full-time servant in the Worthingtons’ household, had become a licensed practical nurse, thanks to Miss Marion’s sponsorship of her education. Isaac could not understand how the two women, one black and one white, shared a rare friendship, forged long ago. After Miss Marion’s stroke, Mama visited her regularly. “C’mon upstairs to see her. Y’always cheer her up!” Together Isaac and Kate climbed the winding staircase that led from the downstairs kitchen near the former servants’ quarters up to the first-floor sitting room, just off the veranda, overlooking the river. Miss Marion’s wheelchair faced the river. An afghan she usually kept around her thin shoulders had slipped to the floor. Isaac picked it up and draped it gently around her.

“That better, Miss Marion?” “Much better. Much better, Isaac.” She smiled a crooked smile before asking, “What’s new with you?” “Not much.” “Now wait a minute,” she insisted. “There must be something.” She knew sixteen-year-olds needed to be prompted. When Isaac still didn’t offer any news, she sensed something was troubling him. “Isaac. What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” “You know, Isaac, I’ve known you all your life. I can tell when something is bothering you.” It was like having two mothers who both read your mind, so he finally confessed that he couldn’t figure out how to find someone who would help him learn to drive. “But you don’t have a car,” she said before adding, “but I suppose you’ve figured that out.” “Yes, ma’am. I’m going to wash and paint boat bottoms next summer at the marina, earn enough to buy a clunker. Then I can take Mama where she needs to go.” Marion Worthington gently waved her blue-veined hand in a motion Mama recognized. She was asking Kate to move her wheelchair closer to Isaac. “I’ve got an idea.” Miss Marion leaned close and whispered in his ear. “It may take a while for me to put my plan into action. But I promise you that within the week, I will convince Cap’n Jim to volunteer”—she laughed—“to volunteer to be your supervisor. Now give me that permission slip!” Even from her wheelchair, she knew she had that much influence over her husband. “But he doesn’t even like me,” Isaac protested. Cap’n Jim embodied all that

Isaac resented about wealthy, disrespectful, and arrogant white folks. He hated the idea of being beholden to him. But Isaac was out of options. Less than a week later, on the following Saturday, Isaac was raking his tiny yard, pushing the small pile of leaves into a plastic bag, when he saw Mama rushing down the street, waving a white piece of paper. “He signed it! He signed it, Isaac!” Mama was crying. Sure enough, there was Cap’n Jim’s signature down at the bottom of his driver’s education permission form. Isaac faced a mixed blessing and no other choice—twenty-five hours of confinement in a car with Cap’n Jim belittling him or not learning to drive. It was another time to pretend, to put on the grateful face.

<<<>>>

The neighbor’s dog barked and barked again, interrupting Isaac’s reverie just before he heard the motor of Shauna’s car in the driveway.

CHAPTER THREE

Storms

C AP’N JIM’S LETTER was still resting on his lap when he heard the sound of the garage door closing. Still a little groggy, Isaac quickly tucked the letter out of sight, under a cushion. He waited for the next explosion. Shauna rushed in, declaring, “Damn those parents. God, they can be demanding!” Isaac was good at short power naps and had trained himself to wake up quickly, quickly enough to understand that his wife had had another bad day at the issions office, juggling requests from parents of plebes entering the United States Naval Academy. After Shauna dropped her briefcase in the hall, she spotted Isaac still stretched out in his chair. “Ooh, I’m sorry, Isaac. Were you resting? Here’s the evening paper.” She knelt down beside him and hugged his leg. Isaac thought that he would probably never understand this complex young woman—aggressive one moment, tender the next. Was she still the nappy-haired little girl he ignored when he ed her house in Chestertown or the Afro-coiffed sophomore who lingered after high school to catch a glimpse of Isaac? She had matured since the time when, sporting tightly braided cornrows, she had led a sit-in in Wilmington. Then, shifting gears completely, she had modeled clothes for Neiman Marcus for a couple of years. Now she was a loving mother, his voracious lover, and an accomplished professional woman with straightened, relaxed hair, dressed meticulously in her gray shantung suit and conservative black pumps. She kept him guessing, and he craved every side of her beauty, her gutsiness. Besides, she wanted him, any way he could give it to her, and often. He enveloped her in a hungry embrace, knowing he had a lot to tell her but not yet. “Chardonnay or shiraz?” Isaac asked.

“Both!” “Ch-Raz it is,” he kidded. “And a little bruschetta?” “Pulleeze, sir,” she said while running upstairs. “I’ll be down in a minute. Want to change into something more comfortable.” “Yumm!” Isaac bowed majestically and pantomimed draping a napkin over his arm before heading for the kitchen. “Is Trey awake yet?” she asked. As if on cue, they heard little footsteps coming down to meet his mama on the stairs. Trey tumbled sleepily toward her, pulled her down on a step, jumped up onto her lap, and wrapped his arms around her neck. “How’s my big guy?” she asked, giving him a big hug. “Mommy, I got t’be de postman.” “You’re such a big boy! Tell Daddy I’ll be right back.” Isaac called after her. “Did you have another day fending off demanding parents? Tell me about it.” “Be right down.” Shauna changed quickly into a pair of comfortable, slightly worn capris and a matching lime-green T-shirt. “Oh, God,” she called, “you wouldn’t believe it. They act like little Johnny has never been away from home. If he hasn’t, he shouldn’t be comin’ to the academy.” “Aren’t they recommended for ission?” “Yeah, by some local politician who doesn’t even know the kid.” “Well, anchors aweigh, my boy!” “Yeah, Papa and Mama’s anchors are thrown away!” Shauna released a slow smile and raised her glass. They settled in for their usual decompression. Behind his newspaper, Isaac was wondering which piece of news to lay on Shauna first.

He needed to let her relax. Then he could give her the potentially good news, his meeting with the governor. He read her moods and knew which discussion needed to be first. But it needed a better setting, ideally a fancy restaurant with more wine, but it was too late to find a babysitter. “Trey, Mommy’s had a big day at work, so what say? Shall we take her out for a pizza?” “A pizza, a pizza, a red-and-yellow pizza,” he sang, inventing new words for “ATisket A-Tasket.” Isaac returned the wine glasses and the empty bruschetta plate to the kitchen. He jiggled his keys and called, “Let’s go, troops!” “Yeah, anchors aweigh, my boys,” Shauna sang. “Where are we going?” “Let’s go to that gourmet pizza place near the statehouse.” “I’m not sure we are dressed properly for that place,” said Shauna. Isaac was dressed in a plaid, open-neck sport shirt. Trey was wearing an oversize Baltimore Orioles T-shirt, slightly wrinkled from his nap. “Oh, we’ll be OK,” said Isaac. “Trey, this is kind of a grown-up place, so you’ll have to be good.” Now in the mood to celebrate, Isaac put the Mercedes’s top down while Shauna made fussing sounds about her hair blowing in the wind. The Caucus Bistro, facing State Circle, was not ideal, but at least it was in the right location. Isaac asked the maître d’ if they could be seated at the empty table by the window facing the capital. The maître d’ paused, scrutinized Isaac’s trio, and said, “I’m sorry. That table is taken.” “Are you sure?” Isaac raised the challenge. “Let me check,” he answered. Isaac knew the familiar dance. Predictably, the maître d’ returned, explaining the reservation had just been cancelled.

Finally seated, they ordered plain tomato-and-cheese pizza for Trey, crab with anchovies and artichokes for themselves, and two glasses of wine. A few lights twinkled behind the large windows facing the park. A spotlight lit up the large dome. What had looked imposing and a little frightening this afternoon was pretty and inspiring by night. “Trey, do you know why this place is important?” “I dunno.” “This is the oldest capital in America. Very big decisions are made here.” “It’s big!” Trey looked impressed. “Yes”—and pointing up to the dome—“that’s the largest dome in the country. No nails, just wooden pegs to hold it together.” “Pegs, like my carp-ters bench? How did they get it way up there?” Trey asked. “It wasn’t easy. They must have had big cranes,” Isaac said as the three of them craned their necks to see the top. “Do you see the lightning rod that pierces it?” Dinner was over. Before leaving, Isaac faced the maître d’ and gave him his calling card and a few sharp words—“never do that again or I’ll report you.” Isaac carried Trey on his shoulders, took Shauna’s hand, and led them across the brick-paved street toward Maryland State House, the highest point in Annapolis. “Look, Trey,” Shauna said. “Now see the rod and the dome in the shape of an acorn.” “Can you guess who invented that?” Isaac asked, raising his eyebrows. “I know, actually. Ben Franklin,” Shauna said. “It was a political statement against King George, who didn’t have such a good lightning rod. The colonies were saying ‘we don’t need you. We’re going to be an independent country!’” “Your mommy’s a smart lady.” “What’s an ah-con?”

“An a-corn, Trey. Well, an acorn is like a seed. It’s a little seed that starts a whole oak tree growing.” “Like you, Trey,” Shauna said. “Someday you’ll be big, like an oak tree. Like Daddy.” “I’m big now,” Trey insisted, clapping his hands and starting a ripple of laughter that carried all of them toward the capital and up to the marble pillars by the entrance. A breeze blew in from the harbor, and the bells chimed eight bells. The last light of the sunset was barely visible. Isaac knew this was the moment he needed. “Let’s rest on the bench,” Isaac said. The sound of a boat’s horn echoed up from the harbor. There could be no more stalling. Shauna was looking a little suspicious. He took her hand and pulled a squirmy Trey onto his lap. “Shaun, I’ve got some big news.” “Oh, no,” she said without thinking. “Oh, yes, although I don’t know what you meant by ‘oh no.’” “Go on, I’m sorry.” “Here it is! Today I had an appointment with the governor.” “Why?” “Because he wanted to ask me to run.” “What’s that, Mommy?” asked Trey, pointing to a seagull. “It’s a seagull,” Shauna said, missing what Isaac was saying. “He asked me to run,” Isaac stammered on, “with him, with Adams. You know, he is running for reelection, needs a good ticket, it’s next November, not far off, really will be a tight race . . .” “Isaac, what are you saying? Why did he want to see you?”

“Like I said, to run on his ticket.” His delivery was not going well. “As what? Dogcatcher?” Her nose twitched. “Oh blast it! For Lew-ten-it-gov-nor, lieutenant governor!” “Oh my God! To run for lieutenant governor! Oh my God!” This time, she heard him. Trey had jumped off the bench and was running down the steep hill. “Catch him, Isaac! Get him before he falls!” Isaac raced toward Trey, caught him, hoisted him onto his shoulder, tripped over the in-ground lawn sprinkler, regained his balance, and breathlessly, sank down beside Shauna again. “Well, counselor, for your first act in this august setting, you’re pretty impressive!” Isaac caught his breath, explaining, “Adams says he wants me to be on his team because I’d be a strong new face. He wants me to take a lead in legislation to protect the bay from pollution, to regulate overfishing, to help keep health costs reasonable in Maryland and… so on.” “That’s huge, Isaac. Good God, imagine all the campaigning you’ll have to do. Up and down the state, chicken dinners, handshaking, rallies, kissing babies— well, you’re good at that!” She was astonished but still in high spirits. They talked more. They walked around the capital, keeping a tight grip on Trey. Then, suddenly, Shauna ed, stopped, covered her mouth. “But… but… oh God, I just ed. Bradley Reynolds! That’s why Adams asked you now! Oh, no! Oh, no you don’t. He’s just lookin’ for another black face!” “Shauna, we don’t know why that happened. It could have been by his own hand.” “I’m not sacrificing you… don’t give a shit for what cause it’d be! No! No!”

“Shauna, I’ll have police protection while I’m campaigning. If he was done in, then it’s over. They’ve done their dirty work. I’d be a whole new face, no threat to anyone.” “Not yet, anyhow.” As usual, Isaac knew his wife’s pattern was to explode like a roman candle and then, rather quickly, to simmer down. “What will your partners say?” “I’ll meet with them tomorrow.” Her hands fluttered as if trying to catch a coherent thought. “Why would you want to do this?” she asked. “To make a difference. To be a leader. To show the world that an African American can do what’s right. Let’s walk some more. Here, give me your hand.” Quietly, they circled the capital again, around Lawyers’ Mall. Shauna’s breathing seemed to slow down a little. Isaac guided them toward the middle of the mall, toward the statue of Thurgood Marshall, the first black Supreme Court justice. “Let’s stop here,” Isaac said. Putting his arms around both Shauna and Trey, he continued, “Look at Chief Justice Marshall. What risk did he take in his career? Do you think his family ed him? Shauna, Trey, we can do this,” he said, with an emphasis on the we. “It might even be fun.” “Could I come with you sometimes?” Shauna asked. “Every time that you can.” “I suppose it’s not always the rubber-chicken circuit. Might even be some nice state dinners. But I’ll worry about you.” Isaac could sense a slight change and grabbed on to the positives. “Yes, state occasions. Think of all the interesting, powerful people you’ll meet.” “Isaac, I know how much you have to give, how smart you are. Maybe this really is your chance.” She pulled her sweater tightly around her shoulders, trembled a bit. “It scares me, but I can almost see you way up there,” she said, pointing, “way up there presiding over the Maryland State Senate. Me, the wife

of the lieutenant governor, not bad for a poor little pickaninny waif from Chestertown.” “Not bad at all. I can see you in your beautiful ball gown. You’ll be my secret weapon. Think of all the votes I’ll get because I’ve got the hottest wife on the trail.” “On your trail.” “On your tail!” They laughed—a proud, anxious, and excited laugh. It was time to go home, to get Trey to bed. Trey was tucked in without a reading of Goodnight Moon or another search for Waldo. Shauna showered and dressed in her iridescent nightgown while Isaac put on his new silk pajamas and splashed on some extra cologne. While Isaac was checking his e-mail, Shauna went downstairs, poured a glass of milk, and sunk into Isaac’s leather chair. She adjusted the pillow behind her back and felt the rustle of paper, an envelope stuffed with several pages of scrawling on yellow legal-sized paper. “What’s this?”

CHAPTER FOUR

The Thaw

I SAAC WAS ON the bottom step of the staircase, ready to scoop her up into his arms, but stopped suddenly when he heard her voice. “Who’s this from?” Her voice was thin and sharp. “Shuush, Shauna. You’ll wake Trey.” He watched her riffling through the pages still looking for the writer. “What is this? Why did you hide it?” “It’s just a pathetic letter from old Cap’n Jim.” “When were you going to tell me about it?” “Sometime soon, but not now. You look so gorgeous—let’s just forget it tonight.” “Not on your life. I need to know what you received and why you hid it. C’mon, Counselor, give!” “OK, OK. Calm down. I just didn’t want to ruin our evening with this business. Here, give it to me.” Isaac took Cap’n Jim’s sloppy, voluminous letter, straightened out the pages, and began to read it to her. Cap’n Jim spun through twenty-three years of Worthington-Douglas events in dizzyingly rapid recollections: teaching Isaac to drive during his junior year at Chestertown High School, Miss Marion’s insistence that she send Isaac to college and law school, Miss Marion’s death, his own trial, his conviction. Isaac itted he could taste the captain’s desperation like the bittersweet flavor of a kumquat orange. But he wanted to spit out the

seeds of obligation sown deeply within him. “You’re not going to see him are you?” she said, more as a statement than a question. “I might.” “You might?” she said, a little too loudly. “Why?” “Obligation, I suppose.” “Oh shit! Forget it. Just forget it!” There was fire in her eyes. “You don’t owe them a thing! Don’t you your mama telling us about the lynchings? Your own great-grandfather! The first Isaac! Don’t you how they killed him—dragged him right out of his own barber shop.” “Yes, I —thought about him twice already today.” “It was gory, brutal, full of so much hate. Claimed Gramps had nicked a white customer on purpose! Hit him with baseball bats, hung him, left him there all night, on the street, to freeze to death just so they could spread the word through the county that there’d be a lynching tomorrow. Like the circus, ‘come see the nigger in a cage, come see him hang,’” she said, imitating a midway barker. “Shauna, calm down. Yes, I the stories.” “Well, maybe you need to hear them again… yeah, they came all right. ’Bout three hundred white folks ready for a good show. Not one of the lily-livered whites tried to intervene or it what they saw. They dragged his almost-frozen body to the bridge. Mama said his buttocks hardly had any skin on it by then… and then . . .” “Shauna, shuss!” “And someone shouted, ‘Anyone want a nigger sandwich!’ Isaac, you don’t want to .” “I do . I just don’t think it does us any good to dredge all that up now.” “So you’re a Whitney Young nigger, right? Do you think any of those lynchers

were arrested? No! No!” “And so I can call you Stokely Carmichael?” “Yeah, that’s right, man. Go, Black Power!” “And go, peacemaking! Can we get back to discussing what is best to do today?” Isaac said. He walked to the kitchen and poured two large glasses of red wine. He decided on a new approach. “Hon, you never really knew Miss Marion.” “Well, I knew who she was—the rich lady livin’ in the mansion by the water. And yes, she did put you through law school. I know I should be grateful. But why did she marry that bigot?” “I’ve told you before. He had a horrible horseback-riding accident. His horse stumbled over a jump, threw him to the ground, fell on top of him.” “Served him right. Guess the wealthy think they’re invincible.” “He had several broken bones and a serious concussion.” “Must have been the concussion that made him so cussed!” “Miss Marion was his nurse during a long rehabilitation. She simply fell in love with him while nursing him back to health.” “Well, he’s still a bastard.” “Bigot or not, everyone is entitled to able representation,” Isaac reminded her. “You’re talking like a lawyer.” “That’s who I am!” “You are also an African American!” she shouted. “You are a descendant of two hundred years of cruelty, violence, denial of rights”—her voice was shrill—“and now some white man is in jail, begging you, and you are thinking about getting him out! I can’t believe this, Isaac. You don’t what we’ve been through?” She stood up and circled the room, palms pumping the thick air.

He looked at her lovely, now angry, face and saw the abused, neglected, wretchedly poor child that she had been. “How will you explain this to Trey? Our folks have long memories. So a few years from now, he’ll be kidded by his black classmates. They’ll say his dad sold out, was bought off. Isaac, you know it was a huge trial. Biggest news on the Eastern Shore for years. Black/white tension will start all over again.” She stared at him and put her hands on her hips. Putting on her black voice, she continued. “If ya help him, you ain’t gonna keep this a secret. It’ll be in all them papers. You’re goin’ to run for office. You just told us tonight. Now what are you thinkin’? You’ll lose our sistas’ and brothas’ votes.” “I didn’t say I was going to try to get him out. From the scuttlebutt I’ve heard, there may have been mistakes made in the trial, a very weak defense by that old guy Keating,” Isaac said. “T’was Worthington’s choice. That’s what he got by choosin’ a country-club lawyer. His problem. I can’t believe you’d do this!” Her voice had turned to ice. “I don’t know what I’ll do. Oh, God, I’m so tired. Can’t we just go to bed?” “Not with me, you can’t!” “Oh c’mon, Shauna.” “I don’t sleep with traitors! Good night!” The freeze out had happened before. Shauna was right. There was a lot of history to forgive. Isaac retrieved his pillow from the bedroom, dragged a comforter behind him, and dropped onto the uncomfortable sofa. During the sleepless night, his ancestors—Mattie, MizSue, Ike, Cissy, Jake, and Mama—danced around in his head. What did he owe them? Breakfast the next morning was stilted, quiet. He told Shauna he had set up a meeting with his partners and was hoping she too would wish him luck. She was still frosted but thawed enough to say she’d take Trey to play school. Now he needed to get to the office and prepare for the meeting with J. Roger Thompson, Ben Cohen, Harry C. Funk, and some of the associates. With a feeling of

flatness, it was hard to prepare an enthusiastic pitch. At 10:00 a.m., nearly everyone, including two fresh-faced, recent law school grads, assembled in the conference room, sitting on the edge of their chairs. Isaac started with, “Thanks for coming, everyone. Oh, where’s Ben?” “Up in New York, taking a three-day deposition.” “OK. I’ll catch up with him Monday.” Methodically, Isaac told them all about the meeting with the governor, about his wish that Isaac run for lieutenant governor. He listed the cases currently on his desk: The State v. Gilmore, the State v. Allied Chemical Company, and Van Sickle v. Van Sickle. “I really want your reactions. I know this will have a huge impact on the firm.” J. Roger was the first to respond. “Isaac, I’ve just gotta say, we are damn proud of you. Your prominence will reflect well upon our firm. I don’t quite know how we’ll get along without you. How many hours will it take?” “Campaigning will be nearly full-time between now and November. Once we are elected, I think I’ll be able to handle a couple of cases here, maybe twenty hours a week.” “That’s not much,” said Funk. “How many billable hours have you been posting?” asked J. Roger. “I averaged forty-five hours a week last month.” “That means you’ve been working at least sixty hours a week, right?” “Yes, that’s about right.” The room fell silent. “Do you have some cases I could take over?” asked a new associate. “Sure. Van Sickle v. Van Sickle is a pretty textbook divorce. the State v. Gilmore, not too complicated. I’d keep State v. Allied Chemical—it’s a monster.” “Personally, I think cases are going to flood in here due to your new visibility. We’re still considered a fairly new firm compared to old second- and third-

generation law firms like the Keatings. So we need this kind of stature. But I’m not sure Ben will be in favor.” “And as head of our compensation team,” Isaac said, “he’ll need to consider how I will be compensated during this term. I don’t think Shauna and I can live on the lieutenant governor’s salary.” “Hmmm. Important.” Funk nodded. “I’ll e-mail Ben and set up a meeting with him on Monday. Thanks for your .” J. Roger shook his hand and patted him on the back. Funk offered his congratulations, and the new associates looked a little starstruck. It was time to concentrate on his work. Stacked neatly on his office desk were three indexed notebooks, one for each trial. They were staring up at him, each one demanding attention. He had briefs to write, motions to file, meetings to hold with clients, and two decisions hanging over his head. During the day, he was busy and distracted, so he didn’t try to make either decision. But when he went home, he had time to think. On Thursday night, as he waited for Shauna to get home from a late issions event, he opened a new package of cocktail napkins, arranged them on the coffee table, brought out some cheese and crackers, and waited. He needed her to understand more about the nearly forty years of experiences he had with the Worthingtons. He needed her to feel something in her gut, as he felt the knot in his. His life, her life were what they were because of these people. Shauna finally breezed in, apparently trying to ignore their conflict. They exchanged light pleasantries, slightly warmer than before. “Hey there! Hey, still mad?” he asked. “Not mad. We look at things differently. Can’t stay mad with you. Just concerned.” He stood up and walked very slowly toward her, afraid to break the mood. “Thanks, Shaun-baby. I understand why you’re concerned. There’s a lot of

history that hangs around us, lots of struggles. We hated whites, sometimes. I promise, I’m not forgetting that.” She waved her manicured nails toward the coffee table. “Ooh, I see you’ve got the goodies ready. How did your meeting with Thompson, Cohen, and Funk go?” “Cohen wasn’t there. He’s in New York. Thompson was very ive. Couldn’t tell much about Funk. The associates looked like they couldn’t wait for me to go so they could gobble up some of the cases.” Shauna laughed. “Hmmm. Wonder what Cohen will think.” “Guess we won’t know for a couple of days.” He put his arm around her thin waist, gave her a light hug. “Are you ready to talk about Cap’n Jim?” “Suppose so,” she said. “First, let me tell you that I understand that your childhood was a lot different than mine.” “Much poorer, yes. It left me with some pretty rough edges.” “So how did you become the sophisticated, savvy woman you are today?” “Well, thank you. But I wouldn’t have known how to dress or to speak correctly or anything if it hadn’t been for those patient scout leaders.” “What did they do?” “They told me I could be a model if I would drop my negative attitude, learn how to walk right, sit right, how to be graceful and polite. I really liked that.” “But sometimes the young, poor, little Shauna comes out, right?” “Yes, she does,” Shauna said. “I’m sorry.” “It’s OK. I understand. Most of the time, you are the beautiful model you were trained to be.” “Thank you, Isaac. I want you to be proud of me. I don’t want to be angry

anymore. So now tell me your story.” “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to describe the long relationship between the Worthingtons and the Douglases. I want you to know more about the five generations that preceded me, about how my folks worked for them, about the close, sometimes way too close, relationship, if you get my drift.” “I’m afraid I do! I know you even have some of their blood!” He poured her wine into a long-stemmed glass. “There’s way too much to tell,” he said. “But it’s my crazy relationship with Cap’n Jim that counts. Maybe this one incident will help you understand my quandary. Stop me if you’ve heard this before.” “OK.” She spread another cracker with cheese and leaned back in her chair. Isaac sat on the footstool facing her, his hands palm up. “When I turned sixteen, I really needed a sponsor to help me learn to drive. Without a car, Mama and I had to walk everywhere—and that was getting too hard. So Miss Marion convinced Cap’n Jim to spend at least twenty-five hours supervising my driving. I’ll never forget the day that Mama found out that Cap’n Jim had signed my permission form. She came running down the street, waving the form, and saying, ‘Ya’ better go up there and thank him!’” “You’re a convincing mimic, Isaac. Sounds just like your mama.” “Well, I asked her to give me courage—knew I’d need it! As usual, I entered the Devon through the door to the downstairs kitchen. That gave me a chance to ask the cook if Cap’n Jim was in a good mood. That question was code among servants for ‘has he been drinking?’ or ‘has he cursed at anyone today?’ That happened to be a good day, so I climbed the stairs to the butler’s pantry, still pretty scared. “I heard him calling ‘well, there you are!’ from the front hall when he heard my footfall. As he came toward me, I wondered for a moment if I should shake his hand but rejected that thought. So I just said, ‘Yessir! Yessir! I want to thank you for agreeing to help me learn to drive.’” Isaac changed his voice to become Cap’n Jim’s. “‘Didn’t have much choice did

I? Might as well get started.’ Cap’n Jim glared at me and shot a dirty look toward Miss Marion. I asked him if he meant now!” Shauna smiled, took a few more sips of her wine, and said, “Go on.” “OK. Sometimes, Cap’n Jim sort of mocked my studiousness, so as I , he said, ‘Can you think of any better time? What? Are you just too-too busy studying?’” “See,” Isaac continued, “he didn’t understand that we ‘coloreds’ might want to be good students. But I just said ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and more ‘yes, sirs’ and ‘no, sirs.’ Then he said, ‘C’mon now, Isaac, let’s go get Lil’ Bess. She’s down at the marina.’” “Who was Lil’ Bess?” Shauna asked, getting into the story. “Lil’ Bess was a light-blue ’78 Jeep Scrambler with no roof, just a furled canvas cover, two individual front seats, a very small back seat, and as I learned later, an all-important roll bar,” Isaac said. “He drove us down to his horse farm, about thirty miles, near Easton, driving a little erratically but in a pretty good mood. It was a clear, warm October afternoon, you , when our roads hosted a parade of brilliant fall foliage. I the bright yellows of river birch, shades of bronze in the pin oaks, bursts of scarlet on the hawthorns and dogwood, and warm reds of the sugar maple and ironwood. “Cap’n Jim’s father, the one they called Trip, bought this farm so they could breed race horses. Shauna, that must have been when Cap’n Jim’s parents divorced, and Trip brought Cap’n Jim back from Savannah. He was just twelve years old but loved to ride.” Shauna lowered her gaze and asked, “So James Randolph Worthington III was Cap’n Jim’s daddy, right?” “Right.” “And why did they live in Savannah?” “Because Trip married a Southern belle.”

“And why did he bring his twelve-year-old back to Chestertown?” she asked. “I have been told it was because Trip Worthington couldn’t stand the Southern attitude toward blacks.” “Whoooo!” Shauna nearly whistled. “Go on with your story.” Isaac continued. “Well, when we got to the farm, I saw miles of split-rail fences and a lot of gorgeous horses grazing in the pasture. A large sign at the entrance announced ‘Worthmore Farm.’” “Worth… more!” Shauna laughed. “I bet it was!” “Cap’n Jim turned Lil’ Bess into his long private driveway bordered by a line of sycamore trees. Even after we were on the driveway, it seemed like we drove for a couple more miles toward the house and barns.” Then imitating Cap’n Jim’s droll accent, Isaac said, “OK, this is your practice runway. Don’t think you can hurt anything, ’cept maybe yourself! Just to step on the brake before you hit a tree, and oh yes, it’s a manual shift!” “Cap’n Jim motioned for me to slide into the driver’s seat. Like any teenager, I was nervous and pretended to know more than I did. I had noticed that Cap’n Jim had adjusted the rearview mirror before he started to drive, so I copied that action. But I had no idea what to do next. There were no letters R, D, or P, for “reverse,” “drive,” or “park” like I’d seen in the driver’s education manual. Tentatively, I moved the gearshift gently to the left and then to the right. Nothing happened.” “You’re in neutral, dummy! Can’t get anywhere in that gear!” Isaac said in Cap’n Jim’s voice. “Shauna, I was having a terrible time! I tried to force the gearshift knob to the right and down. The gears squealed as the jeep lurched backward. I slammed on the brake. Cap’n Jim yelled at me, ‘Dammit! Geez, you’re impossible! This is easy. Now go by me! Watch me.’” “We traded seats again,” Isaac explained, “and I tried to absorb his rapid-fire instruction. I really wished I’d counted fewer geese and paid more attention to his driving on our trip down to the farm.”

