Michael Lister: Blood of the Lamb

She looked down at her monitor again. “Mandatory twenty on a third offense drug charge,” she said. “He’ll be with us quite a while.”

It was June now, nearly three weeks since Nicole had died, and the full heat of the day bore down on Cedric Porter as he picked up trash along the fence near the front gate. The road leading away from the institution, toward freedom and opportunity, shimmered like a mirage, waves of heat rising from the sizzling asphalt.

Walking toward Porter, I noticed how often he paused from picking up the trash to gaze down the road, as if continually making sure it was still there.

“I heard you had my gate pass pulled,” he said, when I reached him.

I shuddered inside as I recalled how close he had worked to the children at the elementary school, and though, like most parents, he probably wouldn’t hurt any child but his own, we couldn’t take the chance.

I nodded.

“Why?” he asked.

“You know why,” I said.

As he stooped to pick up another piece of trash, I noticed his futile attempt to endue his menial task with dignity.

“I want to know why you did it,” I said.

“What?” he asked, standing and facing me haughtily.

“Don’t,” I said.

He started to say something, but I continued.

“I could let it be known on the compound that you’re a child killer and you wouldn’t last much more than a day,” I said, “so don’t play games with me.”

Joining the thick sheen of sweat, a tear rolled out of his eye and down the shiny black skin of his cheek.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said, his body slumping and more tears coming as the dam of denial broke within him. “I… ” he began, but broke off. “That son of a bitch was using her,” he began again in a trembling voice. “My daughter. To get some bunch of convicts to think he not the most racist motherfucker on the planet. My daughter. Her mother’s a whore. They not better than me.”

He paused and I waited in silence, standing firm as a witness against his evil act, allowing him to face his accuser.

“They usin’ her,” he said again, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard before adding, “And she think they all she got. She say I not her daddy. Say Bobby Earl her daddy. Look at me like I’s not worthy to be in the same room with her. Like I a nigga. Like the thought of my blood runnin’ through her veins make her wanna slit her little wrists.”

When he paused again, this time to wipe tears from his eyes and sweat from his face, I noticed how much smaller he seemed, as if he were imploding from the emptiness the absence of his denial was causing.

“’Cause she think she white,” he said. “They straighten her hair and keep her away from little black children and got her convinced she white. That she his daughter. I loved her. I not gonna let her be used by that bastard. He not gonna take what mine. I told her to say she was mine,” he said, his voice gaining strength. “To say it with pride. ’Cause Cedric Porter somebody to be proud of.” The defiance was back in his eyes, joined by hardness and madness. “She wouldn’t say it. She say she gonna tell her daddy. I say, ‘I’m your daddy,’ and I said to say it. But she won’t.”

All around us the world had faded for me and unaware of anything else, I entered his world and relived with him the last moments of Nicole’s life.

“She say she not gonna say it no matter what I do,” he said. “So I spank her. ’Cause my daughter gonna do what I say, but she don’t. So I spank her again. Hard this time. And I spank her again. But she still won’t say it.” Now tears were flowing as fast as his words. “She never would say she mine. Never would say, ‘Cedric Porter my daddy.’”

When he finished, I still didn’t say anything, just remained a silent witness to things I could only see in my mind.

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” he said. “I loved her. I just wanted her to say she mine. That I her daddy and she love me, too, but she wouldn’t.”

Inept and aberrant as it was, what Cedric Porter was trying to do was be a daddy to his daughter, to love her in his twisted way and get from her the love he so needed.

For a long time after he finished his story, neither of us said a word.

I though about Nicole, about what he had done to her. The compassion I had for him felt like a betrayal of her, but there was nothing I could do for her now. I had failed her. I had failed Dexter. I would try not to do the same with Cedric.

Finally he asked, “What’s gonna happen to me?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“You gonna tell the compound?”

I shook my head.

“I am going to turn everything I have over to the inspector and DA,” I said. “But I doubt what I have is enough for them to bring you to trial.”

He nodded slowly, seeming to think about it.

“You could tell them,” I said. “Confess to them like you have to me.”

He didn’t respond, but seemed to be considering my suggestion.

“It’d be the right thing for you to do-the best thing you can do now,” I said.

He nodded.

“You’ve lost your daughter,” I said. “Don’t lose your soul, too.”

As repulsive as I found his act, I couldn’t help but feel compassion for this wounded man, and I knew where it came from-knew I had to tell him, though it would most likely come out as awkward and contrived as an altar call at a funeral service.

“But regardless of what you decide to do,” I said, “there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

He turned and really looked at me full on for the first time.

“What you’ve done is horrible,” I said. “It’s evil in so many ways, but… it doesn’t change the fact that God loves you. Your actions, ungodly though they are, don’t-can’t separate you from the love of God unless you allow them to.”

His tears started streaming again, his body beginning to convulse as they did.

“The best way you can receive and respond to God’s forgiveness and grace is to take responsibility for what you’ve done and accept the consequences it brings, but no matter what you do, it won’t-it can’t change the fact that God loves you. Nothing can.”

That night I went to bed early.

The only light came from the bathroom down the hall, and the dim room was a chalky gray like moonlight defused through thick clouds. I lay on my bed staring up at the gray, thinking about all that had happened. Concluding a murder investigation-no matter how seemingly successful-is always incomplete and bittersweet, and, as usual, I was depressed. I had found the murderer, solved the mystery, but that did nothing for Nicole. It couldn’t bring her back, couldn’t undo what had been done to her, couldn’t wake her from the nightmare she had lived through, had died in. It couldn’t absolve me from failing her in the first place, from failing Dexter. Only God could do that, and, as I lay there looking up at nothing, I prayed for forgiveness.

Later, when I answered the phone, my mouth was dry, my voice sleepy, though I was still wide awake.

“Hey.”

It was Susan.

“Hey,” I said.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

I told her. And as I did, the three hundred miles between us shrank to nothing, our connection seeming to bypass circuits and lines and everything mechanical to become direct and intense and intimate.

“My God,” she said.

“That’ll teach you to ask.”

“No,” she said. “I’m glad you told me. I want you to tell me everything.” She was silent a beat before asking, “Do you think he’ll confess?”

“Already has,” I said. “Went with me right then and did it.”

“How do you feel about the inmate-what was his name?”