The Stones Cry Out Read online

  John sighed. "We all do."

  "Miss Williamson,” I said, redirecting. “What can you tell us about Saturday?"

  "Well, I can tell you I didn't vote for that mayor. Years ago that man come by my door looking for votes. Told me he was a Christian, he did. But I figure that man would tell me he got a twin named Muhammad if that’s what got my vote. I was thinking about that when I heard them."

  We waited.

  "Heard what?" John asked.

  "Must've been near noon because my porch was under the shade. The sun was directly overhead. Almost like now."

  "You're saying you heard the bodies, when they hit the ground?" John asked. "Or you heard that woman scream?"

  "I hear those same screams comin' from these houses late at night. Just like that. People going down."

  "So you heard the woman scream," John said, trying to pin down her statement. "And what—"

  "You know how I know?"

  "Know what?"

  "That they're going down."

  He gritted his teeth. "How do you know?"

  "Because believers don't got screams like that. Believers got eternal life."

  "Well," John said, “that's certainly a big help, Miss Williamson. Thank you very much for your time. You have a good day."

  He was cooked. Gone. Ready to climb back in the cherished Caddy and ditch this hostile street. Finish the holiday with an ice-cold six-pack. Or two.

  "That's what them screams told me," she continued. "People didn't do what they should, and then it was too late."

  "Thanks again." John stepped away.

  But she raised her face, the strange eyes quivering. "We know not the number of our days, only the Lord knows. And you can ask him how many you got, but he ain't gonna tell you."

  John was already down the steps as I slipped my card through the bars, into her palm. Her skin felt as rough as pumice.

  I asked to contact her again. She nodded.

  "Wish you would," she said. "I don't get too many visitors. Not the good kind anyways."

  ===============

  Back in the beloved Caddy, with the air conditioner blasting, John reluctantly followed my request to drive past the Fielding factory. He circled the block, sullen, while I stared at the roof line.

  "Don’t even think about going up there,” he said.

  Meaning, he wasn't hiking six flights in July for a civil rights case that Phaup wanted closed yesterday.

  But as if to silence any request that still might come, he stopped at the factory’s entrance doors, letting me see the chains looped through the handles. The yellow police tape hung in ripped fragments, and the sidewalk held brown stains. The iron-rich blots had soaked into the porous concrete, marking the termination of two lives and the ignition of a racial fuse stretching back centuries.

  Somebody had spray-painted graffiti on the brick wall. "Dirty Cops.” And "They Killd Hamal."

  "This is such a sad place." I said under my breath. But John heard me.

  "This isn't sad, Raleigh, it's pathetic. We come knocking on doors, looking into a crime they complained about, and nobody answers. Why? Because we're white and we're law enforcement and we actually want things to change. These people are killing themselves—killing themselves—with drugs, guns, prostitutes. And some poor blind woman has to live behind bars. You see her life?"

  "I'm just saying—"

  "Say nothing. Go back to the office. Write up the report. Tell it like it is. Nobody will talk. Then close it."

  "That's exactly what Phaup wants."

  "And for once, she's right. Civil rights cases do nothing but stir up even more trouble."

  Five minutes later we were crossing the Mayo Bridge heading for downtown Richmond, leaving Southside behind. When I finally glanced over, taking in John's profile, I could see the crimson veins mapping his broad face, the rough topography grown from thirty-five years with the FBI, two failed marriages, rumors of alcoholism, and the only other agent available on a holiday weekend for driving around hostile territory asking questions nobody wanted to answer.

  "Were you always this cynical?" I asked.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror, watching Southside shrink out of sight.

  "You'll see," he said. "You'll see.

  Chapter 3

  Richmond City Hall was nineteen stories of uninterrupted government dreariness. On Tuesday morning, I walked into the building and found another eyesore in the middle of the lobby, a bronze statue of a disheveled man with his mouth agape and his large eyes pleading with heaven. The engraved plaque beneath it said, “Misery.”

