I
was never so out of breath in my life. But when you are a murderer on the run,
you’d better start getting used to it.
The
clouds of red dust from where my feet ran siphoned into my lungs, and I coughed
so much, I thought I was about to die. I gasped, desperate for air, clinging to
wall of the bodega, my eyes stinging.
If
the authorities didn’t kill me first, this red dust would.
I
stumbled into the store, the doorbell ringing in the process. It was a rusty
place, with paint peeling off the walls to reveal galaxies of colour and mould.
The floor browned in the corners where the shelves full of spirits were.
My
throat hoarse, I asked the shopkeeper with difficulty if I could have some
water. He was a small, Mexican man with
a weather-beaten face, wearing a white shirt. He obliged slowly, grabbing a
water bottle from one of the mini fridges and handing it to me.
In
an almost fanatical frenzy, I ripped off the cap and drained its contents in
one go.
I
slammed down the empty plastic bottle on the till and reached into my pocket
for the change. It was then that I noticed a portable radio between two tequila
bottles had been turned on loud. At that moment, the channel had segued its
music into an important news flash.
“Police are still on the lookout for
Cornelius Christopher Evans, a thirty three year old African American man
responsible for fatally shooting Sheriff Robert Nash and injuring Deputy Alistair
Wade yesterday afternoon at 17:00. Reports coming in say that Nash suffered a
fatal shot to the chest and that Deputy Wade attempted to shoot down the
assassin when he drew his gun again and shot him once in the shoulder before
taking off. Wade gave a brief statement from the hospital that this was not
the first time Evans had been in trouble with the police and that he will give
a full disclosure of the events tomorrow morning. Suspect is wearing a green
plaid shirt, dark blue jeans and an earing in his left lobe. He is considered to
be armed and extremely dangerous.”
My
exhausted heart drilled once again in my chest.
I had no idea the media would become this relentless at finding a
country boy such as myself in such a small southern town. Gulping slowly, I
turned my head toward the Mexican shopkeeper. He was frozen in his place,
looking awkwardly around for a few moments.
Finally,
his shoulders relaxed and he gave me a look that suggested he was thinking the
exact same thing as I.
How
stupid was I to still be wearing the same clothing as the day of the murder?
He
crouched down and searched under the till. He reappeared with a pair of earth-stained
overalls, giving me an irritated look when I hesitated in taking them.
In
a flash, I took off my pants and shirt, revealing my grey tank top underneath,
and clipped on the overalls.
“Take
everything with you and burn them.” said the shopkeeper, handing me a box of
matches.
I
took the matches and slipped them in pocket. For a while we stared at each-other
and we both knew. Despite him putting himself at risk by helping me, neither of
us cared. I never knew his story, but he was, like me, a victim of an unjust
system.
I
nodded to my amigo in gratitude, left the bodega and trudged through the dirt
roads. When I was further away enough I dropped my clothes to the floor, took
out the box, lit the match and threw it.
As
the flames engulfed and reduced my “killer clothes” to cinders, the disbelief
and anger at my situation subsided into a cold, ironic realisation. Of course
they would say that I meant to shoot Wade. It’s what he wanted in the first
place. But with Nash, it was a different matter. His bullet was mine. But it
was not my gun.
I
boarded the bus to San Antonio, paying my fare with the last bit of loose
change I had in my pocket. Once I sat down at a seat next to the dusty window,
I thought about my options – none of which were pleasant.
I
could beg in the streets for money. Doing it in dirt roads surrounded by
deserts meant a death sentence, as well as surrendering to the police; they
would shoot me on sight, sure as shit.
Perhaps
I should tell you who I was before my life made a massive U-Turn.
The
first thing you should know is that I am not a violent man. I was born in South
Carolina and raised a small town by my mother until she died of cancer. The
money she left over gave me a nice little house, but I had to make ends meet
fast. I became a gardener for an elderly lady named Abigail Frances. She loved petunias, was obsessed with game
shows and spoke very little to people. It wasn’t what I wanted to do in life
and I dreamed of being a chainsaw artist.
And
for the strangest reason, it seemed to attract trouble. The day before I
committed my crime, a young afro-haired woman named Daphne approached me while
I took care of Mrs Frances’s weeds. She handed me a flyer and ran off without
saying a word. I took off my gloves and
read the flyer.
I
sighed and tossed it away, putting my gloves back on. I wanted no part in their
political games. Daphne automatically thought that because I was a black man I
would automatically come to her and her friends. Yes it was tragic what
happened, yes it made me angry that the police had killed yet another unarmed
teenager, but what could I do? I was just a gardener.
People
were dying all over, not just teens and not just black people. A small rally in
a small town was not going to change any of that.