Shauna stood up, came over to Isaac, and ruffled his hair, “You funny, woollyheaded, impractical egghead!” She laughed as she watched Isaac stand up and imitate the next steps. “Now see what happened next,” Isaac said, acting out the steps. “Cap’n Jim gave me these instructions. He just said, ‘To start, press your left foot in on the clutch, then shift. The gears are arranged just like the letter H. Let up on the clutch with your left foot’”—Isaac lifted his left foot before continuing—“‘then, with your right foot, press gently on the accelerator.’” Isaac pressed his right foot into the floor. “‘Get moving, then shift from first gear, let up on the clutch again, then press it down, then shift to second and do the same to get into third gear. Slam your foot on the brake to stop.’ Thus ended the entirety of his instruction. I moved to the driver’s seat again and tried to get started. The gears squealed. The car bucked. Cap’n Jim yelled at me, jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and said, ‘Figure it out, boy! Stay on the driveway and just don’t hit any of my horses. You can be replaced. They can’t!’” Isaac lowered himself again onto the footstool, meeting Shauna’s dark, now lovable, eyes. Shauna was half-laughing and half-crying as she hugged Isaac, saying, “Oh my poor, dear, geeky sixteen-year-old Isaac. Well, at least he was trying to help you.” She bent over, clutching her ribs. “You’ve never been great at mechanical stuff. Lawyers never are!” Isaac hugged her back, touched her cheek, and hugged her again. “Then what happened?” she asked, catching her breath. “Well, all afternoon that day I maneuvered the bucking, resistant Lil’ Bess up and down the long driveway until, at last, I was driving smoothly. Cap’n Jim had retreated to the barn where he was ‘having a smother,’ as we say. He couldn’t possibly drive home. So after only one very brief lesson and a few hours of practice, I was forced to drive us thirty miles home. I had only my youth, a roll bar, and a prayer protecting me.” “My poor dear,” Shauna sighed. Her laughter melted their tension.

“So that was how I learned to drive, during several trips to the farm, with Cap’n Jim Worthington by my side for twenty more hours, calling me ‘boy’ and cursing me at every corner.” Their laughter mingled together as Isaac leaned forward, put his head in her lap, and suddenly said softly, “Thank you, my dear, because I’m scared.” “Really?” “Yes, really, really.” Isaac was shivering. Shauna recognized this little boy, so much like Trey. “Scared about running for office or scared about what to do about Cap’n Jim?” she asked. “Both. I can’t run without your love. And I’m scared we’ll never agree about what I owe those white folks.” “Yeah, we’re mighty different.” “But we’re a good team. We fit together.” “Let’s go to bed, test the fit,” Shauna said. They left the comforter on the sofa and climbed the stairs quietly to their room. Just before sleep came, Shauna whispered, “You’re right. We fit.” In the quiet of the night, Isaac heard Miss Marion’s kind voice calling to him. It’s not like you to be unfair. Just find out more of the facts, he imagined her saying. Tomorrow he’d call the prison and arrange for a meeting. In the morning, he’d tell Shauna that he had to go see Cap’n Jim. “I think you understand, Shaun. I can’t live with myself if I totally blow him off. I just can’t.” At first she just shrugged her shoulders, and then she gave him one of her friendly “I’ll never understand you” looks, smiled, and said, “If you must.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Reality

A LIGHT RAIN during the night had splattered Isaac’s driveway but was not enough to cool things down. As usual, the paperboy had tossed the morning newspaper into the flowerbed, missing the front door by several feet. Isaac tiptoed across the mulch, trying not to get his slippers muddy, to retrieve the Friday edition of the Annapolis Courier . He shook the wet dew off the thin plastic sleeve and smoothed out the paper. At the bottom of the first page, below several pictures, a small headline declared “Conditions at State Prison Called Deplorable.” Isaac’s first thought was How timely. At this very moment, Cap’n Jim might be waking up stiff after another sleepless night on a hard cot or eating some tasteless cereal or ignoring catcalls from other inmates. Isaac’s decision to drive up to the prison at Jessup’s Cut had come only when he imagined Miss Marion’s voice and heeded her plea. “Be fair, be open,” he heard her say. He loved that remarkable white woman. The first paragraph said the following:

Due to two recent prison breaks and earlier reports of sexual abuse, a of consultants has been commissioned by the Maryland Department of Corrections to study the causes and make recommendations for corrective action.

Isaac wondered how long that study might take, how many more rapes would occur, how many more escapees would overpower the guards, how many prisoners would be denied health care. He finished his breakfast, put another cup of coffee in his thermos, kissed Shauna goodbye, opened the roof of his convertible, and headed toward the Cut, the nickname given to the prison in the mid-nineteenth century.

After leaving Annapolis, Isaac turned north, skirting the Chesapeake Bay on rural roads. He ed over the Severn River, close to where Bradley Reynolds’s sailboat had been found. During the short twenty-five-minute drive to the prison, Isaac thought of his family, a family once imprisoned, not in prison walls but by slavery. He thought how different his great-great-grandmother’s life would have been if she had been able to escape north along these roads one hundred and thirty years ago. She might have reached Pennsylvania and met up with some abolitionists, the shadow network of angels saving souls along the western side of the bay. But by chance, she landed in isolated Chestertown, Maryland, a town still cloaked in separatism. Isaac spotted a beautiful blue heron gliding freely across the bay. So graceful and powerful, it was flying from the Eastern Shore to the Severn River in just minutes. But, he thought, it has taken more than five generations for my people’s slow flight to freedom to take wing in this environment. He slowed down and stopped at a crossing barrier at the entrance to the prison and then tapped his horn to alert the guard who was, supposedly, manning the gatehouse. The obese man stirred himself, lifted his pudgy face, and peered sleepily at Isaac. As the gate’s metal arm swung open, the guard’s eyes narrowed. Then Isaac got “the look” as the white guard squinted at him with suspicion. Growing up black, surrounded by white folks stuck in the Marylandplantation mentality, Isaac wasn’t surprised by this skepticism. Recently, the look had become more subtle, the worst kind. Isaac knew the man was thinking, What’s a black boy like you doing driving a Benz convertible? The guard asked, “Your business here?” “I’m an attorney, here to see prisoner James Worthington.” “Credentials?” Isaac reached for his briefcase and made sure his initials, ITD, were clearly visible to his inquisitor. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” Someone less polite might have said something smart, but Isaac, out of necessity and training, restrained himself.

The guard handed him a copy of the visitation rules. “This here’s our restrictions,” the guard commanded. “Can you understand them?” “Yes, sir. I believe I mentioned that I’m a lawyer.” He wanted to say, “You know what? I can walk and talk and do my multiplication tables simultaneously.” But Isaac had learned the lessons of forbearance well and simply handed the guard his business card. It read

Isaac Tecumseh Douglas Attorney-at-Law Thompson, Cohen, Funk, & Douglas 142 State Circle Annapolis, Maryland 21255

He hoped this redneck might be impressed. He wasn’t. “Let me see your driver’s license,” the guard said, “and keep your hands where I can see them.” As he was removing his license from his wallet, Isaac had to smile to himself, imagining that this ignorant sloth must have expected a jailbreak, assisted by a lone black man in a Mercedes convertible. The guard raised one eyebrow in a small recognition when Isaac’s driver’s license and the business card matched. While waving the intruder on, the guard called out a final warning. “You need to stop at the front desk for final check-in.” Isaac drove past him, eyes straight ahead. If other prison employees were like that arrogant guy who must get his jollies from demeaning others, no wonder there were reports about harsh living conditions and sadistic guards. Isaac had heard rumors that the Cut might close

soon because of riots and escape attempts and inmate-on-inmate violence and wondered what the newly formed would find here. Quite honestly, he thought he wouldn’t blame anyone for trying to break out. Isaac steered into the dusty parking lot where another guard, dressed in a shabby blue uniform, came over to his car. Again, he got the look. “Lock it up,” the guard said. “And put the top up!” “I would, but it doesn’t look like rain,” Isaac answered. “If ya don’t, you’re askin’ for trouble. The entrance is over there. Just keep your hands visible.” Isaac hadn’t seen Cap’n Jim since the moment nearly five years ago when the guards had cuffed him and led him out of the Annapolis courtroom—guilty of second-degree murder. It was best not to think about the crime and the horrors of that night in 2006 when Cap’n Jim had allegedly shot a little black boy playing on the dock near his house. The image of the kid’s body submersed in the water for several days raised a bitter burn in Isaac’s throat. Without much imagination, Isaac replaced that little fellow’s badly decomposed face with his own or Trey’s. Five years ago, he had forced himself to forget, to move on with his life, with his career, and with Shauna. He was certain Cap’n Jim had not forgotten a single detail of the trial, probably had thought of little else, suspecting that Isaac’s testimony may have been the most damaging evidence to the defense. To answer the prosecutor’s questions, Isaac just truthfully recounted what he’d seen and left the job to the jury to put the pieces together. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault that they found this well-known member of a prominent Chestertown family guilty of second-degree murder. The prison loomed ahead of him, a concrete four-story block structure, punctuated only by a few rectangular windows. Maryland had wasted no money on architectural frills when constructing this prison’s bleak facade. A twentyfoot-high fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the fortress. On every other post, surveillance cameras swiveled, photographing visitors over and over. At the entrance ramp, an inmate, dressed in an orange jumpsuit monogrammed with the huge letters “DOC,” was mopping the floor just inside the double doors.

Isaac’s love of words and his sense of humor raised the question, How many doctors are employed here? One? Two? He knew better. Probably, this Department of Corrections inmate had mopped this floor several times today and yesterday and the endless days before. At least he was nearly outside, ostensibly trusted, and away from the threats of beatings, taunting, and rape. Is boredom as good as it gets here at the Cut? Inside, Isaac choked on a nauseous mixture of smoke and body odor. Earsplitting noise and raucous catcalls bombarded him, doors clanged open and shut, guards shouted back and forth, and radios blared above the clamor. “Identification, fingerprints!” A guard in a flak vest motioned him toward a high counter where he pressed his black fingers into their black ink and left a little bit of himself behind on the blotter. He was led through security where a male guard patted down his arms and chest, brushed over his crotch, and swept down his legs. After this final indignity, a female guard ushered him into a large visitor’s room where he waited to meet Cap’n Jim amid suspicious glances from scores of relatives waiting to see their loved ones. At one end of the room were plastic chairs, a few well-worn sofas, and many ashtrays for use by visitors. The only light came in from a narrow row of windows, securely barred, twelve feet above floor level. At the opposite end, behind a solid plate of glass, stretched a line of cubicles where prisoners sat handcuffed in chairs separated from one another by small railings. Round holes, about the size of a salad plate and like those found in movie theatres, were cut into the glass at each place. Since Isaac was here on official business, he didn’t have to wait long. But the privilege felt uncomfortable. Nearly all the waiting families were African American, many toting babies with runny noses. One visitor was wearing a bill cap advertising Toto’s Junkyard. Encircling him were four other men, bending over a tobacco pouch and rolling a t in full view of the guard. Nearly everyone over the age of fourteen was smoking, stubbing their butts out on the concrete floor. Isaac took his seat on one side of the thick glass partition in the middle of the line of cubicles. To Isaac’s right, a large prisoner with a shaggy white beard was being led toward a cubicle separating him from the group still rolling pot. He looked familiar, like he could have been the starting tackle for the Baltimore Colts. Another guard announced, “Douglas, your prisoner!”—meaning Isaac’s. Isaac could feel the pressure of eyes staring at him, making the hairs on his neck

quiver. He barely recognized Cap’n Jim as the man lumbered toward the interview cubicle. Now in his seventies, Cap’n Jim was stooped over and bore little resemblance to the oil painting of the young handsome skipper still hanging in his Water Street home in Chestertown. His distended belly and drooping jowls showed he had gained a lot of weight. His face was flushed. His rheumy eyes searched Isaac’s. “Thanks for coming. I haven’t had many visitors,” he said. “I ’spec not,” Isaac said. The dear Marion Worthington, Cap’n Jim’s wife, had been dead now about twelve years. “Does Chip come to see you?” Isaac asked, but immediately wanted to swallow the question. “Whaddya think? My worthless good-for-nothing son! He’s too busy spending my money.” “I’m sorry.” Isaac stopped talking. Being tongue-tied was unusual for a litigation lawyer. Why did he suddenly feel like a sixteen-year-old again? “How’s your family?” Cap’n Jim asked. Surprised, Isaac paused. “Pretty well. I guess you know that I married Shauna Cephas.” “Any kids?” “We had a little boy three years ago. We call him Trey.” Cap’n Jim laughed. “Ha! You must we called my father ‘Trip.’ Did you name him after James Worthington III?” Isaac recognized the old pattern: first the sugar, then the sour taunt. Isaac ignored both. Instead, he tried to smile. “He is the third Isaac”—and couldn’t resist adding—“he’s also learning to read.” Cap’n Jim pursed his lips and scrunched his eyes into a scowl. Suddenly, Isaac heard a loud bang, looked for the guard, and ducked. But the

noise came only from someone dropping a heavy metal chair. One member of Toto’s gang was seating himself in front of the huge prisoner while the rest of the gang was still extracting cigarettes from a package of Kools and replacing each one with a newly rolled t. “Only two visitors at a time,” the guard yelled. Isaac couldn’t help but stare. “Ignore them,” Cap’n Jim warned. “Tell me more.” “Well, Shauna works at the Naval Academy’s issions office.” “You really pitchpoled for her, didn’t ya?” he teased. “Yeah, you might say we really fell in love. I pert near didn’t finish law school so we could marry.” He heard himself falling back into Eastern Shore expressions. “How have you been?” Isaac asked feebly. The answer was obvious. “Sick as two dogs last week. Everything hurts, my arthritis, my diabetes. Look at my hands.” He showed Isaac his swollen, misshaped knuckles and tried to bend his fingers. When Isaac didn’t reply, he said, “If you haven’t noticed, this place is straight from hell. Food is crappy. My cell is no bigger than a postage stamp. It’s never quiet ’cuz of all the fighting.” Isaac thought of Cap’n Jim’s home, the Devon, with its spacious living room, formal dining room, portraits of five generations of Worthingtons gracing the walls, and the quiet life of a gentleman horse breeder. “I shouldn’t be here!” Cap’n Jim continued. “The prosecution didn’t prove a damn thing! I didn’t shoot anyone.” “What about the pellets the police found on your dock?” “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I shot the little kid. I it that sometimes I tried to scare them away. But you! Hah! Your testimony clinched it! God, I should have knocked you seven ways from Sunday for what you told the judge about the kids, about the gun.” His face got redder, spittin’ fire, as the old saying goes, “, just before my testimony, Rivera asked you about what ammunition

you used,” Isaac said. “When?” “Let’s say when you tried to scare kids away.” “Same shells I used to shoot birds, you know, bird shot.” “Not buckshot? Your shotgun could be loaded with either bird shot or buckshot, right?” “Yeah.” “Are you positive it was loaded with bird shot? You were pretty loaded yourself that night. You could have made a mistake.” “No! It was bird shot. Sometimes we call it scattershot. It wasn’t a bullet from a rifle. I know. I ain’t stupid.” “Cap’n Jim.” He’d never called him that to his face. Isaac paused, thinking about the difference in the ammunition. If Cap’n Jim’s gun was loaded with only bird shot, at the distance of more than two hundred feet, Isaac doubted the impact would have been strong enough to kill anyone. Since the police found little pellets on the dock, why didn’t the defense point that out? Isaac turned to Cap’n Jim and said, “I was under subpoena and had to tell what I saw that night.” “Well, why did you have to say anything about a gun?” Isaac took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Actually, what I said about seeing your shotgun should have helped you. I didn’t call it a rifle. Cap’n Jim, it would have been perjury to lie.” Cap’n Jim interrupted. “Haw! Lie? How do you know what you saw? You might have…” he spit. “Well, then I saw you rush out of the courtroom. Were you there for the verdict?” “Yes. I came back five days later for your sentencing.” “Did you think it was fair?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Isaac rested his elbow on the table and covered his mouth, wishing for a moment of silence. He wanted to turn around and silence the room full of curious eyes. The three-hundred-pound captive, two chairs away, shot a glance toward Isaac. Again, Isaac looked away. “I’m sorry to hear about the diabetes,” he said. “Yeah, if you can’t get me out, I’m going to die here.” “Have you tried to appeal your sentence?” “Yah. Got turned down. But hell there was a lot of mistakes made in the trial. That goofus of a lawyer I had missed ’em.” “Have you applied for parole?” “Yeah. Twice. Got turned down on that too, the assholes! Only hope is a pardon.” They were silent for a minute while the Baltimore Colts tackle was led back to his cell, visibly pleased with his gift. Cap’n Jim pretended not to notice, wiped his face with swollen fingers, and resumed his plea. “Hell, even though I hated the ruckus them kids made on the dock, I didn’t mean to hit that little pickaninny, even if I did. Goddamnit, I don’t much about that night. Guess I was pretty ploughed under.” The silence between them was the only silence in the room. Isaac looked down, certain that Cap’n Jim had reviewed his case over and over, exhuming every detail in the nearly five years he’d been in prison. Isaac rubbed his hands together, hesitating to ask. “Did you see that?” Isaac asked, wondering how many favors twenty ts would buy. “I saw nothing.” “Nothing?” “Nothing.”

“How do you get along here?” Isaac asked. “Barely. You see nothing. Ya learn how to survive—do what ya need t’do. Ya saw that big black fella over there.” “Yeah. That’s why I asked. Looked familiar, except for the beard.” Cap’n Jim moved closer to the salad-plate opening and whispered, “Should have. Once was a star in the NFL. Could plaster anyone’s brains all over the field. Then one day, after the game, he did, on purpose.” “What’s his name?” “Piovoso—mean dude—got the I-talyan hot temper in a nigger’s body. Dangerous. In here he’s called Santa-the-Man. He’s the Man. Rules this place. Nobody, nobody, even the guards, mess with him. But he takes care of me.” “What do you mean? Protects you?” “Yeah. Too many dudes in here would want a piece of my white butt if not for him.” “Why would he help you?” The Captain formed the words carefully, put his lips over the opening, stared at Isaac like he was addressing an innocent choirboy, and hissed out his answer. “Guess! Just guess! I’m his bitch, one of his stable.” “What?” Isaac gasped. “You heard me.” “No other way?” “No other way to be safe?” Isaac recoiled, shifted in his seat, coughed, and looked like he was going to be sick. Cap’n Jim changed the subject. “Hey, don’t leave. I was thinkin’ the other day about how I taught you to drive. ?”

“Yes, sir. I do. I really needed help. I never would have ed driver’s ed without your help.” “Damn good thing Lil’ Bess had a roll bar. You could’a been killed when you nearly totaled her.” He was exaggerating. Isaac said gently, “I’m really sorry ’bout that. She was dented, not totaled, and I did get her repaired, ? Had to save a lot of money to get her fixed. Flipped a lot of burgers!” “So you did.” “ another time how you almost got caught speeding?” he asked. “The sirens were coming for us. We stopped, and I told you to climb into the back seat. I slid over to take your place at the wheel before the cops could see.” The guard motioned to Isaac that his visiting time was almost up. “I need to leave soon,” he said. Cap’n Jim pleaded with more desperation. “Boy, I mean, Isaac, I hate this place! I’m going to die here! Can’t you get me out? Just means you gotta write one puny little letter to your friend the gov’nor.” “I’m sorry you’re here.” “Well, maybe you can…” He stopped short. Then as though he’d just thought of it, he said, “Don’t you Jessie, the kitchen girl who was ugly enough to stop an eight-day clock? Wasn’t she there in the house?” “Well, when I arrived at your house that night, I saw her leaving, headed toward the park to see the fireworks celebration.” “They never questioned her, did they? She might have told a whole ’nother story.” Isaac sensed that what Cap’n Jim really wanted was a new trial. “You need more convincing new evidence,” Isaac said. “I can give you plenty,” he said.

Isaac’s palms were sweating. “Besides, Mr. Worthington, I can’t represent you because the Maryland Lawyer’s Rules for Professional Conduct forbids lawyers to be both an advocate and a witness. Even if you had a new trial, I would be called as a witness again.” “Well, ain’t that a high-and-mighty excuse. Did you just now think that one up? It was your damned testimony that put me here in the first place. How’s that for gratitude,” he spit out. Time to change the subject again. “Can I send you anything? Books, comfortable socks, chewing gum?” “You know damn well that’s not what I want!” Cap’n Jim blurted out. “ that other time after we had been celebrating your graduation from college? You’d had a little too much to drink, shouldn’t have been driving my car, and again, almost got caught. But I saved you! With what?” He cackled as he ed. “With what? Don’t you ?” “Yes, I . You ed me a Life Saver.” “Yeah, a goddamned mint Life Saver. A Life Saver! But what else could I expect from a bastard, you little pisshead ingrate bastard!” “I’m no bastard,” Isaac nearly yelled. He jumped up and motioned for the guard. “You are a bastard!” “I am not! My papa died before I was born!” He could stand any other epithet. But that one cut him even deeper than being labeled a nigger. He needed to leave this sad, vulgar man before he heard any more. What was left unsaid was too powerful, too threatening, too disturbing. Isaac muttered an insincere, “Take care of yourself,” as the guard grasped his elbow and steered him away. He turned and looked once more at Cap’n Jim who seemed to be mouthing, “Please!” The guard escorted Isaac past the waiting families, the reception desk, and the inmate still mopping the floor. He was only halfway to his car when Isaac realized what James Randolph Worthington IV was really asking him to do—not just to reopen the case with new evidence or ask the governor to commute the

sentence but to change his testimony and compromise his integrity. Cap’n Jim’s vicious attack echoed in his ears. “Bastard! Ingrate! The nerve of that man!” That vile man can rot in prison! For a moment, Isaac paused. “He can’t be right. I’m not a bastard. My papa drowned in a boating accident before I was born.” He ed asking those questions as a kid. Why was his skin so much lighter than his mama’s? He needed a father. As a teenager, he was angry, wanting to know, but never knowing, his biological father. Cap’n Jim, a lousy role model, was the only close male figure other than his aging grandfather. On Cap’n Jim’s best days, as Mama’s employer, he seemed to feel at least a tad of responsibility to step in to fill the jagged gap. But Miss Marion—she was different. If Isaac ever needed a second mother, she was the one. She taught him tolerance. Odd, isn’t it, that a white woman could teach a black child tolerance. When he was only a teenager, she played a game with Isaac that they called What Would You Do If? “If you know your good friend has told a lie, what do you do?” It was her way of teaching him about ethical dilemmas. Like those abolitionists whose network helped hundreds of slaves to freedom, Miss Marion helped Isaac escape the bondage of few opportunities. She lifted the veil of impossibility by encouraging his studies, setting high standards, and creating an irrevocable trust to him through law school. Isaac knew he couldn’t disappoint the spirit of Miss Marion. His knees ached as he climbed into his car and slammed the door. Thank God he’d ed the clause that would prevent him from representing Cap’n Jim in a new trial. Even if he could forget all the injustices blacks had endured, he wouldn’t compromise his integrity nor exploit his acquaintance with the governor, especially now. Clenching his teeth, Isaac wanted to hide so he closed the roof and transformed his convertible into a standard-looking coupe. The guard stirred and nodded, possibly relieved now that this visitor was leaving.

Air-conditioning began to cool the car and bring down his temperature as he drove away. Isaac needed to forget this whole scene, get back to work, enjoy the next weekend, and make up with Shauna. He needed to leave Cap’n Jim and the memories of his childhood behind. Good riddance. He merged onto the southbound highway crowded with station wagons packed with beach chairs, red coolers, and fishing rods, the ubiquitous gear of Chesapeake Bay–bound families getting ready for a carefree Fourth of July. He tried to them in the outside lane but was forced to slow down, to think some more about the same weekend, seven years ago, and to picture his last glimpse of Cap’n Jim, mouthing “please.” Even though he believed in his heart that Cap’n Jim shot that little boy, it wasn’t a clear case. Maybe he was just cleaning his gun. Maybe he just fired a warning shot in the air. Maybe Jessie, the ugly cook, did see something. Maybe the boy got pushed off the dock and drowned. The medical examiner should have found many pellets in Jamar’s body if he was shot with bird shot. Or if he was shot with a bullet from a rifle, he should have found an entry and an exit wound. Isaac was starting to wonder if the medical examiner was just sloppy. Or was the poor little fellow’s body so decomposed that the medical examiner couldn’t find anything. Or did he have the sense to look? The maybes haunted him. Why did Cap’n Jim have to bother him now? There was only one certainty. Isaac didn’t know what to do. Damn him.

CHAPTER SIX

Two-Fourths

A N ILLUMINATED SIGN over the southbound lane stated the obvious— Congestion Ahead, typical of a summer Friday. Isaac pumped his brakes and followed an endless river of red taillights slithering down the highway. He imagined engers and drivers inching along, like larvae sealed in individual air-conditioned cocoons, until the state police might come to fix whatever unseen problem laid ahead. Volkswagens, BMWs, and Chevrolets slowed down, stopped, idled their engines, and spewed out poisonous exhaust. If he could just be patient, eventually, the chrysalis would open, freeing each isolated body into flight. Why , Isaac wondered, did this traffic on a busy summer day remind me of a woolly caterpillar yearning for metamorp hism ? Maybe, he thought, it was the “crawl on your belly” atmosphere at the prison where inmates were reduced to buggery to be safe, where guards either flaunted their authority or surrendered it to the strongest prisoner. He wondered if the state commission reported in this morning’s paper would uncover what prison life, the lowest form of existence, was really like. He didn’t need to see Cap’n Jim’s tiny cell or hear the fighting or witness sodomy to believe reform was overdue. The governor must take some responsibility. Or would prison reform be in the lieutenant governor’s portfolio? He knew he must talk to Adams about this soon. Maybe he should lead the commission. A small sports car slid by him on the right shoulder, activating the rumble strips. Isaac wanted to give him the finger, but he denied himself the pleasure. Did the state have plans to upgrade the facilities? Was the recent age of minimum mandatory sentences crowding the prison? What plans had been made for reforms? Would the budget reforms? Isaac made a mental note to add these questions to the list he planned to review with Governor Adams on Monday. Traffic was at a standstill. With no exit in sight, Isaac was trapped. He tapped his

fingers on the steering wheel, lowered the canvas top, loosened his collar, and inserted Shauna’s favorite CD into his player. He turned up the volume on “Let’s Get It Started” by the Black Eyed Peas and kept time with the music by lightly drumming on the dashboard. It reminded him of the time that they danced to that song at Shauna’s picnic on that fateful evening nearly seven years ago in Chestertown. He had been a little reluctant to travel on the weekend of the Fourth, but Shauna wanted Isaac to meet a bunch of her friends, to show off her fiancé.

<<<>>>

He had confronted a similar line of traffic that evening, July 4, 2006, as he drove toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. His foot was heavy on the pedal of his secondhand Saab, snaking him in and out of the jam of weekenders, his whole body impatient and aching for his fiancée’s warm embrace. Shauna often reminded him how lucky he was to be hired by a judge in the highest court of Maryland immediately after his graduation from law school. But living fifty miles away from her was lonely. Isaac was ready to marry her and settle into private practice. The summer sun was setting as Isaac slowed down and stopped for gas just across the Chester River from Chestertown. As he waited for the tank to fill, he scanned the opposite shoreline, iring familiar sights, such as the old port, the row of majestic brick mansions hugging the waterfront, the lush lawns, and the formal gardens. He was satisfied that he and Shauna would make their permanent home in the more cosmopolitan Annapolis. But he itted to himself, a part of him missed the old, elegant homes along Water and Queen Streets, the aroma of centuries-old boxwoods, and the gracious elevated back porches where white rocking chairs still stood guard to preserve a slower way of life. But there were certain things about this town he would never miss. He paid the cashier inside the mini-mart and bought some pretzels to take to Shauna’s picnic. But before he could meet Shauna’s friends, he needed to stop by the Devon to return a set of leather-bound books that he had borrowed from Chip Worthington, Cap’n Jim’s son.

