Common Justice

By Pam Bingemann

Returning to his hometown in the 1960s segregated South, decorated war veteran, Ezekiel Brown, learns his innocent, simpleminded brother, Luke, has been brutally tortured and lynched after being wrongfully accused of the rape and murder of a local white girl. When the town, gripped in the clutches of a racially charged Ku Klux Klan, turns a blind eye, he must track down the killers himself. Plagued by the demons of a war-ravaged mind, he seizes simple but deadly elements at hand to force them to face the excruciating horror of common justice, accelerating to a shockingly unpredictable conclusion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479754014

Book preview

Common Justice

Pam Bingemann

Copyright © 2012 by Pam Bingemann.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places and incidents portrayed in this novel are the product of the author’s imagination, used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Prologue

PART I

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

PART II

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

PART III

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Epilogue

Dedicated with Love

To my husband, Jay, the love of my life and best friend;

my son, Chris Bingemann, for all his love and support;

my sister, Sylvia Peach, my champion;

and my entire family, whose incredible love bonds us

all together.

Prologue

Lexie Tate had been laboring under a sweltering sun for ten hours, picking tobacco, when she heard the shrill squeal of the Dixie Cigar Factory’s five o’clock whistle in the distance.

Quitting time. Hallelujah!

Barely fifteen years old, her back ached from a day of relentless bending. Slowly straightening up, she twisted from side to side to ease the crick in her spine and gazed across an endless sea of tobacco. The other pickers were way ahead of her, toting their bags of leaves to the end of the rows to throw them onto the carts to go to the drying barn. Woozy from the heat, she felt too exhausted to haul her heavy bags of pickings down the long row just yet. She tilted her head back and drew in a deep breath. She felt the heat from the sun radiate into her black skin. Sweat ran down her neck and trickled between her ample breasts. She hated field work, but she also knew that colored folks living in Alachua Springs in 1959 didn’t have options. Everybody in her family labored in some field. They were lucky to have any work at all, the surly field boss reminded her every day.

Untying the string under her chin, Lexie pulled off the large-brimmed straw hat she had just gotten for her birthday. Her long black curly hair, dripping with sweat, stuck to her shoulders. She fanned herself with her hat, then wiped the sweat and gnats from her face with the sleeve of her baggy, sweat-soaked T-shirt. Her throat was dry. Reaching for her jug of water, she sloshed some down the front of her shirt, then put it to her parched lips and gulped. Pulling a rag from her hip pocket, she doused it with water and wrapped it around the back of her neck.

Oh, that feels good.

She was still relishing the cool, wet compress when she sensed something move behind her. In the next instant, a muscled, beefy arm wrapped around her throat. A calloused hand clapped across her mouth, and a heavy body pushed her to the ground. She tried to scream, but the hand was stuffing something into her mouth. She clawed wildly but only saw the man’s face briefly before his heavy fist crashed into her face and everything went black.

She was yanked back to consciousness by a thrusting, piercing pain between her legs. A heavy, sweaty body was writhing on top of her, grunting and suffocating her with his foul smoke-and-liquor breath, driving her naked body into the coarse sand. She screamed, but the sound was smothered by a wad of cloth in her mouth. Her arms, stretched above her on the ground, were tied to what felt like tobacco stalks. She tried to open her eyes. Only one responded. She strained to focus through the blurry eye to see her attacker. He was all over her, grabbing her, digging into her. She jerked her head back and saw a puffy red face leering down at her.

The man who knocked me down in the tobacco field!

Desperate to wrench herself free, she twisted and pulled against the restraints. They held fast and cut into her wrists. From somewhere above her came the drunken jeers of other voices.

How many are there? Why are they doing this to me?

The more she fought, the more intensely the man on top of her rocked back and forth. Her struggle only brought more pain. When she thought she couldn’t live through another thrust, he angrily shoved himself into her again, pinning her to the ground, then slumped, exhausted, on top of her, crushing her.

I can’t breathe . . . I can’t breathe!

She felt herself swirling into blackness again when the spent man finally rolled off her. In that moment of reprieve, she was able to dislodge the rag in her mouth with her tongue and gasped for air. Help—help me! she cried, jerking and twisting. She kicked out wildly, which brought more whoops from above. Then another heavy body pounced on top of her, groping her, prying her legs apart, grunting and sputtering profanities.

