I wove my way through the streets of downtown Atlanta and somehow wound up on Auburn Avenue. “Sweet Auburn” as it is affectionately called. At one time, this street was the economic, social justice, and religious spine of the Black community in Atlanta. Historical landmarks of the civil rights movement still towered along the street. Places like Ebenezer Baptist Church, where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. preached. A 1960s-era storefront that housed the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, and, right around the corner, a six-stories-tall mural of civil rights icon John Lewis, all looming in the shadow of Atlanta’s gleaming skyline. How darkly fitting I should drive down this street on this particular day, the same day I ran from a couple of racist bigots who threatened to destroy me.
I pulled into a Texaco station. As I pumped gas into my car, I remembered Grace’s advice to give the police the things I found in Max’s office and Michael’s duffel bag. I should have gone to the police sooner instead of trying to protect Sam. As it all worked out, I hadn’t protected him at all. My stupidity caused his death. I topped off the tank, then quickly climbed back inside the car. The sky was heavy with the threat of snow, as the weatherman had predicted. I pulled out of the gas station and headed straight for the police station.
A few minutes later, my cell phone rang: Rudy. I thought about not answering but I did anyway.
“Look, Rudy, this isn’t a good time.”
“Anita told me you left the office. We didn’t finish talking yesterday.”
“I’m headed to the police station. We can talk after I’m done.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Maybe we should talk before you go there. Let’s talk in person. You know where to meet me.”
*
By the time I arrived at the playground in Piedmont Park, Rudy had staked out a bench. The temperature was barely above freezing now and largely accounted for the near empty playground. With the exception of the occasional beast runner, all of Piedmont Park was empty too.
“Aren’t you cold? Where’s your coat?” I asked.
Rudy cast a serious look at me before he tugged at his ear and stared back across the empty playground. Rudy always tugged at his ear when he was nervous. Something else was wrong. “C’mon, Rudy, what’s up?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring into the playground. I could tell he was hesitant to speak at first. “You know I told you Kelly’s brother is a police officer? He told me something.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I . . . he didn’t want to tell me at first but—” Rudy looked at me, full of fear and sympathy.
“Wha-what is it?”
“Ellice, the police are going to issue a warrant for your arrest. I thought you should know before you go.” He lowered his voice. “You know, in case you need to take an attorney with you.”
I stared at Rudy, trying to grasp the words. A warrant. Your arrest.
Hearing my name associated with a criminal process was like an out-of-body experience. It was as if Rudy were gossiping to me about someone else we both knew. Ever since I’d left the police station, I knew I was being framed, but Rudy’s words somehow made it real.
“It’s time to come clean with the police,” Rudy concluded.
Rudy sounded like Detective Bradford. “Arrest me for what?”
“Murder . . . your brother.”
“What?! That makes absolutely no sense. Rudy, I didn’t kill my brother. What are they thinking?”
“I don’t know, but you have about twenty-four hours to convince them otherwise. My brother-in-law said something about your brother walking around Houghton before Michael was killed. Ell, I’ve known you for years. Until a few days ago, I didn’t even know you had a brother.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Between Grace and Rudy, I’d told so many lies that my friendship with them might not survive.
Rudy tugged at his ear again and looked away from me.
“What is it, Rudy?”
His voice was quiet, solemn. “My brother-in-law . . . he told me something else. Something about you and Michael.”
I stiffened. The lump in my throat was a rock. I just stared at Rudy. This could not be happening. I tried so hard to be so much—the consummate professional, upstanding attorney, the “good one”—and now it had come to this. One of the few close friends I had thought I was a liar and a whore. Why wouldn’t he make the next logical leap and believe I was a murderer, too? My world was slowly falling apart. The successful, well-crafted lie that used to be my life was now sitting in shambles around my feet. I thought about the Brethren and the Littlejohn dossier. Then, I thought about Sam. Why did they have to kill him? Sam’s murder was the one link in this horrific chain of events that I could not figure out.