  The idea behind it was miserable too. Some civic group had donated it to the city, hoping “to stop violence in our community."

  When it came to death, Richmond was a horrible overachiever. The city once ranked fourth in the nation for per-capita murders. Everybody had something to say about that, including artists and civic patrons who didn't understand crime and punishment but donated statues to the public square under the misguided notion that elevating the culture would somehow stem the killing tide. My years with the Bureau -- first as a forensic geologist, now as a special agent -- had shown just the opposite was true. America’s most creative cities, the places run by the smart people with lots of college degrees, who considered themselves open-minded and tolerant, were the very same places spawning the bloodiest destructions. It wasn’t anything new; the well-intentioned were once again laying the groundwork for that road to hell.

  On the second floor, the mayor’s pretty secretary told me that he was waiting, even though we didn’t have an appointment. When I walked into his wood-paneled office, the mayor stood and buttoned his custom gray suit that matched his smoky agate eyes. As soon as he shook my hand, he unbuttoned the jacket, sitting behind his desk. I sat across from him.

  "What did you find out?" he asked.

  "I found out that two men can fall off a roof in broad daylight and six hundred people standing right there can somehow see absolutely nothing."

  The mayor stared.

  I told him about my visit to Mrs. Holmes and the bereaved widow who though the FBI was reporting to the cops. "But you were at the demonstration," I said. "Why don't we start with you. Tell me what happened."

  He tented his manicured nails. "You ever protest anything?"

  "Not with six hundred of my closest friends."

  "You need to understand Southside. We have white slumlords who don't want to pay their property taxes. That's what we’re watching. Not rooftops. Why would anybody be looking up there?"

  He had a point – even the local news missed the fall -- but I didn't want to grant it. The scream that shattered the mayor's speech sent the TV cameras whirling, capturing nothing but blur. And then two sickening thuds.

  "If we could find the woman who screamed first, we could move this investigation forward. She cried out long before the bodies landed, meaning she saw something. Meaning, one person did happen to be looking at the roof."

  "You want a name?" He arched an eyebrow. "You think I know everybody who was out there?"

  "I think you can spread the word among your constituents, Mr. Mayor. Let them know the FBI needs information about what happened. Tell them the information is not for the police. Let them know it's for a civil rights investigation."

  "And because it's civil rights,” he smiled, “they'll line up to talk."

  "Pardon me for being blunt, but if nobody wants to cooperate, we can’t conduct a full investigation."

  "You still don't get it." He dropped his hands, leaning forward. "These people care. They care plenty. But this issue goes back to problems inflicted on my people–my constituents--over an extended period of time. The wound is old, Agent Harmon. And the wound is still open."

  And my supervisor couldn’t care less.

  "Mr. Mayor, while your constituents are busy not talking to the FBI, the police are busy mounting an airtight case against Mr. Holmes. Silence only helps the police."

  “I’ve h
eard.” His lip curled. "I've heard what the police are saying."

  This morning's Richmond Times-Dispatch ran another story on the deaths, this time with details about Holmes' background as a prize fighter. An assortment of "unnamed sources" speculated that the former boxer probably tried to throw the cop off the roof, but fell during the struggle.

  "When a jury hears Mr. Holmes was a boxer, the prosecutor’s closing argument is a foregone conclusion. Boxer beats cop, dies in the struggle. Case closed."

  "Is that your theory, Agent Harmon?"

  “I need statements, sir. Six hundred people were standing there."

  His desk was polished, a glassine wonder of civic power, and the mayor ran his hands under the rim of the desk, appreciating his own reflection. When he spoke again his voice had dropped to a threatening purr.

  "Agent Harmon, nobody cares if that cop did chase Hamal Holmes up there."

  "Then we can close this?"

  "What concerns me—and my constituents—and the jury comprised of my constituents is the use of deadly force. Unnecessary, deadly force. It wouldn't be the first time some lily-white Richmond cop targeted the black man."

