He pushed the door open and walked inside.
The clerk glanced over his shoulder, checked him out, then turned his attention back to the television. Theo walked around the stack of newspapers and the barrel of iced-down singles. The clerk didn’t give him a second look. Theo Knight, former death row inmate, had just walked into the store, and the kid didn’t seem to care. Did he know what had happened here? Had anyone told him?
Have you been in that stockroom?
Theo stopped and looked down the hall, his gaze carrying him all the way back to that first sight of blood, the bright crimson trail that he’d followed like a fool, followed all the way to Florida State Prison and four years of near misses with the electric chair.
The front door opened. Theo turned, the clerk’s head jerked. Two teenage boys walked in. Both were black. Both wore baggy pants, Miami Hurricane football jerseys, thick gold chains, and black knit caps, which seemed to have replaced the backward baseball caps of Theo’s era, even in the tropical climates. They walked with the typical gang swagger, something that never seemed to change from one generation to the next. This time, the clerk looked nervous. The boys separated. One went down the far aisle, the other took the near aisle. Up and down they walked, as if casing the place, biding their time until the customers had the good sense to leave them alone with the clerk and the cash drawer.
Theo watched them. This time he wasn’t going to run. I’m here for you, pal.
Finally, the nearest one burst into laughter. The other laughed even harder, no apparent reason, some kind of private joke that was at the expense of Theo or the scared clerk. Either way, Theo didn’t like it, and they were starting to piss him off.
Their laughter faded; the joke was over. The one who’d laughed first grabbed a couple of Gatorades from the cooler, walked up to the counter, and laid down his money. The clerk still looked nervous, but it was no longer a fear of the unknown but rather the fear of a danger that was all too familiar. He handed over the change and said, “Thanks, Lenny.”
“I’m Leroy, dumbshit. Lenny’s the ugly one.”
Theo watched as the two boys walked out the front door, laughing and hassling each other. “Who you calling ugly, motha’ fucka’?”
Then they were gone, on to the next joint, no place in particular. Lenny and Leroy, like Theo and Tatum. Teenage brothers. Couple of neighborhood badasses who got their kicks just skulking around and watching people scare. Looked alike. Dressed alike. Acted alike. People always getting them mixed up, confusing one for the other.
Theo suddenly went cold. It was a sickening thought, but he was beginning to understand his brother’s refusal to take the DNA test on a whole different level, one that had nothing to do with courage or principle or standing up to Detective Larsen. It boiled down to just one thing, the very thing the test was about: genetics.
Theo shook his head, not wanting to believe it but believing it nonetheless.
Tatum, you chickenshit son of a bitch.
Fifty-four
Jack had time enough to smell but not taste the coffee before Theo came barging into his office on Wednesday morning. He had Tatum in tow, so Jack knew it was serious.
“What’s wrong?” asked Jack, rising from behind his desk.
His secretary suddenly appeared behind the double-barreled hulk of humanity that was blocking Jack’s doorway, standing on her tiptoes and waving from the hallway to get Jack’s attention. “Knight brothers are here,” she said.
“Thanks, Maria.”
Theo closed the door and said, “Siddown, Tatum.”
Tatum took a seat, and so did Jack. No one told him to sit, but with Theo speaking to his own brother in that tone of voice, it seemed wise to anticipate.
Tatum glared at his younger brother and said, “You think now you could maybe tell me what the hell this-”
“Shut your mouth,” said Theo.
It had been a long time since Jack had seen his friend so worked up. “Theo, calm down, all right?”
“Calm down?” he said with an angry smile. “I been calming myself down all night long, and it just gets me more pissed. So don’t tell me to calm down.”
“What happened last night?” asked Jack.
“I went back to Shelby’s.”
Jack and Tatum exchanged glances, as if neither one knew where to go from there.
Theo kept talking, pacing. “I was trying to understand, why would Tatum refuse to take a DNA test to get found not guilty when his own brother got hisself off death row that way? And then it hits me: That is the reason he won’t take the DNA test.”
Tatum said, “What you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“Ain’t got a clue.”
“Four years I wasted on death row. No more lies, Tatum.”
“You’re pissing me off now. Don’t be calling me no liar.”
“Then stop the lying,” said Theo, his voice rising. “Ain’t no more excuse for it. That’s why I dragged your ass all the way over here, held off talking about it till you and me both was sitting down in front of our lawyer. Tell him, Jack. Everything we say here is protected by the attorney-client privilege, right?”
“You’re both clients. But it’s two different cases. I’m a little confused as to what’s going on here.”
“Jack, let’s just agree that nothing leaves this room. Can you fucking do that for me?”
Theo’s eyes were bulging. “Sure,” Jack said in a calming voice. “This is all privileged.”
“Nothing that we say here can ever be repeated in a courtroom. No one can run out of here and tell the cops what the other one said, right?”
“That’s right,” said Jack.
Theo glared at Tatum and said, “Talk to me, brother.”
“Talk what?”
“I want the truth.”
“The truth about what?”
“Was you the one who killed that clerk at Shelby’s?” Theo wasn’t shouting, but his voice was firm and harsh, and the question hit like ice water. Jack looked at Theo, then at Tatum, then back at Theo, wondering what in the world had happened in the last twenty-four hours. He expected Tatum to jump any second and grab his brother by the throat for talking such shit.
Tatum simply chuckled and said, “Wha-at?”
It was a nervous chuckle. Jack could hear the little break in his voice, and he knew Theo was on to a horrible truth that was about to change things forever. Jack looked at Tatum and said, “He wants to know if you’re the member of the Grove Lords who let him take the fall.”
Tatum gave his lawyer a look that said, Stay the hell out of this, Swyteck.
Theo was pacing again, speaking in what sounded like pure stream of consciousness. “This is what I realized last night. You refused to take the DNA test for Gerry Colletti’s murder because you was worried about a match.”
“I didn’t kill Colletti.”
“I know you didn’t. But I’m not talking about a match between your DNA and the DNA found in the dried spit they took from the back of Colletti’s suit coat. You were afraid of a match with the human hair and skin the cops scraped from under the fingernails of that convenience store clerk at Shelby’s. That kid fought like a tiger, right, Jack?”
“That’s what the crime scene suggested.”
“The forensic guys who testified at my trial said the kid fought back and put a nice scratch into the top of his
