Текст книги "Sycamore Row"
Автор книги: John Grisham
Соавторы: John Grisham
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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 35 страниц)
Jake had told them so.
Bright, early morning sunlight streamed through the wooden blinds and fell into neat white rows across the long conference room table. Somewhere in the background, a phone rang constantly, but no one had any interest in answering it. The front door was locked, and every fifteen minutes or so there was a knock. The tense discussions rose, then ebbed and waned and finally ceased, though there was so much more to say.
Harry Rex had walked them through the strategies of a divorce filing. File now, file loudly, file loaded with as many sordid allegations as possible to make Mr. Lang appear to be the creep he really was. Allege adultery, habitual cruel and inhuman treatment, desertion, drunkenness, abuse, nonsupport, throw in everything because the marriage is over whether Lettie would admit it or not. Pound him because he cannot respond from jail, and why would he bother anyway? Do it Monday and make sure Dumas Lee and every other reporter with even a passing interest gets a copy of the filing. Include a request for a restraining order to keep the lout off the property and away from Lettie and the kids and grandkids for the rest of their lives. It’s about ending a bad marriage, but it’s also about posturing for the public. Harry Rex agreed to handle the case.
Portia had told them the first threatening phone call came just after 5:00 a.m. Phedra took it, and after a few seconds calmly hung up. “He called me a ‘nigger,’ ” she said, stunned. “Said we’ll pay for killin’ those boys.” They panicked and locked the doors. Portia found a handgun in a closet and loaded it. They turned off the lights and huddled together in the den, watching the street. Then the phone rang again. And again. They prayed for sunrise. She said her mother would sign the divorce papers, but once she does, look out for the Langs. Simeon’s brothers and cousins were notorious lowlifes—same gene pool—and they would cause trouble. They’ve been pestering Lettie for money anyway, and if they think they’re getting cut out they’ll do something stupid.
Lucien had had a rough night, but he was there nonetheless and thinking as clearly as ever. He quickly took the position that the trial over the will must not be held in Ford County. Jake had no choice but to request a change of venue, which Atlee would probably deny, but at the very least it would give them a strong argument on appeal. Lucien had never been excited about Jake’s chances of winning before a jury, and he had long been convinced the pool had been contaminated by Booker Sistrunk. Lettie’s ill-advised decision to move to town, and into a home once owned by a slightly prominent white family, had not helped her standing in the community. There was already resentment and plenty of suspicion. She was not working and had not worked since Hubbard died. And now this. Now she had the most hated name in the county. Filing for divorce was not even an option—it had to be done. But, the divorce could not possibly be finished by the time the trial started on April 3. Her name was Lang in the will; it was Lang now; and it would be Lang during the trial. Put him, Lucien, in Wade Lanier’s shoes, and he would have the jury loathing every Lang who ever lived.
“Sorry, Portia,” Lucien said. “No offense. That’s just the way it would be.” She understood, or at least tried to. She was too exhausted to say much. She had left her mother and sisters wrapped in their bathrobes, huddled by the fireplace, with the gun on the mantel, wondering whether they should send the children to school and what they should tell them. Kirk, a sophomore at Clanton High, knew the Roston boys and was swearing he would never return to the school. They were such nice boys. And he hated his father. His life was over. He wanted to get away, like Portia, join the Army and never come back.
Jake and Harry Rex had discussed ways to postpone the trial. Drag it out, burn some clock, give Harry Rex enough time to get the divorce final, give the system enough time to dispose of Simeon and ship him away, and give the county some distance between the horror of the moment, the two burials, and the fight over the estate of Seth Hubbard. Where would they all be in six months? Lettie would be divorced; she could even adopt her old name. Lettie Tayber. It sounded much better, though Portia reminded herself she would still be stuck with Lang. Simeon would be gone. Sistrunk would be all but forgotten. Surely, things would be more conducive to a fair trial in six months. His opponents would object vociferously, and with such momentum on their side, why not?
Jake was slightly optimistic he could have a chat with Judge Atlee, perhaps another late Friday afternoon meeting on the porch with whiskey sours, and after the edge was knocked off he could broach the notion of a delay or change of venue. It was worth a try. The only downside was the risk of angering the judge by such an overt attempt at earwigging, and what would the judge do other than to tell Jake to shut up? He wouldn’t do that, not after a couple of whiskey sours. He might not like the conversation, but he would never chastise Jake. A slight scolding maybe, but nothing close to permanent damage.