Feeling another agonizing thrust of pain, she looked directly into the drunken, hairy face of the field boss. Bossman! she shrieked. No… no… please—

Her words were cut off by the crashing blow of a whisky bottle to her forehead.

~~~

Hours later, lying in a crumpled heap on the bed of a pickup truck, Lexie cried out in pain when she moved.

Where am I?

She tried to focus her eyes. They were swollen into narrow slits, unable to see anything but blurred fragments in the dark. Her legs felt like dead logs. Every breath pulsated through the rest of her mud-caked, battered body. She tried to turn. Excruciating shards of pain rankled her chest. One arm lay twisted strangely beneath her. Inching her other hand toward her throbbing head, she felt a warm sticky puddle in her matted hair. Her bloodied hand fell back. She strained to lift her head. It was so heavy. Everything started spinning. Her face slumped back down onto the cold metal truck bed.

A light, steady drizzle began, stinging her fresh wounds. Her body shivered. She listened, straining to hear above the ringing in her ears, for the rancorous voices of the men who had spent hours in a drunken rampage, raping and beating her.

Please . . . please let it be over.

She heard something. Crunch . . . crunch . . . the sound of heavy boots in gravel nearby. She froze.

No . . . no more . . . God, no!

The truck’s doors squeaked open. When they slammed shut again, the engine roared to a start, and the truck jostled forward. She reached a weak hand out to grasp something—anything. Nothing. Lexie’s bruised and bloodied body, bouncing on the hard metal bed of the truck, felt every bump and swerve in the road. Too weak to scream, her moans finally faded into a broken whimper. Her body began to convulse.

It’s cold . . . so cold.

Drifting through a veil of pain and terror, Lexie saw her father’s face hovering above her. She could hear him calling her to come get in the field truck.

It’s time to go home.

She was in the tobacco field looking for her new straw hat. Her mother would be mad if she lost it.

Where is it?

She was floating, weightless, when she heard the sweet strains of her mother’s voice singing softly to her, as she had so often done at bedtime when she was a child. Then in a burst of stars, Lexie Tate crossed over heaven’s threshold.

PART I

Chapter 1

Grover Wright, owner, editor, and publisher of the Alachua Springs Register, puffed thoughtfully on his pipe as he gazed out his office window at the lanky teenaged boy, Ezekiel Brown, hawking his papers down the street. His sweaty black skin glistened in the late afternoon sun.

Extra! Extra! Ezekiel shouted, waving a copy of the newspaper in the air. Read all ’bout it. Alachua Springs girl missin’. Read all ’bout it! He stood barefoot beside a wooden crate full of freshly printed newspapers in the scrappy dirt parking lot of the Dixie Cigar Factory. The five o’clock whistle had just blasted, and a flood of workers streamed from the two-story red-brick building built near the end of the Great Depression. He hoisted a load of papers under his other arm while still waving one in the air. Read all ’bout missin’ girl!

A handful of weary factory workers shuffled up, pushing coins in his hand and taking papers.

Grover paid Ezekiel a penny for every copy he sold, and the boy deserved every bit of it. Nonsubscription sales had doubled since he hired him to sell papers on the street. When the factory customers dissipated, Ezekiel sprinted down Main Street, waving his paper and singing out the headlines.

From his window on this late spring afternoon in 1959, Grover scanned the colorful canopied shops that flanked the handmade brick street running through the center of Alachua Springs, Florida. Folks meandered, unhurried, along the sidewalks. In the center of the manicured town square, kept flowering year-round by the ladies’ garden club, stood the pristine white-domed courthouse. All the important business was conducted there, including what should have been an investigation by the sheriff’s office of the missing girl.

In the midst of the slow-moving pedestrians, Grover’s attention was drawn to the bulky, six-foot frame of Deputy Theran Boggs, the no-account nephew of the long-sitting sheriff, marching down the street toward his office. From the deep scowl on Theran’s puffy red face, Grover knew a confrontation was in the making. He sighed and sank into the worn swivel chair behind his desk.

For the last thirty-five years, he’d published the weekly Alachua Springs Register when he had enough local news to fill its dozen or more pages. When things were slower than usual, it took him two weeks to get the paper out. This week, he had big news—a young girl was missing.

The front door of the office banged open. Theran stomped in, his thick body barreling toward Wright’s desk. I told you, Grover, she ain’t missing, Theran blustered, glaring at Grover from under the brim of his deputy’s hat. She’s just taken off for the big city. That story you’re running on the front page is getting folks all hot ’n’ bothered. Hell, they’re even running around locking their doors and talking about a crime spree.

Look, Theran, I interviewed her parents, Grover insisted resolutely, surrendering his pipe in its holder on the desk. She didn’t run away. She was just an innocent young girl, only fifteen. She worked all day picking tobacco out there in the fields. Then day before yesterday, she didn’t come out of those fields, and no one’s seen her since.

And I say you don’t know what you’re talking about. Theran leaned over and planted his hands on Grover’s desk. I know all about them migrant workers. Shit, they’re always hightailin’ it off somewhere.

