“Then I’d appreciate your letting us get started,” said Michael.
The guard said nothing else and moved over to his post against the door.
When Michael looked at Rufus he found the big man’s gaze squarely on him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Harms. My name is Michael Fiske.”
“That name don’t mean nothing to me.”
“I know, but I’m here to ask you some questions.”
“They said you were my lawyer. You’re not my lawyer.”
“I didn’t say I was. They just assumed that. I’m not associated with Mr. Rider.”
Rufus’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know about Samuel?”
“That’s really not relevant. I’m here to ask you questions, because I received your writ for certiorari.”
“You did what?”
“Your appeal.” Michael lowered his voice. “I work at the United States Supreme Court.”
Rufus’s mouth fell open. “Then what the hell are you doing here?”
Michael nervously cleared his throat. “I know this isn’t actually orthodox. But I read your appeal, and I wanted to ask you some questions about it. It makes a number of very damaging allegations against some very prominent people.” As he looked into Rufus’s astonished eyes, Michael suddenly regretted ever coming here. “I looked into the background of your case and some things don’t make sense to me. I wanted to ask you some questions and then, if things check out, we can get your appeal going.”
“Why isn’t it going already? It got to the damned Court, didn’t it?”
“Yes, but it also had a number of technical deficiencies that would have caused it to be denied processing. I can try to help you with those. But what I want to avoid is a scandal. You have to understand, Mr. Harms, that the Court receives bags of appeals from prisoners every year that have no merit.”
Rufus’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying I’m lying? Is that what you’re saying? Why don’t you spend twenty-five years in this place for something that wasn’t your fault and then come here and tell me that?”
“I’m not saying you’re lying. I actually think there’s something to all of this or, believe me, I wouldn’t have come here.” He looked around the grim room. He had never been near a place like this, sitting across from a man like Rufus. He suddenly felt like a first-grader getting off the bus and realizing he was somehow in high school. “Believe me,” he said again. “I just need to talk to you.”
“You got some ID shows you are who you say you are? I ain’t been in a real trusting mood for the last thirty years.”
Supreme Court clerks were not issued ID badges. The security personnel at the Court were required to learn to recognize them by sight. However, the Court did publish an official directory with the clerks’ names and photos. That was one way to help the guards get to know their faces. Michael pulled this from his pocket and showed it to Rufus. Rufus studied it intently, looked over at the guard, then turned back to Michael. “You got a radio in your briefcase?”
“A radio?” Michael shook his head.
Rufus lowered his voice even more. “Then start humming.”
“What?” Michael said, bewildered. “I can’t really . . . I mean, I’m not really musical.”
Rufus shook his head impatiently. “Then you got a pen?”
Michael nodded dumbly.
“Then pull it out and start tapping on the table. They’ve probably heard all they need to hear by now anyway, but we’ll leave ’em a few surprises.”
When Michael started to say something, Rufus interrupted. “No words, just tap. And listen.”
Michael began to tap the table with his pen. The guard glanced over but said nothing.
Rufus spoke so softly that Michael had to strain to hear him. “You shouldn’t have come here at all. You don’t know the chance I took to get that piece of paper out of this place. If you read it, you know why. Killing some old black con who strangled a little white girl, people wouldn’t give a damn. Don’t think they would.”
Michael stopped tapping. “That was all a long time ago. Things have changed.”
Rufus let out a grunt. “Is that right? Why don’t you go knock on Medgar Evers’s or Martin Luther King’s coffin and tell ’em that? Things have changed, yes sir, everything be all right now. Praise the Lord.”