Jerome Johnson, Attorney At Law, felt the weight of the past pull him down the road as he steered his battered Volkswagen Passat across fresh asphalt split by the over-groomed median, the grass all dried and dormant from the heat but still neatly trimmed, courtesy of taxpayer dollars. Jerome keeping to the speed limit, eyes traveling the mirrors and windows in a relentless cycle, a tight grip on the steering wheel, apprehension riding along. It was late summer in southern Missouri, way down in the Bootheel and just a stone’s throw from the Mississippi River where Wayward County sits all rural and worn and broken. Where the heat and dust collide with the mist of the river to drape your shoulders like a blanket of ghosts from the past. Where the locals still argue how the Bootheel should have been part of Tennessee, their history as a Civil War border state surely having no influence over them today even as it stained the horizon like an unmovable storm cloud.
Jerome felt his tension ease as the county’s upkeep petered out, letting the asphalt turn rough, the median threadbare and worn. This was where the other half lived and struggled and paid the same county taxes for little in return, their dark skin a silent homage to a lifetime of coming up short in the shadow of the Big River.
The sun had just dipped to twilight when Jerome’s phone chirped from its plastic cradle suction-cupped to the windshield. He listened to the text, dictated his response, gently reminding his wife he’d be home late. He powered down the phone, igniting his tension for a beat or two. Jerome driving onward, ready to do what had to be done, hoping like hell he was ready but with no time to worry on it because, out of nowhere, one of the sheriff’s big Ford Explorer Interceptors was coming in fast and hard behind him. LED high beams threw noon suns against his mirrors. Jerome thinking the cruiser was gonna clip his bumper before seeing it fall back but hanging close, its light bar a gray line above the roofline. Fuck. Was this the night Johnny Law would pull him over for driving while Black? Bully and threaten and dare Jerome to even think about growing a spine and pushing back? Jerome knowing he’d never tell the dumb noob of a deputy he was making him late for a meet up with that old bastard of a District Attorney, Daniel Redfern, the man who held the Sheriff and his deputies so close they might as well be next of kin. Or how DA Redfern himself had suggested the meet up, telling Jerome keep it on the down low, promising a boost for Jerome’s struggling, no, make that starving law practice, a promise so worn it must’ve been ripped from the Bent Politician’s Handbook. Still, Jerome had welcomed the suggestion. He’d prepared for this day. Prepared for the opportunity to get ahead. To pay his rent without cutting his grocery budget. To provide for his wife and unborn child. To help his people.
Jerome’s inner debate was still spinning when the cruiser dropped its high beams and fell back another car length. Swerved a hard left and roared past like a jet boat blasting its way up river. The deputy staring straight ahead, forehead tilted back, chin set hard. Jerome recognizing the man’s profile, asking himself if karma really was the bitch everyone said it was or did payback simply come down to a man taking action after he’d decided enough was enough?
It was full on dark by time the Passat bumped and swayed and creaked over the broken road, headlights throwing shadows on land gone rough and flat from years of industrial use followed by one flood too many. Jerome driving with the windows down as cicadas and katydids and crickets and any matter of singing, chirping insects called out from clumps of tall grass and weeds and mounded brush where small birds hid for the night. The air was warm and humid. Stars were showing and a rising moon lit the light. The Passat’s headlights flared across the worn remnants of an abandoned building, two broken walls meeting for no good reason, the rest of the building melting into dust as if to argue that change would surely come, slow as it was to arrive. Jerome looping the Passat around the empty space, his lights brushing against the black Cadillac Escalade waiting in the shadows. Jerome killed the ignition and climbed out.
“You always show up late when folks are trying their best to help you?” District Attorney Redfern looking all pissy and puffed-up, having hauled his bald, short-ass frame out to stand next to his vehicle, his body bent with age, eyeglasses glinting in the moonlight.
“I’m right on time and you know it.” Jerome not explaining he had the drive timed down to the minute. He walked over to Redfern who rested a hand on his pot belly in a manner oddly reminiscent of Jerome’s pregnant wife. Jerome’s eyes narrowed. “You wanted to meet,” he said. “And here we are.”
“You get right to it, now don’tcha?”
Jerome stayed quiet, looking past Redfern at the Escalade, verifying Redfern was alone, the old bastard thinking he was bullet proof.