Let some time pass, Jake said. Let the rage and horror and sadness lose some of their sting, then die down. They would file the divorce on Monday, and in a week or so Jake would approach Judge Atlee.
Quince Lundy arrived for one of two weekly visits. He found them in the conference room, gathered glumly around the table, quiet, subdued, almost mournful as they stared at the walls and looked at a bleak future. He had heard the news on the Clanton radio station as he drove over from Smithfield. He wanted to ask what the tragedy meant for the trial, but after a few moments in the conference room he suspected the trial was in serious trouble.
Willie Hastings was one of four black deputies on Ozzie’s staff. His cousin was Gwen Hailey, wife of Carl Lee, mother of Tonya, who was now thirteen years old and doing well. He knocked on the front door of the Sappington house and waited as he heard feet shuffling hurriedly inside. Finally, the door cracked and Lettie peeked through it.
Willie said, “Mornin’ Miss Lang. Sheriff Walls sent me over.”
The door opened wider and she managed a smile. “That you, Willie?” she said. “Would you like to come in?”
He entered and found the children in the den watching television, obviously skipping school. He followed Lettie to the kitchen where Phedra fixed him a cup of coffee. He chatted with the women, made some notes about the threatening calls, noticed the phone was now off the hook, and said he would hang around for a while. He was parked in the driveway and would stay there in case they needed him, and to show a presence. Sheriff Walls sends his regrets. Simeon was in a cell by himself, pretty banged up, and still sleeping off his booze. Hastings did not know the Rostons and had not spoken with them, but he understood they were at home surrounded by family and friends. Lettie handed him a letter she had written during the early morning and asked if he could make sure it was delivered to the Rostons. “Just our way of saying how awful we feel,” she said.
Willie promised to have it in their hands before noon.
They topped off his coffee and he went outside. The temperature was still below freezing, but the heater worked well in his patrol car. Throughout the morning, he sipped coffee, watched the street, saw nothing, and tried to stay awake.
An early news show on the Tupelo station ran the story at 7:00 a.m. Stillman Rush was in the shower and missed it, but an associate did not. Phone calls were made; details verified; and an hour later Stillman called Wade Lanier in Jackson with the tragic but also promising news. Lightning had struck. No juror in Ford County would ever have a shot at Simeon Lang, but his wife had just become an easy target.
30
Early Thursday morning Simeon Lang was awakened, fed, handcuffed, and escorted out of his cell and down a hallway to a cramped meeting room where a stranger was waiting. He sat in a folding chair, still handcuffed, and listened as the stranger said, “My name is Arthur Welch and I’m a lawyer from Clarksdale, over in the Delta.”
“I know where Clarksdale is,” Simeon said. He had a large bandage taped across his nose. His left eye was shut with stitches around the edge.
“Good for you,” Welch said. “I’m here to represent you because no one else will take the case. You have a first appearance and bail hearing this morning at nine, and you’ll need a lawyer.”
“Why are you here?”
“A friend asked me to be here, okay? That’s all you need to know. Right now you need a lawyer, and I’m the only sonofabitch willing to stand beside you.”
Simeon nodded slightly.
At 8:30, he was transferred to the courthouse and hustled up the rear stairs to the main courtroom, where he entered the temporary domain of the Honorable Percy Bullard, County Court judge. His own courtroom was down the hall, and quite small, so he preferred to use the big room when it was vacant, which was at least half the time. He’d spent most of his sixteen years on the bench handling minor civil disputes and lighter felonies, but occasionally he was called upon to process and speed along a more serious case. With the county in mourning and tensions high, he decided to haul in Lang, rough him up a bit, and let folks know that the wheels of justice were turning.
Word had spread quickly and there were spectators in the courtroom. At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Simeon was led in, and a guiltier defendant had never been seen. His face was a mess. His orange county jail overalls were too big and bloodstained. He was handcuffed behind his back, and the bailiffs took their sweet time freeing him.
Judge Bullard looked at him and said, “State versus Simeon Lang. Over here.” He pointed to a spot in front of the bench. Simeon shuffled over, glancing around nervously as if he might get shot from behind. Arthur Welch stood beside him while somehow managing to keep his distance.
“You are Simeon Lang?” Judge Bullard asked.
Simeon nodded.
“Speak up!”
