The Stones Cry Out Read Online Free PDF Page A

But that future is not mine alone to create. It was the city that ran my businesses into the ground. All their petty regulations and limitless taxes and invented violations. Now my buildings are empty. And they are under constant siege from looters and crooks of every kind—including looters and crooks who somehow get voted into office."
    "Unpaid taxes aren’t helping the situation."
    "Yet the city continues to raise tax rates. Why is no one asking about where that money goes? They should. Because I can tell them. It goes straight into the pockets of politicians, into feel-good social programs that keep people from getting real jobs. You know what Southside has become? A welfare state."
    I was about to remind him how the federal government views tax evasion, but he wasn't done arguing his case.
    "Please tell the mayor that when the city starts protecting business owners, when it starts supporting free enterprise, I’ll pay my taxes. But until then I can’t find a compelling reason to comply with their extortion. Consider this my version of civil disobedience—surely the mayor will understand that terminology. And, yes, in case you're wondering, I do pay my state and federal taxes, so do not bother with notifying your colleagues in the IRS." He smiled, coldly. "I'm withholding Richmond's money. Because Richmond is the problem."
    "Oh, Daddy!" Mac jumped up from the chair. Her boots left a trail of dry soil on the polished pine. "For goodness sake, you're talking to Raleigh. A family friend."
    She took her father’s free arm with both hands, squeezing him affectionately before tossing back her long dark braid. Sunlight poured through the mullioned windows and was caught by the broad facets of the diamond ring on her left hand.
    "Daddy's like all the Fielding men,” she said. “Always making a point. Isn't it tiresome, Raleigh? I could die from the boredom."
    I didn't know what to say. And didn’t think Mr. Fielding was answering, so I finished my tea and left my card on the silver tray. Harrison Fielding nodded as though acknowledging receipt, and Mac escorted me to the door. An ebony braid plaited down her back like an arrow.
    "Congratulations on your engagement," I said.
    She stopped, offering me her hand for inspection. The geologist in me guessed it was a canary diamond, three carats. Maybe four. And the geologist perversely wondered which impurity turned the diamond yellow—iron, titanium—and whether the rock came from South Africa or Sierra Leone. But Mac wouldn’t want to hear about impurities. Or blood diamonds.
    "Who's the lucky groom?" I asked.
    "Stuart Morgan. Do you remember him? He was in DeMott's class at St. Christopher’s."
    "Sorry, I don't recall."
    "Well, he's just wonderful. Perfect. The wedding’s early September. Here, of course. Down by the river."
    "Sounds lovely."
    "DeMott's best man." She leaned in, her voice a whisper. "I'm so glad that drug nonsense is over. You should see him, Raleigh. He's really come around."
    "I'm glad things are going well for you, Mac."
    "Good seeing you too."
    In the silence that followed I figured we were both considering the last time we saw each other. Four years ago. At my father's funeral. He was murdered.
    "Please say hello to your mother," she said. "We do think of her often."
    And with that, she opened the massive front door. Outside the sun blazed across the cut grass, turning the lawn white.
    "Oh my goodness," she exclaimed. "I'm not going anywhere. It's atrocious out there!"

Chapter 5
    That evening, as a sunset cast soft amethyst hues over Richmond, I parked the hideous K-Car near the statue of the great General Robert E. Lee. The Confederate hero was riding his faithful steed Traveller into bronzed eternity, pointed south. Both man and horse were the epitome of gentility.
    When my great-great-grandparents built their three-story brick house on Monument Avenue, Lee's statue stood alone in a grassy field. That was in 1900, when this section of town was