“You carrying?” Redfern said.
“You asking me that?”
“This ain’t no shopping mall, know what I mean? Got you pegged as a non-believer so I’ma pat you down right quick, you don’t mind.”
Jerome’s lips flattened as he held his arms out.
Redfern made quick work of it, finishing with a quick, leering grope. “Alrighty then,” he said, stepping back to lean against the Escalade, head canted up to meet Jerome’s lean height. “I got a package for you to deliver.” He hitched his pants, straightened briefly. “You get it done and I’ll put the word out your practice is open for business.”
“I been open for business for three years.”
“Uh huh. How’s that working out?” Redfern hawked and spat a wet wad next to Jerome’s feet. “Once my word goes out you’ll have paying clients lining up at your door. Plenty a non-paying ones too. You’re specialty, I gather.”
Jerome’s face was as unreadable and dark as river water. “And I can trust you because…”
“Cause you got no choice in the matter,” Redfern said, letting loose a wet cackle, his eyes lost in shadow. He wiped the back of a hand against a stubbly chin. “Boy, you know I call the shots around here. Ain’t a single lawyer keeps his shingle out without my say so. It’s time to do your part, join the club. Take it or leave it. It sure don’t mean a rat’s ass to me.”
“You have it with you?”
“You take it and deliver it across town by morning,” Redfern said, scarecrow eyes homing in on James. “I get word it’s done, you best roll up your sleeves. You’ll be busier than a one legged man in a ass kickin’ contest, mark my words.”
Jerome gave a slight nod. “You can put it in my car.”
“The hell if I’m walking it over there,” Redfern said.
“The hell if I’m giving you more power over me than you already got. You put it in, I deliver it. End of story,” Jerome twitched his head, said. “I’m ‘bout ready to ditch this Godforsaken county as it is. And you know why.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get your knickers in a twist but that was your one shot at being an asshole with me. Best not forget who’s in charge here.” Redfern’s smirk staying with him as he went to the rear door of the Escalade for the small flat box, big enough to stack a couple of small pizzas in, the top layered with tape.
Jerome turned and went to the Passat quick as a young man. Popped the rear hatch. Smoothed the old blanket covering the floor, hearing Redfern’s slow shuffling approach. Jerome sliding to the corner where the shadows were deep and line of sight was lost. Lifted the Glock, straightening and turning and tucking it behind his back in one easy motion. Redfern seeing none of it as he made his way, peering over his spectacles.
Redfern huffed for air and the box landed with a soft thud. Jerome clicked the trunk and the old man shoved a slip of paper his way. “You’re right handed, eh?” Jerome taking the slip.
“Delivery address.” Redfern ignoring Jerome’s comment, hitching his pants halfway up his belly once again. “It’s a forty minute drive but you got till morning to get ‘er done.” His wide grin showed stained teeth and an excess of self-assurance. “Case it ain’t clear, you lose or open that package, won’t be one word of discussion.” Redfern double tapped Jerome on the chest with a finger and shambled off toward his vehicle. “And I’m driving out first,” he called out without looking back, Jerome watching him go in silence.
Jerome swung the Passat around nice and slow, swirls of dust giving shape to the headlight’s beams, the Escalade far ahead. Jerome on a knife’s edge, his future now in motion, the Glock cold and sharp against his back. The Escalade slowed as if to navigate the turn. The rumble of another engine filtered in, the lights of the deputy cruiser flaring the Passat’s mirrors like before. The Escalade lurched to a stop, brake lights a threatening red. Jerome dropped the transmission into park, wrapped both hands on the steering wheel and waited for what was to come.
The deputy took his time getting there. Flashlight swinging, moving like he thought he was a badass cop in a badass movie. Putting that torch in Jerome’s face like it wasn’t gonna blind him, like it was the right thing to do.
“Registration’s in the glovebox,” Jerome said, voice flat.
“You know I don’t need it,” said the deputy. “Go ahead and step outta the car.” He clicked the flashlight off and stepped back. Jerome climbed out, his heart thumping the same distress signal that many before him had done, every one of them knowing that neither hope nor faith would protect them. Jerome seeing the deputy’s cell phone camera pointing his way. “You recording me like a boss man, eh?” Jerome said, keeping his hands away from his body, movements slow and deliberate.