“I am.”
“Thanks. And you are?”
“Your Honor, my name is Arthur Welch and I practice law over in Clarksdale. I’m here to represent Mr. Lang.”
Bullard looked at him as if to say, “What the hell for?” Instead, he asked Simeon, “Mr. Lang, is Mr. Welch your lawyer?”
“He is.”
“Okay, now Mr. Lang, you have been charged with two counts of vehicular homicide and one count of driving under the influence. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty.”
“No surprise there. I’ll set a preliminary hearing in about thirty days. Mr. Welch, you will be notified by my clerk. I assume you’d like to discuss bail.”
As if reading from a script, Welch said, “Yes, Your Honor, we would like to request a reasonable bail at this time. Mr. Lang has a wife and family here in the county and has lived here his entire life. He is not a risk to flee and has assured me, and will assure you, that he always shows up in court when required to.”
“Thank you. Bail is hereby set at $2 million, one million for each count of vehicular homicide. Anything else, Mr. Welch?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Mr. Lang you are remanded to the custody of the Ford County sheriff until you make bail or are called for by this court.” He tapped his gavel lightly and winked at Welch. Simeon was re-handcuffed and taken from the courtroom. Welch followed him, and outside, under the rear terrace, exactly where the criminal defendants were always photographed when they were newsworthy enough to be photographed, Dumas Lee clicked away and got plenty of shots of Lang and his lawyer. Later, he chatted with Welch, who had little to report but was nonetheless quite willing to talk. He was completely vague on his involvement in a case two hours from home.
Welch had been rolled out of bed at 5:00 that morning with a profane phone call from Harry Rex Vonner, an old roommate from law school. Welch had handled two of Harry Rex’s divorces and Harry Rex had handled two of Welch’s, and they owed each other so many favors and debts and IOUs that keeping score was impossible. Harry Rex needed him instantly in Clanton, and Welch, cursing for two hours, made the drive. He had no plans to represent Simeon Lang beyond the indictment and would punt the case in a month or so.
As Harry Rex explained, in some of the most colorful and abusive language imaginable, it was important for the local folks to see and realize that Simeon Lang was not represented by Jake Brigance, but rather by some scumbag they’d never heard of.
Welch understood perfectly. It was another clear example of what was never taught in law school.
It was early on Friday afternoon, the weather was cold and damp, and Jake was suffering through the weekly ritual of trying to tie up some of the week’s loose ends so they wouldn’t grow and fester and ruin his Monday. Among his many unwritten but nonetheless serious rules was one that required him to return every phone call by noon Friday. He preferred to avoid most of his phone calls, but that was not possible. Returning them was easy to put off. They often slid from one workday to the next, but he was determined not to drag them through the weekend. Another rule forbade him to take worthless cases that would pay little or nothing and turn his obnoxious clients into people he could choke. But, like every other lawyer, he routinely said yes to some deadbeat whose mother taught Jake in the fourth grade, or whose uncle knew his father, or the broke widow from church who couldn’t afford a lawyer but couldn’t live without one. Invariably, these matters turned into “fish files,” the ones that grew fouler the longer they sat in a corner, untouched. Every lawyer had them. Every lawyer hated them. Every lawyer swore he would never take another; you could almost smell them the first time the client walked in the door.
Freedom for Jake would be an office free from fish files, and he still approached every new year with the determination to say no to the deadbeats. Years ago, Lucien had said repeatedly, “It’s not the cases you take that make you, it’s the cases you don’t take.” Just say no. Nonetheless, his special drawer for fish files was depressingly full, and every Friday afternoon he stared at them and cursed himself.
Without knocking, Portia walked into his office, obviously upset. She was patting her chest as if she couldn’t breathe. “There’s a man here,” she said, almost in a whisper because she couldn’t speak any louder.
“Are you okay?” he asked, once again tossing aside a fish file.
She shook her head rapidly. “No. It’s Mr. Roston. The boys’ father.”
“What?” Jake said as he bolted to his feet.
She kept patting her chest. “He wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“Please, Jake, don’t tell him who I am.” They stared at each other for a second, neither with a clue.
“Okay, okay. Put him in the conference room. I’ll be down in a minute.”
