come here and tell you, and we could think it out. Whatever you want. You want me to go to cops and tell them what went down, I will. I’ll take my raps. I’m sorry, CJ; I was just so afraid then,” as tears welled up in his eyes.
“OK, Billy,” Strong said. “I don’t know what I’ll do, but you don’t need to do anything. Don’t say a word of this to anyone. Does anyone else know?” he pressed.
“No one.”
“Then I want your word of honor, on your mother’s soul, that you will never say a word of this to anyone unless I tell you to,” Strong demanded.
“Yes,” Stevens replied.
“Say it for me to hear,” Strong pushed.
“On my mother’s soul, CJ, I will never tell anyone what I told you unless you tell me to,” Stevens said.
Strong looked at his cousin and smiled, “Now I forgive you for letting me rot in this hole for 4 years, 196 days,” and looking at his watch, “and 17 hours.”
“That bad?” Stevens asked.
“Every goddamn minute,” Strong concluded.
When Stevens was gone, when Strong was back in his cell, the memory of the day they joined in a football game at the home of Parker Barnes, now almost eight years ago, returned. He and Billy Stevens had dropped by to get some money for a movie they were taking girls to see that evening. Louise Strong kept a tight leash on CJ since his father was killed. Not that he needed it. He was a good kid, did well in school, loved sports and his friends. So in the morning when CJ asked her for money for a movie that night, she asked him to come by her employers, the Barnes, after school, and it being payday she would have cashed her check and had money for him. He was surprised when she told him it was the Barnes’ home she worked at part-time but accepted it as how things were.
When CJ and Billy showed up, they came around the back of the house to the service area, rang the bell, and Louise Strong answered. She greeted the two, gave CJ ten dollars. It was then they heard the eight boys playing football on the rear lawn. The rear lawn at the Barnes’ estate was a strip of manicured grass that ran west, down to a private beach, between the tennis courts on the south side to the swimming pool on the north side.
Louise Strong encouraged the boys to join in the game, but they demurred. As they were walking away, Parker Barnes called out.
“CJ, come on. We need two more.”
“Go on, you’ll have a good time,” Mrs. Strong encouraged.
“Let’s go kick some ass,” Billy said.
They joined the game and played for an hour, two black sons of west side laborers and eight rich kids from Stamford, Darien, and Greenwich.
In his mind he had the image of the perfect day it was. The sun was shining; his mother watched for a while on the side. He could still see her smiling. He remembered Mrs. Barnes coming out to watch, standing beside his mother. He remembered another of the household help bringing out lemonade and water for them afterward. He could see the picture of the ten boys that Mrs. Barnes took.
“That Mrs. Barnes took and gave to Mom,” Strong said out loud.
His cellmate, a redneck lifer from Vermont with a constant chip on his shoulder, said, “You talking to me, Bro?”
Barnes learned to ignore him. He snapped back to the picture in his mind. Mom must still have it.
On Sunday when phone calls were allowed, CJ Strong called his mother collect as he always did.
“I talked with my sister, and she said Billy went to see you this week,” Louise
Strong said to her son.
“Yes, it was good to see him,” CJ replied.
And as they always did, Louise Strong had her son tell her what he was doing each day of the week. She tried to envision the lost moments of her son’s life as he recounted his daily experiences, rather his daily drab existence. But this day he seemed more upbeat to her.
“Mom, do you remember the day Billy and I came by your work and ended up playing football with Parker and his friends.”
“Like it was
“OK, Billy,” Strong said. “I don’t know what I’ll do, but you don’t need to do anything. Don’t say a word of this to anyone. Does anyone else know?” he pressed.
“No one.”
“Then I want your word of honor, on your mother’s soul, that you will never say a word of this to anyone unless I tell you to,” Strong demanded.
“Yes,” Stevens replied.
“Say it for me to hear,” Strong pushed.
“On my mother’s soul, CJ, I will never tell anyone what I told you unless you tell me to,” Stevens said.
Strong looked at his cousin and smiled, “Now I forgive you for letting me rot in this hole for 4 years, 196 days,” and looking at his watch, “and 17 hours.”
“That bad?” Stevens asked.
“Every goddamn minute,” Strong concluded.
When Stevens was gone, when Strong was back in his cell, the memory of the day they joined in a football game at the home of Parker Barnes, now almost eight years ago, returned. He and Billy Stevens had dropped by to get some money for a movie they were taking girls to see that evening. Louise Strong kept a tight leash on CJ since his father was killed. Not that he needed it. He was a good kid, did well in school, loved sports and his friends. So in the morning when CJ asked her for money for a movie that night, she asked him to come by her employers, the Barnes, after school, and it being payday she would have cashed her check and had money for him. He was surprised when she told him it was the Barnes’ home she worked at part-time but accepted it as how things were.
When CJ and Billy showed up, they came around the back of the house to the service area, rang the bell, and Louise Strong answered. She greeted the two, gave CJ ten dollars. It was then they heard the eight boys playing football on the rear lawn. The rear lawn at the Barnes’ estate was a strip of manicured grass that ran west, down to a private beach, between the tennis courts on the south side to the swimming pool on the north side.
Louise Strong encouraged the boys to join in the game, but they demurred. As they were walking away, Parker Barnes called out.
“CJ, come on. We need two more.”
“Go on, you’ll have a good time,” Mrs. Strong encouraged.
“Let’s go kick some ass,” Billy said.
They joined the game and played for an hour, two black sons of west side laborers and eight rich kids from Stamford, Darien, and Greenwich.
In his mind he had the image of the perfect day it was. The sun was shining; his mother watched for a while on the side. He could still see her smiling. He remembered Mrs. Barnes coming out to watch, standing beside his mother. He remembered another of the household help bringing out lemonade and water for them afterward. He could see the picture of the ten boys that Mrs. Barnes took.
“That Mrs. Barnes took and gave to Mom,” Strong said out loud.
His cellmate, a redneck lifer from Vermont with a constant chip on his shoulder, said, “You talking to me, Bro?”
Barnes learned to ignore him. He snapped back to the picture in his mind. Mom must still have it.
On Sunday when phone calls were allowed, CJ Strong called his mother collect as he always did.
“I talked with my sister, and she said Billy went to see you this week,” Louise
Strong said to her son.
“Yes, it was good to see him,” CJ replied.
And as they always did, Louise Strong had her son tell her what he was doing each day of the week. She tried to envision the lost moments of her son’s life as he recounted his daily experiences, rather his daily drab existence. But this day he seemed more upbeat to her.
“Mom, do you remember the day Billy and I came by your work and ended up playing football with Parker and his friends.”
“Like it was
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