trashy
stuff. Oh, and I never look at the pictures.'
An opened the folder so Martin could see the
photos. 'Pictures like these?' she asked, flipping
picture after picture around, showing him Sandra
Burke splayed naked, her body creased where
again and again the car had backed up and driven
over her. 'We found parts of her teeth in your
back right tire.'
Martin opened his mouth and vomited all over
the table.
What Martin Really Did That Night, or
All That Glitters is to Goad
Martin often said that he did not have a racist
bone in his body. He had supported Barack
Obama, or at least he had told people that he
did (Martin's life was run by strong women; he
was not one to embrace change). His closest
co-worker was black. He occasionally listened
to rap music and enjoyed the comedy of
Chris Rock. He was, in short, a man who did
not normally see black and white. When he
looked at a person, he saw a person, not a skin
color.
Even with these sterling credentials, Martin
could not help but notice that he was the only
white man in the holding tank at the Atlanta jail.
Neither had the color discrepancy gone
unnoticed by his fellow prisoners. When he had
first entered the cell, someone had noticed
Martin's short-sleeved dress shirt and his clip-on
tie and said, 'Look, a Republican.'
He could not believe that they were holding
him on such flimsy evidence. Sure, his blood was
mixed in with Sandy's . . . stuff . . . but that didn't
mean anything. Or did it? One need only read a
good Patricia Cornwell to know that blood did
not come with a time-and-date stamp.
Scientifically, there was no way to prove that
Martin had touched the bumper the day after the
incident. What a mess!
He held his breath as the odor of fresh feces
filled the air. There were two toilets, both of
them out in the open for the world to see. A large,
bald man was sitting reading a magazine, doing
his business as if this was just another day in his
life. Martin had dealt with being around toilets
most of his adult life and had tucked himself into
the far corner when he had first entered the cell,
but the odor seemed to bounce off the walls and
envelop him. Sitting on the floor with his knees to
his chest, all Martin could think about was this
was how the system turned you into an animal.
How long would it take before Nature won out
and he was forced to relieve himself in front of
complete strangers? How long before his dignity
was completely removed and he was spitting on
the floor and scratching himself alongside the
other screws? Or was it fishes? Martin had still
not mastered the lingo.
Oh, if only his one phone call had been made
to his father instead of his useless mother. She
hadn't answered the phone. The answering
machine had whirred, Evie's blunt voice saying
to leave a message. He knew she was home—Evie
could not drive herself anywhere because of her
cataracts – just as he knew that she was aware
that Martin was sitting – no, rotting! – in jail.
His father would not have left his only son
among these monsters. His father would have . . .
oh, who was he kidding? Marty Reed has been
just as useless in life as he was in death. An
accountant, like his son would grow up to be,
Marty had worked in indexing and actuarials for
a large law firm downtown. His mother had
called it 'the accident' right up until the insurance
company had asserted that no matter how many
times she insisted, the cause of Martin Harrison
Reed Senior's death had been officially ruled a
suicide.
This was how it had happened: Marty had
enjoyed a nice lunch of ham salad with a devilled
egg. He had written a note on the back of an
index card and taken off his glasses. He left both
of these on his desk. The sight of Marty fumbling
blindly through the office, bumping into chairs
and walls (he was legally blind without his
glasses) as he made his way toward the hallway,
did not strike anyone as unusual at the time. He
had the remnants of his sack lunch in his hand as
he felt his way
stuff. Oh, and I never look at the pictures.'
An opened the folder so Martin could see the
photos. 'Pictures like these?' she asked, flipping
picture after picture around, showing him Sandra
Burke splayed naked, her body creased where
again and again the car had backed up and driven
over her. 'We found parts of her teeth in your
back right tire.'
Martin opened his mouth and vomited all over
the table.
What Martin Really Did That Night, or
All That Glitters is to Goad
Martin often said that he did not have a racist
bone in his body. He had supported Barack
Obama, or at least he had told people that he
did (Martin's life was run by strong women; he
was not one to embrace change). His closest
co-worker was black. He occasionally listened
to rap music and enjoyed the comedy of
Chris Rock. He was, in short, a man who did
not normally see black and white. When he
looked at a person, he saw a person, not a skin
color.
Even with these sterling credentials, Martin
could not help but notice that he was the only
white man in the holding tank at the Atlanta jail.
Neither had the color discrepancy gone
unnoticed by his fellow prisoners. When he had
first entered the cell, someone had noticed
Martin's short-sleeved dress shirt and his clip-on
tie and said, 'Look, a Republican.'
He could not believe that they were holding
him on such flimsy evidence. Sure, his blood was
mixed in with Sandy's . . . stuff . . . but that didn't
mean anything. Or did it? One need only read a
good Patricia Cornwell to know that blood did
not come with a time-and-date stamp.
Scientifically, there was no way to prove that
Martin had touched the bumper the day after the
incident. What a mess!
He held his breath as the odor of fresh feces
filled the air. There were two toilets, both of
them out in the open for the world to see. A large,
bald man was sitting reading a magazine, doing
his business as if this was just another day in his
life. Martin had dealt with being around toilets
most of his adult life and had tucked himself into
the far corner when he had first entered the cell,
but the odor seemed to bounce off the walls and
envelop him. Sitting on the floor with his knees to
his chest, all Martin could think about was this
was how the system turned you into an animal.
How long would it take before Nature won out
and he was forced to relieve himself in front of
complete strangers? How long before his dignity
was completely removed and he was spitting on
the floor and scratching himself alongside the
other screws? Or was it fishes? Martin had still
not mastered the lingo.
Oh, if only his one phone call had been made
to his father instead of his useless mother. She
hadn't answered the phone. The answering
machine had whirred, Evie's blunt voice saying
to leave a message. He knew she was home—Evie
could not drive herself anywhere because of her
cataracts – just as he knew that she was aware
that Martin was sitting – no, rotting! – in jail.
His father would not have left his only son
among these monsters. His father would have . . .
oh, who was he kidding? Marty Reed has been
just as useless in life as he was in death. An
accountant, like his son would grow up to be,
Marty had worked in indexing and actuarials for
a large law firm downtown. His mother had
called it 'the accident' right up until the insurance
company had asserted that no matter how many
times she insisted, the cause of Martin Harrison
Reed Senior's death had been officially ruled a
suicide.
This was how it had happened: Marty had
enjoyed a nice lunch of ham salad with a devilled
egg. He had written a note on the back of an
index card and taken off his glasses. He left both
of these on his desk. The sight of Marty fumbling
blindly through the office, bumping into chairs
and walls (he was legally blind without his
glasses) as he made his way toward the hallway,
did not strike anyone as unusual at the time. He
had the remnants of his sack lunch in his hand as
he felt his way
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