Jeff Roston was not much older than Jake, but under the circumstances he was a very old man. He sat with his hands together and his shoulders sagging, as if burdened by an enormous weight. He wore heavily starched khakis and a navy blazer, and looked more like a casual preppy than a man who grew soybeans. He also wore the face of a father in the midst of an unspeakable nightmare. He rose and they shook hands and Jake said, “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Roston.”
“Thank you. Let’s go with Jeff and Jake, okay?”
“Sure.” Jake sat beside him along one side of the table and they faced each other. After an awkward pause, Jake said, “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“No, you can’t,” he said softly and slowly, each word laden with grief. “I can’t either. I think we’re just sort of sleepwalking, you know, just going through the motions, trying to survive this hour so we can deal with the next one. We’re praying for time. Praying for the days to turn into weeks and then months, and then maybe one day years from now the nightmare will be over and we can manage the pain and the sorrow. But at the same time we know that’ll never happen. You’re not supposed to bury your kids, Jake. It’s just not the natural course of things.”
Jake nodded along, unable to add anything thoughtful or intelligent or helpful. What do you say to a father whose two sons were now lying in caskets waiting for their funeral? “I can’t begin to comprehend,” Jake said. His initial reaction was “What does he want?”—and now, minutes later, Jake was still wondering.
“The service is tomorrow,” Jake said after a long heavy pause.
“That’s right. Another nightmare.” Jeff’s eyes were red and weary and proof he had not slept in days. He could not maintain a direct stare, but chose instead to look down at his knees. He gently tapped all ten fingers together as if in deep meditation. He finally said, “We received a very nice note from Lettie Lang. It was hand delivered by Sheriff Walls, who, I must say, has been wonderful. He said the two of you are friends.” Jake nodded, listened, offered nothing. Jeff continued, “The note was heartfelt and conveyed the family’s sense of grief and guilt. It meant a lot to Evelyn and me. We could tell that Lettie is a fine Christian lady who’s horrified at what her husband did. Could you please thank her for us?”
“Of course.”
He again stared at his knees, tapped his fingertips, breathed slowly as if even that was painful, then he said, “I want you to tell them something else, Jake, if you don’t mind, something I’d like for you to pass along to Lettie and her family, even to her husband.”
Sure. Anything. What would Jake not do for such a grief-stricken father?
“Are you a Christian, Jake?”
“I am. Sometimes more of one than others, but I’m trying.”
“I thought so. In the sixth chapter of the Gospel of Luke, Jesus teaches the importance of forgiveness. He knows we’re human and our natural tendency is to seek revenge, to strike back, to condemn those who hurt us, but this is wrong. We’re supposed to forgive, always. So I’d like for you to tell Lettie and her family, and especially her husband, that Evelyn and I forgive Simeon for what he did. We’ve prayed about this. We’ve spent time with our minister. And we cannot allow ourselves to live the rest of our days filled with hatred and ill will. We forgive him, Jake. Can you tell them?”
Jake was too stunned to respond. He was aware that his jaw had dropped slightly, that his mouth was open, and that he was looking at Jeff Roston in disbelief, but for a few seconds he couldn’t adjust. How could you possibly, humanly forgive a drunk who slaughtered your two sons less than seventy-two hours earlier? He thought of Hanna, and the almost incomprehensible visual of her in a coffin. He would scream for bloody revenge.
Finally, he managed to nod. Yes, I will tell them.
Roston said, “When we bury Kyle and Bo tomorrow, when we say good-bye, we will do so with complete love and forgiveness. There’s no room for hatred, Jake.”
Jake swallowed hard and said, “That black girl out there is Lettie’s daughter. Simeon’s daughter. She works for me. Why don’t you tell her?”
Without a word, Jeff Roston rose and walked to the door. He opened it, and with Jake following he stepped into the reception area and looked at Portia. “So you’re Simeon Lang’s daughter,” he said, and she almost flinched. Slowly, she stood and faced him and said, “Yes sir.”
“Your mother sent me a very nice note. Please thank her.”
“I will, yes, thanks,” she said nervously.
“And will you tell your father that my wife, Evelyn, and I forgive him for what happened?”
Portia cupped her right hand over her mouth as her eyes suddenly moistened. Roston took a step closer and gently hugged her. Then he abruptly stepped back, said again, “We forgive him,” and walked out the front door without another word.
They stared at the door long after he left. They were speechless, overwhelmed. Finally, Jake said, “Let’s lock up and go home.”
