Page 117 of Goodbye Days

At precisely five-thirty, I walk up to the front door. The chill bites at my bare legs, but I can’t tell whether I’m shivering because I’m cold or because I’m nervous. I knock tentatively. I hear loud, determined steps.

Judge Edwards opens the door, dressed in a pair of black running shorts with “U.S.M.C.” in white lettering and a sleek, black running jacket. He makes workout gear look like a three-piece suit. He looks at his watch and glowers at me. “You’re late.”

My bowels are Jell-O. “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” I stammer. “My clock said five-thirty exactly.”

He extends his arm so I can see his watch. “Five-thirty-two.”

And we’re off to a great start. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I apologize.”

“I taught Thurgood to be scrupulously punctual. We do disservice to his memory by being otherwise.”

“Yes, sir, Mars was always—”

“Pardon me, who?”

“Mars, sir, was always—”

“I don’t know anyone named Mars other than the Roman god of war.”

“Your son, sir.”

“My son named Thurgood Marshall Edwards?”

“Yes, sir, sorry.”

“Then let’s honor his memory by calling him by his given name.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

I had wondered if any of Mars’s older brothers or sister would come. The oldest brother is a JAG in the Marine Corps. His sister is finishing her PhD at Princeton, and his other brother is premed at Howard University. I’m unsurprised to not see them coming and even less surprised not to see Mars’s mom. He always said she and his dad fought a lot.

We get into Judge Edwards’s sleek Mercedes that shines like black glass. The tan leather seats are firm and cold on the backs of my thighs. Judge Edwards wordlessly turns on both of our seat warmers and pulls out of the driveway.

We might as well be in the vacuum of space for all the talking we do. Listen more than you talk, Dr. Mendez whispers in my mind. No problem there, doc, I think.

After about ten minutes, we arrive at the Shelby Bottoms Greenway, a miles-long asphalt path along the Cumberland River where people run, bike, and walk dogs. I’ve been here a few times.

Judge Edwards parks and we get out. He goes to the trunk, retrieves a water bottle, and tosses it to me. “Drink.”

I fumble it, drop it, and pick it up. I comply, even though I’m not at all thirsty. Something in his tone tells me it would be unwise to refuse.

Judge Edwards does some quick stretches. I’ve never noticed this before because I’ve always seen him in a suit, but he looks carved from gristle. There’s a hardness to him that looks like all fluff and frivolity, inside and out, has been burned away by fire; consumed; withered by drought.

I mimic the motions of stretching. I have no clue what I’m doing.

“Let’s go,” he suddenly barks, like a drill instructor. And he’s off before I’m even standing upright.

I have to sprint my fastest just to catch up with him. Even then I’m running at almost top speed to keep pace. I’m no athlete. I’m not totally out of shape because I go for walks, but I’m completely outmatched as a runner. My heavy trail-running shoes—built to withstand rough ground—clomp on the pavement, jarring my knees. My chest heaves and pleads for air. The saline, coppery tang of blood is in my mouth and on my breath. My pulse screams in my ears. I start to fall behind.

Ahead of me, Judge Edwards turns. Even in the dark, his eyes flash ardent. “Pick up the pace. Thurgood loved excellence. He loved to test himself. He loved to achieve. He was not a quitter. Now move.”

I move. For what seems like hours. As if hounds are at my heels. Every cell in my body is sobbing, begging for oxygen. I’m soaked in sweat and the damp chills me. My knees throb. My feet ache. I start coughing and I can’t stop. I begin to fall behind again.

Judge Edwards stops and turns around, running in place, waiting for me. He’s barely winded.

I catch up to him and double over, hands on my knees, hacking up phlegm. “Your Honor, how long did you plan on running?” I wheeze. “I’m not sure if—”