In 2006 on that fateful night Cap’n Jim and Chip still lived on Water Street in the old Worthington mansion. Built in 1864, the three-storied Devon, topped by a widow’s walk, towered over its neighbors. When Isaac ed through the center of town, he noticed a large crowd moving toward Wilmer Park, where the fireworks show was just beginning. Overhead, rockets shot up toward the real stars. Cascades of gold sprays and green-and-white fountains lit up the sky. Roman candles exploded with repetitive bangs. To avoid the crowd, he turned down High Street, where he spotted a parking place near the old customs house. He covered his ears to muffle the explosions coming from a mob of children gleefully setting off firecrackers and swinging sparklers around. It reminded him of when he and Chip shot off little cap guns to scare the cook who, broom in hand, then chased them out of the kitchen.

<<<>>>

Finally, traffic started to move again. The driver of the red Mustang behind Isaac revved its engine and, as he ed, waved and called out, “Haven’t heard the Black Eyed Peas in years!” Isaac smiled and pumped his fist congenially toward the Mustang driver. Ordinarily, he did not display that old black power signal, and he reminded himself that if he would become an elected official, he would need to be more careful. Isaac removed the CD and changed to an FM station. In honor of the holiday, it was playing Sousa marches. Drivers were jockeying for position, carefully moving forward. Isaac wished he could identify John Philip’s march, knowing that it would take him back again to that evening that changed everything.

<<<>>>

He ed every detail of that evening. A band blared out a Sousa march as he climbed the familiar steps leading up to the Devon. No one answered the doorbell, a faint ring drowned out by the patriotic din from the park.

Isaac called, “Chip? Chip” and paused. “Mr. Worthington! Mr. Worthington!” He rang again. No answer. Pressed the bell again. Knocked on the glass. Waited. No answer. He called a little louder. Where were the maids? Finally, he heard someone coming toward the door. “That you, Chip?” It was the Captain, his voice slurred. He was confusing Isaac with his son and was apparently under the weather yet again. The Cap’n had been drinking nearly nonstop since Miss Marion had died three years earlier. “No, it’s Isaac, sir.” “Huh? Who?” Isaac heard some shuffling around, a door opening and then slamming shut. “Good evening, sir. Happy Fourth,” Isaac called out louder. “It’s Isaac. I came by to return Chip’s books.” “And I just wanted to say hello,” he added as an afterthought. “Well, you picked a hell of a time to do that. Yeah, a hell of a time.” The Captain wore leather slippers and a wrinkled yellow shirt that covered his protruding belly. He held a martini glass in his unsteady hand. “Well, c’mon in. You know the way!” He was overly cautious not to stumble as he led Isaac into the house. They entered the spacious foyer and went past the grand living room and dining room. None of the furnishings had changed in years. A large portrait of Sarah Worthington, first mistress of this house in 1865, still looked across the center hall at another huge painting of ships on the Chester River. Next to Sarah was a commanding portrait of Rand Worthington, her husband, cloaked in a frock coat and top hat. Junior Worthington, their son, was illustrated, without expression, in a much smaller painting placed between his parents. A likeness of Cap’n Jim as a young sailor was in the nearby library. The parquet floors of the parlors looked recently polished. A Chinese porcelain vase held an enormous bouquet of summer flowers. Isaac recalled his mother arranging flowers in that same vase. The current staff, though smaller, seemed to be keeping the house every bit as beautiful as Isaac’s family had kept it for over one hundred years. Cap’n Jim led him back through the upstairs butler’s pantry. In the pantry, Isaac

noticed that the narrow closet door, usually locked tight, was slightly ajar. A shotgun rested upright next to the closet. The smell of gunpowder permeated the air, perhaps from all the fireworks. He followed Cap’n Jim to the first-floor veranda facing the river. “Been cleaning your shotgun?” “Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ve been doing!” “Little early for duck season, isn’t it?” “Can never be too ready. Never too ready,” Cap’n Jim said. “Ready Freddy,” he chortled. “Where’s Chip?” Isaac asked. “Damned if I know. Cattin’ round, I s’pose.” Now embarrassed, Isaac became quiet for a moment. “That’s quite a spectacular fireworks show,” he said, looking over at the park. “Too bloody loud. Brings all these foreign folks and those damned kids here.” Isaac ignored the slur and just looked out onto the river—the same scene he had witnessed all his life. It was nearly dark, but running lights from a few powerboats crisscrossed the water. Rivers seemed eternal to Isaac, unchanging. Rippling blue water, soft crimson sunsets, tall phragmites grasses waving in the breeze, waves lapping onto the shore, several sailboats at anchor—he always loved the serenity of the view from the Worthingtons’ riverside veranda. Ignoring Isaac and the beauty of the river, Cap’n Jim collapsed into his white rocking chair. Isaac knew he wouldn’t the visit. “I’ll let myself out. Tell Chip hello. Give him these books.” Walking back through the house, Isaac ed through the kitchen and again noticed the shotgun next to the closet. He ed that Cap’n Jim occasionally used that shotgun to scare the little kids playing on his dock. The Captain hated their noise, the intrusion of their Negro patois onto his supposedly cultured veranda.

Isaac ed the antique Chinese screen in the front hall where, as children, he had hidden with Chip before popping out to scare the upstairs maid who, pretending fear, would drop her feather duster and retreat downstairs. Then Isaac walked out into the night.

<<<>>>

About four miles down the road, as he had predicted, a police car was assisting a hapless family. Their station wagon, not quite off the shoulder of the road, was surrounded by folding chairs, coolers, and bicycles—a frequent Friday-exodus scene. As they searched for their spare tire, the scene was apparently worthy of the fascination of curious gawkers. In spite of Cap’n Jim’s failings, Isaac felt a strong nostalgia for Chestertown— the town that had dominated his childhood; the place where Mama had done her best to raise him and to encourage him to study hard; the place where Miss Marion had inspired him. He needed to tell his mama about the governor’s offer and ask for her advice. Instead of turning off at Annapolis, he decided to call Shauna and tell her he would drive on to Mama’s house in Chestertown.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mama

A FTER FIVE RINGS, an efficient-sounding woman answered, “issions office, Shauna Douglas speaking.” Disguising his voice, Isaac asked, “Mrs. Douglas?” with the emphasis on Mrs. “Yes, this is Mrs. Douglas.” “The hot, gorgeous Mrs. Douglas?” he asked. With a note of recognition, she said, “Is this an obscene call?” “Would you like it to be?” “You’re busted, Mr. Douglas! And where are you?” “On Route 50, near the bridge.” “And why are you talking on your cell phone? I’m calling the cops!” she teased. “Guess that wouldn’t look too good if I got arrested!” “Nope, Your Honor!” “Just wanted to tell you I’m driving over to Mama’s, OK?” “Sure.” “Hey, this new official stuff is no fun. Can’t give the power fist, can’t give the finger, and now can’t talk on my cell phone!” “Shucks. I know what you want. I’ll pick up Trey. Bye.”

Isaac’s call to his mother was more routine. She answered after only one ring and didn’t ask where he was or why he wanted to see her. As always, she was just happy that, sometime within the next hour, she would see him. He could not have explained what he wanted to talk about in only a few sentences, intermingled as his thoughts had become, one decision influencing the other. It was a familiar route, just thirty miles between Annapolis and Chestertown. So he wiped all other thoughts away to focus solely on crossing safely over the four-mile-long Chesapeake Bay Bridge. Sometimes a bit of vertigo challenged him. He feared losing orientation as the trees and reference points on the horizon disappeared. A thin sliver of cement stretched ahead, suspended between a bright blue sky and a vast ocean of matching blue water below. Isaac kept his eyes straight ahead and concentrated on the car ahead of him. “Focus, Isaac, focus. Just concentrate on one task.” He heard Mama’s voice in his head as his tires rattled rhythmically over metal strips.

Kate Douglas was pruning her climbing red roses that covered the low fence encircling her small yard. She still lived on Front Street in the same house built four generations ago by the Worthingtons for the Douglas family. The Worthingtons’ Devon was just one block down the same street, on Water Street, the address of a row of mansions. Houses on both ends of the street faced the Chester River, but a busy marina, a parking lot, and a noisy waterside restaurant now obscured Mama’s view. When Mama opened the gate, Isaac recognized the familiar squeak of the rusty latch. She threw her arms around Isaac. “Those roses are beautiful, Mama,” Isaac said, bending down to smell the fragrance. “It’s been a good year for roses. C’mon in. Have you had lunch? Did you get stuck in traffic?” She was the same Mama, who always asked him multiple questions. She didn’t wait for an answer and was usually quick with advice. Some of her sayings replayed in his head: “Be true to yourself,” “Be open to new challenges,” “You can do it!” What would she advise now? Mama often had a simple solution to most problems. He wondered if her answer to his questions could be that easy.

She unwrapped the wax paper covering two chicken-salad sandwiches, placed them on flowered plates next to a bunch of green grapes, and poured two glasses of lemonade. They sat down around the same small table Isaac ed. Its rickety leg seemed to have been fixed as it no longer rocked unevenly. Mama had covered it today with a fresh pink linen tablecloth. She handed Isaac a napkin then asked about Shauna, about Trey, and about his work. Isaac asked her about her latest bingo game at the church, about her friend Marie, and about what book she was reading. Mama was retired now, pulling in social security. Occasionally, she substituted at the hospital where she had worked after Miss Marion helped her get her LPN degree. After the chatter, when they were putting their dishes in the sink, Mama turned to Isaac and said, “OK, son. What is it that you really wanted to talk about?” Busted again! Isaac thought. “Am I that transparent?” “Well, you’re stuck with a mama who knows you well!” she said. “OK. Let’s go into the living room.” They sat down on the only two chairs in the room, both flanking a small end table. She turned on the goose-necked lamp, straightened its shade, and arranged the matching arm covers on her chair. Isaac cleared his throat. “Take a minute, son,” she said. “I really don’t know where to begin. But I’ll tell you the most exciting news first.” She leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Shauna’s pregnant?” “No, afraid not. It’s even bigger than that.” “You’ve been made a partner,” she guessed again. “Mama, I’m already a partner.” “You’re movin’ so fast, I can’t keep up. Just tell me. This ain’t Twenty Questions!”

“No, it’s not.” He took a deep breath. “Mama, I’ve been asked by Governor Adams to run with him in next November’s election for the office—” “Of what?” “Wait! . . . For the office of lieutenant governor.” There he’d said it. “Oh, oh, oh no!” Her smile faded. “Oh dear. Oh my!” she said, standing up and moving quickly toward the window. She turned suddenly and said, “Why did he pick you?” Her voice was crisp and hoarse. “Well… because he thought I was qualified, I guess.” Isaac got up slowly, watching his mother, who had turned away from him and was looking intently out of the window, breathing heavily. “Mama, what’s wrong? I didn’t expect you to be so shocked.” He put his arms around her, towering over her bent-over, aging body. He thought about how many times she had protected him, told him not to worry if whites bullied him, and told him just to use his good brain, work hard, and be a success. He led her back to her chair. As she seemed to recover, she said, “I’m sorry. It was just such a surprise.” “A good surprise?” he asked. “I guess. We’ll see.” And then she was quiet again. “Let me tell you about what the governor wants me to do.” He told her about why he was needed to lead the Small Business Commission, why Governor Adams thought he could work on health care, how Adams needed someone to clean up the bay and regulate pollution. He was pretty sure she would like that. “He said he wants a strong, new face on his team and that I’m the man for the job!” She frowned and pursed her lips. He had seen that expression before, maybe when he had boasted that he had nearly a 4.0 average in his senior year of high school.

“What does Shauna think about this?” she asked. “Well, at first she really didn’t want me to do it. But then she came around. She’ll enjoy it.” Isaac didn’t want to tell Mama about Shauna’s real worry, Bradley Reynolds. “Can’t be much fun for her ’cuz you’ll be gone a lot, campaigning and such. You’ve got to think of Trey too.” It was Isaac’s turn to be quiet, to take time to try to understand his mother’s atypical reaction. He was almost sorry he had come to get her advice, yet all his life, he’d always sought and received her enthusiastic . What was wrong? “Who will your candidacy?” She reached out a hand, like she wanted to say something, but sat back down and crossed her fingers. Isaac recited his same small list: the black ministers’ caucus, other civil rights groups, and probably the bar association. “We’ll be running as a team, so the groups that Adams will probably me. It’s not like running alone. It’ll cut down on some of the fundraising too.” “But who will oppose you?” “The rednecks, of course. The gun lobby.” Isaac didn’t add the motorcycle gangs and the Klan. “Just hope they don’t try to harm you or invent lies like they usually do,” she said. “Can’t imagine what that would be. Don’t think we’ve got any skeletons to hide.” She pressed her lips together. “What about your law practice?” “Well, I’ve talked to two of the partners and the associates. They were pretty enthusiastic. Ben Cohen will be out of town until Monday. I’ll talk to him then— that will be important. If you’re wondering how we’ll ourselves, well, we’ll figure that out after I talk to Ben. He controls the firm’s finances.”

Mama looked at Isaac’s empty glass. “Thirsty? Want more lemonade?” “Sure.” She hunched her shoulders as she walked slowly toward the kitchen. Isaac stepped out onto the front porch and looked out at their tiny yard, wondering why they had bothered to fence it in. They’d never owned a dog. He chastised himself for not oiling the latch on the gate a long time ago. From here, he could see Worthingtons’ narrow dock, still wet from last night’s rain. Two young girls were chasing each other, skipping down the dock toward the moored boats. He hoped they would not slip. A profusion of phragmites grasses, nearly twenty feet tall, were growing in the water between the dock and the Worthingtons’ garden. He could even see the Devon’s veranda, where he had sat in a rocking chair near Cap’n Jim on that fateful night. He thought of Cap’n Jim now, shut in that tiny cell, unable to breathe in the fresh breezes, to see the sunlight on the water, to watch boats at rest. Worthington was a bigot, an unpleasant man, but did he deserve to be in a corrupt prison where he was in constant danger of his life? Isaac even thought, Was he guilty? The early afternoon sun was shining onto the front porch. Now he needed to tell Mama the rest of what weighed on his mind. “Shall we set up the chairs out here?” Isaac called. “Good idea. I’m comin’ with the iced tea.” Isaac found two webbed beach chairs leaning against the side of the house, dusted them off a bit, and placed them where the sun would not be in Mama’s eyes. “Here’s a couple of cookies too. Your favorite, oatmeal,” she said. “You always know what I need. That’s why I’m sort of surprised that you aren’t overjoyed by the governor’s offer.” “Oh, I just worry too much.” She squared off her shoulders and sat upright again. “Can you handle some more news?”

“Sure. I’m tough!” Isaac would never have called his small, sweet, wise Mama tough, but he didn’t correct her because he knew she’d probably been through more than he’d ever know. He launched into his story of receiving Cap’n Jim’s letter, Cap’n Jim’s plea for help, not wanting to help him, changing his mind, and visiting him this morning. Kate Douglas listened to every word, barely breathing. He didn’t leave anything out. “Oh my, oh mercy, oh my. Do you want to help him?” “That’s my question. I don’t know. That prison is like the Middle Ages. Corrupt, brutal, inhumane. No human being, no matter how guilty or especially innocent, should be subjected to those conditions if we consider ourselves civilized.” Now put into words, Isaac realized his feelings were stronger than he had realized. “Well, who is responsible?” she asked. “The state.” “The state of Maryland?” “Yes, unless it is a federal prison, which it is not.” “Didn’t I just read that the prison was going to be investigated?” she said. “You must have seen the same article I did this morning.” “Yes, that’s right.” “I know this will sound strange,” Isaac said, “but if I run for lieutenant governor, I’m going to ask to chair that .” That idea stopped Kate Douglas. All she could say was, “Wow!” “I wouldn’t do that to directly help Cap’n Jim because there’s a lot I don’t know about his case. But there is stuff going on in that prison that should never happen. Today I saw a horrible situation.” “Do you think Cap’n Jim is guilty?” she asked.

“I really have no idea. I didn’t want to stay at his trial to hear the testimony. I forget, did you stay?” “Yes, I was there all five days. Old Man Keating, Cap’n Jim’s lawyer, was a real bumbler, no match for the young prosecutor. I’ll never forget the botched-up job he did questioning the coroner.” “Really? What happened?” Mama paused to collect her thoughts. “Well, the coroner said he couldn’t find the cause of the kid’s death because the body was all cut up, decomposed.” “You mean the coroner couldn’t find a bullet hole?” “That’s right. And then that cocky young lawyer, Rivera, really sunk him.” “You mean the prosecutor?” “Yes. Rivera asked the coroner if he had consulted with a pathologist. As a nurse, of course, I knew that a pathologist is an expert at examining the tissues inside the body, even after death. I was really paying attention.” “You mean no pathologist testified?” Isaac raised his arms in disbelief. “Right, and not just that. Rivera got in a jab by suggesting that the coroner, who was running for reelection, was counting on a big donation from the Worthington family if he could keep the cause of death kind of uncertain. Imagine that.” “Wow! I bet the judge didn’t allow that testimony.” “Right. Keating yelled ‘objection,’ and the judge told the jury to disregard that. But of course, they’d already heard it. So from then on, nobody believed the coroner.” “Oh my God! That’s terrible. Keating should have prepared him better.” “It was sort of downhill from then on.” Mama moved her chair to get out of the sun’s glare. “So what did you think? Was Cap’n Jim guilty?” Isaac asked.

“You know, Cap’n Jim was always kind of crude, and he drank too much. But a killer? I don’t think so.” “Guess I need to read the transcript.” “Just give your old boss, Ellen Stanley, a call. Bet she’ll help you out.” Isaac needed to think about why, until now, he’d so stubbornly avoided knowing the details of the trial. He disappeared into the house, leaving Mama in deep thought on the porch.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Digging for Pearls

“MAMA,” ISAAC CALLED from the kitchen, “do you have a more recent phone book?” “No. Why would you need it? The numbers are all the same.” It was true. He recognized the number for the clerk of the Kent County’s Circuit Court though he had not called it in over four years. On the precipice of the long Fourth of July weekend, most of the offices closed at noon and the weekday inhabitants of dreary cubicles were released for a few days of barbeques, family gatherings, boating, and fireworks. But chances were that Ellen Stanley would still be working. “Ms. Stanley, Isaac Douglas calling.” Before he could explain why he needed to see her, she said she was happy to hear from him and invited him to come over immediately. “Bye, Mama,” he said as he ran out of the yard, not bothering to take his car for the four-block jog to the courthouse. She’d be waiting for him, so he picked up his pace, careful not to trip on the uneven paving. He’d run this way so many times as a skinny, bespectacled little kid, sometimes to escape the bullying of the rich kids who lived down the street in mansions facing the river. “Here comes the raccoon,” they’d yell. “The coon is out.” Miss Marion always told him, “Never mind, someday you’ll show them. Try not to hate them.” But he did hate them, those snotty, spoiled white kids. He didn’t think he’d ever have anything to show them. But here he was, twenty-five years later, running toward the white clerk of the court who was keeping her office open just for him.

He knew the history of the Kent County Courthouse, a stately two-story redbrick building that was restored in 1860 after two earlier fires. Many Kent County residents looked at this handsome centerpiece of Chestertown with puffed-up pride, conveniently forgetting its sinister history. But not Isaac. For Isaac, its tall white pillars marked the intersection of justice and injustice. Happy to see the lights on in the front office, Isaac knocked loudly on the door and soon heard the sound of sturdy shoes clomping toward the door. Ellen Stanley had been the clerk of the Kent County Circuit Court for twenty-two years. Her shoulder-length gray-flecked hair was parted down the middle and held in place by small clips. She never married, having devoted herself to keeping the records of the court in meticulous order. She supervised a staff of capable assistants, a deputy clerk, and a court reporter. All had left for the weekend. As usual, she was working late on this Friday. “Good afternoon, Isaac. Very nice to see you.” “I’m sorry not to have called earlier and made an appointment. But I didn’t expect to be working on this situation.” “Come on in. How can I help?” She paused and then closed the door carefully. “Do you have a transcript of the Worthington trial?” “Of course,” she said. “Transcripts always are made when sentences are appealed or, in this case, because the defendant himself asked for a transcription.” “I assume it is on a hard copy, right?” “Yes.” Isaac knew from working here that big city courts had fancier stenotype machines and computer-aided technology but, down here, as Ms. Stanley said, “We’ve kept it simple.” “I’m so sorry to bother you, but Worthington has asked me to review the case.” “Really? Are you going to file for a retrial?” She peered at him quizzically over her half-glasses.

“I don’t know, and I may be ineligible as a prior witness. But I do need to read the transcript now.” “It’s public record. What could you do for him?” “If I find sufficient cause, I might ask the governor to commute his sentence.” His own but unfamiliar words reverberated through the vacation-deserted hallway, bounced off the marble walls, and echoed in his ears. Ellen Stanley and Isaac’s steps clicked on the freshly scrubbed tile floor as they ed a bulletin board plastered with schedules, meeting announcements, and brochures. He’d already pushed his luck, but he felt he could ask, “If I can’t get a full picture from reading the transcript, would it be possible for me to listen to the court reporter’s tape?” “That’s not usually done. But it might be available. I’ll help you find the transcript, and just let me know if something is not clear on the written record. Kelly’s transcripts are well done. She gets every word because she’s got four channels that catch everything, even when people are talking over one another.” “Impressive,” said Isaac. Ellen Stanley said nothing more but led Isaac into the record room containing land records dating back to 1642 and old court records from 1832. All four walls were covered from floor to ceiling with rectangular file boxes edged in bronze. In the ading room, she reached up on a shelf and removed a heavy ledger entitled Criminal Docket for Kent Circuit Court 2006, Number 13, and Cases no. 4051–4200. “After you locate the case number of Worthington’s trial on the docket, just come over here,” she said as she disappeared behind several rows of files. “Here’s the number,” he called. “4-0-5-2.” She carefully removed a five-inch thick file containing a word-by-word transcript of the trial, number 4052. “That file is huge!” Isaac said. “Yes, imagine how many hours it took to transcribe the testimonies. Typed by

hand they are $2.50 a page, over 500 pages. It was our biggest case that year.” “After I testified, I just couldn’t bear to hear the rest of the trial. But now I must read this. Worthington must have paid over a thousand dollars for the transcript.” “Yes, he did. Here you are. Have fun! You can sit right over there.” Isaac wondered if she might be thinking, Why would he, a black attorney, even consider helping that bigoted old man? But she knew him well and didn’t ask. She gave him a document to sign, releasing the transcript for a specific length of time. It did not give him permission to remove the file from the courthouse. Isaac pulled a metal folding chair up to the table, borrowed a yellow legal pad, and found a pencil in his shirt pocket. “Imagine this will take you awhile. I’ll only be here until five,” she said. “I think I can get a good idea of the trial in a couple of hours.” He started to read. The criminal docket spelled out the case caption:

The State of Maryland v. James Randolph Worthington IV State’s Attorney Mason Rivera, Esq., Defense Counsel, Cyrus Keating, Esq.

Isaac ed Rivera and Keating. They were exact opposites. Rivera, a young, vigorous, ambitious graduate of Yale Law School, was bright, energetic, and making a name for himself in the attorney general’s office. He took every piece of evidence and relentlessly shook it until it frayed like the edge of an old rug. Keating was one of the old boys—long established, founder of the most prestigious firm on the Eastern Shore, friend of affluent longtime residents. Cap’n Jim must have trusted him as being experienced and well-connected and overlooked the fact that Cyrus Keating was well over retirement age and getting forgetful.

A list in the right column of the cover sheet traced the following:

Count one: Murder in the first degree. Count two: Reckless use of a firearm. Count three: Malicious destruction of property.

A litany of dates began with Worthington’s arrest on July 15, 2006, a writ of habeas corpus in August, motions for discovery in December, pretrial conferences in January 2007, and finally as justice crawled along, the date of the trial in March 2007. Isaac opened the bulky document and tried to smooth out its bunched pages beginning with:

The following is a transcript of the jury trial of the above matter held on March 14, 2007, in the circuit court for Kent County, Maryland, before the Honorable Judge T. Myron Frederick.

He checked the names of the jury foreman and the of the jury, especially noting the racial balance. Five jurors were black: Charles Wilson, Theo Parsons, Luke Washington, Dilbert (Dilly) Price, and Willie Johnson. Then he began to read:

Bailiff: All rise. The circuit court of the state of Maryland is now in session. Judge Frederick presiding. May God save the state and the honorable court.

Clerk of the court: The case is the State of Maryland versus James Randolph

Worthington the fourth. The charge—murder in the first degree.

Isaac glanced at the instructions the judge gave to the jury and then flipped over several pages until he came to Mason Rivera’s opening statement for the prosecution.

Your Honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we are here today because of the callous actions of the defendant, James Randolph Worthington, who on the fourth of July 2006, with malice and aforethought, ended the life of an innocent young boy, Jamar Allison. Jamar had two handicaps—a paralyzed left foot and being born black. This young boy began the day, like any other kid, excited that he and his friends were going to see fireworks at Wilmer Park that evening. We will show through our witnesses that Jamar was on the dock near the Worthingtons’ house, causing no trouble and waiting for the fireworks to begin, when he was shot. The force of the shot propelled him into the river where he was swept away by the current. His submerged body was caught on some pilings then chopped up by a boat’s propeller and partially decomposed, not recovered for several days. Ladies and gentlemen, I will ask you to use your intelligence and your common sense to find this defendant guilty in the first degree. Thank you.

The transcript reported that defense attorney, Cyrus Keating, leaned on the rail of the jury box and began his opening statement for the defense.

Now just a little minute here, folks. Does this fine gentleman seated before you look like a murderer? What obviously was a tragic accident has been blown up, stretched way out of shape, sensationalized with the hope of making a big reputation or scoring some points for our so-called system of justice. The state has manufactured a charge of murder. Ridiculous! I’m here to tell you, and I’ll show you this, that no way did this fine citizen commit a crime, much less a murder. I trust you’ll save the state some money and find him innocent.

Once Keating finished, the judge said, “Mr. Rivera, the state may present its case.”

Mr. Rivera: Thank you, Your Honor. I call Sophie Allison. Q: Mrs. Allison, what is your relationship to the deceased? (A note reported a long pause and stifled sobs) A: I’m Jamar’s mama. He’s my number six child. Q: And where were you on the evening of July 4, 2006? A: With everyone else, up there in Wilmer Park. Q: Who was with you? A: ’Bout four of my kids and everyone else in town. Q: So there was a big crowd? A: Oh yeah. Most everyone in town. Q: What was happening? A: We was having a big fireworks show. Rockets was going off. Kids was playing with sparklers. Everyone was singing. Was lots of fun. Q: Where was Jamar? A: When? Q: When the fireworks were going off. A: Well, I don’t really recall. He was with his friends. He couldn’t get lost. You know, it’s a little town. Kids usually are safe.

Q: When did you miss him? A: Guess it was after we got home. All the other kids was in the living room with some more friends, watching TV. I was doing the laundry and was calling to him to bring me his dirty socks. Q: Does that mean you thought he was home? A: Just assumed he was. Q: Did he come home later? A: No. Sometimes he forgot to tell me he was staying overnight at his big brother’s house. So I thought that’s where he was. Q: Did you try to call him? A: No, sir. We don’t have a phone. Mr. Rivera: Thank you very much, Mrs. Allison. We are sorry for your loss.

The judge asked, “Does the defense wish to question the witness?” Keating answered, “Just one question, Your Honor.”

Q: I don’t mean to be indelicate, Mrs. Allison, but was Jamar’s body returned to the family? A: You mean after he was dead? Q: Yes. A: (long sobbing) Yessir, but pretty quick we took it to be burned. Q: You mean cremated. A: Yessir.

