‘I done plenty, but I didn’t do that,’ he told Morris time and time again. ‘I woulda, I had the fuckin security code, but someone else beat me to the punch. I know who it was, too, because there was only one guy I told those numbers to. He was one of the ones who fuckin testified against me, and if I ever get out of here, that man is gonna die. Trust me.’
Morris neither believed nor disbelieved him – his first two years in the Ville had shown him that it was filled with men claiming to be as innocent as morning dew – but when Charlie asked him to write Barry Scheck, Morris was willing. It was what he did, his real job.
Turned out the robber-bludgeoner-rapist had left semen in the old lady’s underpants, the underpants were still in one of the city’s cavernous evidence rooms, and the lawyer the Innocence Project sent out to investigate Charlie Roberson’s case found them. DNA testing unavailable at the time of Charlie’s conviction showed the jizz wasn’t his. The lawyer hired an investigator to track down several of the prosecution’s witnesses. One of them, dying of liver cancer, not only recanted his testimony but copped to the crime, perhaps in hopes that doing so would earn him a pass through the pearly gates.
‘Hey, Charlie,’ Morris says. ‘Guess who.’
Roberson turns, squints, gets to his feet. ‘Morrie? Is that Morrie Bellamy?’
‘In the flesh.’
‘Well, I’ll be fucked.’
Probably not, Morris thinks, but when Roberson puts the battery down on the seat of the Harley and comes forward with his arms outstretched, Morris submits to the obligatory back-pounding bro-hug. Even gives it back to the best of his ability. The amount of muscle beneath Roberson’s filthy tee-shirt is mildly alarming.
Roberson pulls back, showing his few remaining teeth in a grin. ‘Jesus Christ! Parole?’
‘Parole.’
‘Old lady took her foot off your neck?’
‘She did.’
‘God-dam, that’s great! Come on in the office and have a drink! I got bourbon.’
Morris shakes his head. ‘Thanks, but booze doesn’t agree with my system. Also, the man might come around anytime and ask me to drop a urine. I called in sick at work this morning, that’s risky enough.’
‘Who’s your PO?’
‘McFarland.’
‘Big buck nigger, isn’t he?’
‘He’s black, yes.’
‘Ah, he ain’t the worst, but they watch you close to begin with, no doubt. Come on in the office, anyway, I’ll drink yours. Hey, did you hear Duck died?’
Morris has indeed heard this, got the news shortly before his parole came through. Duck Duckworth, his first protector, the one who stopped the rapes by Morris’s cellie and his cellie’s friends. Morris felt no special grief. People came; people went; shit didn’t mean shit.
Roberson shakes his head as he takes a bottle from the top shelf of a metal cabinet filled with tools and spare parts. ‘It was some kind of brain thing. Well, you know what they say – in the midst of fuckin life we’re in fuckin death.’ He pours bourbon into a cup with WORLD’S BEST HUGGER on the side, and lifts it. ‘Here’s to ole Ducky.’ He drinks, smacks his lips, and raises the cup again. ‘And here’s to you. Morrie Bellamy, out on the street again, rollin and trollin. What they got you doin? Some kind of paperwork’d be my guess.’
Morris tells him about his job at the MAC, and makes chitchat while Roberson helps himself to another knock of bourbon. Morris doesn’t envy Charlie his freedom to drink, he lost too many years of his life thanks to high-tension booze, but he feels Roberson will be more amenable to his request if he’s a little high.
When he judges the time is right, he says, ‘You told me to come to you if I ever got out and needed a favor.’
‘True, true … but I never thought you’d get out. Not with that Jesus-jumper you nailed ridin you like a motherfuckin pony.’ Roberson chortles and pours himself a fresh shot.
‘I need you to loan me a car, Charlie. Short-term. Not even twelve hours.’
‘When?’
‘Tonight. Well … this evening. Tonight’s when I need it. I can return it later on.’
Roberson has stopped laughing. ‘That’s a bigger risk than takin a drink, Morrie.’
‘Not for you; you’re out, free and clear.’
‘No, not for me, I’d just get a slap on the wrist. But drivin without a license is a big parole violation. You might go back inside. Don’t get me wrong, I’m willin to help you out, just want to be sure you understand the stakes.’
‘I understand them.’
Roberson tops up his glass and sips it as he considers. Morris wouldn’t want to be the owner of the bike Charlie is going to be putting back together once their little palaver is done.
At last Roberson says, ‘You be okay with a truck instead of a car? One I’m thinking of is a small panel job. And it’s an automatic. Says “Jones Flowers” on the side, but you can hardly read it anymore. It’s out back. I’ll show it to you, if you want.’
Morris wants, and one look makes him decide the little black panel truck is a gift from God … assuming it runs all right. Roberson assures him that it does, even though it’s on its second trip around the clock.