  I waited, staring at his upside-down reflection in the desk glass. "The law's pretty clear on cop killers."

  "You don’t really believe that fine young man busted into an empty factory? There's nothing in there. That was the point behind our demonstration. Empty buildings. No jobs. No taxes being paid."

  "But breaking and entering--"

  "Breaking and entering? Hand me a thimble, I'll show you how much water that'll hold in a Richmond courtroom."

  "Except right now it's the only theory going. And nobody’s helping me figure otherwise."

  He pet the beautiful desk again, frowning. Then he stood and buttoned the beautiful gray suit.

  "I have to be somewhere,” he said. “But I can tell you for a fact that Hamal Holmes was an outstanding citizen in this community. Go visit to his gym. You’ll understand what I’m saying. Then try coming in here and telling me I'm wrong."

  Chapter 4

  For more than four centuries, the James River plantations have witnessed man's great and terrible nature. In the early 1600s, thirty colonists climbed aboard a tiny wooden boat in England and survived a transatlantic crossing with little more than painted boards and providential prayers. Their ship eventually made its way to the bay now called Chesapeake and then traveled up the waterway now known as the James River. On December 4, 1619, the surviving colonists hosted America's first Thanksgiving on a rolling spread of land. They considered minor rations an abundance to be dedicated to God.

  Not long after that, the Powhatan Indians slaughtered every last one of them.

  It would be several decades before Benjamin Harrison came to that same location along the river that flowed to the sea. Harrison soon began siring his political dynasty and named both his house and land Berkeley, for the parish those first colonists left behind in England. In the burgeoning New World, Harrison grew wealthy from his crops, fought the English, and signed the Declaration of Independence. His son would later serve as president of the United States, following the other Virginians -- Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe. The state became known as the mother of presidents.

  But The War of Northern Aggression -- as it’s known around here -- exerted the greatest impact on the area, particularly for places like Berkeley. Union General George McClellan’s troops camped inside the storied mansion, burning Harrison's furniture for heat. And spite. Meanwhile another Union general stood on Berkeley's riverbank and surveyed the destruction. The battle of brother against brother had torn apart all that was noble about the South. Standing on the land where those first colonists were murdered, the general began composing a mournful tune for the trumpet. The requiem would later come to close military days: "Taps.”

  The war nearly destroyed the James River plantations. McClellan seemed determined to annihilate every cultivated inch of Richmond. Not satisfied with turning Berkeley into a brick ruin, he traveled further downriver to a plantation named Evelynton. It belonged to Edmund Ruffin, the Rebel who had fired the first shot of the Civil War. Providing McClellan with both a literal and symbolic target, Evelynton’s fields were salted by the Union troops. When Ruffin finally returned from the Lost Cause, he was the proud owner of several thousand acres of infertile farmland. Later, Ruffin carried his shotgun into the barn, wrapped himself in the Confederate flag, and fired what some considered the last shot of the Civil War.

  But the suffering and loss barely touched one plantation along the James River. It survived nearly unscathed.

  Weyanoke.

  I drove east from Richmond on Route 5, turning into Weyanoke's wide drive, and listening to the pea gravel ping my car's undercarriage. For once I felt grateful that my government ride was a complete bucket of bolts. The faded white K-Car should have been retired years ago. But my supervisor kept it serviced, year after year. She even hand-picked it for me. The blue vinyl bench seats. The temperamental AM radio that played mostly static. And the air-conditioning system that only worked in winter.

  Without a doubt, the K-Car was the worst vehicle in the office.

  But the odometer worked, and half a mile later I could see Weyanoke's mansion. The big house brought back memories. Too many memories. One was MacKenna Fielding’s debutante ball. Mac was the most celebrated among us girls, the fourteenth generation of her family to live at Weyanoke. She was beautiful, rich, and far more concerned about etiquette than genuine feelings; Mac had everything a Richmond girl needed to ascend the social ladder. Except that Richmond never forgot its history. Especially when the history included Robert MacKenna marrying an Indian “savage,” and a fourth Robert MacKenna, who saved his home and land during the war by offering aid and comfort to the Northern enemy.

