That’s How I Roll: A Novel (7 page)

“The State can’t—”

“They can’t
say
that’s the reason, that’s all. And, me, I’m not taking any stand, so …”

That’s when her Mr. Diamond kind of strolled over and put his hand on the girl’s shoulder. I thought she was going to swoon.

“It’s too soon to make that kind of decision, Esau. Way too soon.” He had one of those resonant voices, but he used it to talk down to me—like he was explaining something simple to someone even simpler.

I hadn’t much cared for him before, but now I had a true dislike. Not just for treating me like I was slow, but for trying to tell me he was in charge. In charge of my life.

I didn’t answer him. Just nailed his eyes until they dropped. Compared with other men I’d stared down, he was soft as custard.

There was another man on their team. He wasn’t a lawyer, they were quick to tell me, to make sure I didn’t mistake him for one of them. No, he was their investigator. The best in the business, they said.

This man was wearing a suit, but nobody would take him for a lawyer.

Black suit, white shirt, black tie. Nothing flashy, but anyone he approached, they’d know he was taking them seriously, coming at them respectfully.

He was a real tall, skinny guy. The minute he opened his mouth, I knew he was, well, not from around here, but from
around
around here, if you get what I mean. I could feel his eyes pulling at me while the boss was talking. I glanced over and I saw him shake his head. Not the way you do when you’re saying “no” to someone, more like when you’re feeling sorry for them.

I knew that look real well. Only he wasn’t looking at me; he was looking at the great Mr. Diamond.

I think he must’ve said something to them later. I’m sure of it, actually. Because, the next time they came, everyone who spoke to me was careful to call me “Mr. Till.”

I appreciated that not one bit—for them, it wasn’t showing respect; it was just strategy. And it didn’t change anything. Every fancy clump of words they peddled in front of me only added up to another No Sale.

Four days of them was way too much. But it had given me time to gather some information. They’ve got an Internet connection in the Sheriff’s office—the jail is right behind it, in the same building—and the folks on the night shift were always nice enough to look up whatever I asked them after those lawyers had left for the day.

As soon as I had all the information about them that I wanted, I just told them: “Go find somebody who snatched a little girl, had his fun with her, then chopped her up. That’s the kind of human garbage who’d want you all rushing in to save him from the chair. Or the needle, or whatever they use wherever he is.”

At that, Mr. Diamond got up. Like that was a signal, they all did the same thing. He tossed a card on the little wood table in front of me, like one of those old
Have Gun–Will Travel
reruns me and Tory-boy used to watch all the time.

“If you ever change your mind, all you have to do is give us a call. We’ll take care of everything from there.”

He didn’t call me by my name—first or last—when he said that. He didn’t look back, either. Why would he? None of that whole display was aimed at me.

I left his card for the guards to pick up. Maybe one of them would find a use for it someday.

very autumn, the trees blaze with color. When one of those fiery leaves falls to the ground, it holds on to its color for a while. But, even though you can’t tell just by looking at it, that leaf’s already dead.

That was me, that leaf. One way or another, I had lied to every one of those lawyers. It was always my plan to take the stand and testify. That was the only sure way I knew to tell the people who needed telling that I’d never tell on them.

It wasn’t death itself I wished for. If that’s all I’d wanted, I could have managed it on my own easy enough. What I wanted was the
sentence
of death. That would leave me in control long enough to make sure my last plan had gathered enough speed to keep rolling on its own without me pushing it from behind.

Staying alive in prison, that’s not a sure thing. And I wouldn’t have access to anything that would even up the odds. So I had to find the safest place to do my watching from.

The safest place in prison is Death Row.

That was the advantage of me knowing I was that still-fiery leaf. Lying on the ground, waiting for the weather to change. I knew
any
death-penalty case would drag out for years and years. It didn’t matter if there was real doubt about a man’s guilt, or none at all—one appeal after another was a sure thing.

Roger Lucas lived a few miles from where me and Tory-boy did. Roger killed a clerk who tried to stop him from robbing a convenience store. Then he went into the back of the place and
killed the two other people he found there. Shot each of them in the head because he was worried they might have seen him shoot the clerk.

No one will ever know what they saw, but the security cameras didn’t miss a thing. All that happened about fifteen years ago, and Roger Lucas is still waiting for his number to come up.

I’d never been in prison, but I knew plenty of men who had, and they’d all told me the same thing: if you were sick or weak or old, you’d be better off on Death Row than any other place in prison. It’s the only way to guarantee you get a cell to yourself. And those cells, they’re bigger and nicer than regular ones. If you’ve got the money, you can have a TV and order books and hobby-craft materials … all kinds of worthwhile stuff.

Even the guards were supposed to be pretty decent, as long as you weren’t in there for some freakish crime. And if you were white, of course.

I took all that into consideration.

ven with all the crimes I was planning to admit to, I knew years and years would go by before they ever came for me. And with this disease I carry, my life was a two-horse race—the only question was which kind of death would cross the finish line first.

In fact, the more I think on it, the more I’m convinced that it was hearing that doctor tell me I was unlikely to ever see age fifty that had started this whole thing rolling.

remember reading the dictionary when I was just a kid. I could only do it during the day back then, so I just skimmed it, looking for words that called to me.

“Inertia,” that was my favorite of all. It means that once something
starts rolling, it’s going to keep rolling unless some stronger outside force stops it.

By the time I read that definition, I was already rolling myself. And nobody or nothing has stopped me since.

hat I needed was to be gone.

Gone, but still around.

I’m the most patient man you’ll ever meet. You learn patience when you have to do everything for yourself. When nothing about you past the end of your spine works, it takes a lot of time to do even the smallest things.

But it wasn’t patience that kept me from killing myself. I needed folks to always say, “Esau Till didn’t give it up; he made them come and get it.”

If you leave that kind of name behind you, burned in deeper than anyone could ever chisel a tombstone, it counts for a lot.

Others have done so. And it spooks folks seriously whenever they hear their names said aloud.

was pretty sure I knew how to make all that happen. The trick was to keep the lawyers away.

The free lawyers, that is. Some would be the kind who didn’t care about the case, just the cause. Like that Mr. Diamond and his followers. They’re so against the death penalty that they end up specializing in defending people who need killing.

You know the kind I’m talking about—those who kill just because they like doing it. Only makes sense that normal folks would enjoy killing
them
.

In fact, I was counting on that.

The other kind of free lawyer would be one of those you see on
TV all the time. “High-profile,” they were called. Didn’t matter if they won or lost, people would remember their names. Which was the whole point.

Problem with their kind is that you lose all control. No telling what they’d say when they went in front of the camera.

Besides, it wasn’t their name I needed people to remember, it was
mine
.

ll my life, I gathered up information like I was harvesting a crop. A man who buys a pistol may never have to pull the trigger, but it comforts him to carry it around. Some places more than others.