“Just documentin’.” The deputy motioned with his torch. “Go ahead and pop the trunk. Keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”
Jerome shook his head in disgust. Moved to comply, everything harsh in the lights of the Interceptor. He heard Redfern call out his approach, wheezing for air. “Glad you were nearby, Deputy,” Redfern limping up to them. “Not sure what business this young man was up to, but I didn’t like what I seen so I figured I’d call it in.”
“We’ll sort it,” the deputy said. “Open that trunk for me, Boy.” Jerome biting down a timeless rage. Squeezed the key fob and stepped away from the trunk, keeping Redfern on his left.
The deputy made a show of approaching the car, narrating his movements for the video after first framing Jerome in the camera, then the trunk and the package inside, the phone’s light showing everything nice and bright.
Redfern elbowed Jerome in the side, pompous grin a mile wide. “Don’t piss your pants over this, Boy,” he whispered. “Ain’t nothing gonna come of it, you play your cards right. Our deal still stands.”
By then the deputy had moved back from the Volkswagen, phone returned to a pocket, arms folded across his chest. Redfern clearing his throat like he was about to give a speech and even sucked in a bolus of air while Jerome, hands on his hips, tilted his head as if to listen to Redfern before pulling his weapon and firing. The deputy folded to the ground. Jerome spun around and clocked Redfern upside the head with the Glock sending his eyeglasses flying, dropping him to the ground just like the deputy who was cursing up a storm and moaning and grabbing his thigh with both hands, blood staining the leg of his uniform dark and wet. The deputy scrabbling for his service weapon and Jerome landing a kick to his thigh hard enough to stop that nonsense from going any further. Jerome reaching for the deputy’s piece, swinging it like a hammer to smash him in the head.
Jerome stood next to Redfern’s Escalade looking calm and nonchalant when the deputy’s eyes fluttered open. The deputy leaned against his Interceptor, uniform shirt off, the sleeve wrapped around his leg like a tourniquet, his t-shirt glowing white and smeared with blood. Jerome having backed the Escalade down to sit across from the Interceptor, leaving enough space between the two vehicles. Jerome’s Passat up and out of the way, tires on the hardpack, not leaving any tread marks.
Redfern must have felt better than the Deputy did. The old crook been running his mouth as if the blow to his head had broken something loose, leaving him to spill all manner of threats and racist bullshit as he sat there, propped against the Escalade, flabby arms pinned with the deputy’s handcuffs, eyeglasses bent askew and looking about as potent as an old river turtle been flipped on his back.
Jerome eyed the deputy. “You might want to keep a hand on that tourniquet,” Jerome said. “You done lost a ton of blood.”
“D.A. ain’t wrong, you know,” the deputy said. “You’re in deep shit, Boy.” The deputy choosing to ignore the reality of the situation, his loss of power.
“I can put another round in your knee, you want,” Jerome said. He crossed over to the deputy, held the iPhone to his face to unlock it and went back to leaning against the Escalade, working the phone, casual and focused. “Nice,” he said, nodding at the phone. “Seems like you don’t save your videos to the cloud.” He eyed the deputy. “Can’t say how much I appreciate that.” Jerome deleted the video and emptied the folder of deleted items. Worked the phone some more. “Need you to punch in your PIN.” He held the phone out. The deputy turned his head away. “Fuck you.”
Jerome hauled off and kicked the deputy’s bloody thigh once more. When the man had finished howling and writhing Jerome said, “Next time I pull that tourniquet.” He shrugged. “I don’t need to get into your phone. But I want to.” This time the deputy tapped in the code. Jerome placed the phone on the hood of the Escalade next to two similar iPhones. He grinned at the deputy. “You can have your phone back in a few,” he said. “I already cloned the old guy’s so if y’all decide to wipe ‘em clean after I leave, it won’t matter. I’ll have everything.” Jerome feeling like planting a bit of false hope about their future was more than fair.
“I’ll have you fed to the hogs screaming like a little girl, Boy.” District Attorney Redfern spat his words like bullets. “There ain’t no coming back from this you dirty bitch. I’ll have your pretty little wife rode hard and long and then I’ll cut her face up myself and sell her to the Memphis boys. Being white won’t ease her suffering one bit, no siree, Bob.”