The court: Next witness, please. Mr. Rivera: I call Ms. Thelma Anderson. Q: Ms. Anderson, what is your relationship to the deceased? A: I was his first-grade teacher. Q: How old was Jamar? A: Well, he was eight. He got held back a year. Most of my students are just seven. You see, he was a little slow. Q: What else can you tell us about Jamar? A: He was a sweet boy, small for his age, and he got teased a lot because he limped. Q: Did Jamar cause any trouble in your class? A: No, sir. Q: So his behavior, would you say, was better than most boys, right? A: Yes, that’s right. He wasn’t what I’d call a leader. Mr. Rivera: No other questions. The court: Mr. Keating, do you have questions for Ms. Anderson? Mr. Keating: Sure do, Your Honor. Ms. Anderson, you said he limped. Why? A: He had one foot that didn’t work right. It may have been paralyzed or just deformed, you know, like a clubfoot. Q: Could he run? A: He couldn’t run like other boys. He sort of hopped and ran. Q: When he tried to do that did he ever fall down, lose his balance?

A: Oh, sure he did. Especially when the other boys were teasing him, like giving him little pushes. Q: So he often fell down if he was given a push, right? A: Yes, sir. Mr. Keating: Thank you, Ms. Anderson. The court: Next witness, please, Mr. Rivera. Mr. Rivera: I call Raymond Walker. Raymond, what was your relationship with Jamar? A: Oh, we wasn’t kin, sir. We just friends. Q: I understand that, Raymond. How long had you been friends? A: I guess since last summer. Q: How old are you, Raymond? A: I’m almost eleven. Q: So you were almost three years older than your friend Jamar? A: That’s right, sir. Q: Were you on the dock with Jamar on the night of the fourth of July? A: Yes’m. I mean, yessir. Q: Did you hear a gunshot while you were there? A: Sure did. Was real loud. Q: Are you sure it was a gunshot? A: Mighty sure, sir. Q: After you heard the gunshot, what did you do?

A: Got the hell out of there. Pardon me. Q: Did you run? Were you scared? Why were you scared? Mr. Keating: Objection, leading the witness. The court: I’ll allow it. Proceed. Q: Raymond, why were you scared? A: ’Cuz we knew that the mister sometimes shot at the dock to scare us away. Mr. Rivera: Thank you, Raymond. The court: Do you have questions for the witness, Mr. Keating? Mr. Keating: Yes, Your Honor. Q: Raymond, can I call you Ray? A: Guess so. Q: How many friends were with you on the dock? A: ’Bout ten, I guess. Q: How big is the dock? A: Well, I can’t say exactly. Q: If I take one large step between these lines over to this next line, would it be about the right size? (A note said the defense marked two chalk marks on the floor three-and-a-half feet apart) A: Yes. But it’s longer than it is wide. Q: Of course. Say about thirty feet long, right? A: Yes, sir.

Q: So it’s long and pretty narrow, right? A: Yes, sir. Q: Would you say you were horsing around? A: Yes, sir. Q: Did horsing around include shoving one another? A: I suppose, sometimes. Q: After you supposedly heard the gunshot, what did you do? A: We raced up the hill and into Wilmer Park. The fireworks had already started. Q: Where were your friends? A: Behind me. I can run pretty fast. Q: Was Jamar with you? A: I thought he was. Mr. Keating: Thank you, Raymond. No more questions. Mr. Rivera: I have a redirect for the witness. Q: Raymond, just a couple more questions. You say you thought Jamar was behind you when you were running up the hill. Did you see Jamar again that night? A: No sir, ’cause he had drowned.

Isaac stared at the transcript and thought, Kids say the darndest things! He bet that Rivera didn’t expect that answer. It must have been a setback for the state, and Rivera must have wished he’d prepared Raymond better. He would not have wanted to be in Rivera’s shoes at that moment and fully expected that the next line in the transcript would be Keating, for the defense, jumping to his feet to do

a recross to emphasize the idea that Jamar may have fallen off the dock and just drowned. No such response. And no questions to reinforce how other kids might have been pushing Jamar around. The kid just created a perfect opening for the defense. Was Keating asleep? If Isaac had been working for the defense, he would have repeated “drowned, drowned” until it rang in the jurors’ ears. Then he would have asked for a recess. But for now, back to reading the transcript. Isaac found that Rivera asked for a few minutes to review his notes, patted the mother’s hand, and then said, “I call Sergeant Terrence O’ Neal.”

Q: Sergeant O’Neal, please identify yourself and state your connection to this case. A: I’m Sergeant Terrence T. O’Neal, investigating officer for Kent County Department of Police, badge number 5629. I was called in to investigate the case and to locate the body of young Jamar Allison. Q: On what date did you begin the search? A: That was on July 6, 2006. Q: And when and where did you find the body? A: We found it on July 10 at the bend in the Chester River that leads up to Quaker Neck Road. Q: And in what condition was the body? A: Badly cut up, bloated, and decomposed.

(There was a note: Testimony interrupted. Outcry from Mrs. Allison. Female bailiff tries to comfort victim’s mother.)

Rivera continued his examination of the police officer.

Q: What evidence led you to arrest the defendant? A: Eyewitnesses had said they heard a gunshot coming from the direction of the Devon. Upon examination of the dock, we found spent pellets of the scattershot that had sprayed the dock. Q: Did the spent shot match the ammunition used in the defendant’s gun? A: Yes, they were a perfect match.

Isaac started to keep his own notes because Keating did nothing to challenge the point about spent shot found on the dock. Did the police or the coroner find a bullet wound in the body? Would scattershot have caused a fatality at that distance? What proof did they present that the scattershot fell on the dock that same night? Isaac would have asked these questions on cross-examination. Rivera achieved his intended effect on the jury with the grizzly revelation that the body was “cut up, badly decomposed,” and possibly a rehearsed reaction from Jamar’s mother, just to drive home the pathos. But possibly, there was no clear evidence about what kind of wound was found. Isaac began to doubt whether scattershot would have been lethal. Even though they found pellets, not a word had been said about intent. Keating should be asking Worthington if he had any intent to kill. On the next page, on the second day of the trial, there it was, Isaac’s own testimony.

Mr. Rivera: The state calls Isaac Douglas. Mr. Douglas is here under a subpoena. (Pause) Mr. Douglas, were you present yesterday on the opening day of the trial? Mr. Douglas: I was not. Q: So you have not heard prior testimony. Good. Mr. Douglas, please state your

relationship to the accused and describe what you observed on the evening of July 4, 2006. A: I am Isaac Tecumseh Douglas, a recent law school graduate and son of the family who has worked for the Worthingtons for many years. On the evening of July 4, 2006, I stopped by the Worthingtons’ home on Water Street to return a set of books loaned to me by Chip Worthington, son of James Worthington. Q: You mean James Randolph Worthington? This gentleman here? A: Yes. (Isaac ed not wanting to look at him.) Q: Just tell us what you observed. A: Mr. Worthington answered the doorbell and led me past the parlors, into the pantry, and then onto the back porch—that is the lower veranda, the one near the kitchen. Q: Is there another veranda? A: Yes, there are two verandas on the riverside of the house, one on the main floor and a higher one on the second floor. Q: Do you know where Worthington was before he answered the door? A: Well, he led me to the lower veranda. So I assumed that’s where he had been. Q: Can you see the dock from both verandas? A: The view is better from the second floor. Q: Go on. What else did you see? A: In the pantry, I noticed a shotgun propped up outside a small closet. The door of the closet is usually locked. Q: Sounds like you are very familiar with Mr. Worthingtons’ house. A: Yes, sir. I sort of grew up there. Q: Go on. What happened next?

A: I asking Cap’n Jim, uh, Mr. Worthington, if he was cleaning his shotgun. He said he was getting ready for duck season. Q: And when is duck season? A: In the autumn. Q: July’s a little early, huh? Thank you, Mr. Douglas.

Isaac noticed that the defense did not challenge his speculation that Cap’n Jim was on the lower veranda before he answered the door. Now even five years later, his stomach tightened as he read his own testimony. The words might as well read “traitor, acc, judge, betrayer, and jury.” He needed a break, so he went out into the hall to find a water fountain. “Are you OK?” Ellen Stanley called. “Oh, sure. Sure,” Isaac said. Sure? How sure could I be, he thought, that I hadn’t used my testimony to get even with the white master? Was I being fair to the family who had often nurtured me? “Not quite finished, Ms. Stanley, just getting some water,” he said. Isaac sat down again and continued to read the defense’s cross-examination of the witness.

Mr. Keating: Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Douglas, did you find the defendant in good health that night?

Rivera objected, challenging on relevance, but the judge had allowed Isaac to answer. With some idea of the direction the question was headed, Isaac had pressed Keating:

A: What do you mean? Q: Had he been drinking? A: Yes, sir. He was holding a martini glass and appeared to have been drinking. Mr. Keating: Thank you, Mr. Douglas.

He ed hurrying out of the courtroom, leaving the Kent County Courthouse, jumping into his car, and driving about eighty miles an hour toward Annapolis until he had to pull over on the side of the road to throw up. He hoped he would never see Cap’n Jim again. Ms. Stanley looked in on him. “How are you doing, Isaac? It’s nearly five o’clock.” Isaac pulled himself back to the present to answer, “Not too well, Ms. Stanley. I need to read more. Is that OK?” “OK,” she said as she removed her glasses and propped them on top of her head. Isaac recognized that as a sign that work was almost done for the day. He needed to hurry, so he scanned the next section, the testimony of the coroner. He could skip that part because, as a nurse, Mama would surely that testimony. The next testimony was from a landscape worker.

The court: Next witness, please, Mr. Rivera. Mr. Rivera: I call Leo Massey. Please state your name and profession. A: I’m Leo Massey. I’m a landscape worker. Q: Have you worked on the Worthingtons’ lawn? A: Yes, I cut the grass nearly every week in the summertime. Q: Were you working there on July 4?

A: Yes, sir. Most of the afternoon until the fireworks started. Q: Did you hear a gunshot that afternoon or evening? A: Yes, I think I did. There was a lot of noise because of the parade and party in the park, but I’m pretty sure I heard a gunshot. See, it wouldn’t have been the first time. The mister often shot a gun off to scare the kids away from the dock. Q: How many times have you heard that? A: Well, as I said, I’m only there once a week. But maybe I’ve heard him do that three or four times. Q: Why do you think he did that?

Reading after the fact, Isaac noticed that Keating had remained silent when he might have objected, perhaps not wanting to underline the testimony to come. But the result was to allow an indelible bit of speculation to reach the jury’s ears.

A: I think he didn’t like the noise those kids made on his dock. They sort of used his dock as a playground. He probably just wanted scare them away from there. Mr. Rivera: Thank you, Mr. Massey. The court: Any cross-examination from the defense? Mr. Keating: No, sir. Mr. Rivera: Your Honor, if it please the court, the state rests, reserving rebuttal. The court: Mr. Keating, are you ready to present the case for the defense? Mr. Keating: Yes, Your Honor. I call Timothy Thomas. Q: Mr. Thomas, what is your profession? A: Counselor, I am honored that the people of Kent County have seen fit to elect

me as the people’s coroner.

Isaac realized this was the testimony Mama had found strange. In her estimation, the coroner was something of a fool. Isaac skipped over most his testimony and made a mental note to ask Mama about it. And he knew he could discuss this testimony with J. Roger tomorrow in the office. Then he came to the last questions on cross-examination by the prosecutor:

Mr. Rivera: Yes, Mr. Thomas, you are a coroner. Are you a medical doctor? A: Well, sir, I am a podiatrist. Q: Mr. Thomas, when you could not find the cause of death, did you consult a pathologist? A: No, sir. Q: For the benefit of the jury, please read the dictionary’s definition of pathologist. Mr. Keating: Judge, this is grandstanding. The court: I’ll allow it. Please go ahead and read the definition, Mr. Thomas. A: Pathologists—a specialist in pathology, one who interprets and diagnoses the changes caused by disease in tissues and body fluids. Q: I assume you have worked with pathologists. Are they often medical doctors? A: Yes. Q: In other words, you did not rule out that he possibly could have died from a gunshot wound, right? A: Yes, that’s right, I guess. Q: Yes, you were guessing. And still you did not choose to consult a pathologist

who could have given more information. Could that be because you were dependent upon reelection and political contributions that might come from the family? Mr. Keating: Objection! Objection! The court: The jury will disregard the prosecution’s last statement.

Isaac scanned the next testimony of character witnesses who exaggerated how much Mr. Worthington and his family had contributed to the leadership and economic development of the town. They spoke forgivingly of the trauma he experienced, losing his beloved wife, how he may have slipped just a little in recent years. Keating managed to paint a picture of a flawed though harmless, slightly eccentric man. The court adjourned for the day, making Isaac wish he could read faster and get home to Mama’s dinner. But he needed to plough on. The testimony picked up on the following afternoon. Next was the expert’s testimony about the type of gun used.

The court: We will continue with the presentation by the defense. Next witness, please. Mr. Keating, please. (Note of long pause.) Mr. Keating? Please, for the defense. Mr. Keating: Yes, Your Honor. I call Sergeant Argolis. Please state your name and your expertise. A: My name is Lester Argolis. I am employed by the Maryland State Police force and am a weapons expert. Q: Do you have an accreditation in that field? A: Yes, sir, by the National Rifle Association. Q: Did you examine the gun allegedly used by the defendant? A: Yes, sir. It is a shotgun, the type usually used for duck hunting. It is normally loaded with a scattershot type of ammunition, appropriate for small explosives,

in order to spread over a fairly large area. Q: When you say small, what do you mean? A: The type of shot that would stun waterfowl and possibly cause them to drop down out of the sky. Q: So is this type of ammunition usually used to kill a person? A: No, sir. It would knick them but couldn’t kill them, except at extremely close range. Q: Did you examine the closet where the gun was kept? If so, what ammunition did you find in the closet? A: No actual bullets used in a rifle, just bird shot, sometimes called scattershot. Mr. Keating: Thank you. The court: Mr. Rivera, do you have a cross-examination? Mr. Rivera: Yes, indeed. Q: We have learned that the defendant may have been quite intoxicated on the evening of July 4. Is it possible that he might have loaded his gun with what you call buckshot shells rather than scattershot? Does the same gun use both kinds of shells? A: The answer is yes to both of your questions. Q: And if the defendant used buckshot, would that projectile cause more damage? A: Yes. Q: Would a competent autopsy reveal a bone fracture or what we might visualize as a bullet hole in the body? A: That’s not my expertise. That would be a coroner’s or a pathologist’s responsibility.

Q: Exactly. Thank you, Sergeant Argolis.

Clever, Mr. Rivera! Isaac rushed through several more pages of testimony by the defense and noted that Keating did not call Worthington to the stand to defend himself. Who knows what he may have said? He did not call any more eyewitnesses. Were other people nearby? Were boaters anchored close enough to see the boys on the dock? Did anyone interview Jesse, the ugly cook? Did Keating pursue the possibility that Jamar was pushed off the dock by one of the kids? Isaac turned several more pages until Isaac could almost hear Keating’s slow, laid-back Eastern Shore drawl saying, “The defense rests.” It was after six o’clock, and Isaac could see that it had begun to rain outside. Ellen Stanley had extended her work for over an hour just for Isaac’s benefit. He had to hurry. So he did a quick read through of the rebuttal by the prosecution and the defense, the defense summation, and the summation by the state. The judge gave his charge and directions to the jury. The transcript said he gave a form to the jury foreman listing the various charges and possible verdicts: guilty or not guilty on counts one, two, and three. Two days later, after what he assumed was a heated debate, the jury returned with a verdict. Count one: guilty of second-degree murder; count two: guilty of reckless use of a firearm; count three: not guilty of destruction of property. They recommended that the judge issue a sentence of twenty-five years, essentially life for a sixty-five-year-old man. The judge ordered a presentence investigation and later followed the jury’s recommendation: twenty-five years. After the verdict was announced on April 1, 2007, Worthington was taken to the prisoner reception center in Baltimore before being assigned to the Maryland Department of Corrections at Jessup’s Cut. April 1! April Fool’s Day. That’s about all Isaac needed to read right now. There were too many loose ends. Keating did not ask the jury to visit the scene of the crime nor was any model made of the location of the lower porch or its relationship to the dock. There was no mention of intent. Keating should have used a defense of no malice. He closed the pages of the transcript and straightened up the file before returning it to its correct location on the shelf between 4051 and 4053. Ellen Stanley was

still working in her office. “Thank you so much. Sorry I took so long,” Isaac said. “It’s OK, Isaac. I’m always impressed with how many hours you lawyers work. We’re here to help you,” she said as she stood up, put on her raincoat, and tied a rain bonnet over her head. Isaac walked her to her car, helped her with her briefcase, and thanked her again. He needed to unwind, so he walked in the rain to the nearby pub, downed a couple of beers, and tossed a few arrows at the dartboard. One bull’s-eye! He’d missed Mama’s dinner, so he called her. “Where have you been? I was worried sick!” Funny how mothers revert to being protective once you’ve asked for advice. Now Isaac needed to call Shauna or he’d be in real trouble.

CHAPTER NINE

Then Again

I SAAC DIDN’T CARE that he was getting drenched walking back to Mama’s. Perhaps the dampness running down his face and soaking his collar would cool his thoughts. If anyone had asked him three days ago if he cared about Cap’n Jim’s trial or fate, the answer would have been “not one fricking bit!” Worthington had been tried by a jury of his peers, found guilty, and was safely stashed away. That was then. Other questions buzzed around his head now. Even before Shauna rather harshly reminded him this morning, being at the Kent County Courthouse always pulled out the memory of how, in 1918, his greatgrandfather, an ambitious barber, was framed and lynched on the courthouse lawn by the Ku Klux Klan. Isaac knew the whole story, every bloody detail ed down through four generations. Many years from now, he would need to tell the story to Trey. Isaac turned up his collar and walked more slowly toward Mama’s, thinking of how Ike Douglas was falsely accused of flirting with a white girl, shortchanging a customer, and cutting a white man while shaving him. Isaac winced as he imagined the cheers of the mob, visualized Klansmen bursting into Ike’s barbershop, beating Ike with a baseball bat, forcing a noose over his head, and pulling the rope tight around his neck. They dragged him down this very street where Isaac was walking, strung him up, and hanged him on a sturdy branch of the maple tree, within a few feet of one of the white pillars of the courthouse. They left him there overnight, swinging in the storm. The next morning, a huge crowd watched the Klan leaders drag his body from the courthouse to the Chester River Bridge. There they tied the end of the rope to the bridge and tossed Ike’s bloody, helpless body over the railing. Isaac’s grandfather, Jake Douglas, and Cap’n Jim’s father, Trip Worthington, heard the yelling, ran to the bridge, and tried to rescue Ike’s body. They found Ike’s remains dangling above the water and could only slash the rope and let the body spiral down into the Chester River while lightning crashed around them.

No white person was ever prosecuted. Not a single witness, out of hundreds of observers, stepped forward to identify the cowards in the pointed white hats. Even Trip was unwilling to name any of his neighbors. His reluctance severed the childhood friendship between Trip Worthington and Jake Douglas. Too much history. Feeling unsteady, Isaac sat down on a tourist’s bench to look at the bridge and wondered, Is there a crime of silence? Back then, the whites always won. Not a single white man in the country was ever convicted for any of the five thousand lynchings. Why not get even? Put the white bastards in jail. Why had he, for over six years, refused to look at the evidence in Cap’n Jim’s trial? Could it be that his image of Cap’n Jim, in a double exposure, overlapped the picture that he had imagined of the father he never knew? The light afternoon shower finally stopped, giving way to a band of crimson streaks rising above the river. Would he see a rainbow? Mama was still annoyed and anxious. “Well, there you are. You look like you drowned.” Interesting word, Isaac thought as he tried to erase two mental pictures of drowning. “I’m sorry, Mama, just lost track of time. Now I must call Shauna. Be back down in a few minutes.” “OK. I did keep the pot roast warm for you.” She smiled a little. Shaking slightly, Isaac climbed the narrow stairs to his small old room to get some privacy. The room, about ten by twelve feet, was only big enough to hold his large desk, his single bed, and a small closet. He grabbed a dry towel out of the bathroom, sat down on the chenille bedspread, and took off his wet shoes. He rubbed his curly hair and removed his shirt as he punched in Shauna’s cell phone number. “Hi!” He wanted to sound casual. “Well, hi yourself!” Her voice was friendly. “Are you and Trey OK?” “Sure, why do you ask? We’re fine. I was just calling a couple of Trey’s friends

to invite them to his birthday party next weekend.” Whoops, Isaac thought. He’d been too preoccupied to Trey would be four on July 10. Shauna was still talking. “And it’s gonna be such fun. I’m planning a zoo theme. We’ll get a costume for each guest so they can be dressed like a bear or a tiger or an elephant. You know, zoo animals,” she said. “Sounds like fun,” he said, recovering a bit. “Shauna, why don’t you and Trey come over here tomorrow so that Trey can celebrate an early birthday with Mama? I think she’d love that.” “I think he would too. He loves her stories.” “Leave early to miss the traffic, and be careful goin’ over the bridge.” He hoped he didn’t sound too protective. “I’ll miss you tonight, curled up in my old single bed.” “Oh, hmm, my poor dear. See you tomorrow.” Feeling calmer, he put his cell phone on its charger and thought, That woman, sometimes sweet, sometimes fiercely independent, keeps me guessing and wanting her. He heard Mama calling, “Dinner’s ready!” The aroma of the pot roast was tempting, and Isaac was hungry. But he needed to do two more things before he could relax: make a list of errors he’d found in the transcript and leave a message for Ben Cohen. “Give me ten minutes, Mama,” he called back. He sat down at his desk, the same one he had constructed years ago using the smooth underside of an old door and suspending it on concrete blocks. The desktop stretched nearly from one side of the room to the other. He loved that simple desk because it gave him enough room to open up his encyclopedia, dictionary, and thesaurus; to arrange classroom notes; and to stack up a pile of favorite books. He found a yellow legal pad under the dictionary and began a list of Keating’s failures to adequately represent Cap’n Jim.

1. Testimony of Raymond Walker—no attempt to reinforce witness’s observation that Jamar had “drowned.” 2. No challenge to the testimony about spent shot or the likelihood of scattershot being able to cause a fatal wound. 3. No question to determine if Worthington had a clear view of the dock. 4. Coroner’s examination of body “inconclusive.” 5. No consultation from a medical pathologist. 6. No visit to or model of the scene of the crime. 7. No mention of intent or malice. Note to self: check mens rea and post-conviction relief act.

That would do for starters. Isaac dialed his office number, got a recorded message that the office was closed, and then entered Ben’s private extension. It rang five times before Ben’s voice message said, “Until Monday, July 6, I will be out of the office. Please leave a message.” “Ben, it’s Isaac. It’s urgent to see you on Monday to discuss my candidacy for lieutenant governor. Now I have another matter, which may be related. It’s about Keating. Can you meet earlier, say about 7:30 a.m.? Would appreciate your advice. Call me on my cell. Thanks.” He called the office again, this time to leave a message for J. Roger. “Roger, hey, man, I’m reviewing some testimony I need to talk to you about. See you Monday, around nine? OK?” “OK, Mama. I’m on my way down.” He found an old shirt in his closet that still fit. He washed his hands, splashed warm water on his face, and ran a comb through his kinky hair. Mama was listening to the end of the NewsHour on

television but turned it off when she saw Isaac coming downstairs. She dished up a generous helping of pot roast, put a buttermilk biscuit and some orange marmalade on a side dish, and took her seat beside Isaac at the small table. “Can you relax now?” “Yes, lookin’ forward to just being with you.” By habit, they both bowed their head. After so many years when just the two of them lived in this little house, tonight’s intimacy felt familiar. Mama had never remarried or had any other children, just Isaac. “Hey, guess who’s comin’ over tomorrow,” he said. “Could it be Shauna and Trey?” “I can never fool you, Mama! You’re right.” “Well good, ’cuz I’ve got Trey’s birthday present.” She clapped her hands. “And you can tell him some of your favorite family stories.” “I’d better think about which one would be best. I’d love to tell him the story about your great-great-grandmother, Mattie, and her boyfriend, Fisher. You know, how they escaped, followed Sherman’s army north. But it might scare him to hear about the storm, the shipwreck, and how everyone thought Fisher had drowned.” Drowning seemed to be following him around, Isaac mused. Guess when you live on a river, it might be expected. “Go on, tell me the story,” he prompted. “Well, you . . .” “Of course I do, but it’s been a long time since I heard your version.” Mama leaned back in her chair and looked up at the ceiling as if gathering all the details suspended there. “It was in April 1865 when their ship ran aground. Mattie jumped free of it and landed only about a half-mile down thataway,” she said, pointing toward Wilmer Park. “The Quakers found her, cleaned her up, and sent her with a note to the

Worthingtons’ front doorstep.” “And that started the whole relationship between the Worthingtons and the Douglases,” Isaac interrupted. “Right! But speaking of relationship, how can I tell Trey that Rand Worthington raped little Mattie and that Mattie’s child, MizSue, was your greatgrandmother?” “Well, I think you’d better leave that out. Someday we’ll need to explain why our skin is a little lighter than others.” Mama looked off into space, as though she had lost her train of thought. Isaac prompted her, “OK, Mama? Are you all right?” “Oh sure, son. Was just thinkin’.” “But as I recall, there was a really funny part of that story.” Mama was back on track. “My oh my, yes. , years later, maybe eighteen years or so, the circus came to town on a barge. I could tell Trey that story. They pulled the calliope up this street, right over to Wilmer Park. Then Mattie and MizSue watched the elephants pull the ropes to set up the tents and all that. Then . . .” Isaac knew she was getting to her favorite part of the story. He’d heard it many times but just let her continue. “MizSue begged her mama, Mattie, to go to the circus. MizSue had just met Ike, the barber, who wanted to ‘carry’ her to the circus. Mattie was afraid he was one of the no gooders. But of course, she found out later what a good guy he was. Anyway”—Kate Douglas took a deep breath—“anyway, MizSue convinced Mattie to come along to the circus. When they got there, a cute little clown, playing an accordion, greeted them at the big top. He asked them what they wanted him to play. It’s said that Mattie asked for ‘Camptown Races.’ And what d’ya know?” Isaac knew, but he never would have interrupted Mama’s delight in the telling. “He asked Mattie to sing along,” she continued. “And lo and behold, he

recognized her voice. He said, ‘Sing that again, missy.’ She did. He looked more carefully at her. She glared at him.” Pretty soon he yelled, “You’re Mattie!” “You’re Fisher!” Mattie cried. “You’re alive. I thought you’d drowned. Oh my, my, mercy me!” Mama stopped to catch her breath between laughs. Isaac knew the rest of the story. Mattie learned that after the sailors pushed Fisher off the ship, he grabbed hold of a crate and floated all the way to Rock Hall. He looked for Mattie for weeks, gave up, followed the Underground Railroad north, and eventually, ed the circus. After they rediscovered each other, they got married in a double ceremony with MizSue and Ike and had about six happy years before the fire. “I always love tellin’ that story. We don’t need to think about the other bad stuff.” “Not now, anyhow, Mama,” Isaac said.

CHAPTER TEN

Sankofa

I SAAC TWISTED AND turned all night, trying to get comfortable in his old bed. By morning, the sheets were tangled and his pillow was damp with perspiration. He wondered how he’d ever slept soundly without Shauna’s soft body next to him. Mama must have heard him moving because he heard her call, “Yoo-hoo! Rise and shine!” Isaac pulled his pillow over his head. Even when he pressed it tightly against his ears, he could still hear her familiar morning command. “Rise and shine!” He pushed the covers aside, ran his hand over his curly hair, swung one bare leg at a time over the side of the bed, and sat up slowly. “Scrapple’s ready!” Isaac wouldn’t hurt her feelings now, but he was sure that if he were still a teenager, his reply would have been “ugh.” Instead, he said, “Be down in ten, Mama.” Barefooted, Isaac plodded across the hall to the bathroom, threw some cold water on his face, squinted into the mirror, and opened the medicine cabinet where he found a new, unwrapped toothbrush marked “For Isaac.” Typical, Isaac thought. Mama must have saved it from her last trip to the dentist. In his tiny closet, he found an old pair of cut-off khaki shorts and two shirts, a long-sleeved bright-neon-green shirt and a short-sleeved cotton T-shirt illustrated with the raised fist of the Black Power sign. He was not in the mood for anything bright, and it was already too warm for long sleeves. So he put on the Black Power T-shirt after turning it inside out.

