other, afraid our fear would be seen, until Christopher-John adamantly declared: “But T.J. ain’t killed nobody! He ain’t!” Stacey put his hand on Christopher-John’s neck and brought him near, but said nothing. There was nothing to say now.
“Well, what you think of that nigger’s story in there?”
We looked around. A group of white farmers stood nearby dividing a chaw of tobacco.
“Aw, it’s just nigger talk,” scoffed one of them. “Like R.W. said, the nigger was lyin’.”
“Yeah . . . well, most likely,” said another. “But I knows Justice Overton to be a fine and upright man, and he wouldn’t be lyin’ on nobody deliberate.”
“Yeah. Yeah, know that. But he was mos’ likely jus’ mistaken this time . . . jus’ thought he seen that truck.”
“Yeah . . . mos’ likely . . . I reckon. . . .”
Stacey moved us away.
“Stacey, what you think, huh?” I whispered. “What you think?”
Stacey looked up at the courthouse. “It’s bad, Cassie. That’s all I know.”
“Stacey Logan! Is that you?”
We turned and found Mrs. Wade Jamison standing before us. She was a plump woman in her fifties and was dressed soberly in a dark-blue suit and hat. Although we saw her seldom, we had no trouble recognizing her, for she had one gray eye and one brown one, and a smile that seemed always to be tugging at her lips.
“Wade told me your papa said he wasn’t coming in for the trial. Where is he?”
Christopher-John, Little Man, and I looked to Stacey to answer, but he didn’t. He was staring at Mrs. Jamison, resentment in his face. Moe, Clarence, and Little Willie stood to the side saying nothing; Mrs. Jamison had not addressed them.
“I said where is he?” she repeated. When she still received no answer, she gazed down at us, suspicion in her double-colored eyes. “Don’t tell me he’s not here?”
We neither confirmed nor denied this.
Her expression hardened. “Stacey, how’d you come?”
Stacey waited, the resentment still there, then said: “Wagon.”
“Whose wagon?”
“Friend’s.”
“Your folks know you here?”
Stacey glared at her, showing her he felt it was no business of hers. “We had to see T.J. was all.”
“And your folks think y’all at school? Lord, Lord! They must be plumb out of their minds with worry ’bout you all . . . orleastways they will be before long. How you getting home?”
“Same way we come.”
“By wagon? It’ll be way past this little one’s bedtime by then.” She put out her hand to touch Little Man’s face. He stepped back, away from her. Mrs. Jamison sighed deeply, looking at all of us, and went back into the courthouse. A few seconds later Mr. Jamison appeared in a courtroom window and stuck out his head.
“Stacey!” he summoned.
Stacey looked up and walked over.
“After the verdict’s in, all of you wait for me. I’ll take you home.”
“We got a way home.”
“Not a way that’ll get you there before your folks start getting worried.”
“There’s seven of us and we got a ride with folks waiting on us.”
Mr. Jamison glanced past Stacey to Moe, Little Willie, and Clarence. He had been around their families enough to know who they were. He nodded. “You can all squeeze in. Tell your friends in the wagon to go on.”
“What ’bout the Averys? Won’t they need a ride back?”
“They’re staying in town tonight. They want to be near T.J.” He started to turn away from the window. Stacey stopped him.
“Mr. Jamison, how much longer?”
Mr. Jamison looked out at the sun, low on the horizon. “The longer it takes, the better. Let’s hope . . .” He did not finish. “Now, you all wait,” he said, and left the window.
* * *
We did not have to wait long. In less than thirty minutes the jury returned. The vote poll was taken. Twelve men onthe jury. Twelve votes of guilty. There was to be no mercy. T.J. received the death penalty.
* * *
Mrs. Avery
“Well, what you think of that nigger’s story in there?”
We looked around. A group of white farmers stood nearby dividing a chaw of tobacco.
“Aw, it’s just nigger talk,” scoffed one of them. “Like R.W. said, the nigger was lyin’.”
“Yeah . . . well, most likely,” said another. “But I knows Justice Overton to be a fine and upright man, and he wouldn’t be lyin’ on nobody deliberate.”
“Yeah. Yeah, know that. But he was mos’ likely jus’ mistaken this time . . . jus’ thought he seen that truck.”
“Yeah . . . mos’ likely . . . I reckon. . . .”
Stacey moved us away.
“Stacey, what you think, huh?” I whispered. “What you think?”
Stacey looked up at the courthouse. “It’s bad, Cassie. That’s all I know.”
“Stacey Logan! Is that you?”
We turned and found Mrs. Wade Jamison standing before us. She was a plump woman in her fifties and was dressed soberly in a dark-blue suit and hat. Although we saw her seldom, we had no trouble recognizing her, for she had one gray eye and one brown one, and a smile that seemed always to be tugging at her lips.
“Wade told me your papa said he wasn’t coming in for the trial. Where is he?”
Christopher-John, Little Man, and I looked to Stacey to answer, but he didn’t. He was staring at Mrs. Jamison, resentment in his face. Moe, Clarence, and Little Willie stood to the side saying nothing; Mrs. Jamison had not addressed them.
“I said where is he?” she repeated. When she still received no answer, she gazed down at us, suspicion in her double-colored eyes. “Don’t tell me he’s not here?”
We neither confirmed nor denied this.
Her expression hardened. “Stacey, how’d you come?”
Stacey waited, the resentment still there, then said: “Wagon.”
“Whose wagon?”
“Friend’s.”
“Your folks know you here?”
Stacey glared at her, showing her he felt it was no business of hers. “We had to see T.J. was all.”
“And your folks think y’all at school? Lord, Lord! They must be plumb out of their minds with worry ’bout you all . . . orleastways they will be before long. How you getting home?”
“Same way we come.”
“By wagon? It’ll be way past this little one’s bedtime by then.” She put out her hand to touch Little Man’s face. He stepped back, away from her. Mrs. Jamison sighed deeply, looking at all of us, and went back into the courthouse. A few seconds later Mr. Jamison appeared in a courtroom window and stuck out his head.
“Stacey!” he summoned.
Stacey looked up and walked over.
“After the verdict’s in, all of you wait for me. I’ll take you home.”
“We got a way home.”
“Not a way that’ll get you there before your folks start getting worried.”
“There’s seven of us and we got a ride with folks waiting on us.”
Mr. Jamison glanced past Stacey to Moe, Little Willie, and Clarence. He had been around their families enough to know who they were. He nodded. “You can all squeeze in. Tell your friends in the wagon to go on.”
“What ’bout the Averys? Won’t they need a ride back?”
“They’re staying in town tonight. They want to be near T.J.” He started to turn away from the window. Stacey stopped him.
“Mr. Jamison, how much longer?”
Mr. Jamison looked out at the sun, low on the horizon. “The longer it takes, the better. Let’s hope . . .” He did not finish. “Now, you all wait,” he said, and left the window.
* * *
We did not have to wait long. In less than thirty minutes the jury returned. The vote poll was taken. Twelve men onthe jury. Twelve votes of guilty. There was to be no mercy. T.J. received the death penalty.
* * *
Mrs. Avery
Similar Books
