I shook my head. “That was a long time ago.” I looked at my father for support. He provided none. He sat silently, a mixture of pride and sadness. He was proud that I was a survivor, but sad that even the son of a United States congressman couldn’t just live. More than fifty years after the Freedom Rides and the March on Washington, his son had to fight to survive, just like he had to.
I turned my attention back to Lincoln. “Since Monica died, you’ve tried to recruit me for everything from school board to dog catcher, and every time I say no.” I was frustrated now, lashing out. “They’re just games. I can’t do the games right now, maybe never.”
At that moment, I realized how odd it was that my dad and Buster were actually there with me instead of in DC. I hadn’t seen or personally talked to my father in about six months. When my foggy brain couldn’t put any pieces together, I turned back to him. Quietly, I asked, “What are you doing here, Dad?”
He offered a restrained smile. “Retiring.” My father looked at Lincoln and Buster, and then Lincoln jumped in to explain.
“Buster works for me now,” Lincoln said. “We’re transitioning, and I—”
“We’ve been waiting at the Judge’s house for you to get home all night.” My father looked at Lincoln with annoyance. “Nothing is set. We needed to discuss, plan for the future. I was about to give up and go to bed when we got the call. Your mother’s been worried sick.”
I clenched my jaw as I took a painful breath, remembering Lincoln’s phone calls and my mother encouraging me to talk with him. Then I thought of my daughter.
“Does Sammy know?”
My dad’s expression softened. “About my retirement, or you gettin’ whupped?” A reserved smile came through, but his eyes remained sad. “Neither,” he said. “Sammy’s asleep.” Then as an aside, he added, “She’s such a good girl.”
“I know.” I thought about how much I wanted to hold her, feeling guilty. What if I’d been killed? Then I closed my eyes and centered myself. A migraine had started to form. The pain was now coming from my side and my head, forcing me even more off track. There was too much going on.
After a pause, I circled back. “So you’re really doing it?” He’d threatened to retire numerous times over the past ten years, but he’d never done it. “You’re not going to run again?”
“True.” My dad looked up at the ceiling. “Forty years and I couldn’t solve the world’s problems. Time for somebody else to give it a try.” Then my dad turned back to me, looking me over. “Lincoln is right, however. You do look like shit.”
Then my father stood up, taking control. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” It was clear that there wouldn’t be any debate. “My son wants to go home and see his beautiful daughter, my beautiful granddaughter.” He looked at Buster. “Go tell the cops that Justin is going to go out the back way—no cameras. The police chief will appreciate that, and he’ll owe us. We also need them to find a nice car to take him home and a doctor to meet us at the house. And tell the chief that they shouldn’t even think about transporting my son home in a squad car or some paddy wagon.”
My father then turned to Lincoln. “Write up a statement, something like, ‘We appreciate the community’s concern, and we know that the police will conduct a full review regarding the incident tonight.’” He took a moment to compose the next part of the statement in his head and then continued. “Tell them Justin Glass was returning to his law office, heard noises in the alley, and went to help a neighbor in need after calling 911. We have no further comment at this time other than the Glass family is proud of his bravery.”
My father looked at me and then turned and pointed at Lincoln. “And I mean that last part about no further comment. No ad libs. No off-the-record stuff about injuries or suggestions of racism. Nothing beyond the statement.”
“But it was racism.” Lincoln shook his head and pointed at me. “Look at him. It wouldn’t have happened to a white guy.”
“Of course I see what they did to him.” My father’s voice trembled. “Of course I know that, but I’ve been at this a lot longer than you. It doesn’t matter. People will find the ambiguity, because they need to find the ambiguity. It won’t get us anywhere.”
“Especially if we don’t try.” Lincoln looked to Buster for support, and Buster looked at his old boss and his new, torn.
To Lincoln, Buster said, “Don’t want to look like we’re exploiting it.” He searched for a compromise that Lincoln would accept. “And you don’t want to light a fire that we can’t put out.”
Lincoln stared at Buster, obviously frustrated. “I thought that was your job.” He shook his head and walked away. “You better get on the right page.”
CHAPTER TEN
When I woke up, my mother was sitting in a chair by the window. She was drinking coffee and reading the newspaper, waiting. I closed my eyes again and let my head fall back into the pillow. My brain ground out a question. “What time is it?”
“About eleven o’clock.” I heard her fold the newspaper. “Been asleep a long time,” she said. “Buster’s cocktail of painkillers and sleeping aids certainly did the trick.”
I started to laugh, but it hurt too bad. “Not sure how he was able to acquire that stuff in the middle of the night.”
I heard my mother stand and walk over to me. “You don’t want to know how Buster does his job.”
I opened my eyes and made an effort to push myself into an upright position, even though every muscle in my body resisted the movement. I grunted through it. The pain only stopped when I stopped.
I watched my mother lift a silver pot from my nightstand and pour coffee into an empty cup. “Cream?”
I nodded. A shot of fire raced up my side. “And if you could add a few more of Buster’s narcotics into that coffee, that sure would be nice.”
My mother smiled. “Absolutely.” She brought the delicate china cup and saucer to me. “Here you are.” Then she went to my dresser and picked up a pill bottle. She removed two and brought the pills back.
I took them from her. “You know I was just kidding about the narcotics.” Then I put the pills into my mouth and swallowed. “But I’m also not going to turn them down.” I looked at her. She was still a beautiful, sharp woman who could’ve done anything, but gave it all up for her children. I could tell that she was worried about me. “It’ll be fine, Mom. Just wanted to do something stupid to let you know that you’re still needed.”
She laughed gently. “Boys always need their mothers, no matter how old they may get.” She took a breath. “I think Sammy and your father would like to see you now.”
My mother returned to her chair for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that she’d been reading and brought it to me. “I’ll send Sammy in first. She’s concerned, although doing a pretty good job of hiding it.”