“Scrapple’s hot now, cold soon!” She poured a cup of coffee for him and then set a plate of scrambled eggs, scrapple, and toast before him. Birthday wrapping paper, ribbon, Scotch tape, crepe paper, and small balloons covered the kitchen counter. “Looks like we’re havin’ a party,” Isaac said. “Sure. Do ya like the paper?” It was brightly colored with bears swinging from a jungle gym, upside down, right side up, tossing balls. “Kinda reminded me of Trey!” “What did you get him?” “Here, look.” It was a large alphabet book showing one letter on each page. A is for apple, B is for banana, C is for clown. “Perfect selection, Mama. Trey’s trying to read.” “Not so long ago, our folks were punished for trying to read, even after they were free. They were beaten, taken away to what they called sent south. That’s where, during Reconstruction, former slave traders tortured them for acting uppity.” “We’ve come a long way,” Isaac said. “And so here you are, thinking about running for lieutenant governor. Lord, have mercy.” She took a deep breath. “Here, Yore Honor, help me blow up some balloons.” Isaac took one of the small red balloons and stretched it between his fingers. He blew into it, blew again, but it didn’t inflate. He tried again, using the pressure building up in his cheeks. Finally, before he gave up, it gave way and filled up. “Why don’t we go out and get some big helium balloons?” Isaac said. “What! And spoil that precious little boy!” Mama had a way of keeping her family humble. She stood on a small stepladder and draped crepe paper around the two windows facing the marina, stretched it to the top of the window facing Wilmer Park, and with Isaac’s help, tied it to the light in the center of the room.

She bunched five balloons together and hung them outside, like a wreath, on the entrance door. They were ready for a party, Mama-style. Outside, the activity at the marina, typical of a Saturday morning, was in full gear with families dragging equipment from their cars to their boats. Dad would be carrying two six-packs of beer, Mom would have the platter of canapés, and the kids would be pulling the coolers, clattering over the stones in the parking lot. Although Mama and Isaac witnessed this scene weekly from across the street, Isaac had never felt a part of that world. At least, not until Miss Marion changed his life. “Trey’s going to love having a party here, Mama.” He gave her a hug. “Well, I’d better hurry and get the cake baked. If you can find a store open, maybe you can get the ice cream.” “Sure, I’ll try.” Isaac needed to take a walk, maybe to visit the church where Miss Marion’s ashes were kept. He needed her advice too. “I’ll be back before they get here,” he said, turning on the floor fan to help Mama keep cool. “Better put on some shoes,” she said. He went out the back door and circled around to the back of the house, past the old vegetable garden at the edge of Wilmer Park. Nearby he heard children playing in the field where he had tossed Frisbees with Chip, the same place where, a generation earlier, Trip Worthington and Jake Douglas had played mumblety-peg. Some volunteers were already setting up picnic tables in the park for the Fourth of July celebration, draping red, white, and blue bunting around the stage. He thought about Mama’s story, about how Mattie and Fisher found each other there at the circus. Whistling “doo-dah, doo-dah,” he ambled on toward the river, past some thick reeds, and knelt down to look at the water. Could this be the place where Mattie swam ashore? He ed the clapboard house, still standing. It had once been occupied by an Underground Railroad conductor, the comionate man who signaled his fellow abolitionists to come with their wagon and rescue Mattie. Looking down Cannon Street, he visualized MizSue walking to work at the Devon. On the next corner, Isaac ed the spot where Ike had had his barbershop. He wondered where black men could get a good haircut these days. Walking slowly, he ed Janes Methodist Church and made a note that services

would be at nine thirty tomorrow morning. He stood before the large Episcopal Church, where five generations of Worthingtons had worshipped and were married and buried. The ashes of Randolph, Sarah, Eliza, Mr. Trip, and Miss Marion were in a private courtyard known as the Garth. He wished he could talk to Miss Marion. Perhaps just being close to her in the small garden would give him some more perspective. On a Saturday, the churchyard was quiet. No parishioners, dressed in Sunday clothes, would be there to scrutinize his appearance. Only recently had he dared wander around the grounds by himself without raising a well-groomed eyebrow or two. As a lawyer, now he was recognized by the townspeople and felt safer entering the grounds. But there were still no white people in his black church nor any black people in Miss Marion’s church, although they were only a block apart. “Hey there!” A voice startled Isaac. “Ain’t that Counselor Douglas? What’s up? Need some help?” the voice asked. Isaac turned around to find Al, a high school classmate and now the church sexton. “Well, hi there, Al. I just want to visit the Garth.” “No problem,” he said as he led Isaac into the sacred space. “Have a rest.” Isaac sat on a stone bench at the center of the Garth and let the spirit and the memories of Miss Marion gather around him. Seeing Al took him back to 1989, his senior year in high school. Miss Marion often encouraged him to tell her all about what was happening in school. He’d even involved her in the graduation controversy. He still felt the pain of that episode when, as the salutatorian, he was denied the chance to be the graduation speaker. The valedictorian, Dominique, a bright AFS student from Nigeria, had also been denied recognition. Back then it was unthinkable that the valedictorian and the salutatorian of Chestertown High School were both black. A silent but virulent snowball of public opinion formed. Isaac noticed white students whispering to one another, dropping their eyes, ignoring him. The istration bowed to the festering opposition and announced that, for the first time in many years, no student would be asked to give the graduation speech. To make matters

worse, the senior prom was held at the local, white-only country club. Isaac and Dominique pretended they didn’t care, that they’d hold their own dance. But Isaac did care. He had told Miss Marion the whole story. She demanded to see the principal, gave him several pieces of her mind. But there was nothing more she could do. Graduation invitations were already in the mail announcing the guest speaker. While Miss Marion was at the school, she asked the college guidance counselor which colleges she was advising Isaac to attend. The advisor mentioned four, Delaware Technical Community College, Howard University, Morehouse College, and Spelman College. All fine colleges but all traditionally black. When questioned, the advisor insisted, “Isaac would be happiest there.” Mama and Isaac had decided that he would go to Del Tech, a good, nearby school that they could almost afford if Isaac worked summers. By the time Miss Marion had her meeting at his school, Isaac had already enrolled in Del Tech. But Miss Marion believed the popular phrase that “a mind is a terrible thing to waste” and worried that Isaac deserved a more rigorous academic education. Out of her total frustration and unable to affect institutional bias, Miss Marion set up an irrevocable trust to finance his education. Cap’n Jim objected but couldn’t stop her from using her own money. Now sitting near her ashes, Isaac could almost replay their conversations. “Isaac,” she had said, “you need a bigger challenge. I want you to transfer to the University of Pennsylvania for your next three years.” She was right. Isaac ed how happy she had been when he returned to Chestertown after graduation and got a job working with Ellen Stanley for a year before starting law school. “So glad you’re back, Isaac,” he ed her saying. He spent more time with Miss Marion during that year. Even as she was becoming weaker in body, she became stronger and more determined to spend time with him. It was a calling for her. “You OK out there?” Isaac heard a different call. It was Al again. “Sure,” Isaac answered.

“I’m lockin’ up now. Just close the gate when you leave.” “Thanks, Al.” He wondered how Al’s life might have been different if he had a mentor like Miss Marion. They’d talked for hours about all kinds of subjects: racial incidents, discrimination, his fear of being viewed as an “oreo,” the importance of finding his own racial identity. She posed ethical dilemmas in a game she called What Would You Do If? Isaac moved around on the stone bench to get comfortable. He could almost hear her voice saying, “Let’s pretend you notice a shabbily dressed woman leaving the grocery store pushing a baby carriage. There is no baby in the carriage. You see her put a few cans of soup under the blanket of the carriage and leave the store without paying for the soup. What do you do?” “OK, Miss Marion,” Isaac said, almost out loud, “I’ve got one—maybe two or three—for you.” “What would you do if,” he said to himself, “if a convicted felon begged you to help him get out of jail? And what would you do if you suspected the most powerful law firm in the state was guilty of malfeasance?” Isaac stood up and walked around to be closer to Miss Marion’s crypt. He continued, almost in a whisper, “And what would you do if you’d been asked to run for a high public office? And what would you do if the accusation against the most powerful law firm was going to hurt your chances of getting elected? There!” He ended up speaking out loud, trembling, not able to keep quiet. He heard no answer. The only sounds were trucks beeping outside the Garth, farmers getting ready to display their produce at Saturday’s farmers’ market in Fountain Park. He had been gone longer than he’d intended. He needed to hurry and get the ice cream. But as he left, he had one more thought. Had religion helped solve any ethical or racial problems? Some claim there is a age in Galatians ing slavery. One of the most segregated hours of the week is on Sunday morning when blacks are in one church and whites in another. Cemeteries are still segregated. Maybe not so much had changed after all since Fisher buried Mattie outside of town and Sarah and Rand Worthington

were buried here. Isaac knew Marion Brittingham Worthington was the exception. In 1988, when she created the trust, she argued, “You aren’t getting any younger!” What he suspected was that she was not getting any better and wanted to know, while she was still alive, that he was on his way to becoming a lawyer. Although she was very weak, he ed seeing her at Christmas break in the first year of law school. She gave him the gown and hood her father had worn when he received his graduate degree from Penn. “Just try it on, Isaac,” she had said. “Put on the hood. Let me see what you will look like when you graduate from law school.” They laughed that it looked pretty ridiculous over his jeans. She died two months later, February 14. Before her service, Isaac held Mama’s hand and walked the three long blocks through crusted snow from home to this church where he sat now. The memories were close. The lessons she taught remained alive. This town, like an overstuffed valise bursting at its seams, seemed too small to be packed with so many memories. In a little more than an hour, he had circled most of the streets. Each avenue and each place held his story, his Sankofa. It was time to find some ice cream.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Stories

O NE BLOCK FROM home, Isaac ed the Devon and spotted Chip up on a ladder, painting a window sill. “Hi there, buddy,” Isaac called. “Hey, stranger. Gotta get together,” Chip hollered back.

Home again, Isaac closed the gate, ignored the squeak, and announced, “I got lucky, Mama, got vanilla and chocolate mint.” “Will Shauna and Trey like them?” she asked. Just then, Isaac spotted Shauna’s car crossing over Canon Street. “Ask them. Here they come!” “Don’t ask ’em yet, it’s a surprise.” Mama wiped her hands on her apron and ducked into the house to put the ice cream into the freezer. Shauna parked her car in front of the house and met Isaac at the gate. He jumped over the fence, hugged her, and swung Trey up over his head. “So glad to see you guys,” Isaac said. “Well, big man, Gramma’s got a surprise for you.” Mama came to the door, peeked out, and called, “Ready for your surprise?” “Balloons! Balloons!” Trey cried as he ran toward her, clapping his hands and jumping up, trying to touch the balloons.

Mama led Isaac and Shauna in an off-key round of “Happy Birthday.” Even though she knew the answer, she asked, “And how old will you be next week?” “Four!” Trey said, holding up four fingers on each hand. Mama brought out a tray of sandwiches, decorated with smiley faces—black olives for the eyes, pickles for the smile, and a swath of mustard for the hair. After spooning out the ice cream and letting Trey cut the cake, Mama said, “Let’s see, do you suppose there are some presents around here?” She pretended to look around as if they were lost but finally pulled a small box out of her knitting basket. It was wrapped in yellow paper with dinosaurs scattered all over it. Trey looked disappointed as he opened the small box. “This is kind of a grown-up present, Trey.” Inside the box was a simple box camera, especially designed for children. “A camera? For a four-year-old?” Isaac said. “Mama, you’ve got a lot of confidence in your grandson.” Mama put her hands on her hips and faced Isaac squarely. “Sure do!” she said as she helped Trey unwrap the camera and showed him how to look through the viewer and where to press the right button to take a picture. His little fingers fumbled as he tried to hold the camera steady. “Isaac, this is just a simple box camera made for children. It may take some getting used to. But I want Trey to this house, this street, to know why we’ve lived here, to learn about our family, our history. And what better way than to take pictures?” “Can I take pictures of the boats and the ducks and the really big houses?” Trey said. “You’ve got the right idea, Trey. Someday, Trey, I’ll tell you all about your great-great-great-grandmother Mattie, about how she escaped slavery and arrived here in Chestertown. I’ll tell you all about MizSue and Ike and my folks, Jake and Cissy. We all worked right down the street at the big house called the Devon.”

Trey skipped over to the front door and pointed down the street. “That big house down there?” “That’s the one. That’s where we all worked for many years. You can take pictures of all these things.” “Mama, why don’t you tell Trey one of your great stories?” Isaac said. “Tell me a story, Gramma!” “OK, I’ll tell you a story about something I did when I was about four, about your age.” Trey straddled the footstool facing her. Isaac drew Shauna close to him as they relaxed on the sofa. Isaac guessed Mama would tell the “dress-up caper” story, the one she loved to tell about the time when her brothers were left in charge of the Devon. They all sat quietly, waiting. She started her story. “When Trip Worthington—” She stopped. “Trey, he was Cap’n Jim’s daddy. When he moved to Savannah, the Devon was empty. So Cissy, my mama, said we’d take care of it. My brother Louie was eight, so he cut the Devon’s lawn, and sometimes Sammy and me would tag along… I mean, I, Sammy and I, pardon me. Anyhow, Mr. Trip said he couldn’t pay us much ’cuz of the stock market crash, but he made us a deal. If we would take good care of the Devon for seven years, he’d give us clear ownership of this house. This house where we’re sitting, Trey. Even though they had built it for us years before, it wasn’t legally ours. But he said, we had to keep the Devon in good condition. I’m told that Cissy, real businesslike, shook his hand, sealed the deal. In fact, I’ve still got Cissy’s written agreement. It’s right here.” She opened the drawer in the end table, drew out an embossed letterhead from a law firm in Savannah, and asked Isaac to read it aloud. “It’s dated January 1, 1940,” Isaac read.

On January 1, 1948, the above stated, Mr. James Randolph Worthington III, will

transfer the title to the dwelling at 202 Front Street, Chestertown, Maryland, tract number 504; a two-story, three-bedroom home located on a 16 X 30 foot lot to Cissy and Jake Douglas of the same address on the following conditions:

From January 1, 1940, to January 1, 1948, the recipients will care for Mr. Worthington’s home, known as the Devon. The recipients will inspect the Devon once every week, make necessary repairs, turn lights on and off, and cut the grass weekly during the summer growing season. At the end of this term of service, if Mr. Worthington is satisfied that these duties have been performed satisfactorily, the title to the dwelling at 202 Front Street will be legally transferred to the former servants, the heretofore mentioned recipients.

“That’s it,” Isaac said, knowing full well what Mama would say next. Mama said, “Cissy wasn’t sure she liked being referred to as the ‘former servants,’ but she proudly wrote her signature on the line marked with an X and mailed it back as requested. “Louie cut grass. Sammy switched lights on and off in different rooms, and Cissy watched for anything that needed to be fixed. “In the fall of 1947, Cissy went to Morgnec to care for her mother for a week, so she gave the keys to the Devon to Louie and trusted him to do the weekly inspection. Louie and Sammy took me with them on their rounds. I was about four years old.” Isaac interrupted. “Trey, Cissy is my grandma. Louie and Sammy were your grandma’s brothers.” Then he realized he was just confusing Trey. “Oh yes, I .” Mama started chuckling, resuming her place as the official storyteller. “Sammy was upstairs in the Devon, flickin’ a light on in the front bedroom, turning off the light in the back bedroom. I was jus’ followin’ him ’round,

lookin’ here and there. I spied the prettiest long fluffy scarf in the big bedroom. ‘What’s this?’ I said. ‘They call it a boa,’ Sammy said. ‘A boa? A bo-a what? What’s it for?’ ‘Here, I’ll show you!’ He draped it around my neck. ‘Whoopee! I’m pretty! What’s in this here trunk, do ya s’pose?’ “We found lots of pretty things—a vest, a red riding jacket, a long dress, some special things men wear over their shoes. Spats they’re called. There was some old costume jewelry, some more shoes, a top hat, and some hairpieces—the fanciest clothes we’d ever seen.” “Who said, ‘Let’s dress up?’” Isaac asked. He had heard the story many times. “Guess it must have been me,” Mama confessed and continued. “Sammy said, ‘Oh, we’d better not mess with this stuff.’ I gave him my cutest little smile ’cuz I wanted to look pretty. We got all dolled up, lookin’ like we was ready for some fancy dance. Sammy wore the spats, the vest, and the top hat. He helped me get into the dress, which trailed along on the floor for ’bout a mile behind me. He helped me put the sparkling barrettes in my nappy hair and draped the long fake pearl necklace around my neck so that it sort of swung back and forth, me havin’ no little boobies to catch it. “Purty soon, Louie come upstairs and heard us whooping it up! He yelled at us, ‘What do you think you idjits are doin?’ “‘Jus’ lookin’ pretty,’ I think I said. Then I gave him my most innocent nearly four-year-old smile. ‘C’mon, Louie, here’s a jacket for you. It has lots of gold braid on it!’ “I think it was then I found the makeup kit filled with some light-colored goo, lots of powder, some rouge, and some blue stuff to put over my eyes. I was really gettin’ glam’rous. By now Sammy and Louie were giggling, watching me smear the white stuff all over my face and covering my face and arms with a

generous dusting of powder. They thought I looked so gorgeous that they tried some for themselves. After all, who ever heard of two black guys escortin’ a gorgeous white lady to the military ball? They dove into the white goo and powder till we all matched. “Sammy plopped a straw hat on Louie’s head, gave him a silver-tipped cane, and said, ‘OK, start dancing.’ Prancing around the house, we sang, ‘Way Down Upon the Swanneeee River!’ Sammy playin’ his harmonica, Louie beatin’ on a wastebasket, and me clangin’ two spoons together. “So there we was—all white faced, looking spiffy in borrowed finery. Of course, we was smart enough to know that we’d put it all back. We wasn’t thieves.” Isaac noticed that Mama had uncharacteristically slipped into black patois but didn’t want to stop her. “The double staircase goin’ from the downstairs foyer up to the second floor was a perfect place for our charade. We paraded up one side and down the other, over and over—ascendin’ one side and descendin’ the other, struttin’ our stuff. “Louie was really getting into it. Every time Sammy and I came down the stairs, arm in arm, Louie formally announced our arrival. ‘May I present the Duke and Duchess of Windsor,’ he began. We stuck our noses up in the air and marched triumphantly down the staircase. “Louie said, ‘And now, ladies and gents, it is my pleasure to present Haile Sellasie and his daughter, the Princess Kathryn.’ “Later he was sayin’, ‘And now I give you President Franklin Delano—’ right before we heard a key turn in the outside lock. “Then the front door opened. We froze in our tracks. Who was it? We darned near peed in our borrowed clothes. “It was Cissy, my mama. We was so thankful it wasn’t Mr. Trip on a surprise visit. But Mama was just as mad. She went off like a roman candle, sputtering words like ruined, lost, stupid ’cuz she couldn’t get a whole sentence together. After she wailed at us, even throwing in a few curse words, she calmed down and took another look at me and Sammy, posed like statues in midflight at the top of the stairs. Then Louie started kidding her. Louie always did have a way

with our mama. I ran down the stairs toward her, hugged her, and put my pearls around her neck. “‘Look at you with pearls,’ Sammy whistled. “Mama Cissy tried to keep a straight face. But she couldn’t resist laughing at her children, dres just like the white folks. That was before she saw all the powder we had scattered all over the stairs, some on the rug. Then she got real serious again. She went into the kitchen, brought out a bucket of water, some rags, a scrub brush, and three bitty-little toothbrushes. “We spent the rest of the day on our hands and knees, scrubbing the floor, getting powder out of little cracks, and polishing all the wood till it glistened. The Devon hadn’t looked so clean in seven years. “That was only a few weeks before Mr. Trip returned for his seven-year inspection. We ed. And true to his word, on January 1, 1948, JRW ‘Trip’ Worthington III surrendered the title to this little house at 202 Front Street to Cissy and Jake Douglas. It’s been ours ever since.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Repairs

“GRAMMA, YOU PEED?” Trey asked. “No, Trey, we didn’t really pee. We were scared! Maybe Gramma shouldn’t have told you that story!” Still shaking with laughter, Shauna said, “It’s OK, Mama. That’s really a funny story.” Isaac clapped his hands and called “bravo” as the midafternoon sunlight pressed through Mama’s south window, casting a spotlight on the storyteller. “Mama, you and your brothers were real rascals!” said Shauna. She winked at Trey, who was climbing off the footstool. “Let’s get some ice water for Gramma and let her catch her breath.” They sipped the cold water slowly. “Wish we could stay for church tomorrow, Mama,” said Isaac. “I know you’ve got to get away. Just come here,” said Mama as she stood up to encircle all three in what she called an all-a-body hug. “Happy birthday, little man,” she said for the fifth time. “Thank Gramma, Trey,” said Shauna. “Sank you, Gramma,” said Trey, hugging her legs. Isaac, Shauna, and Trey walked slowly to their cars. Isaac choked back the lump rising in his throat, wondering if he would ever again feel as safe as he did as a child in this tiny house. He opened the gate and heard it squeak again. Mama’s parting onition was “Isaac, you’ve spilled chocolate ice cream down the

front of your shirt!” Isaac watched Shauna clip the seat belt around Trey in the back seat of her car. “Shauna, I’ll follow you,” he said, sliding into his Mercedes. He opened the canvas top to let the warm breeze brush over him. He waved again and watched Mama’s silhouette grow smaller in the rearview mirror. At the bridge, they turned right and entered rural Queen Anne’s County. Isaac followed closely behind Shauna for about fifteen miles before he noticed a blinking light on his dashboard. He blew his horn to get Shauna’s attention and motioned for her to pull over on the shoulder. “What’s wrong?” she called back as she rolled to a stop. “Could be radiator trouble. Engine’s running hot.” Isaac opened the hood and felt the hoses leading to the radiator. “I’ve got to find a repair shop,” he said. “Can you wait until we get to Annapolis?” “No, I can’t drive that far with a hot engine. Can’t take the chance of breaking down on the bay bridge.” As if on cue, the radiator cap popped off, boiling off the radiator fluid. “I’d better call Triple A.” After a moment, a voice answered and a telephone number flashed onto the screen. “I may need to be towed. Is there a foreign-car repair garage nearby?” “We’ll send out a tow truck. I’ll connect you to the driver. Just tell him where you are.” There was a pause, then a click, click. “OK… hello, hello!” Isaac called. “Yeah, Dilly here,” the voice said, “from Dilly’s Repair Shop.” “Are you open?” “Yup, Triple A said you need a tow. What’s wrong?” Isaac explained the problem, and the voice promised he’d be along in about thirty minutes.

“Thanks,” said Isaac. “Sho ’nuf.” The accent was heavy. Shauna kept her air-conditioning running. Trey was sound asleep, mouth open, oblivious to any trouble. “You’d better go on home, Shauna. This guy can probably fix it,” Isaac said, half believing his own words. “Here, take my water bottle,” she said, looking worried. “I’ll be OK. Be careful on the bridge.” He mimed a kiss goodbye. Isaac moved the gear shift into neutral and pushed his car several more feet away from the highway, then looked around for a shady spot to sit. Perspiration ran down his back, soaked his Black Power T-shirt, and collected around the waistband of his torn shorts. A field of corn on the other side of the road stretched for miles along flat land, with hardly a tree in sight. Isaac sat down on a large rock. Ten minutes ed. Fifteen. He looked at his water bottle. Onethird full. He took a measured swallow. Sweat was running down his forehead, across his brow. It tasted salty. He took a handkerchief from his pocket, knotted each of its four corners, soaked it with water, placed it on his head, and then kicked at the dusty ground. Finally, he heard the rumble of heavy tires rolling over the breaks of the hot macadam. On one side of the tow truck, a handpainted sign spelled out Dilly’s Re-Pare Shop. That name rang a faint bell. Guess I’m stuck with this guy, Isaac thought. A middle-aged dark-black man, dressed in overalls splattered many times with the oils of his trade, climbed out of the cab. His nicotine-stained gray beard framed a mouth missing a few teeth. “You Dilly?” Isaac asked. “Yup. What’s the trouble, brother?” Isaac showed him the blown cap and the nearly dry radiator. Dilly scanned Isaac’s unshaven beard, his dirty shirt, and his makeshift turban. With a faint accusatory tone, he said, “Hey, man. Them’s some wheels! Yours?” Isaac felt no need to explain why he owned a fancy sports car.

“It’s the radiator,” Isaac said. Dilly ducked his head under the hood and said, again, “Yup. That’s it.” He returned to his cab to retrieve a clipboard covered with report forms. “I’m supposed to ask for your registration. Y’all got some?” Isaac searched the glove compartment to find the official Maryland car registration card when he suddenly ed that he had left the card at home, in the copy machine. “Good God,” he said. “I left it at home.” “Sure, sure.” Dilly pursed his lips and gave Isaac a sideways roll of the eyes. Dilly licked the tip of his pencil. “It’s OK, brother. I’ll take care of it.” Isaac watched as Dilly filled in nine fake numbers on his report and then asked, “Your name?” A newspaper headline in twenty-four-point type ed over Isaac’s imagination: “Candidate for Lieutenant Governor Charged with Faking Car Registration.” If he was to be a candidate, he couldn’t afford a misdemeanor. He paused a guilty minute. “I asked, ‘Your name?’” What name could he give? Isaac, too distinctive. Tecumseh, no. Without more hesitation, Isaac said, “Terrell,” wondering where that idea came from. “OK, Ty-rell,” said Dilly. “Last name?” “Davis,” Isaac said quickly, finding the second lie easier than the first. “Yeah, sure,” Dilly said, obediently recording the aliases. “Now you can help me get your little prize hooked up.” Dilly backed his tow truck within inches of the front of Isaac’s Mercedes, attached a metal hook to the bumper, and asked Isaac to help him crank the chains, hoisting the car onto the bed of the truck. “Jump in.” Isaac patted his back pocket, checked for his wallet, and hoisted himself up the high step and onto the enger seat. The ride was rough. “Got any shock

absorbers on this baby?” Isaac called out above the noise of the engine. “Nah.” After a sharp curve in the road, they ed a white cross decorated with fake red flowers. “D’ya that kid?” Dilly asked. “Who?” “He was the black kid riding his motorcycle right here until a drunk white lady hit him. Killed him, dead, right there!” Isaac did hearing about that accident during his time in the attorney general’s office, something about no investigation. “Yup. Killed him, dead, right there. There was witnesses. They said she’d been weaving back and forth down the road, musta been drunk.” Isaac didn’t want to show that he knew much about it, so he just let Dilly ramble on. “Those bastards up in Chestertown, those police bastards, refused to investigate it. His mama tried to get them to talk to the witnesses. Would they? Nope. Black man’s words worth nothin’, right?” Automatically, Isaac-Ty-Rell agreed, “Right!” Dilly turned onto a narrow road outside of Queenstown, took the next left, and came to a dead end at his garage. A sign on the side of a little building was missing a couple of letters. It meant to say “Dilly Re-Pares—Foreign & Domestic.” Dilly pointed to the building. “Wait in there. It’s goin’ to take me ’bout an hour. There’s stuff to read. Ya like local news? I collect it.” Isaac slid out of the cab and jumped over ruts of mud in front of the entrance to Dilly’s small waiting room. He saw two chrome kitchen chairs with ripped vinyl seats and a cash sitting on the counter above a glass case holding

packages of gum, some Snickers, and car air fresheners. A few out-of-date magazines and a scrapbook were on the wooden side table. Isaac wasn’t interested in the magazines, so he opened the scrapbook. Pasted closely together were articles about the largest rockfish caught in 2003, the fish festival of 2004, a picture of Little Miss Maryland 2001, an alleged UFO landing on an Earleville farm, a 2006 headline proclaiming “Blacks Claim Drunken White Driver Kills Motorcyclist.” There was the story Dilly had been talking about. Isaac heard Dilly calling loudly, “Ty-rell! Ty-rell! Can ya give me a hand?” Isaac looked outside to see that Dilly was struggling to release his car from the bed of the tow truck. He jumped over the same puddle and ran over to the truck. Together they untangled a link in the chain caught up on the reel. “Hey, thanks, buddy,” Dilly said. “Ty-rell, man, you cool.” “How’d you get this place, Dilly?” “Oh, hell. My pappy got it from his pappy who worked for the Big Man, did all his repair work on the plantation.” “How’d you learn to fix foreign cars?” “Just watched my pappy from time I was a young’n. Then they finally let me in the trade school over in Centreville. That’s when I learnt to read.” Isaac-Ty-rell thought, But not to spell. “How ’bout you?” “Oh, I’ve been ’round these parts for years. Need any more help?” “Not now.” “Give me a holler if you do!” Isaac walked back to the little waiting room and tried to get comfortable in the straight chair. The afternoon sun was fading. He retrieved his cell phone and tried to call Shauna but heard only the reminder beep that the battery was low. Damn, he thought, forgot to charge it last night. Isaac looked outside and saw that Dilly had succeeded in getting the car into the repair bay. He heard him whistling and hoped he would find the problem.

