Black Water Rising by Attica Locke Page A

he went to col lege with. Maybe they’d had a class together, maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they’d had a cup of coffee together one time... it wasn’t for him to say.
    “We figure,” the Rev says, “maybe you can talk to her.”
    “And say what exactly?”
    “We need to send a message, son. Let the city know these young men are serious about a strike. And if some of the ILA keep acting ugly, our men are going to need police protection. The mayor is going to have to get off the stick, talk to the chief and get some uniforms down there watching these boys.”
    “You been involved in this type of thing before, Mr. Porter,” the janitor says. “I followed your other case, the one against the police department a few years back. If the city sees you repre senting my boy in this thing—”
    “Wait a minute. You’re not talking about a lawsuit, are you?” Jay asks.
    “A lawsuit is just the thing we need,” Kwame says. “Blow this issue wide open in the courts, drain the city’s resources, make ’em know we mean business.” He stands suddenly, getting pumped by his own rhetoric. “We got to take charge of this opportunity, shut the motherfuckers down if we have to.”
    Kwame has badly miscalculated his audience and forgotten he’s in a house of the Lord. Reverend Boykins shoots him a look of disapproval. Even the sweat-stained dockworkers seem turned off by the sudden outburst. They don’t want a revolution. They want a bigger paycheck. “Well, now, let’s hold on there, Mr. Mackalvy,” the Rev says. “Let Jay talk to the mayor first.”
    “You’ll do that for us, Mr. Porter?” the janitor asks, a hand on his son’s one good shoulder. Jay looks at the boy’s father, then at the Rev, the closest thing to a father he’s ever had. He nods without thinking. “Yeah... I’ll do it.”
    The meeting moves on after that to talk about strategies for the strike, getting the word out to black day laborers that they are not to cross the picket line, should it come to that, and decid ing whose wife or mother will make sandwiches or some chicken while they’re on the line. Jay tunes out most of it. He can tell they’ve finished with him, but there isn’t any way to leave with out him seeming rude. A few minutes later, they end the meeting with an awkward prayer, the men fidgeting, uncomfortable hold ing hands. Jay ducks out as soon as he can, nodding once as the Rev asks, “You’ll call on her, won’t you, son?”
    Outside, Kwame stops him on the church steps, his face flushed with the heat and excitement of the meeting. “It’s just like old times, huh, partner?”
    Jay looks at Kwame’s hand on his shoulder. “Don’t touch me, Lloyd.”
    He practically jogs to his car, hot to get out of there.
    There’s no way out of this thing, he knows. His father-in-law made him promise. And Jay, for the most part, is a man of his word. He has no idea how he’s going to get to the mayor. What’s he supposed to do, call her up after more than a decade? Just show up at city hall? He reaches into his pocket for his cigarettes, and the newspaper clipping slides out, fluttering briefly before sinking softly in the humid air, landing at Jay’s feet. He stares at the scrap of paper, the facts of a murder laid out before him in black and white.
    A moment later, he climbs into his car. Clutching the newspa per clipping in the palm of his hand, he kicks the engine in gear. Highway 59 to I-45 is the quickest route home, but Jay drives past the nearest on-ramp. He tells himself he’s taking the long way home. But deep down, he knows. He’s heading for the water.

Chapter 4
    Jay left home when he was fifteen. He took his summer earn ings from working in his mother’s shop in Nigton, up in Trin ity County, and left. He was headed to Nacogdoches. That was his plan. But at the bus station he met a pretty girl who was headed south, toward the Gulf, and he changed his mind on the spot. He bought a ticket to Houston instead. If