Jerome kneeled in front of Redfern. “I believe you would do that, Mr. District Attorney,” he said. “And since what you say is true, well then, I guess that makes you a goner.” Jerome spoke over his shoulder. “What about you, Deputy? Wanna live till morning or you ready to give up the ghost same as Mr. District Attorney here?”
The deputy said nothing.
Jerome rose to his feet, stood next to the deputy, barrel of his weapon nudging the man behind the ear. “I’ma hand you your weapon, Deputy. You heard the DA threaten my wife. Your job is to shoot him, center mass. You do that and I’ll leave your phone close by and the tourniquet on your leg. Give you a fighting chance, something you never gave a one of the men you beat or killed.” Jerome paused, letting his words sink in. “I’ll be standing right here. You point that weapon anywhere but at the old man and he’s the one going home, gets to blame it all on you.”
Jerome dangled the weapon, the skin of the deputy’s face rippling like a bag of snakes as he took it, eyes drifting shut. Jerome waited, alert, then nudged with the Glock, the deputy’s eyes clicking open. He aimed and fired, painting Redfern’s chest a crimson red. Jerome pulled the weapon away. “Good work, Deputy. You are who you are,” he said. “Or were.” Jerome reaching down for the tourniquet, tearing it away.
“God damn!” the deputy said. “You’re gonna have me bleed out?”
“I guess I lied like a motherfucker, like you always did, “Jerome said. “How you like that?” The deputy twitched his head, nostrils flaring wide, eyes twin spots of white. A lifelong dread of being ignored had rendered him cruel and violent and now he drifted beneath a hollow moon, his blood leaking into the dust, the scent of the river growing weak, the smell of his blood growing stronger.
Jerome went over to where Redfern’s body had toppled over. Used the deputy’s key to remove the handcuffs, wiping the cuffs and the Glock carefully and thoroughly, thin gloves wrapping his hands. The fingers of the DA’s right hand folding easily around the weapon before Jerome fired it into the night.
Jerome went to the dying deputy, his ears ringing from the blast. “Y’all got off easy considering how many people you hurt and killed but I want you to know, things are fixin’ to change around here, Boy. I almost wish you’d live to see it.”
Jerome drove away from the two dead men wearing fresh clothes and shoes covered with paper booties, everything but the booties a perfect match to what he’d been wearing since morning. The bodies of Redfern and the deputy were on the ground, not yet feeding the animals or insects, cell phones in their pockets, Jerome’s cloned copies stowed in the trunk where the Glock had been. Redfern’s box of crystal meth lie next to him, the cardboard torn, the meth spilling out and catching the moonlight, his fingerprints waiting for the crime scene techs to document.
Jerome aimed the Passat at the faint path leading to the river and a deserted wideout with an old fire ring filled with driftwood and trash and smashed beer cans and bottles and a trail to the water that made sinking the blanket and his bloody clothes with rocks an easy task. He waited as they disappeared before tossing in the disassembled Glock, the ripples fading like an empty memory, the dark current wiping the slate clean like it always did.
Jerome returned to the Passat, retraced his route through the part of town where Wayward County money always seemed to run out. Past where the deputy had nearly tagged his bumper and into the land of smooth roads and stately homes. Jerome powering up his cell phone, the sleeve of his white shirt glowing in the phone’s light, the shoe covers long gone out the window. He spoke to his wife, let her know he’d be home soon.
Jerome rolled the Passat into the narrow driveway of the small house he could barely afford on a street where his neighbors never spoke, his big reward for coming back to practice law where he’d been raised. A place where people like his father and grandfather had been degraded and excluded for no reason other than how they looked and where men like Daniel Redfern and the deputy, born with more than most, would cheat and lie and kill to take more. But Jerome had paid attention as a young man. Kept receipts and waited. Now he sat in his old beater of a car, thinking real justice, like beauty, could only be found in the eye of the beholder.
Jerome left the Passat and went inside, calling out to his wife, the scent of roast chicken replacing the evening smell of the river. The tiny kitchen’s domestic aura filling him with joy as his wife wrapped him in a hug, murmuring about how proud she was of him and his hard work.
Jerome kissed her blonde head and held her close. Laid a gentle hand on her belly. The kick of his first child and son thumping against his fingers as Jerome smiled, wondering which he’d announce first in the coming weeks.
The birth of his son or his campaign for District Attorney.