The next story in Dilly’s scrapbook was a 2009 story, “Black Thugs Convicted of Robbery.” Isaac read through several of the stories before coming to a large article covering a single page. A headline from the March 2007 Bay Times was underlined in black and screamed in large forty-two-point type, “Local Thoroughbred Breeder Convicted.” Isaac stared at the last clipping with his mouth open. He read the whole article, beginning with the following:

Yesterday, a jury of his peers found prominent horse breeder James R. Worthington IV guilty of second-degree murder in the death of Jamar Allison, a nine-year-old local boy who was playing on his dock. The attorney for Worthington claimed that the boy drowned. However, witnesses testified that, due to the confusion of the annual Fourth of July celebration, it was difficult to discern many of the circumstances.

Isaac thought of the trial’s transcript and suddenly the name clicked into place. Who was this man? This Dilly? Was it the same Dilly, “Dilly Price,” who was on the jury? Isaac looked around the waiting room for something showing his full name. The clipboard lay on the counter. At the top of the report form, holding Isaac’s fake registration number, was the name of the tow-truck driver. Yes, it was Dilly Price. Isaac wiped his forehead with his greasy fingers and rested his head on his arms. He needed to think. He had an incredible opportunity to get more information. But was it ethical to quiz a juror without a subpoena? He ed the rules of evidence allowed some leeway after a conviction. Maybe this talkative man wouldn’t need much prompting to tell him more about the jury deliberations. It was worth a try. Isaac opened the screen door and, trying to sound casual, called out, “How’s it coming?” “Come see, I could use your help.” Isaac watched Dilly remove the radiator hose from its coupling. “Here, let me

hold this side,” he said, “while you attach the new hose.” “Lucky I had just the right one.” “Diameter’s the key,” Isaac said. “You’re pretty smart.” “Pretty smart yourself, Dilly. What else do you do?” “I’ve sort of got a hobby of what you might call court watching.” “Oh really? Keeping them all honest?” “’Course, none of them are!” “Right,” Ty-rell-Isaac lied. “How did you get so interested in court stuff?” “Long story. Didya see my collection of stories?” “Was readin’ some of them.” Isaac looked under the hood and touched the hot radiator. “Here, hold the wrench right over here,” Dilly instructed. “Here?” “Now tighten it about three turns.” “OK.” Isaac sensed that with just a little more encouragement, Dilly would spill more beans. “How do you have time to court watch?” “I don’t have much business, and I got hooked when I was a foreman on a jury.” Isaac looked away, but Ty-rell asked, “Really, what jury?” “Did you see the story about that rich horse owner?” “Yeah. I was readin’ that when you called for help.

“Good stuff in there, right? Yeah, we really got him! We got that white bastard good! Killed that poor little helpless kid! A little kid just playing on his dock, hurtin’ nobody.” Dilly continued, “We’re about done. Start up the engine.” Isaac feared he would stop talking but, as requested, turned the key in the ignition. The engine purred into action. “You can turn it off now.” “Nice job, Dilly.” “Thanks for your help, brother. Come on over to the office. I’ll show you more.” They hung up the wrenches. Isaac helped Dilly pour a mixture of coolant and water into the radiator and tossed away the old radiator hose. Together they walked back to the little waiting room. Dilly pointed proudly at the 2007 conviction story. “My uncle sent me that article for my collection, knew I’d be interested. That rich guy said the kid drowned. Ha! Fat chance! I didn’t care if he was really guilty or not! Brother, it was a white cat’s turn to pay. About time we turned the tables, I’d say. Don’t ya think? It was our chance to get one a’them. Never coulda happened earlier. Like back when, long time ago, those four monsters raped that pretty black woman on campus. My uncle saw that one, over at the college it was. Never investigated. Vicious raping, rich white fellows, horny bastards! Back then, blacks weren’t allowed to testify in court against whites. That attack festered in my craw for years. But later, I got justice for us, for our team! I did!” “Never heard ’bout that one. What woman?” Isaac asked. What rape was he talking about? “Yeah, you’re too young to . My uncle saw it. Long time ago, he was working for the college, leavin’ work in his truck, and saw them holdin’ her down, takin’ turns. But he couldn’t do nothin’ about it. Was four ’gainst one. Wouldn’t have done no good to report it. The cops never believed a black guy back then. Probably would have arrested him, blamed it on him.” Dilly cradled his precious scrapbook in his big hands, still open to Cap’n Jim’s conviction story. He smiled broadly, slapped his chest, and boasted, “I got a

chance to even the score. That’s when I was foreman on that jury, and they listened to me. Took a little grease to convince some of the holdouts, if you know what I mean.” Dilly rubbed his greasy forefinger and thumb together to illustrate. “You mean the horse breeder’s jury?” Ty-rell-Isaac asked, struggling to stay cool. “You bet! Those holdouts, they listened to me,” he repeated. “And we got him, we got that got that rich son’abitch. Got him good—twenty-five years!” he added proudly. That’s what Isaac needed to know. The jury was bribed. Isaac’s instincts took over. He knew he must leave immediately before he asked any more questions. “How much are the repairs?” “Usually, $75. I’ll charge a brother just $57. Won’t require any hush money!” He laughed. Isaac tried to keep a straight face, then found his voice enough to choke out, “Thanks. Thanks for your help.” The lead juror seemed surprised when Isaac pulled out a $50 bill and seven ones. Isaac climbed into his car, closed the top, and stifled his reaction. He slid down into the cool leather cushions, maneuvered around the mud, and eased carefully onto the dirt road, aware that his mind was packed with too much new information. Dilly Price was definitely one of the jury listed on the transcript, the foreman. For a change, Dilly had the power, a “chance to even the score, to take one for the team,” he had said. It was clearly retribution for sufferings of the past, getting even for all the lynchings, for the rapes, for the beatings. Isaac understood that, the depth of hatred. Yet, Isaac thought, we are the same color, but we come from different worlds. We play by different rules—and some make up their own rules. What obligation did Isaac have to report the bribery? What was statute of limitations on jury tampering? What proof would be needed? How many of the jurors would be implicated? Would this mean a new trial for Cap’n Jim? But

what was the chance that Isaac should meet Dilly? One in a thousand? And what rape was he talking about? Twenty miles later, Isaac was still shaking his head with disbelief and his stomach was rumbling from hunger. With his foot heavy on the accelerator, he headed for home, hoping Shauna would have dinner ready for him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Blind Justice

I SAAC FELT THE weight of more nagging questions than answers following him home, down Route 301, across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, all the way up his driveway where he sat watching raindrops on the windshield break the heat of the day. Still sweating and grim faced, Isaac let himself in the back door, hoping he would not have to explain his mood to Shauna. “Hi! Welcome home, intrepid traveler,” Shauna shouted. “You’re a mess. Change your shirt, we’re going out for pizza,” she said as she helped Trey put on his flip-flops. Isaac headed for his desk. “You and Trey go ahead, Shauna. I’ve got work to do.”

“Work! For God’s sake, it’s Sunday night,” she said.

“I’m well aware of the day. I’ve got work to do,” he repeated, snapping open his briefcase.

“OK. Be a spoilsport!” she said, waving her car keys over her head. “Bye.”

Isaac turned on his desk light, spread out his notes, and scribbled on a yellow legal pad. Were there as many holes in the defense as it seemed? And Dilly! Oh my God, Dilly!

He needed to get his head back into the details, beginning with the selection of the jury : seven African Americans, four Caucasians, one Latino; the testimony of young Raymond Walker; the hesitant description of Jamar Allison by his teacher; the of the gardener; and his own testimony. He ed that he had testified that Cap’n Jim was on the lower veranda before coming to the door with a drink in hand. Why did I say that? Isaac thought. Cap’n Jim could have been anywhere in the house, closeted in the library, downstairs in the kitchen, upstairs napping in the front bedroom. Why did I say with such certainty that he had been on the lower veranda, closer to the dock? He could picture Captain Jim on that hot Fourth of July in his wrinkled yellow shirt, his belly protruding. He had changed so much from the time he proudly sported his red “master of the hounds” riding jacket. Sometimes he had looked like a distinguished Southern gentleman in his black tuxedo ready for the Chestertown Charity Ball or lounging by the fireside in his favorite woolen Eire sweater. Then as Isaac saw him two days ago in his orange prison jumpsuit, a shred of comion crept into Isaac’s recollection. Cap’n Jim had been a man clad in the customs of his day, conditioned by and tied to his niche of society. How much of his past had trapped him, led him to try to escape through booze and women? Frozen by the blind prejudice of the privileged. Isaac wondered, How much of my past has conditioned me? How much punishment do I want to inflict upon the perpetrators of our peoples’ painful past? The questions wouldn’t stop. Isaac jumped out of his chair, slapped his forehead, paced around the den, and called out at the demons of memory, “Stop, stop, dammit, stop—” “What the hell is going on?” It was Shauna, back and carrying a warm box of pizza. “This is killing me.” “What’s killing you?” Isaac slumped down in his chair, trying to find the words. “OK, hurry up and tell me what’s wrong. The pizza is getting cold.”

Isaac told Shauna that Dilly had been the foreman at Cap’n Jim’s trial, that he bragged that he’d swayed the jury, got them to convict Cap’n Jim, and paid them for their cooperation. “Well, good for him!” Shauna said. “About time we nailed the white guy!” “Shauna, I can’t believe you said that!” “Why not! Where was the punishment for the lynching party? Where was the comion for the bleeding knees of your grandmother? Who snatched your opportunity to be valedictorian away from you? Where was justice?” “That’s the point, Shauna. We need justice. The Lady Justice I know wears a blindfold, ?” “Isaac, sometimes you are such a…” Words failed her. She composed herself. “Well, what are you going to do?” “I’m going to think about it more. My own motives may be on trial.” “I have no idea what you are talking about!” She closed the door of the den, then returned briefly, and left a slice of pizza for Isaac on a plate.

At six forty-five Monday morning, after a sleepless night, Isaac turned his key in the lock of the office door of Thompson, Cohen, Funk, and Douglas and reminded himself to take a deep breath, to concentrate only on his meeting with Ben Cohen. Isaac saw that Ben was already waiting in the conference room, poised at the end of the long oblong mahogany table. Ben Cohen was midfifties-ish, balding, and a proud Jewish patriot of Israel. His parents fled Tel Aviv in 1942, fearing that Hilter’s atrocities would spread to Palestine. They arrived in New York with two PhDs, no jobs, and a baby named Ben Ira. Isaac knew his story. Ben’s father scrambled three jobs together, pushed clothes racks through the garment district, did heavy lifting at the port, and worked as a nighttime building guard. His mother never was accepted for her teaching skills and finally ended her misery with her head in their gas oven in Brooklyn. Never again, Ben vowed. He worked nights during law school at NYU and, after acing the bar exam, headed

for Washington, with a permanent stopover in Annapolis. He dropped the Ira but kept the resentment. “Douglas! Good morning, or is it already afternoon? Why so late?” Ben Ira Cohen goaded Isaac. Isaac tossed his coat over one of the chairs and immediately felt forced onto the defensive, which, he reminded himself, was usually Ben’s intention. In the courtroom, that approach worked for Ben Cohen, who racked up more billable hours than anyone else in the firm and more than 33 percent of the firm’s income. Isaac straightened his shoulders, thrust out his hand, and said as confidently as he could, “Morning, Ben. Thanks for meeting so early. I’ve got a couple of subjects to discuss with you.” He sat down facing Cohen, noticing how the polished shine of the table reflected both of their images. “Isaac, you mentioned Keating,” Cohen said, leaning forward, “so goddammit, I couldn’t wait to hear what you’ve run into.” “OK, Ben. Let’s start with Keating.” “That WASPy son of a bitch. Spoiled brat. Whaddya have on him?” “Well, sit back, this will take several minutes. Over the weekend, I read the transcript of the State v. James Randolph Worthington IV and made a list of negligent representation.” “Why the hell did you do that?” Isaac told him the whole story—Cap’n Jim’s letter, the relationship between the Douglases and Worthingtons, the alleged murder, the conviction, his visit to the prison, the transcript, and finally, his key questions. Ben, for once, was silent. Isaac removed his list of questions from his briefcase. “Ben, I think we may have reason to bring a malpractice case against the senior Keating. And I’ve got some evidence that the jury was rigged, bribed by the lead juror.” “Wow! Oh God. Thought you were talking about the smart-ass young Keating. I’m not sure the firm can be held responsible for Old Man Keating’s failure to

represent. But give me your list.” Ben Cohen started to read it aloud:

1. Testimony of Raymond Walker—no attempt to reinforce witness’s observation that Jamar had “drowned.” 2. No challenge to the testimony about spent shot or the slim likelihood that scattershot would be able to cause a fatal wound. 3. No questions about whether Worthington had a clear view of the dock. 4. Coroner’s examination of body “inconclusive.”

“There’s more,” Isaac said. “I’m going to talk to Roger about the murky testimony of the coroner. He’s got experience with medical examiners. And wait until I tell you about jury tampering.” “That’s plenty. But, Isaac, why the hell would you, you especially, want to help free that white racist?” Isaac paused, stirred his coffee, and met Ben’s stare. “It’s complicated, Ben. Let’s just let it go at that.” Cohen finished reading, his eyes glistening like a cougar before an attack. Then Isaac sat back while Ben gave him a whole law school course on the relevancy of mens rea, most of which Isaac already knew. “To be guilty of first-degree murder,” Ben said, tapping the table with his pen, “a defendant must have committed the criminal act in a certain mental state— referred to as mens rea or the specific intent to produce the precise consequences of the crime, including the intent to carry out the act that causes the consequences. Understand?” “Of course,” Isaac said, trying not to sound annoyed by the lecture.

“Looks to me that he didn’t intend to kill the kid. Maybe he couldn’t even see him, right?” “Right.” “Hey, you know the postconviction relief act?” Ben asked. “Of course.” “We could use that to exonerate Cap’n Jim.” It was obvious that Ben could hardly wait to get his claws into a Keating, any Keating, or maybe the whole law firm. “Now what’s this about jury rigging?” Ben asked. “Yesterday, totally by accident, I met the jury foreman, Dilly Price. Long story. Got a few more minutes?” “Sure, if it helps us hang the Keatings out to dry,” Ben said as he pushed his chair away from the table and crossed his legs. When Isaac was done telling Ben about Dilly, he said, “The guy had no idea who I was—in fact, thought I was crooked—so he proudly told me that he persuaded the jury to convict Cap’n Jim with the help of the green stuff!” “You had quite the weekend.” “That’s not the half of it. But that’s still another story.” Isaac heard the outside door open and close, the sound of associates and the secretaries arriving, heard laughter coming over the transom and smelled coffee brewing. It was time for a break. “Want some coffee, Ben?” “Sure. Ask the girl to bring it in.” “I’ll go get it,” Isaac offered. “Don’t be long.”

Did Ben Cohen really want to challenge Cap’n Jim’s conviction, or did he just want to discredit the Keating firm? Isaac couldn’t if Ben took cream and sugar in his coffee, so he palmed a couple of ersatz creamers and a sugar. He’d drink it if Ben didn’t want sugar. Ben drank it, straight black. “One more thing, Ben,” Isaac said, “I was subpoenaed as a witness to describe my meeting with Cap’n Jim on the evening of the alleged murder.” “Were you a hostile or a sympathetic witness?” “Neither, just a bystander. But that might disqualify me in any retrial. I know I couldn’t represent Cap’n Jim for that reason.” “Probably won’t come to that. I can get it thrown out just on the basis of ‘failure to represent,’ or jury rigging,” Ben said, rubbing his palms together. “Are you sure?” Isaac asked, already expecting a thorough creaming of the WASP firm by Ben Ira Cohen. “I’ll take my chances. Now what else do we have to talk about?” It was unbelievable that the “little” matter of the governor’s invitation to run for lieutenant governor was playing second fiddle to the “larger” matter of Cap’n Jim’s pathetic plea and Ben’s eagerness to clobber Keating. “Well, Ben, I’ve been asked to run for lieutenant governor.” “Wow! Good going, kid. Impressive.” Good reaction, Isaac thought. As the partner responsible for the financial dealings of the firm, it will be especially important to have his backing. “Can you tell me how my compensation would be affected if I should become lieutenant governor?” “That depends,” Ben said. “If you need to resign from the firm because of your work load or if we take on this Worthington retrial or if we bring malpractice against Keating… let me think.”

Isaac had not pictured reg, much less for the benefit of Cap’n Jim, for God’s sake. But Ben was still talking fast. “If you do resign, then when you come back, we’ll always have a place for you and at a pretty handsome salary. Do you want to be governor? You’d get a terrific lifetime pension as governor or lieutenant governor. How would that work for you?” Never had Isaac pictured himself as Governor Douglas. “OK, OK.” Ben was getting impatient. “Look, kid, if we destroy Keating and then bring in more business with you in that high-profile position, we won’t be able to distribute all the goodies fast enough. We won’t forget you, I promise. But,” he added, “you’ve got to toughen up for a fight. Look what happened to that Bradley what’s-his-name guy.” A cold shiver ran down Isaac’s back. He warmed his hands around his coffee cup and checked his watch. He had promised Governor Adams that he would call him today with his answer. It was already eight-thirty. “Let’s call in the partners,” Cohen said, rushing out of the conference room to find J. Roger and Harry. Less than five minutes later, a heavily breathing Cohen was back with Thompson and Funk in tow. Isaac was ready to poll the partners on the question of whether he should run for lieutenant governor. “Sit down, sit down,” Cohen barked, excited as a small pooch who had wrestled a bone from a larger dog. “Isaac’s got a live one here!” “Well,” Isaac began, “I’d like to know whether you think I should—” Before Isaac could complete his sentence, Cohen jumped up from his chair and started drawing a chart on the conference room blackboard, repeating “malpractice, malpractice” and noting Keating’s seven deadly omissions, excitedly enumerating each one. “Isaac, hand me Black’s Law Dictionary. It’s right over there on the shelf.” Cohen leafed through it, looking for malpractice. “Here it is! See,” he said, reading from the thick book, “we just need to show that Keating didn’t use ‘such skill, prudence, and diligence as lawyers of

ordinary skill commonly exercise in performance of tasks,’ and that his failure proximately caused damage. Sure as hell did cause damage. I’d say five years in the clinker is plenty of damage.” J. Roger, a former law school professor, looked skeptical. He was a good match for Cohen’s frequent lectures, so he asked, “Do we also have a ‘failure to state cause of action’?” “Yes. Looks to me that the state didn’t prove sufficient motive. Hell, the guy, even drunk, didn’t aim at the kid, to try to kill him,” Cohen said. “And scattershot just isn’t powerful enough to mortally wound someone,” Funk offered. “Was there any proof about when the scattershot landed on the dock?” “Isaac, you’re being quiet. Could the scattershot have landed on the dock any other time?” J. Roger asked. “The gardener said previously he’d heard Cap’n Jim firing shots to scare kids away, so the scattershot might have accumulated on the dock before that night. The supposed eyewitness was never identified.” Isaac stood up and started to pace around the room. “And what’s this business about one of the kids testifying that the victim drowned?” Cohen asked. “Keating should have jumped on that horse in cross.” “That night,” Isaac said, “when I was going into Cap’n Jim’s house, I saw about ten kids on the dock, running and pushing one another around. During Rivera’s questioning, the older kid said Jamar had drowned. That was his word, drowned.” “God, Keating must have been asleep,” J. Roger said. “The jurors missed that point. One of the older kids could have pushed little crippled Jamar off the dock,” said Isaac. “Their teacher had testified that the bigger kids often pushed lame little Jamar around.” “And Raymond Walker saw it but was protecting whoever did the pushing,” Cohen said, circling the number-one item on the board. “Well, do we have enough here to get Keating for malpractice?” Cohen asked.

Funk said a quick yes. J. Roger stood up, put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder, and said, “I want to read the whole transcript.” Isaac looked around the table at his partners and pressed his lips together, annoyed. For nearly an hour, the firm had been deeply engaged in helping solve one of his dilemmas, looking hard for the legal basis of malpractice. But that did not solve Isaac’s real question, Why should he help Cap’n Jim? And it certainly didn’t address, and even ignored, his more pressing question, Did he have the firm’s blessing to run for lieutenant governor? It was a hollow, empty feeling, like being ignored or being picked last for a neighborhood baseball game. He had been overlooked in high school, not allowed to be graduation speaker. Now he’d been asked to run for a high office and here were his closest colleagues chewing over and relishing the idea of demolishing a rival firm, totally unconnected to Isaac’s ethical puzzle of rights or wrongs. Someone was saying “well, let’s get to work on it!” as they all scooped up their papers and headed for the door. “Hey, wait a minute!” Isaac called, putting up both of his hands to stop the sudden exodus. “Just wait! I need to file today if I’m going to be a candidate for lieutenant governor.” He would not be the last kid left on the field as the team ran off to celebrate a double hitter. “Oh, sure, go for it,” called Cohen with one hand on the door. Funk stopped and said, “If it’s what you want, Isaac.” J. Roger shook Isaac’s hand, looked straight into his eyes, smiled, and said, “Isaac, it will be hard. Being a good public servant will be a sacrifice. But you’ve got too much talent not to offer your ability to our state. Yes, you have my blessing.” “One more thing, Roger. Sit down, please.” They resumed their places around the conference table. “I need to hear what you know about coroners. Do they have to be medical doctors?” “No, but only medical doctors can perform autopsies. What happened in your case?”

“The death occurred on a holiday, but the body was not found until days later. So from what I read, it seems the police reported the death to the medical examiner’s office in Baltimore. But they were short of staff with many being on vacation in July, so they called in the elected coroner, this guy Dr. Thomas, who is a podiatrist, not a pathologist, and inexperienced.” Roger asked, “Did they have an autopsy?” “Taylor recommended one because the death was ‘sudden and unexpected,’ as required. But the family objected, on religious grounds.” “That overrules, temporarily, unless there are unusual circumstances.” “That’s what I thought,” said Isaac. “Didn’t the coroner ask the chief medical examiner in Baltimore to overrule the family? He’d have the authority in this case to hold the body for forensic examination,” Roger explained. “Thomas claims they couldn’t reach the OCME.” “Then?” “Thomas released the battered body to the family, and they had it cremated.” Roger banged both hands on the table. “Oh no! So now you’ve got an unqualified coroner, a suspicious death, no official intervention by the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner and no body! My God!” “Yes, it’s a puzzlement, to say the least,” Isaac said, while thinking, And Roger doesn’t even know all the other complications. Roger patted Isaac’s shoulder. “Good luck, man. And hey, I’m really proud of you. You’ll make a top-notch lieutenant governor.” That was enough. J. Roger understood. Isaac’s favorite teacher had just given him an A plus and promoted him to the next grade. It was time to call the governor.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Teamwork

“COME RIGHT OVER!” The governor’s voice was crisp and urgent. “I’ll get my team ready for you.” “Get my team ready for you.” Isaac wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Did the governor just assume Isaac was going to accept his offer? Isaac understood that he was expected to rush across the street, climb the hill to the statehouse, Sam the security guard, and get to the governor’s office as soon as his long legs would carry him. But first, he called Shauna, who said she’d already had felt his decision in her bones. “I got the firm’s blessing. Do I have yours, Shauna?” “Hon, I’m just worried about your safety. But I can’t stop you, can I? Even if I wanted to. So yes, I’m with you, Isaac. Sorry I was such a grumpus last night.” On the way out, Isaac stopped by J. Roger’s office to say, “Thanks for your . Means everything. I’m on my way to say yes.” He knew he would cross this brick-lined street, climb this steep hill, and greet the guard many times, starting now and in the future. A lonely race, with few cheers. “The governor’s expecting you.” Marshall Adams was on his feet, corralling five of his campaign team who had been summoned on a moment’s notice. He started the introductions. “Meet Patrick, our party chairman; Henry, our campaign manager; Rosalind, our publicist; Georgianna, our scheduler; and of course, Jose, our photographer.” Isaac politely shook hands with each person.

Isaac scanned the group, internally ing some first impressions. Middleaged Patrick seemed slick and serious; a younger Henry was wiry and tightly wound; Rosalind, an attractive forty-ish brunette, seemed capable and savvy; Georgianna was a bundle of energy in constant motion; Jose, a twentysomething Latino, appeared to follow along, ready to capture the photo ops. After a few pleasantries, Isaac said, “May I have a minute with you, Governor, alone?” “Certainly.” He motioned for the crew to step outside. Isaac circled around the governor’s desk and walked toward the large window from where he could see the harbor, the sailboats, and the fishermen returning with their early-morning catch. “Governor, I’ve got a couple questions.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Do you think the Klan had Bradley Reynolds killed?” Adams lowered his voice and lightly touched Isaac’s arm. “We’ve got a lead that Reynolds was seen with an attractive white woman, walking around Severna Park, about a week before his death.” “Does that mean it was some personal vendetta? A black/white thing or maybe a jealous husband?” “Could be any one of those. But if you’re concerned about the Klan, we’ll keep a man with you at all times. What else? Any skeletons in your closet?” “Well, you need to know that our firm may bring a malpractice claim against the Keating firm for their failure to adequately represent James Worthington. You know the Keatings are politically powerful.” “And huge contributors,” Adams said, wrinkling his brow. “Does that give you a problem?” “Well, yes. But that’s part of this business. We expect opponents. When we make one person angry, sometimes the same move makes two people happy. Thanks for the heads up. We’ll need this kind of communication. Always, always keep me informed. I hate surprises,” the governor said as he moved closer to Isaac. “So now,” he paused, “what is your decision? I do want you on my team.”

That’s what Isaac needed—assurance, , and respect. He was ready for the race. “Yes, sir. I’m on board!” Adams tapped the intercom. “Send them back in. We’re ready.” Henry, Rosalind, Jose, Georgianna, and Patrick reappeared. “Folks,” Adams said with a formal gesture, “I’d like to present your candidate for lieutenant governor, Isaac Douglas.” He fumbled for Isaac’s middle name. “Isaac Tecumseh Douglas,” Isaac supplied. Rosalind got it. “Tecumseh, like Union General William Tecumseh Sherman!” “That’s the one. The one who led my great-great-grandmother out of slavery to safety,” Isaac said. Rosalind, sensing a good story, smiled a warm welcome and motioned for the governor and Isaac to stand behind his desk, under the seal of Maryland, for the announcement photograph. Jose took aim and shot about twenty frames of the governor shaking Isaac’s hand. Georgianna checked her master schedule. “Filing deadline is tomorrow,” she said. “So let’s get off to the Board of Elections to get you filed.” “I’m coming too,” said Rosalind as she tucked her notepad under her arm. “Come on, Jose, we’ll need pictures there too.” Henry and Patrick, the party leaders, nodded. One of them rather formally said, “We’ve got a lot to talk about. I need to brief you on the party’s state platform.” Henry asked Isaac to make an appointment to meet with him that afternoon to go over the whole campaign strategy and organization. Isaac understood he was enrolled in a whole new job, a big one. The governor patted Isaac’s shoulder and said, “Peggy and I would like you and Shauna to come to our house for dinner tonight. It may be the last time we have a moment to relax together.” “We’d love to. Thank you.”

