Yours, Mine, and Ours by MaryJanice Davidson Page A

someone—or someone found them. For every JFK, there was an Adolf Hitler. For every Gandhi, there was a Jim Jones.
    “Bad boys. Very bad boys.” George shook his finger in mock-scold. I think it was mock-scold. “You left a few things out. You’re also all about anti-Semitism, racism, anti-Catholicism, and anti-immigrant.
    “Here’s the hilarious part, guys: Overman hated immigrants, and yet she was not Native American.” He swung on Emma Jan, throwing up his hands in mock-despair. Or real despair. “This, this is why I can’t ever get on board with these dumb shits. Can you imagine going through your whole life teaching your kids and your neighbors how to hate immigrants while being so dumb you don’t know you were descended from illegal immigrants?”
    “That’s the only thing holding you back from the Bigotry Bandwagon?” I asked, and Emma Jan laughed.
    “It’s not our fault if the Indians couldn’t hold on to their country,” Behrman said. Instead of sounding defensive or mad, he sounded proud. “That’s how we justified throwing England out of our business during the Revolutionary War, and nobody’s running around saying we committed genocide all over the most powerful country in the world at that time. We claimed our territory and we defended it. ’Zactly the same thing.”
    “Hmmmm.” George was trying to pace. Tough work in this tiny living room. “Let’s see. Let’s take a look at that. Patriots chafing under a tyrant’s rule rising up to take control of their destiny. And then there’s deciding that blacks and Jews are inferior and they should all be dropped into the deep end of the ocean. Oh, sure. Exactly the same thing. The whole thing just smacks of patriotism. Yep.”
    I watched carefully, but he was under control (for now). George had a thing about skinheads and gay bashers. No one knew why.
    “So, do you want your friend to hear why your alibi sucked? Or should he leave?”
    “You don’t tell anyone to leave in my own house,” Behrman warned.
    “Trailer.”
    “What?”
    “Your own trailer. We don’t tell anyone to leave in your own trailer … yeah, you’re right. Doesn’t have the right ring to it. House it is.”
    Behrman glared. “Anything you say to me you can say in front of Loun.”
    “Oh, goody. Mr. Behrman, the movie theater you claimed as your alibi didn’t show that matinee … they had technical difficulties. That whole theater was shut down for the rest of the day.” George shook his head, then wagged his finger in front of him like a spinster scolding a school boy. “You’ve been baaaad.”
    “Maybe I told you the wrong movie. Maybe I meant—”
    “That’s a terrible idea, changing your story like that. It’s making all the red flags in my brain pop.”
    “Oh, that’s bad,” I said to the men. “You don’t want to pop his flags.”
    Loun and Behrman exchanged glances. “Maybe I should call a lawyer.”
    “Awesome, Mr. Behrman! You’ve got no idea, man. That makes our day. Yaaaaay!”
    “He’s right,” I said while George literally jumped up and down, clapping his hands together and yelling “yay, yay, yaaaay!” He looked and sounded like a demented cheerleader. One that would stick a knife in your ribs if his team lost. “It does.”
    “Innocent people never want to talk to a lawyer. Yaaaaay!”
    Emma Jan and I looked at each other and shrugged. We knew it was true. It had happened again and again in our careers.
    Loun sighed and looked greatly put-upon. “Just tell ’em, Behrman. The Good Citizens weren’t doing anything against the law. We have the right to lawful assembly.”
    Oh, fudge cakes. He was about to confess, but not to the JBJ murders. He was about to tell us he’d been at a white supremacist meeting. It explained his lie while being boring and sad at the same time.
    “I had a meeting with my white brothers. Morale’s been low. We needed to be reminded not just howwcome we were there that night, but howwcome The