  I parked the K-Car under an umbrella of oaks and walked the herringbone brick path to the mansion's enormous front doors. A black housekeeper answered the bell and said that Mr. Fielding had gone riding this morning. Mac had gone with him.

  "Would you like to wait in the parlor?" she asked.

  I didn't want any more memories flashing up, especially of my father, who had escorted me to that debutante ball eleven years ago. Sitting on a wooden bench under a tulip poplar, hoping the wide shade would saw an edge off the heat, I gazed at the river below. The mansion was set directly across from an oxbow break in the water, and on this morning the turning river glinted silver in the sun. It was the first Mrs. MacKenna—the so-called Indian savage--who named this land. "Weyanoke” was a Chickahominy word that meant "where the water turns around." From a geologist's perspective, I'd say her choice was spot-on. She couldn’t have known how historians would later claim it as another symbol, insisting the river’s turnaround was a metaphor for the family that switched sides, whose Southern belles married Yankees, including some Union officer named Fielding.

  "What to my wondering eyes should appear.”

  I hesitated to turn around. Here came another memory, walking toward me with a smile that could melt the polar ice cap. DeMott Fielding.

  "I don’t believe it,” he said. “Raleigh Harmon, under my favorite tree."

  "I'm waiting for your father." I said it quickly. Too quickly.

  DeMott sat down beside me, as if I'd asked. I could feel heat radiating from his browned skin.

  "Hope you’re not in a hurry,” he said. “They took out the new horses. Could be awhile before they come back."

  "Your housekeeper said they left at dawn." What I wanted to say was, It's ninety-seven degrees out here, humid as a steam bath—how long can these people keep riding?

  He seemed to read my thoughts. "We've got three thousand acres, Raleigh. Those two will try to ride every inch of it."

  I glanced at the fields. Leafy soybeans stretched across the sandy bluff above the river, washing toward the edge.

  "You still living on Monument?" he asked.

  Some unexpected knot had closed in my
throat. The heat. I was sure of it. Pollen.

  "I'm just wondering," DeMott said, “because I'm renovating one of our student rentals over on Grove Avenue. Right near your house. Looks like it hasn’t been painted since Reconstruction. You should stop by sometime."

  A breeze was whispering across the water, combing through the marsh grass. A blue heron perched one-legged among the pale green blades, standing as still as a statue.

  He waited for me to speak. "Oh, right. I forgot. You're an FBI agent now. Can't socialize with people like me."

  "DeMott, I don't have time to socialize with anyone." That was the truth. Or half of it. Way back when, DeMott Fielding and I dated in high school. It ended after a memorable night that was memorable for all the wrong reasons, and even after I left for Mount Holyoke College in Massachusetts, DeMott Fielding’s name came up in conversation. My mother kept sending me the newspaper clippings detailing his arrest for drug possession.

  I glanced over. He was combing his hands through his dark wavy hair, staring down at his work boots.

  "My father's no animal rights advocate. But he paid too much money for those horses to destroy them the first day out. They should be back soon. See you around, maybe."

  He crossed the pristine lawn, heading to the small door tucked under the house, almost buried in a hummock of land. The English basement, a cobbled subterranean room that distinguished these historic houses. Before walking inside, he kicked his work boots against a blackened iron post, a relic once used for tying up horses. The soil that fell from his treads looked loamy, rich with clay and iron.

  He looked back, once. But he didn't wave.

  ===============

  I was getting ready to leave when Harrison and MacKenna Fielding came trotting down a trail beside the river. Mac rode a chestnut mare whose plumy tail was the color of taffy. Her father's horse was black as onyx.

  I walked across the field, meeting them in the barn.

  Harrison Fielding dismounted like gentry, throwing a muscular leg over the leather saddle, careful not to graze the animal's sweaty flanks. He handed the reins to an elderly black man, thanked him, then turned to me.