I
fell asleep against the window, dreaming of him, of his gun. The thick chrome
of the revolver pointing straight at my head while I was down on the ground,
the six bullets in place, and his twisted smile showing gold teeth. The sky
went black, the air choked my lungs and Nash’s last ever words repeating over
and over inside my head.
“Boy
you planted a seed… you planted a seed that will grow into a deadly virus. And
I aim to kill it ‘fore it grows.”
A
gunshot deafened me and I woke with a jerk. The bus had hit a rock, waking
others who were asleep.
Once
I finally arrived at San Antonio, late in the evening, I went straight to the
homeless shelter. The place was crowded, smelly and in dire need of new
windows.
They
gave me a microwaved cheeseburger, some clothing and a bed to rest in. The
burger and the plastic cheese tasted like heaven on an empty stomach, despite me being fully aware it
was past its sell-by date. While eating,
I fought back against the idea of stealing money, but the temptation to get my
hands on it was overwhelming.
After
I changed my clothes, I observed each and every one of the homeless,
frantically wondering which one of them would turn me in.
I
wasn’t being paranoid, on the contrary, I was stating the obvious. Because an hour
later, the entire law enforcement burst into the homeless shelter, terrifying
the wits out of the already jumpy residents.
I
was already hiding in the bathroom when they came. Since I had grown quite thin
in the last few days, I was able slide through the window atop the toilet. I
grabbed at the grass as I crawled out of the tiny window. I ran like hell away
from the shelter, making sure to keep my head down.
I
didn’t even make it past the next street. I stopped dead as I heard the sound
of at least fifty guns cock all at the same time. The police lights blinded my
eyes, the shadows of the gunmen obscuring my vision.
“Cornelius
Evans, you are under arrest." said a young man’s voice. “Put your hands over
your head and get down on your knees!”
A
young police detective, along with his partner, walked slowly towards me , their
guns firmly in hand.
It
was déja vu. Through these two men, all I saw were Wade and Nash, on the day
of the murder. Nash with his eyes full of hate as he angrily walked over to me
and Wade staying in the police car, shifting around nervously in his seat, knowing
what Nash intended.
I
was on my way to Mrs Frances house when he stopped me. He began ranting about
the poisonous organisation I was in charge of:
the pro-black movement that repeatedly criticised the police. I told him
repeatedly I wasn’t part of any of it, let alone in charge.
I
never did know whether he had gotten the wrong information about who was in
charge, or that he simply didn’t care. Whatever the reason, there was nothing
to justify what he did next.
He
took out his gun and hit me over the head and body several times, calling me
every racial epithet in the dictionary. My breath was knocked right out of me
and the pain rose in sharp bursts. Right after he made his seed speech, I
grabbed the gun from his hand and we struggled. His hands gripped my wrists
like a vice and twisted them. That was his biggest mistake.
In
my fury at being attacked so violently without any kind of provocation, and given
a death sentence, a tsunami of fear and hatred I never even knew existed spread
over me. The split second the gun pointed at Nash’s heart (if he had one), I
squeezed the trigger and a loud crack silenced the atmosphere.
He
fell backwards to the ground. Struggling against my injuries, I got up slowly
and stared at Nash. His uniform was already drenched with blood and his eyes
were open, gazing dreamily at the sky.
Wade
got out of his car, staggering at the sight of his partner. When he first
looked at me, it was with naked loathing, followed shortly by an odd sense of
understanding.
“I
will not ask you again, Evans!” screamed the detective. “Get down on your knees
with your hands up or we will shoot!”
I
looked up at them all, and felt a sense of uneasy clarity. I finally understood
what Daphne wanted me to do with my life. She wanted to me to make a
difference, to stand for something bigger than me. Only now it was too late.
I
smiled and relaxed my shoulders. I glanced over at the detective and thought of
Wade. The way he looked at me full of sadness, his anger at the whole situation.
He took the gun from his holster and pointed it to his shoulder.
“If
I let you go, boy, they will kill me. I’m already a bad seed in that nest of
hornets ‘cause I don’t hate your kind.”
“Don’t
do this, please.” I begged in vain.
The
deputy shrugged and replied:
“I
got a family. You don’t.”
He
took a breath, a tired look in his eyes that made him age ten years.
“Believe
me when I say, I’m am truly sorry for all of this.”
And
he shot himself, giving me enough time to run for my life.
Till
now.
I
looked all around the ring of policemen. A chopper was heard overhead, a crowd
of people from the homeless shelter and a few passers by gathered behind the
cars and barriers. They all whispered to each-other in fright, or anticipation.
In a flash, I reached into the back of my
baggy jeans to fetch my imaginary gun. They didn’t hold back. They filled my
body with fifty-five bullets, sixteen of which were added posthumously,
according to the pathologist later on.
Wade
thought I was expendable because I had no family. Because I wasn’t famous or
even well known in my small town.
Well,
everyone knows my name now.
-
Cornelius Christopher Evans. 1985- 2018