31
The effort to validate the handwritten will of Seth Hubbard continued to unravel late Sunday morning, though Jake and its proponents had no way of knowing it. Randall Clapp was sniffing around the town of Dillwyn, in extreme south Georgia, some six miles from the Florida line, when he finally found a black woman he’d been tracking for a week. Her name was Julina Kidd, age thirty-nine, a divorced mother of two.
Five years earlier, Julina worked in a large furniture factory near Thomasville, Georgia. She was a clerk in payroll, earned $15,000 a year, and was surprised to hear one day that the company had been bought by a faceless corporation with an Alabama domicile. Not long afterward, the new owner, a Mr. Hubbard, showed up and said hello.
One month later, Julina was fired. One week after that she filed a sexual harassment complaint with Equal Employment. The complaint was dismissed three weeks after it was filed. Her lawyer in Valdosta would not discuss the case with Clapp, said he’d lost contact with Julina, and had no idea where she was.
When Clapp found her she was living in subsidized housing with her two teenagers and a younger sister, and she was working part-time for an oil jobber. Initially, she had little interest in talking to an unknown white man. Clapp, though, did this for a living and was adept at extracting information. He offered her $200 in cash, plus lunch, for one hour of her time and direct answers to his questions. They met at a truck stop and ordered the special, baked chicken. Clapp, a simmering racist who would never be tempted to chase a black woman, struggled to control his thoughts. This one was a knockout—beautiful dark skin with a touch of cream, hazel eyes that penetrated to the core, high African cheekbones, perfect teeth that revealed an easy, seductive smile. She was reserved and her eyebrows were perpetually arched, as if she suspected every word he uttered.
He didn’t tell her much, not at first anyway. He said he was involved in some high-powered litigation with Seth Hubbard on the other side, and he knew they had a history. Yes, he was digging for dirt.
She had it. Seth had come on to her like an eighteen-year-old sailor on shore leave. At the time, she was thirty-four and in the late stages of a bad divorce. She was fragile and frightened about her future. She had no interest in a sixty-six-year-old white man who smelled like an ashtray, regardless of how many companies he owned. But he was persistent and spent a lot of his time at the Thomasville factory. He gave her a substantial raise and moved her to a desk near his office. He fired the old secretary and appointed Julina as his “executive assistant.” She could not type.
He owned two furniture factories in Mexico and needed to visit them. He arranged for Julina to obtain a passport and asked her if she wanted to accompany him. She took it more as a demand than an invitation. But she had never left the country and was mildly intrigued by the notion of seeing a bit of the world, even though she knew a compromise would be involved.
“I doubt if Seth was the first white man to chase you,” Clapp said.
She smiled slightly, nodded her head, and said, “No. It does happen.” Again, Clapp tried to control his thoughts. Why was she still single? And living in a subsidized apartment? Any woman, black or white, with her looks and figure could parlay them into a much better life.
Her first trip on an airplane was to Mexico City. They checked into a luxury hotel—two adjoining rooms. The dreaded knock on her door came that night, and she opened it. Afterward, lying in bed with him, she was disgusted by what she had done. Sex for money. At the moment, she was nothing but a prostitute. She bit her tongue, though, and as soon as he disappeared the next day she took a cab to the airport. When he returned a week later, she was fired on the spot and escorted out of the office by an armed guard. She hired a lawyer who slapped a sexual harassment claim on Seth, whose own lawyer was horrified by the facts. They quickly capitulated and wanted to settle. After some haggling, Seth agreed to a lump sum payment of $125,000 in a confidential deal. Her lawyer kept $25,000, and she had been living off the rest. She wasn’t supposed to reveal that to anyone, but what the hell. It had been five years.
“Don’t worry, Seth’s dead,” Clapp said, then told her the rest of the story. She listened as she chewed the elastic chicken and washed it down with sugared iced tea. She had no feelings for Seth and did not pretend to. She had practically forgotten about the old man.
“Did he ever say anything about preferring black women?”
“He said he didn’t discriminate,” she said, slower now. “He said I wasn’t the first black one.”
“When did he say these things?”
“Pillow talk, you know? I’m not getting involved in a lawsuit.”
“Didn’t say you were,” Clapp tried to reassure her, but she was even more careful. Clapp knew he had once again stumbled onto something huge but played it cool. “But I’m sure the lawyers I work for would be willing to pay for your testimony.”
“Is that legal?”