Then they were off. Georgianna whisked the team six blocks down West Street to the Board of Elections while Rosalind peppered Isaac with questions for the story she’d write, questions like, Where was he born? Who were his parents? Where did he go to law school? Was there a rags-to-riches angle? Was he married? Did he have a child? What were his views on capital punishment? Before he could answer all her questions, they were running up the stairs to the Board of Elections. “Wait a minute,” Isaac said, stopping to dial his cell phone. He called Shauna and told her that the governor wanted them to come for dinner tonight and that there would be pictures in the paper tomorrow. “You sound out of breath!” she said before launching into a jumble of words about getting her hair done, what would she wear, could she get a baby sitter, etc. “Now you sound out of breath,” he joked. “Guess that comes with this territory. Bye, hon. Gotta run!” “But, Isaac, wait a minute, wait a minute. I’ve got to tell you! The mail just came, and you’ve got another letter from Captain Jim.” “Go ahead. Open it, and read it. We’ll talk about it later.” “OK. See you later. By the way, congratulations, Counselor!” “May I help you?” said the straight-faced clerk behind the counter. “Yes, I’d like to file for a candidacy to office.” “Certainly.” Like this happened every day, which it did. “Fill out this form completely. Deadline’s tomorrow.” “Yes, we know,” said the team, almost in unison. Isaac filled in the form:

Name: Isaac Tecumseh Douglas

Address: 90 Mary’s Circle, Annapolis, MD Phone Number: 410-515-0990 Occupation: Attorney Party Affiliation: Democrat Filing for what office: Lieutenant Governor Mother’s name: Kate Douglas Father’s name: drowned in a boating accident before my birth Place of birth: Chestertown, MD

Jose snapped photographs and asked the clerk to stay in some pictures, to stay out of others. Rosalind phoned the Kent County Press and assured them she would have copy and photos to them by 3:00 p.m. On the way out of the office, Georgianna walked next to Isaac to show him the schedule for the next three days. Tomorrow morning Isaac would be taken to the state fair in Southern Maryland and to a rally at the head of the Chesapeake Bay in Elkton. On the way back to Annapolis, he would meet with the state senator representing Baltimore. Rosalind reminded Georgianna that posters and Adams-Douglas bumper stickers would be ready by tomorrow noon. She would need those for the rally. Who could pick them up? Jose volunteered. They welcomed Isaac to the world of campaigning. Georgianna asked if Isaac wanted a ride back to his office. “No, I’ll walk,” he said. Rosalind said she would prepare the stump speech for Isaac. Then Jose and Rosalind ran off together toward the newspaper’s office. Georgianna raced off in another direction and jumped into her car. Isaac took off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, pondered the meaning of race, then laughed at himself. He looked like a real candidate as he walked slowly back to his office. Shauna was at her vanity table, applying makeup, when Isaac finally got home at around six. He wrapped his arms around her neck and tickled his beard against

her cheek. “Counselor, you need a good shave,” she said. “Shaun, I know this isn’t easy for you. You’ve leaped from your distrust of honkies to needing to ‘make nice’ with the white man. Can you do that?” “K’en fool the best of them! Sucking up, that’s me, sure ’nof!” Then she laughed and gave him a knuckle bump. He was proud of her, of her selection of a basic linen black summer dress for this evening. “Should I wear a sports coat or a suit?” he asked. “A summer suit this time. Your new gray-and-white seersucker with a formal tie. Looks sharp,” said Shauna. “A sports coat next time. Your letter from Worthington is on your desk. Better read it, sounds urgent.” Isaac spread out the slightly wrinkled pages covered with Cap’n Jim’s large, shaky handwriting.

Dear Isaac, I’m sorry I called you names when you visited me. Really do apologize. Hope you know how horrible it is here. I was beaten last night because I don’t have a green dot. Without one, I’ve got no protection. Yelled for the warden, but Morrelli’s in on it. Around here, the only way you can buy protection from the prison bullies is to have a family member on the outside put money, usually $200, on a debit card. Did you read about green dots in the Baltimore Sun? It’s almost too damned complicated to explain. Starts with a new prisoner. He gets his family to put money on a debit card. The number of the card is usually fourteen digits. When he’s threatened, he gives the number to the bully who uses it to get money or to pay off a druggie who will smuggle drugs into prison. If you don’t believe me, read about it in the paper.

Isaac ed. Yes, he had read a recent report about corruption at the Cut. Seventy guards were accused of fraternizing with inmates, allowing them to sneak contraband into the prison. He didn’t know much about the green dot, so he continued reading.

And, Isaac, the paper didn’t even tell the worst part. You think the guards might protect me? Think again! When these goons aren’t having sex with inmates, they just look the other way, even let cell phones get smuggled in. The bullies got to have cell phones to make their deals. So the guards help out and collect their percentage of the green dot scheme. I’ve already been beaten twice because I don’t have anyone funding a green dot. The thugs whacked me but good, yelling that they knew I had money and why couldn’t I get one of my rich relatives to buy a debit card. I’m a double target, a rich (ha, ha) old man! God, Isaac, I can’t ask you to buy me a card. But for God’s sake, do what you can to get me out of here before I get killed. Please.

Your old tormentor, Cap’n Jim

PS. Oh yeah, please tell Chip not to be surprised if he gets a call demanding money.

Isaac was decoding the misspelled words when he heard Shauna calling, “Time to go.” Her voice seemed to come from another world—a world that made sense. “Where’s Trey?” Isaac asked. “With Annie, an answer to a dream she is. She even picked him up from play school.” Annie was their reconstructed bohemian next-door neighbor, an artist who worked from home. Shauna’s granola soul mate.

“Let’s go,” she said. “Did you read the letter? You look shocked.” “I’ll tell you about it later. Don’t want to think about it just now.” The home of the governor, a stately three-story red-brick building on State Circle, was the second-highest point in Annapolis and a stone’s throw from the statehouse. Isaac and Shauna arrived promptly at seven o’clock and navigated past three children’s bicycles that straddled the entrance walk. A golden retriever barked from an enclosed pen at the back of the house. A well-tended vegetable garden and a rose garden flanked the house. It might have been any normal family’s home, except the dome of the capital lurked just behind the house. Shauna wondered how the governor ever escaped the pressure of political work. Peggy Adams, wearing a lime-green cotton shift, met them at the door and led them to the sun porch, past the formal parlors covered with an array of Persian carpets. “What a beautiful view,” Shauna said. “Yes, we can see down to the harbor and can keep an eye on the comings and goings at the statehouse. I suppose that’s why they chose this spot in 1870 when the home was built,” said the First Lady. “And has it been the home of the governor ever since?” Shauna asked as she flowed into a natural, gracious conversation with Peggy Adams. Shauna spotted an octagonal porcelain garden table and told Mrs. Adams that she had always ired that accent piece in a sunroom. “Look at it carefully.” Peggy Adams laughed as she ran her fingers through her curly red hair. “It has several whimsical paintings of donkeys on it. I remind Marshall not to be one!” Isaac winked at Shauna and marveled at her gracious ease. A maid carrying a silver serving tray asked, “May I bring you a glass of wine?” “Thank you.” “Red or white?” “Chardonnay would be perfect,” Shauna said.

After cocktails and a summer dinner of cold cucumber soup, a crab salad, and a fruit compote dessert, Peggy guided Shauna to the parlor. They were already comparing the reading skills of four-year-olds. Isaac and the governor retreated to the den. “Would you like a cordial, Isaac?” Adams said. “No, thank you. I imagine tomorrow will start early.” “Well, let’s talk candidly. What worries you most about this campaign, Isaac?” “Well, of course, the reaction to an African American running for office, especially following the death of the first black candidate.” “I’ve already asked Georgianna, your scheduler, to set up meetings with some of the factions that will be most ive, for instance the NAA, and some that will be resistant, like the conservative caucus. If we can get even moderate , that issue should die.” Just so I don’t, Isaac thought. “And what issue do you want to push?” Isaac thought just a moment. “There are three. Prison reform is at the top of my list.” “We’ll get Rosalind to write a stump speech about prison reform.” “Governor, before we get her to write something for me, I need to tell you why prison reform is so important to me.” Marshall Adams took a chair by the window and motioned for Isaac to sit down. Isaac unbuttoned his jacket before launching into his story of growing up in the Worthington household. “You see, Governor,” he summarized, “Cap’n Jim was typical of the privileged upper class and, yes, bigoted. Yet underneath all his racism, he must have believed in me. And at the insistence of his wife, Miss Marion, he sent me to college and to law school. I know I wouldn’t be here today without their help.

“I’ve read the whole transcript of his trial. It didn’t show that he’d killed that little kid on purpose. Keating did a miserable job defending him. And even more important, by coincidence, on Sunday, I met the African American foreman of the jury who bragged that they ‘got that white man,’ with the help of a couple of bribes. Cap’n Jim has been in prison five years, is very ill, has been taunted, has been beaten by other inmates, and has been subjected to the most vulgar humiliation.” Rivulets of sweat ran down the side of Isaac’s nose. “Go on, Isaac. And take off your jacket. I see this is close to your heart.” Isaac wiped his face with his handkerchief. “Marshall, may I call you that? I am sort of surprised by my own feelings for this old curmudgeon. But now that I’ve heard firsthand about the corrupt guards, the cramped facilities, the blatant schemes and collusion between the gangs, the guards, and the prisoners, I’m convinced we need massive reforms.” There, he’d said it. Governor Adams replied, “I hear two issues here, Isaac. I know about the green dot scam. So prison reform just went on our platform. And next, let’s look into that conviction. Maybe we can work out a pardon. I will consider your recommendation.” “Thank you, Governor.” “I’m Marshall to you.” “Marshall,” Isaac said, shaking his hand. “You said you had three issues.” “Yes. The other two are pollution of the bay and funding for public education.” “Good. We can work with all three.” Marshall sat down at his desk where he started making notes. “What did you say was the prisoner’s name?” “James Randolph Worthington IV, known as Cap’n Jim.”

“OK. I’ve got it.” For a moment, Isaac felt his breathing nearly stop. That’s it, he thought. That’s it. Could it be that easy? Marshall had moved on to the next subject and was saying, “Now I want you to have a long session with Henry. He’ll fill you in on all the strategies we have planned for the campaign—the touchy topics, the differences between the counties. What works in Harford probably won’t work in Howard. Then you’ll need another long meeting with Patrick, our king-making party chair. He knows where all the skeletons are buried, where gerrymandering has affected our strength, where jealousies lie. Most important, he knows where the gold is buried.” “Will we campaign together?” “Of course, starting tonight. Reporters are coming over at eight thirty to write about our new team, take some pictures of us together, get some photos of our beautiful wives. Be ready to be interviewed. And just , regardless of what happens, if the going gets tough, the tough get going.” That was one platitude Mama had missed.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Running

A STORY ON the front page of the morning paper announced the retooled Adams-Douglas campaign and featured a picture of Isaac in his summer seersucker suit and sharp tie, smiling and standing next to the governor, Peggy Adams and Shauna. Isaac’s next assignment was to meet the press and attend the ribbon cutting of the redecorated campaign headquarters at the corner of Green and the Duke of Gloucester Streets, only a few blocks from his law office. He arrived promptly at 8:00 a.m. to find the campaign staff already at work. Overnight, Jose, Rosalind, and a handful of volunteers had transformed the Adams-Reynolds headquarters into the Adams-Douglas headquarters, making full use of the historic origin of the two names. Red, white, and blue bunting were draped over the windows facing the city dock. Large photos of Marshall and Isaac were plastered to the walls. In the corner where phone bank volunteers would work were sepia photos of President John Adams and Frederick Douglas. A new logo and slogan, Make History with Adams and Douglas, was already printed on bumper stickers. Roz promised that new flyers and campaign buttons would arrive later that week. Isaac was relaxed with the press, calling many of them by name and joking that there would be no problem with name recognition for this partnership. The next three weeks were a blur for Isaac. Campaign meetings were held at headquarters every Monday morning at 6:30 a.m. sharp. Events were scheduled all over Maryland’s twenty-four counties. Roz wrote a stump speech on the need for prison reform and the negative effect of minimum mandatory sentencing that had caused overcrowding in state prisons. Isaac appeared at rallies; talked to Rotarians, Lions, and Optimists; lunched with of the House of Delegates; raised a beer at Reynolds Tavern; picked crab with watermen near St. Michaels; attended a League of Women Voters coffee in Easton; and was greeted like a native son at a concert in the park in

Chesapeake City. He felt like a long-legged frog leaping over the bay from the Eastern to the Western shores that were dissected by the Susquehanna and the Potomac Rivers. Energetic, slightly flaky Georgianna, with her ponytail bobbing, shuffled Isaac’s calendar as commitments were kept or broken. Isaac stopped asking about tomorrow’s schedule and just trusted Georgiana to navigate the geographical nightmare by racing at eighty miles an hour from one event to another. Mike, a burly ex-cop with overgrown eyebrows, was Isaac’s shadow security man, usually keeping well out of sight. Slender, little Jose lugged his camera everywhere, getting pictures of Isaac mingling with the voters. Roz, a political veteran, stayed cool in her sundress and sandals, writing daily press releases on her laptop. At night, ever-pushy Henry called to urge them to squeeze in another stop. Smooth-talking Patrick yakked constantly about fundraising and showed up to schmooze prospects at pig roasts. Only once did they stop in Isaac’s hometown, Chestertown, when Mama got to take a quick look at her son. Isaac had not seen the governor in three weeks and had seen Shauna only late at night and when she accompanied him to a fish fry in Worton and to a crab fest on Tilghman Island. Within the week, after his speech on prison reform, the opposition began their attacks, starting with letters to the editors. “Does this man really have a law degree?” “Why is he qualified to be lieutenant governor?” “He has no public service record.” At the next Monday morning campaign meeting, Henry was at the blackboard, chalk in hand listing precincts, when they heard a screech of brakes. Jose had arrived by motorcycle, a little late. Red-faced and panting, Jose rushed into the meeting waving some flyers. “Look, look at these papers,” he called. Henry took a quick look at the headlines and asked, “Where did you find these?” “One was taped to the inside door of the men’s room.” “And the others?”

“Mixed into the giveaway real estate flyers outside of Wawa.” “Which Wawa?” “On the corner of Route 40 and 242.” “Where the bikers meet?” There were two versions printed on a rough rag paper. One featured individual pictures of the candidates—Adams for governor, Douglas for lieutenant governor—followed by the candidates for state treasurer and the judges sponsored by their party. All were white except the picture of Isaac, his faced marked out by a large black and red X. The headline screamed, “Keep Them Blacks Out of Government.” The second printing proclaimed, “Don’t Let Them Take Over Our State!” The air went out of the room as all stood around the table, slack-faced. How far would hatred go? Isaac stared at his own face, disfigured, dismissed, disrespected. Dismayed, he felt tempted to leave the meeting and just quit the race. At least, he needed a few minutes to think. He moved toward the door, shoulders slumping. As he put his hand on the doorknob, a surge of energy entered his body when he heard Henry saying, “Leave this to me. We’ll find them. We’ll find them. Look at this paper. I think I know where it came from.” Isaac breathed deeply. He knew he couldn’t quit. Henry put his hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Yes, this is tough business. But to make progress, you know you’ve got to stick your neck out. Be ready though. I predict we’ll have about one to two weeks of campaigning before the charges get personal.” Henry was right. His opponent circulated rumors, a new one every day.

Day one: “Better check on his wife’s background. She’s a retooled Black Power hippie.” Day two: “Douglas lied. The Board of Election has released his filing form.

Claimed his father was deceased. Probably not true.” Days three, four, and five: cruel racist implications—“Does his mother know who his father might have been?” And then the certainties: “Douglas’s father was an illegal Mexican.” The letters, calls, and threats infuriated Isaac. His family’s reputation was being attacked, and the campaign was out of control. Rather than waiting for their regular Monday morning meeting, Marshall Adams called an emergency meeting of the campaign staff: Henry, Patrick, Roz, Georgianna, Mike, and the Maryland state chief of police. All who were there were wearing long faces. Henry’s face was stony. Jose was not invited. “Chief, your first job is to protect Isaac and his family. I am ordering twentyfour-hour protection for them. Don’t be obvious. Got that?” Adams said. “Yes, sir.” “Our next job is to get the campaign back on track. The innuendos are killing us. Let’s get the rumors under control. Roz, what do you think is hurting us the most?” Roz scanned her notes, hesitated, and then said, “Governor, I’m afraid it’s the father issue.” “Isaac, tell us. Is your father really deceased?” “Yes, absolutely. Mother told me he died in a boating accident not long before I was born. I’m sure she would be willing to testify to that.” “Good. Roz, you get on that. Go interview her, alone. Don’t take Isaac with you. Now, Henry, what about the prison issue?” “Marshall, we’re in big trouble there. There’s such a strong union of prison workers. We’ve got to lay off the subject. We can’t have Isaac talking about it anymore,” Henry said, looking directly at Isaac, his Adam’s apple aquiver. Isaac directed his response to the governor. “I can’t do that, Marshall. I told you that’s one of my prime interests. Reform is overdue. We need to order a study,

take our chances with the unions.” “It’s been years since I’ve set foot in a prison,” said Adams. For a moment, the mood lifted, and they all chuckled. “Maybe it’s time I saw the conditions for myself. Georgianna, work with my staff and arrange a visit for me next week.” “Thank you, sir,” Isaac said. “Patrick,” the governor said, “anything wrong in your area?” “Well, we could sure use some more money,” he answered. “So what else is new? Anything else lurking behind a bush?” Adams asked. “Isaac, before I go to the prison, I want to hear more about the Worthington case.” “I’ll give you a summary of the case. It will include grounds for a mistrial or a pardon.” “Good, Isaac. But you know it’s your call.” Isaac paused. “If it’s my call, I’d say there is sufficient for either a new trial or a pardon.” “I may try to meet Worthington. Now what’s going on with that malpractice issue?” Roz looked shocked. “What malpractice issue? God, not Isaac’s I hope.” “No, no. It’s a matter Isaac’s firm is handling against the Keating firm,” the governor said. “I haven’t talked to them in weeks,” Isaac said. “And folks, please, that’s very confidential.” “Everything we say here is confidential.” Adams ended the meeting. Isaac was impressed. Adams was an expert at damage control. No wonder he had become governor. However, five days after the emergency meeting, not much had changed. The

need for funds, the prison issue, and the birth issue were still on the agenda. Isaac was exhausted after a busy weekend of campaigning but looked forward to the early Monday morning team meeting, which tried to impose some order on this hectic process. Patrick, the fundraiser, opened the meeting. “We’re running short. After the cost of the flyers and all the printed items, we’re about $50,000 over budget. We’ll need at least another $250,000 to meet payroll, rent, and gas before September. Isaac, do you have any rich friends? What about your Chestertown friends?” “Not many Democrats there.” “What about Worthington’s son?” “Chip?” “Yes.” Isaac thought for a moment, just long enough for the governor to react. “Can’t do that now,” Adams said. “If I commute his father’s sentence, it would look like a bribe.” Silently, Isaac thought, Good man. Good ethics. How refreshing. Georgianna was next with the schedule for the week. “Sorry, we couldn’t pack in the governor’s visit to the prison last week. Just too many preplanned events I couldn’t cancel.” “Well, try harder this week,” said Adams. Roz reported that letters to the editor were still questioning Isaac’s background. “If it’s OK with you, Isaac, I’ll interview your mother this week.” “Sure. I’ll tell her to expect your call, and I’m sure she’ll be able to set the record straight. She’ll probably tell you the whole story about the boating accident in great detail! She loves to tell stories.” Isaac smiled. “Can you give me her phone number?”

Isaac wrote down the number on his card. “And here’s her address in Chestertown. It’s on the street with the big houses but way down on the end, facing the marina.” “Got it! I’ll let you know how it goes.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Truth to Power

I SAAC WAS IN Elkton, shaking hands with Elkton Grange when his cell phone rang. It was the shrill signal reserved for campaign emergencies. “Pardon me, I must answer this,” Isaac said. It was Roz. “Isaac, I’ve just interviewed your mother. I need you to come down to Chestertown.” “Why? Is she OK?” “Well, yes. But do come. How long will it take you?” “About an hour if I leave now.” “Well, leave now.” An hour later, Isaac opened the squeaky gate and rushed into Mama’s house. “Are you all right, Mama?” Mama looked very small. She just shrugged her shoulders and changed the subject. “This woman here is amazing,” she said, pointing toward Roz, who was bent over her laptop computer, typing furiously. Roz looked up at Isaac, her eyes wide. Isaac noticed the concentration lines in her middle-aged face as she typed out the final sentence.“Mrs. Douglas,” she said, “do you want to tell Isaac what we’ve talked about?” Mama walked toward the kitchen, picked up a washcloth, folded it, and folded it again before nervously wiping her brow with it. She could not find words.

“Or would it be better”—Roz paused—“for me to read him my draft?” “Read it,” Mama whispered. “Better sit down, Isaac.” Isaac sat down on the chair facing the kitchen.

“By Rosalind Taylor, political correspondent. “Special to the Baltimore Star.

“Political campaigns are tough. The frantic schedules, the wear and tear on families, the rumors. We put our potential public servants under a merciless magnifying glass. But never in my years as a political correspondent, have I seen questions and rumors get as nasty as those being leveled at Maryland’s current candidate for lieutenant governor, clawing deeply into this family’s privacy.

“By now, you’ve probably heard the accusations: ‘Was his father really deceased? Or could his mother not which one he was?’ Wild talk has spread, fanned by the fires of conservatives in this state who cannot picture a young African American male in a high leadership position. Rampant speculation has become invented certainties: ‘his father was an illegal immigrant,’ ‘his father killed Bobby Kennedy,’ etc.

“When he filed for office, Isaac Douglas, Democratic candidate, answered the obligatory questionnaire with the only truth he had ever known. He was always told that his father died in a boating accident before he was born, so he marked ‘deceased’ in the appropriate box.

“It was time for me to interview Isaac Douglas’ mother, Kate Douglas.”

Roz paused, looked at Mama who had moved over to sit on the arm of Isaac’s chair. “Are you OK, Mrs. Douglas? You OK, Isaac?” They both nodded. “Go on reading, Roz,” Isaac said. Roz scrolled to the next page.

“‘I’ve been expecting this,’ Mrs. Douglas said as she welcomed me into her small house in Chestertown. ‘From the moment Isaac told me he’d been asked to run, I knew this question would come up. Isaac has always told the truth—his answer “deceased” was the truth, as he knew it. I never wanted him to know the real story.’”

Isaac grasped his mother’s hand, mouthing, What? What?

His mama said, “Shush, shush, Isaac. We need to get this over with! Go on, Roz.”

“OK. Now listen carefully because I want the reader to know that Kate Douglas believes that honesty, no matter how painful, is the strongest weapon against falsehoods. Ready for the rest?” Roz asked. They both nodded again. Roz continued reading.

“To quote Mrs. Douglas, ‘I’m ready to stop the rumors. Why did I hide the painful truth from Isaac? You judge. Would you want your child to know that he was the result of a rape? The child of one of four unidentified rapists?’”

Someone in the room gasped, loudly. Roz tried to ignore it squinted at her computer’s screen and continued reading.

“‘Back in the seventies, I was among just a few African American women to be itted to the University. The Klan’s harassment made my life hell. They called me every name in the book, blocked my way to class, pushed me, knocked books out of my hands. I just put on blinders, thought if I studied hard, someday, I’d be successful. That was before that awful night when I was strangled and raped by four drunken fraternity boys. They caught me behind the campus maintenance building, blindfolded me, pinned me to the pavement, and took their turns, leaving me for dead.

“‘When I regained consciousness, I knew it was useless to call the police because they’d just assume that I’d flirted with the boys, asked for it. So I dragged myself several blocks to my employer’s house, to Marion Worthington, who was a nurse. She took me to the hospital, but they refused to treat me. So she took care of me. There was no morning-after pill at that time. Miss Marion wanted to go to the police, get those monsters arrested. It was no use. Blacks still were not allowed to testify against whites in court.

“‘I just knew that if I became pregnant, I’d never tell my child this story, especially if he was a boy. When I felt him move inside of me, out of love for him, I invented a new “truth.” I swore Miss Marion and her husband to secrecy. Bless them, they helped me raise this fine, intelligent young man. He’s a good man, you can believe that.’

“From the top drawer of her end table, she withdrew a small box. She held it between the palms of her hands for a moment and then let herself smile as she opened it and showed me a small pin. ‘I grabbed this off of one of their shirts.’ It was a fraternity pledge pin bearing three Greek letters.

“Any more questions, anyone?”

The room was deadly quiet. Roz broke the silence. “And that is the end of my draft,” she said as she scrolled to the Save function and then hit Save and Save As for security. Mama stood up, opened the drawer, and handed Isaac the box. Then she sat down on his lap. Isaac wrapped his arms around his mother and hid both of their faces as they wept quietly into each other’s breast. “I’ll leave now,” said Roz, “but will check with you before I release this to the paper.” She closed her computer, zipped it into her rolling briefcase, collected her purse and her keys, and let herself out. The gate squeaked again.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Encounter

A FTER SUCH AN emotional day yesterday, Isaac hit the snooze alarm, hoping to sleep a little later. But it was nearly seven o’clock, and the campaign meeting was scheduled for seven thirty. Normally, before the campaign, Isaac would be drinking another cup of coffee with Shauna. They would be helping Trey tie his shoes and then, at about eight o’clock, he would take Trey to school. None of that now, and he missed it. Instead, skipping breakfast, he rushed to the campaign office to begin his day as a candidate. He ignored his in-box that was crammed with mail, not ready yet to receive any more nasty letters regarding the birth issue. Georgianna was already on the phone trying to reach Adam Resnick, the executive director of Maryland state prisons. “He hasn’t returned my call, and Adams is going to be furious,” she said. Just then, she pressed two fingers to her lips and mouthed shush. Speaking into the phone, Georgianna said, “Hello. I’m scheduling the governor’s visit to the Cut. Do you have that information?” She paused, listening. “OK,” she said. “Noon, today? Will the state police or the prison warden supply the bodyguards?” Another pause. “Three, plainclothes… is that sufficient?” After a few more inquiries, she hung up the phone. “Good morning, Isaac. You’ll be going with the governor, right?” “That’s the plan,” he said. “I think you are both crazy. But I’ve done what I can to get protection.” “Oh, come on. I’ve been there before.”

“But not as an official.” “Doesn’t that make it easier?” At eleven o’clock, the governor’s chauffeur picked up Isaac at his law office. Isaac slid into the back seat next to Adams. The ride up the Western Shore to the prison reminded Isaac of the ride, many autumns ago, down to Cap’n Jim’s stables, the day he had learned to drive. The leaves of the hawthorns had turned bright yellow, the maples still green. Governor Adams told Isaac he had read the entire summary of the Worthington case. He agreed that Keating, the defendant’s lawyer, had given an inadequate defense. He was astonished that there had been no proof of intent or malice and no coroner’s report. “Isaac, can you imagine being an innocent man and being trapped in the Cut?” “It’s cruel.” “I know this place has a slug of problems, mainly aggravated by minimum mandatory sentencing. We’ve got to get that law repealed. It’s just caused dangerous overcrowding and real pressure on the guards.” “Is there enough training for the guards?” Isaac asked. “Oh God, no. Nor adequate supervision.” “No wonder then that the gangs, like the Black Guerillas, run the place. They seem to control the green dot scheme.” “And as far as I know, we’ve got no rehabilitation program. So let’s take a close look at Resnick and this Morrelli guy, the warden. There’s something wrong,” Adams said. “Resnick’s job is to oversee all the state prisons, but it seems that Resnick has not paid much attention to this particular, especially troubled, prison. I want to see if he really supervises Morrelli.” Adams paused a minute, thinking while his face flushed. “Why didn’t Morrelli fire the corrupt guards? Maybe it is time for a crackdown, a change in the prison’s istration.”

The governor’s visit to the prison should have been kept quiet, but the word must have gotten out because the sleepy guard was awake and the inmate mopping the steps to the entrance looked alert. No such thing, Isaac guessed, as a secret at the Cut. The place did look a little better than it did during Isaac’s earlier visit. The ashtrays in the visitor’s center were emptied. The guards’ uniforms were cleaner. Even the prisoners’ orange jumpsuits looked better. Their attitude might be “let’s impress the governor, and maybe he’ll leave us alone.” Director Resnick and Warden Morrelli were at the front door. Resnick, dressed in a cheap business suit, was graying and in his midsixties. He moved stiffly toward the governor with his greeting, “Good afternoon, Governor,” shook the governor’s hand, and then turned to Isaac, pumping his hand. Prominent because of his shaved head, Morrelli was dressed in the regulation prison officer’s khaki uniform, with a billy club dangling from his wide leather belt. He stood aside, looking petulant and protective with his muscular arms crossed tightly over his protruding belly. He clearly was not happy to be visited. Reluctantly, he relaxed enough to shake the governor’s hand but turned his back on Isaac, ignoring him. They were ready to escort the governor’s party into a conference room when Adams said, “I want to see solitary.” “Oh, yes, sir, yes, sir,” Morrelli said, surprised, “I’ll send the alert,” as he pressed a code into his cell phone. Isaac heard two bells ring then a long pause. Two more bells. The sound of many feet. The slamming of doors, the clanging of gates, locks being turned. Finally, Morrelli got a signal. It was safe, so to speak, to proceed. The prisoners were back in their cages. The governor’s group entered solitary on the top tier because it was the best view, and safer, to look down upon five stories of cells, over two hundred, arranged in a semicircle. “How large is each cell?” Adams asked. “On this newer block, about seven by twelve feet,” Morrelli said. “And how much of their time is spent in solitary confinement?”

