CHARLES FRANKLIN ISN’T WHAT I’M expecting. Despite his wealth and power, he has a casual air and a comfortable, working man’s appearance. His neatly trimmed Afro is graying at the temples. He’s casually attired, wearing jeans and a denim shirt that bears the family business logo: FF embroidered in the center of a horseshoe.
Beside him stands his wife. Joan Franklin is a pale platinum blonde, and she looks a decade older than her fifty-six years. The spider lines etched around her mouth and greenish-blue eyes tell of grief. Beneath the teal silk tunic and black wide-leg pants, she’s skinny, bordering on skeletal.
“Hello, son.” Charles speaks first. His cultured voice carries a touch of Southern drawl. “We’ve waited a long time for this day.”
The greeting brings a dense silence. I watch as Dwayde flicks an unreceptive gaze over his grandfather and then his grandmother.
Joan Franklin stares at Dwayde. “You have those big Franklin eyes,” she says in a ghost of a voice. “That’s how we recognized you after all these years. From your eyes.” She extends her arms to embrace him, but Dwayde jumps back, as if she were a striking snake. Sorrow, deep and agonized, slashes across her angular face.
Charles immediately tries to cover up the awkward moment. “Ms. Chase, it’s good to meet you.” He pumps my hand. “Won’t you please come in?”
When Dwayde doesn’t budge, I usher him into the front parlor and over to a black velvet settee, where we sit opposite two white chairs and a fireplace.
“Joan, darling?”
As if her husband had pushed an invisible button, Mrs. Franklin comes out of her trancelike state and turns on the Southern hospitality. She sweeps her arm to the sideboard, where cold and hot drinks have been set up. “May I get ya’ll anything?”
“Nothing for me, thank you,” I say, not quite over my encounter with Mick.
Joan Franklin indicates a silver urn. “It’s hot chocolate, Dwayde. Your favorite. I even brought marshmallows. You used to wait until they got all soft and gooey before you’d scoop them out with a spoon.”
Dwayde lowers his eyes from her hopeful expression and the lift in her voice collapses. “Well, I suppose you’re too big for that now.” She begins to rearrange the soda pop cans and juice bottles into a straight line.
“Joan, stop fussing,” Charles says, as if scolding a fidgety child.
Her nervous hands drop to her sides, but she seems at a loss for what to do with them.
Charles takes a seat on one of the white chairs. “It’s an emotional day for us, Ms. Chase. I trust you’ll consider that.”
I gather his meaning. Thomas Jackson agreed to my presence only if the visit was on a confidential, without-prejudice basis—meaning no part of what happens here today can be disclosed or used as evidence against his clients. Yet Charles knows first impressions will still be formed.
“It’s emotional for everyone,” I remind him, directing his attention to his grandson sitting beside me, eyes downcast and nonresponsive.
Charles nods. “I’d like to give you something, son. Joan, darling, would you please?”
She disappears into the next room and returns promptly with a rectangular box. When Dwayde makes no effort to take it from her, she just stands there.
“Joan, open it for him.”
“Oh, goodness. Where’s my head?” she says, flustered. Then, removing the lid, she places the bottom half onto Dwayde’s lap. Nestled in blue tissue paper is the same shirt his grandfather’s wearing.
“It’s your legacy, son.” Charles beams proudly. “Franklin Farms has been around since my granddaddy. He was one of the few black horse breeders at the time. They tried to run him off his own land—take away what belonged to him—but Davis Franklin was no quitter. He built that farm in spite of all the odds, and today we have the finest thoroughbreds in Kentucky. Ha. Dasher’s a Derby champion now. He stands sixteen hands, about yea high.” He stretches his arm high above his head. “And runs like the wind. Name suits him, doesn’t it Joan?”
“Surely does. You named him, Dwayde,” Joan says wistfully, perching on the edge of the chair adjacent to her husband. “Whenever your grandfather would take you down to the stables, you’d get so excited your eyes would light up like a Christmas tree.” She smiles then and I can see back through the years to how lovely she had once been. “Do you remember that?”
Dwayde doesn’t answer. But glancing over at him, I notice something spark behind his guarded eyes.
“You were just learning how to ride when Joyce took you...” The words trail off and Mrs. Franklin sniffs back the tears. “I’m sorry.”
Charles pats her hand in an indulgent manner. “It’s all right, Joan.”
I recognize their effort to connect with Dwayde. Unfortunately, they’re saying and doing all the wrong things. In an attempt to divert the couple away from any more trips down memory lane, I steer them toward one of their grandson’s interests. “Dwayde and his team are gearing up for a big basketball game in a couple of weeks.”
Charles crosses one booted foot over his knee and eagerly leans forward. “That’s right. We heard you had practice this morning. What position do you play, son?”
I nudge Dwayde’s arm. “Shooting guard,” he mumbles to the Persian rug.
“You’re the score maker, then?” Charles says encouragingly.