“Of course it’s legal. Lawyers pay for testimony all the time. Every expert charges a fortune. Plus they fly you up there and cover your expenses.”
“How much?”
“Don’t know but we can talk about it later. Can I ask you something that’s, well, rather delicate?”
“Oh why not? What have we not discussed?”
“When you were with Seth, how was he, know what I mean? He was sixty-six then, and he hired this black housekeeper a couple of years later. This was long before he got sick. The old boy was getting on in years, but sounds like he was fairly frisky, you know?”
“He was all right. I mean, for a man his age he was pretty good.” She said this as though she’d had many, and of all ages. “I got the impression he just wanted to hole up in the room and screw for a week. That’s kind of impressive for an old guy, black or white.”
Wade Lanier was having a beer in the men’s grill at the country club when Clapp tracked him down. He teed off every Sunday morning at precisely 7:45 with the same three pals, played eighteen holes, usually won more money than he lost, then drank beer for a couple of hours over poker. He quickly forgot about the cards and the beer and made Clapp repeat every word of his conversation with Julina Kidd.
Most of what she said would not be admissible in court; however, the fact that she could take the stand, let the jury absorb her ethnicity, and chat about her claim for sexual harassment at the hands of Seth Hubbard would sway any white jury to believe the old guy and Lettie were probably doing business. They would believe that Lettie had gotten as close as humanly possible, and she had influenced him. She had used her body to work her way into his will. Lanier couldn’t prove it by a preponderance of evidence, but he could certainly imply it in a powerful way.
He left the country club and drove to his office.
Early Monday morning, Ian and Ramona Dafoe drove three hours from Jackson to Memphis and had a late breakfast with Herschel. Their relationship had deteriorated and it was time to patch things up, or that’s what Ramona said anyway. They were on the same side; it was foolish for them to bicker and distrust one another. They met at a pancake house, and, after the usual efforts at reconciliation, Ian launched into a strong-armed plea for Herschel to ditch Stillman Rush and his firm. His lawyer, Wade Lanier, was far more experienced, and, frankly, was worried that Rush would be a hindrance at trial. He was a pretty boy, too showy, cocky, and likely to alienate the jury. Lanier had watched him closely now for over four months and did not like what he saw. There was a big ego and not much talent. Trials can be won or lost by the arrogance of a lawyer, and Wade Lanier was worried sick. He was even threatening to bail out.
And there was more. As evidence of the inequality of their lawyers, Ian revealed the story of the other will and its attempted bequest of $50,000 to Lettie. He did not name names because he didn’t want Stillman Rush to screw up things. Herschel was stunned, but also thrilled. But wait—it gets better. Now Wade Lanier had found a black woman who sued Seth for sexual harassment.
Look at what my lawyer is doing, and compare it to yours. Your boy is not in the game, Herschel. Lanier understands guerrilla warfare; your lawyer is a Boy Scout. Let’s join forces here. Lanier even has a deal to offer: if we come together, get rid of Rush, and allow Lanier to represent both of us, he’ll cut his fee to 25 percent of any settlement. He has a strategy to force a settlement, especially in light of what his chief investigator is digging up. He’ll pick the right moment and spring it all on Jake Brigance, who’ll crack under the pressure. We can have the money within a few months!
Herschel held his ground for a while, but eventually agreed to drive to Jackson and meet with Lanier in secret.
Simeon Lang was finishing Monday’s dinner of pork and beans from a can and four slices of stale white bread when the jailer appeared and stuck a package through the bars. “Happy reading,” he said and walked away. It was from the law offices of Harry Rex Vonner.
Inside was a letter from the lawyer, addressed to Simeon, care of the Ford County jail, and the letter tersely announced to Simeon that what followed was a Complaint for Divorce. He had thirty days to respond.
He read it slowly. What was the hurry? Habitual cruel and inhuman treatment; adultery; desertion; physical abuse. Page after page of allegations, some of them wild, some of them true. What difference did it make? He’d killed two boys and was headed to Parchman for a long time. His life was over. Lettie needed someone else. She hadn’t been to see him since they locked him up, and he doubted she would ever visit. Not here, not in Parchman. Portia had stopped by to say hello but didn’t hang around too long.
“What’re you reading?” asked Denny from the top bunk. Denny was his new cell mate who’d been caught driving a stolen car. Simeon was already tired of him. He preferred living alone, though at times it was almost pleasant having someone to talk to.