“Twenty hours a day, depending upon their behavior.” “More if they don’t behave?” “Yes, sir.” “How long do they stay here?” “Years. Sometimes, many years.” Isaac asked, “How much exercise do they get?” Morrelli didn’t answer. Isaac repeated his question, this time refusing to be ignored. “More than they deserve,” Morrelli answered with a shrug of his shoulder. The inmates noticed the inspection party and shouted out, “Go away! Get the fuck out of here.” They were venting their anger, furious that they had been returned to their cells. They rattled their doors, banged spoons on the tile floors, and called out threats. One of the floor guards signaled Morrelli. “We’d better go before these animals get out of hand,” Morrelli said. Isaac could feel Morrelli’s contempt for the prisoners. He rushed the visitors out, hurried downstairs, and returned them to the sparse conference room. A clearly appalled governor began the discussion with rapid-fire questions. “Morrelli, why did you kowtow to the guard? Who’s in charge here, you or the guards?” “Director Resnick, how often do you visit each prison?” Barely waiting long enough for an answer, Adams cornered Morrelli. “Tell me, Warden, how many guards are in on the green dot deals?” Morrelli’s face flushed. He stammered, “Sir, none.” “None? None? I want the truth.” Adams moved closer. “And while you’re at it, answer this question, What have you done to stop the rampant inmate-uponinmate rape?”

It was more than Morrelli could handle. “I can’t—I can’t… no one can curb the fucking appetites of these coons! The average nigger is huge, three hundred pounds of charging flesh!” Resnick glared at Morrelli. “I suggest you calm down, Warden.” After twenty more minutes of discussion, explanations, and excuses, Adams wasn’t finished. “You know as well as I do that someday most of these men will be released. So what is done to prepare prisoners for release? Do some prisoners go directly from solitary back onto the streets? Where do they go? To rob the nearest convenience store because they have no money? And what is your recidivism rate?” Adams clearly was not satisfied with the answers. His cheeks flushed with frustration. “Resnick, as a former cop, you may think I’m getting soft on crime, but I think we are overusing solitary confinement. Do all these men need to be stored here? How many are here simply because of the minimum mandatory sentence law? I want some answers.” The governor paced around the small room. “You’re not dealing with the issues. From what I hear, the guards are complicit in the green dot schemes. You simply must get corrupt guards out, or we’ll have to shut this place down!” Resnick tried to object, but there was no stopping Adam’s rage. “I want to hear more about the long-term effects of incarceration,” he continued. “I want a comprehensive report. Let’s get some help from criminal justice professors.” Isaac watched as the governor dismissed Resnick and Morrelli. The meeting was over. Before Morrelli left, Adams had one more directive. “I need to see prisoner James Worthington.” “I’ll send him in with a guard.” “I doubt if we’ll need a guard,” Isaac said, nodding at the governor. “Morrelli, no guard, no gossipy guard,” Adams agreed. “It’s private. And is the room wired?”

“Of course,” Morrelli said. “I want all surveillance turned off. Camera, wires, everything.” “Sir, this is highly irregular.” “Irregular or not, that’s an order.” Adams watched Morrelli unplug the camera and switch off the recorder. “There better not be anything else.” Adams’ jaw was set. Morrelli slammed the door to the conference room with a bang; its sound reverberated down the halls. Isaac stared at the closed door, letting the past echo through his head. Something is wrong with that guy. Now he’s closed us in. We’re totally dependent upon those guards to release us from this room. It felt like shackles, like the straps that the Klan had tied to his grandfather before lynching him and tossing his body over the bridge. He ed other lynchings—1965 in Maryland and 1987 in Mobile. Over five thousand of them. He was still thinking of the 1998 case in South Carolina against the Klan when Adams drew him back. “Isaac, Isaac, are you OK?” “Just thinking about the past, the way it feels to be confined, whipped, to be powerless.” “You’ve got the power now, the power to recommend that I commute Worthington’s sentence.” Isaac stood up, tried to breathe, but no air stirred in the room. “Take a minute. The transcript revealed big problems with the defense—there was no way to justify twenty-five years of confinement,” Adams said. A minute, an hour, a year, a decade, a century, five thousand lifetimes? How much time until we’re ready? Not ready yet for a black man to bring justice? Dilly’s justice? Law school justice? Isaac’s justice? Which? “Marshall,” he said, “do you believe we are governed by laws or by man?” “By laws, Isaac, impartially interpreted by man.”

“I need to know what you think about Worthington’s case,” Isaac said. “I don’t think the prosecution proved its case, didn’t meet their burden of proof. The jury rigging alone is enough to call for a retrial. But, Isaac, I want you to decide. What would you do if you were the judge?” Just then, they heard the sound of chains dragging against the floor before the door opened. The guard pushed a stooped-over Cap’n Jim into the room. He was wearing the standard issue orange cotton jumpsuit. His face was puffy, his ankles were so swollen that ripples of flesh hung over his shoes. He moved slowly, seeming to be in pain. “Here’s the prisoner,” he said. “Unlock his restraints,” the governor ordered. Cap’n Jim glanced around the room, squinting against the light, and watched while the guard removed his chains. Then he spotted Isaac. For what seemed like many lifetimes, Cap’n Jim and Isaac locked eyes. “Cap’n Jim,” Isaac said, “meet Governor Marshall Adams.” “You brought him?” he said, turning to Isaac. Clapping his hand over his quivering lips, he uttered a repetitive “oh… oh… oh my God.” Adams extended his hand. Suddenly, James Randolph Worthington IV straightened his posture, threw his shoulders back, and extended his gnarled hand. “I’m… I’m honored to meet you, sir,” he said. Although aged and broken, Cap’n Jim, for a fleeting second, resembled a proper Chestertown gentleman. “You may sit down, Mr. Worthington. We have some questions. Why were you convicted?” Isaac helped Cap’n Jim into a chair facing the governor then looked away, fearing the answer would be “because of Isaac’s testimony.” Cap’n Jim thought a moment and may have been reviewing all the vindictive thoughts he had harbored over the last six years. Isaac found himself hoping that

Worthington’s nascent good breeding would emerge. “Sir, I was not given adequate representation.” He nailed it. “Did you, in fact, kill Jamar Allison?” “I think Jamar drowned because he was pushed off the dock.” “Did you have any intention of killing Jamar?” Adams asked. “Absolutely not!” His voice was firm and controlled. Governor Adams turned toward Isaac. “OK, Isaac, what do you recommend? You’ve read the entire transcript of the trial. It’s your call.” Isaac walked slowly around the table to quiet his painful memories and to let justice rise. He reversed his stride and circled the room again, trying to focus and wishing he had a rock he could kick all the way home. Cap’n Jim looked at the floor. Why, Isaac wondered, did I want to be a lawyer if it wasn’t because I wanted to interpret the law and to represent all clients without bias? He found his professional voice. “Governor Adams, Cap’n Jim is right. He did not have adequate representation, and the case against him was not sufficient for conviction. I recommend a pardon.” “Granted.” One word. Just granted. The word was strong enough to carry all the burdens of two men, now reconciled. Cap’n Jim slowly stood up, limped toward Isaac, cupped Isaac’s shoulder, and looked like he might hug him before he pulled back and just patted his shoulder. His eyes filled and his voice cracked as he quietly said, “Thank you, thank you, my boy, and thank you, sir, Governor.” “You said boy—you know I hate it when you call me that!” Isaac smiled. Cap’n Jim missed Isaac’s intended humor and apologized. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Bad habit! Really so sorry,” he said. “One more thing, Worthington. Do you know Isaac is running for lieutenant

governor?” “Yes, I’ve heard that.” “Do you know why?” Cap’n Jim looked up at Isaac, a small wry smile ing over his mien like a private joke. “I suppose ’cause he’s pretty smart and he crammed his head with all that law school learning.” “And… ?” Adams pressed on. “And?” Cap’n Jim looked puzzled. “Because he’s taking the place of my other candidate who was murdered. What do you know about that?” “Nothing.” “Nothing? Are you sure?” Cap’n Jim fell silent. Suddenly, his eyes darted around the room. He looked like he was checking for bugs, for a concealed camera. “The room’s not wired, Mr. Worthington.” “Really? Are you sure?” “Yes, really. OK, now what do you know about the Bradley Reynolds murder? I’m sure there must have been talk about that in here.” “Is Isaac in danger?” Cap’n Jim asked. “Yes. If we don’t find Reynolds’s killer soon, Isaac may well be in danger. You must know, there are some folks who don’t want an African American in that job, with that much power, no matter how well qualified.” Cap’n Jim looked at Isaac for a long minute. “What would Miss Marion want you to say?” Isaac interjected. “Do you know something?”

Cap’n Jim nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Do you know who killed Reynolds?” the governor whispered. Cap’n Jim lowered his voice. “No, but in here, there’s lots of rumors. Big guys bragging, accusing others, and stuff like that.” “Who’s bragging? White or black?” “The white guy in the cell next to me. I think he’s a Klan honcho. He claims he knows.” “Can you get information from him?” “Probably. The stupid SOB trusts me. He thinks I was a Klan member.” “Were you?” “Well, I it I was pretty prejudiced. But a Klansman, no. ’Cuz I ed what they did to Isaac’s grandfather, Ike. Sliced him up pretty bad. I couldn’t do that.” Suddenly, he paused, and his eyes look frightened. “Is that what they did to Bradley Reynolds?” The governor leaned forward, stared intently at Worthington, and said, “We found Reynolds’s skull dredged up by an oyster boat, dumped on the culling board after he was sliced up on his own sailboat. Seems that Reynolds invited some guy for a sail out on the Severn River. It might be that the guy, the murderer, was pretending to be a rich campaign donor. So why was Reynolds killed? We have three theories, but no proof. It could have been personal, like Reynolds being friendly with a white woman. Or more likely, the Klan didn’t want a black man as a powerful lieutenant governor. The third theory is that Reynolds, like Isaac, was ionate about prison reform, especially getting rid of corrupt guards. So another motive might have been to protect the Union of Correctional Employees, the guards.” “Sounds like you’ve got theories but no suspect,” Cap’n Jim said. “That is it, totally! We need names. Mr. Worthington, I’m going to commute your sentence. You’ll be out of here in a couple of weeks, as soon as we can get the paperwork done. In the meantime, would you be willing to collect some

information for us?” “How would that work?” Cap’n Jim asked. “It’s simple. Police Detective Maroney will give you a voice-activated device that looks exactly like a ballpoint pen. In fact, it works like a ballpoint pen. You can even write with it. Just clip it in your shirt pocket and see if you can get the braggart to brag about the Klan. Go ahead and pretend you are one of them. Try to find out which group had it in for Reynolds. We need that kind of information to get him.” “You say Isaac’s in danger!” Cap’n Jim said. “Yes, he is. We need some solid evidence, fast. We need enough to arrest this guy soon.” Again, Cap’n Jim looked at Isaac, his face softening as years of memories slipped between them. “I’ll do it,” he said.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Matters

O N THE WAY back to Annapolis, the governor and Isaac reviewed other campaign issues, the overfishing at the bay, a rating system for public schools, and the crime rate in Baltimore—the usual never-ending problems. Like a bean bag toss at a carnival, you aim at the target. You knock it down only to see it pop right back up, daring you to try again. Where is the prize? Was all the effort of campaigning really going to make a difference? Are we doing anything more than just making promises? Well, at least they had made a difference to Cap’n Jim today. Before Isaac got out of the limousine, he shook the governor’s hand to say “Thank you, Marshall.” “Don’t thank me” was his reply. “It was the right thing to do, even though you must have mixed emotions.” “I wasn’t very sympathetic at first. I could only think of two hundred years of injustice done to my people. But in this case, Cap’n Jim was the target of injustice. No one is free if ‘even the least of us’ suffers, white or black. Justice is not justice if it’s not color blind.” “Five years, a hellish five years,” the governor said. “I’ll call his son. Cap’n Jim is still a curmudgeon, so I don’t know if it will be good news or bad news to Chip.” They both smiled. “All in a day’s work, Isaac. See you at the rally in Baltimore tomorrow.” The driver pulled up in front of Isaac’s office and came around to open the door for Isaac. The office hadn’t changed much in Isaac’s absence. All the doors to all the

partner’s individual offices were closed, and one secretary was working quietly at the filing cabinets. The office was quiet but had the air of industriousness about it. Business must be good. A vague feeling that the practice was getting along too well without him crossed Isaac’s mind until the receptionist who was handling a call looked up and smiled at him. The coffee pot was empty. He was grateful not to have his mood interrupted as he concentrated on how he would break this news to Chip Worthington. He dialed the familiar number and waited through six rings, visualizing Chip coming into the house from one of the outside decks. “Worthington here,” said a youthful voice. “Chip?” “Yes.” “Chip, it’s Isaac.” “Well, well, ole boy. How’s the campaign going?” “Some days I wonder. Did you see the op-ed article in the Baltimore Star?” “Oh my God, I did!” said Chip. “I had no idea Mama would need to go through that ordeal when I agreed to run.” “I visited her the night that article appeared.” “Chip, you visited Mama?” “Sure. She’s a strong woman, Ike.” “Hey, thanks, Chip. Now I’m calling with news about your dad. We visited him today. The governor is going to grant him a pardon, will commute his sentence. He’ll be out in a couple weeks after all the formalities are complete.” There was no point in saying more. “Will he be free to come home here?”

“If that’s your plan. We gave your number to the prison director, so he’ll let you know the release date. He’ll either call you to come pick him up or maybe the police will deliver Cap’n Jim home.” “Oh my God,” Chip said again.

Some days later, the humidity nearly equaled the temperature as the dog days of summer arrived. The campaign, the appearances, the speeches, and the heated competition dragged on and on. One day Isaac would be handing out brochures at a supermarket, feeling insignificant; the next day, he would be debating his opponent on television. He wondered if anyone really cared who became the next lieutenant governor of Maryland. Little and big frustrations were fraying Isaac’s nerves. Ten days after his visit with Cap’n Jim, they still had no release date from the director of prisons. Today he took his campaign over to the Eastern Shore to meet with some of the peach farmers near Centreville. No volunteer was there to greet him. Georgianna had told him to be at the meeting hall by four o’clock sharp on Monday. He wandered around the vacant hall, looking for anyone who might be expecting him. At about five o’clock, he was about to leave when the farmers began trickling in, one at a time, expecting to see the governor, not the candidate for lieutenant governor. For nearly an hour, Isaac listened to their problems about peach scab and fungus, soil depletion, and worker discontent. They seemed to expect the state to solve all their problems. Did they have any idea of what was possible? Keep taxes low but meet our needs! Sure! Isaac needed to remind himself that all politics was local, and here was a prime example. It was time to out his brochures and get on the road. Twenty miles later, Isaac’s stomach was rumbling from hunger. About half a mile before the bridge, on the right, Isaac spotted a diner in the classic shape of a railroad car straight out of the fifties. Its shiny stainless-steel facade and large square windows beckoned, friendly and comfortable, just the right atmosphere to calm his mood. Inside, he found the men’s room and tossed cool water on his face. He ed by the Formica counter and settled into a Naugahyde-covered seat in a booth. A friendly teenaged waitress, dressed in a red-checkered apron pinned to her

blouse just above her perky little breasts, greeted him, “Can I bring you a beverage?” “A beer? Do you sell beer?” “Sure do! Be right back.” “Wait a second. My cell phone battery is dead, and I need to call my wife. Do you have a phone I can use?” “Cer-tain-ly,” she said in the Southern Maryland brogue. She showed Isaac toward a fifties–style phone booth. After five rings and no answer, he left his message on voice mail. “Shauna, I’m near the bridge in a diner. I’ll be home about seven. OK?” The beer was waiting for him, white frost melting down the side of the coppercolored bottle. He took a deep breath and caressed the bottle in his hand before pouring it carefully into a frosty beer mug. The diner was outfitted with a long counter and bar stools, eight booths, and a food preparation area along the back wall. Outside, a red neon sign spelling Diner backward flashed uninterrupted, in a consistent rhythm. In the booth opposite him, a well-dressed white couple were watching one of the televisions. The woman was attractive, her blond hair stylishly cut, dressed in a light-brown satin blouse, well-pressed slacks, and high-heeled shoes. Her jewelry was simple but definitely expensive, a matching gold necklace, earrings, and a wide gold bracelet. The man was balding and looked like a well-heeled sailor who had just stepped off his yacht. Since the campaign had started, Isaac had met hundreds of Eastern Shore couples who looked like these conservative folks. What chance did he have of getting their vote? Isaac tried to concentrate on the menu. Comfort food. That’s what he needed. Something simple. “Have ya de-cid-ded? Sir? Ready to order?” asked the waitress. “Yes, I’ll have the meat loaf, macaroni with cheese, and some coleslaw,” said Isaac, although he had not eaten meat loaf or macaroni and cheese for years.

“You want water too?” “Yes, a big glass with a slice of lemon, please.” “Be right baaaack,” chirped Ms. Red-Checkered. Isaac buried his eyes into the “History of Diners” described on the back of the menu. After only a few minutes, as promised, the waitress was back with Isaac’s glass of water. “Done with ya menu?” she asked. “No, I’m still reading it,” Isaac said. The six o’clock Baltimore news anchor was droning on about a tax hike. The other diner, now a little drunk, said loudly, “There those politicians go again!” Isaac decided to ignore him and buried himself in the menu, reading

the word diner is a derivative of “dining car,” and the diner’s design is borrowed from railroad dining cars. The origins of the diner can be traced to Walter Scott. Around 1858—

“The next thing we’ll learn is that they’ve given themselves a raise,” said an angry voice across the aisle. Isaac read on.

One of America’s most recognized icons, the diner originated as a converted lunch wagon, where customer could stand inside or enjoy a light lunch. Some models were fitted with stained and etched glass windows.

“Those goddamn crooks.” The man was getting louder. Isaac heard the squeaky voice of the waitress. “Enjoy your meal,” she said in falsetto as she quickly placed the platter of meat loaf, drenched in gravy, in front

of him. He took several bites, trying hard to ignore the television and the couple who became silent as the weatherman gave his predictions. Isaac was grateful for the intermission as he finished the meat loaf and picked away at sticky globs of macaroni. His beer was almost empty when the waitress pranced by. “Another beer? Or will-ya-have-deee-sert?” she said almost as one word. “No, just some coffee.” “Okey-do-key!” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “And you can bring me the check,” Isaac said. When she came back with his check, he handed her his brochure. She glanced at the brochure, spotted Isaac’s picture, looked up at him, and said, “That you?” She didn’t seem impressed. Did she ever vote? The television announcer was saying, “There is breaking news. We interrupt this program to report that there has been a riot at the state prison called the Cut. We are waiting for confirmation that several prisoners have been injured. One fatality has been reported.” Isaac stood up, moved closer to the television, and asked the waitress, “Can you turn up the volume?” The yachtsman looked at Isaac in astonishment. “Who cares? Serves those niggers right,” he said. “Lock ’em up. Maybe they’ll all just kill one another!” He laughed at his own cleverness. Isaac slapped a twenty-dollar bill down on the table, called “hope that covers it,” ran out of the diner and jumped in his car. He wished that his cell phone worked or that Shauna was with him for the drive across the long bridge. The rotation of his tires on the metal surface of the bridge clattered in rhythm with the noise in his head: fa-tal-li-ty, fa-tal-li-ty, fa-tal-li-ty. What fatality? When Isaac pulled into their driveway, Shauna was outside their front door, holding Trey in her arms. The expression on her face said it all. “Chip called,” she said. “Oh no! About the riot?”

“Yes. Yes. It was Cap’n Jim.” “The one fatality?” “Yes. He was beaten at exercise time with a baseball bat.” Isaac pulled Shauna into his arms, buried his face in her long fragrant hair, and held her and Trey tightly for several minutes. His knees felt weak and his mouth dry. “Oh no. Oh no! Was it revenge?” “Looks like it. They didn’t tell Chip much. He said they asked him to come, claim Cap’n Jim’s body, make arrangements for burial, and pick up his clothes, his shoes, his watch, and his fountain pen. Guess that’s all he had. Come in, Isaac. Come in, dear.” “In a few minutes.” He lowered his head, waiting for the sharp wave of dizzy grief to . Isaac gripped the banister to steady himself. Normal sounds seemed louder, more intrusive. Irritating bells rang out from the Jolly Roger ice cream truck. Even the slap, slap, slap of a sprinkler and the postman’s whistle were magnified. When his neighbor honked at him and waved a friendly hello, he couldn’t wave back. None of this should be happening. Isaac tried to collect his thoughts. Oh my God! Oh my God. Cap’n Jim did this for me! Who should I call first? The governor, Chip, or Detective Maroney? He ed Shauna had said that they told Chip to pick up Cap’n Jim’s clothes and his fountain pen. Was the fountain pen the tape recorder? If Cap’n Jim still had the recorder, they needed to pick up his pants in case he had hidden the recorder, like he said, in the hem of his pants. Or had Maroney already picked up the pen? Isaac’s chest felt tight. Then he heard Shauna calling, “Governor’s on the phone!” Adams voice was solemn. “You’ve heard?” “Yes. Did Maroney get the tape?” “Yes, this afternoon. That’s what set off the attack. Cap’n Jim had too many official-looking visitors. So other inmates got suspicious, and all hell broke loose!”

“Isaac, I think you and I need to be present when Maroney plays the tape. I’ll get a driver to take us to state police headquarters.” “Yes. Could Chip Worthington listen to it too?” “Possibly, after we hear it. This is state’s evidence, not only to solve the Reynolds murder but now, by implication, Cap’n Jim’s too. Be ready in fifteen minutes.” Trey was looking out of the living room window when the black limousine stopped at their driveway. “Daddy, Daddy, there’s a big car waiting for you!”

In ten minutes, the governor and Isaac were in Maroney’s soundproof office. He carefully opened up the pen, lifted out the tiny chip, and then put it into a matching player. They all held their breath through the first few minutes. They could hear the typical sounds of the prison—footsteps, metallic sounds, some chatter. Then Cap’n Jim’s voice came through, joking with his white, redneck neighbor, exchanging some cussing. Pretending to be a Klansman, Cap’n Jim asked, “What’s goin’ on with the Klan these days? Any excitement? Any hunting? Who are they tracking? Caught any coons?” Most of the answers were fairly inconsequential until Cap’n Jim asked who the Klan wanted elected in November. “Well, no goddamn niggers! They’re taking over! Can’t have that. Nope.” Cap’n Jim pressed on. “What’re we goin’ do about it?” he asked, falling into his Southern accent. “Rub ’em out. Rub all of ’em out. Those monkeys can’t get by with replacing one nigger for another nigger, like they have.” “Kill ’em?” Cap’n Jim asked. “Ya, of course.”

“Which race?” Smart, he was playing dumb. “Hell, don’t ya know? The coon that’s in the governor’s race?” Cap’n Jim prodded. “Well, who does the rubbin’ out?” “You know. You know.” “No, I don’t. Who do ya mean?” “You see him every day in here. But bet you didn’t know he wears one of those pointy white hats at night.” “Who? You mean this guy is a Klansman?” “Sure. Ya don’t know much! It’s Morrelli! I heard he pretended to be a big donor to Reynolds’s campaign so Reynolds would take him out sailing. Then Morrelli killed Reynolds. Threw him overboard because, like us, he hates niggers. No way was he going to let a nigger run this state, run the unions, boss the prison. Besides, he’s gone crazy, dealing with all the guerillas workin’ here! Can’t blame him!” Cap’n Jim lowered his voice but kept going. “You’re sure?” “Sure am! Our esteemed warden, Ol’ Morrelli, is a KKK member in good standing! Now he’s a hero. Deserves the credit for wiping out that black candidate. If Reynolds had gotten elected, some of these chummy guards, those who are easy on us, would lose their jobs. Actually, I heard Morrelli brag that he was the only Klan member who had the balls to take on Reynolds.” He laughed. “You positive?” Cap’n Jim played his part. Did his job. “Sure as a rat’s ass.” For a long moment, Marshall Adams and Isaac Douglas could only just stare at the recorder. Maroney turned off the recording. “That’s enough,” he said. “Enough to arrest him now.” He called in his deputy and gave him instructions to go to the prison and take Morrelli into custody. “We’d better take him to Baltimore for his own safety,” he added. “After he’s

questioned, he’ll be charged with the murder of Bradley Reynolds.”

<<<>>>

On Thursday, Chip brought Cap’n Jim’s ashes back to Chestertown, ready for burial near Miss Marion’s in the Garth behind the Episcopal Church. Mama, Isaac, and Shauna walked with Chip, for the three blocks down High Street, from the Devon to the church where the new rector met them for a brief service of burial. Isaac sat down on the stone bench with Chip until they were ready to come back home. “Come on in for a beer, Isaac,” said Chip. They entered the large front hall, walked through the kitchen, and ed the closed closet. They carried their beer onto the back porch facing the river and sat down on the same old white rocking chairs where, for many moments, they rocked, trembled, and tried to put all the pieces back together. “You seem pretty shaken, Ike.” “True.” “Why?” “It’s my fault.” “No way,” said Chip. “Yes, it is, Chip. Did they tell you why Cap’n Jim was killed?” “No. Just that he was ganged up on.” “Then I must tell you why. You know the governor had his best investigators trying to find Bradley Reynolds’s killer with no progress. We had heard that some of the prisoners seemed to know who killed Reynolds. During our visit about three weeks ago, Adams and I asked Cap’n Jim to try to get some of the

gossip on tape. It would at least give the detectives a new lead.” “How?” “They gave him a voice-activated device that looked exactly like a ballpoint pen. He clipped it onto his pocket.” “Did Dad agree to do that?” “Yes.” “Why?” “Because the governor thought that if we didn’t find Reynolds’s killer, the same group, the remnants of the Klan, would be after me. They’d do anything to keep a black from getting in power.” Isaac covered his face with his hands. “Did Dad get some evidence? Did he get the recording?” Chip asked. “Yes. The tape caught the voice of Cap’n Jim’s cell neighbor, a honcho in the KKK. He knew all the scoop and named the big donor Reynolds had taken sailing. He said it was Morrelli, the warden. Without that lead, we never would have suspected Morrelli. Cap’n Jim got it all on the tape. But other prisoners smelled a rat, a rat with a ballpoint pen. They won’t put up with snitches, no matter who they might be helping. If anyone snitches on one person, they figure they’ll snitch on another. If Cap’n Jim hadn’t done that, your father could have come home earlier, alive. Oh my god, Chip, Cap’n Jim took such a risk for me. Chip, your dad saved me.” The boyhood friends slowly sipped their beers, cooled by river breezes brushing over them. The tall grasses near the dock bowed their feathery heads, swaying back and forth in measured heartbeats. Finally, Chip broke the silence. “My mother would be proud of him,” he said.

For the next three months, until Election Day, it was campaigning and business as usual. Isaac and Shauna stayed up very late to hear the results on election night. The now historic team of Adams and Douglas won, decidedly, after a

larger-than-usual turnout. Perhaps people did care after all. On a blustery, cold Inauguration Day in January, the wind whipped the blackand-yellow state flag around the Capitol’s flag post. Isaac wrapped his scarf tightly around his neck and waited for the ceremony to begin. When he heard the strains of “Oh Maryland, My Maryland,” he felt chills running down his spine. It was time to take the oath of office. Following the governor, he carefully descended the steep steps of the Capitol to be seated on the platform with Shauna and Trey behind the governor’s family. Mama was already sitting in the next row back. Beside her were two empty chairs, saved for Mr. and Mrs. James Randolph Worthington IV. Only Mama wondered if perhaps there was another observer in the crowd who wished he could proudly claim that his son was becoming the first African American lieutenant governor of Maryland.

The End

Acknowledgments

I thank the many people who contributed to the writing of this book: my family, especially my son, David H. Burt, whose writing talent exceeds my own; my colleagues at Hollins Tinker Mountain workshop; Joanne Reinhold and my fellow writers from Written Remains; author Rachel Simon; critic Ann Dubisson; Osher mentor Kate Bowen, classmate Larry Wood; Christina Cultural Arts CEO Raye Avery Jones; friends from The African American Schoolhouse Museum and The Kent County Historical Society; my neighbors from Kendal’s Women’s Ink; patient friends who nagged me on to publish; Anne Donaghy, Janet Waddell, Kathie Gregory, Walt Stapleton, Sally Hillyer, Betsey Culllen, Ann Lee Bugbee, Ann Jarrett; and other family : John, Jon, Jeanne, Jim, Audrey, Paula and Sheridan and of course, my beloved Don Kuespert, who I hope is looking down on us now, and celebrating.