Grimes Willie J. - Ghost of the innocent man: a true story of trial and redemption

T here was a knocking at her door. The sound was unmistakable on an evening so quiet, silent but for insectsa mild night for October in North Carolina, nearly sixty degrees. Must be her neighbor, Carrie thought. No one else would visit her apartment so late, a few minutes after nine oclock. She knew the time exactly, having just taken her blood pressure pills, as every night, right at nine.

She liked Linda, her neighbor. Before Carries husband died, last Thanksgiving, Linda and Masonthat was Lindas boyfriendhad stopped by often to check up on him, or to bring ice cream, or to ask if Carrie needed groceries. They were so well mannered it nearly didnt matter they were black. Only Linda ever visited now, or Carries family, who would have called first. Otherwise Carrie never let anyone in, or even lingered outside. She was too old for public housing, sixty-nine, and ninety pounds, five feet tall if she stood up straight or wore stockings. One of the only white people around. She lived in a neighborhood they called Little Berlin, a cluster of squat, half-brick duplexes near the intersection of I-40 and US-70, an hour west of Charlotte, barely a mile from the Hickory town line. Out front lay concrete tablets for porches, nothing on them but collapsed wooden benches or classroom chairs taken from who knew where. She had disliked the place as soon as theyd moved in, two years earlier, though it was worse now that her husband was gone. On nights like these she would stay inside and cut coupons. She had a booklet of them she had collected from the supermarket that afternoon. Then to bed early. She wore a nightgown and her glasses, had already washed her hair. On her bedspread were clothes she had laid out for church the next morning.

In the porch light it was a moment before her eyes adjusted. Then she saw a man there, so near he startled her. He was a foot taller than she was, his skin as dark as the view beyond her porch. By instinct she fumbled for the handle of the storm door, but too soon it was open, its chain snapped, the hinges buckled all the way to the wall.

I want you, the man said, licking his lips.

You get out, Carrie gasped. She pulled for the handle of the interior door, but already his hand was inside, and the man yanked it wide.

Im not going anywhere, he told her. Then he was over the threshold. I want you, he said again. He pushed Carrie across the living room, past her television set, past a potted snake plant, and onto her couch. The coupons shed been clipping fluttered to the floor. Before she had fully registered his being inside her apartment he was lifting his shirt over his head, groping at her nightgown. She could see he was much younger than she was, and unshaven. He smelled of alcohol. I like older women, he said. They dont mess around.

Had Linda and Mason gone out? Linda would not be able to helpshe was too small, too weak, like Carrie. But Mason. She would allow Mason inside, this one time, to help her. She thought briefly of her husband, but he was gone now, she knew. Wasnt anyone else outside? Her underwear was off. He was forcing himself into her. Her heartbeat rattled beneath his weight. She nearly screamed but chose not to. He might hurt her even more. She knew he had a knifea switchblade, several inches long, halfway unfolded. Or he didnt. Later this would be a source of contention: whether she had actually seen the knife or if the man had simply threatened her and she had imagined one, as real as his stubbled face, as the alcohol on his breath.

He finished. Stepped back from the couch and stood there, shirtless. She hoped he might leave now, on his own, that it might be over. Her body throbbed as though from a distance.

He told her they were going to the bedroom. Lets go, he demanded. But he didnt know the apartment. He asked her where the bedroom was.

Im not going anywhere with you, Carrie told him.

This made him angry. He ordered her to the bedroom with his knifewas there a knife? Again she refused. He clutched her arm above the elbow and dragged her from the couch. Her bedroom was fifteen feet across the pockmarked linoleum floor. He found it easily. Hauled her onto the bedspread, atop the clothes she had laid out for church. Climbed over her. Forced himself again. The bedroom so narrow there was no space to run, even if she could get free, which she knew she couldnt. This man on top of her, the blood gone from her arms. The pale blue walls of the room. A box in the corner, with spare sheets. A white mug on the nightstand.

He finished again. She knew she needed to escape but lacked the strength. Her limbs pulsed when he released them. I n-need to use the bathroom, she stammered.

He leaned away. Stumbled off the bed. Im hungry, he announced, then disappeared into the living room.