They’re not migrants, Theran. That girl, Lexie Tate, was born right here in Alachua Springs. She has three brothers and a sister. She’s lived here her whole life.

Aw, hell, Grover, this ain’t the only nigger girl to take up with the first young buck to promise her a meal ticket outta them tobacco fields, and it ain’t gonna be the last. He threw up his hands. I’m the law ’round here, and I’ll decide what needs investigatin’ and what don’t!

Seems to me that ought to be up to Sheriff Burch. You being best friends with Clay Hadley, some folks might call you biased.

Don’t you go bad-mouthin’ Hadley and his tobacco plantation. If it weren’t fer his tobacco, this here town woulda dried up years ago and all us with it. Red faced, he turned and headed for the door. I got more important stuff to do than waste my time on some crazy nigger field hand running off. He pointed a finger at Grover. You just get ’er outta the headlines, y’hear? The windows shook when he slammed the door.

Watching him leave, Grover knew, sadly enough, there wouldn’t be any investigation into the girl’s disappearance.

Extra! Extra! Read all ’bout missin’ girl, Ezekiel hollered, waving a paper in the air as he half walked, half danced across the scorching hot street right into the path of Theran Boggs.

Get outta my way, boy, Theran growled, brushing past him.

Grover’s expression softened as Ezekiel stepped into the office. How many did you sell today, Ezekiel?

Eighty so far, Mister Grover, suh, he chirped, a big grin flashing across his eager face. But I still got ten left, so I thought maybe I’d pick up a few mo’ and try down at the café, he added, running his hand over his close-cropped black hair. Mister Joe says if’n you want, I can leave what I don’t sell on his front counter for any latecomers.

Good, Ezekiel. You do that. When you’re done, come on back, and we’ll settle up, okay?

Yessuh, I sho will. He started to leave, then turned back. Uh, Mister Grover, he said tentatively, dey gonna find Lexie? His brown inquisitive eyes locked on Grover’s without wavering.

Grover hesitated, studying Zeke’s worried face. He looked about the same age, maybe fourteen or fifteen, he guessed. She a friend of yours?

Uh, yessuh, kinda. She’s a year older’n me. We was in school together for a while, dat is, up till she went off to work in dem tobacco fields. After dat, she jes’ up ’n’ quit. Stopped comin’ to church regular too.

Grover picked up on the questioning pain in the boy’s voice. I don’t know, Zeke. He shook his head sadly. I just don’t know.

The boy listened intently with his eyes, ears, and heart before answering. Well, suh, since you run the paper, I know if anything does turn up, you’ll know ’bout it. Would ya lemme know?

Sure, Zeke.

Thank you kindly, suh, Zeke replied, nodding. Now I’ll just take these here papers on down to the café. Grabbing up a bundle of papers, he maneuvered his way out the front door.

Grover watched him continue to hawk his papers as he left and sauntered down the street. That’s an enterprising good kid, he thought, shaking his head sadly. Honest, hardworking, and smart. If this were any other time and place, he could make something of himself.

Extra! Extra! Read all ’bout missing girl! Ezekiel’s chant faded into the distance.

Chapter 2

Zeke Brown fidgeted in his seat as he sat next to his brother in the small, sparse seventh-through-ninth-grade wooden classroom of the Annie Freeman School and stared at the cracked, chalky blackboard. Converted from a weathered barn to a school with eight bare-bones rooms and a bunch of discarded desks, it had housed the colored children in grades one through twelve in Alachua Springs for the last twenty years. The school had yet to ever enroll a student past the eighth grade, but Zeke planned to change that. With his stubby, knife-sharpened pencil and a stack of lined paper on the desk in front of him, Zeke eagerly awaited the day’s lesson.

Good morning, class. Standing at the front of the room, Elsie Smith, the rotund, middle-aged black teacher, adjusted her glasses and looked around at her students. Luke Brown, she called. Her eyes came to rest on the bulky figure slumped behind a book in the very back of the room, next to Zeke. Would you please stand and lead the class in the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag?

Zeke’s head jerked up in alarm. Oh no. His heart pounded for his brother.

Uh, y-y-yessum, Luke stuttered sheepishly, lowering the book from in front of his face.

Zeke watched his brother painstakingly wrangle his hulking, six-foot frame out of the too-small desk and get to his feet. He placed his right hand over his heart.

I pledge… I pledge… Luke stammered and paused, looking down at his baggy, faded denim coveralls. I pledge… a… legion… He stopped and stared blankly into space as snickers erupted from a couple of boys across the room. He shuffled from one foot to the other. His head rolled from side to side. A grimace distorted his jowly face.

Miss Elsie, Zeke interrupted as he shot up and stood next to his brother. "Luke ’n’ I always say the pledge together, like this. He jabbed Luke in the ribs as he boldly began, I pledge allegiance to the flag…"

The teacher motioned for the class to join in reciting the pledge. When they finished, Luke maneuvered himself back into his desk and raised his open book in front of his face. Zeke glared defiantly at the hecklers in the class before sliding into his seat.

That afternoon, as they walked home along the rutted dirt road, Zeke glanced up at his brother and said, Dontcha pay no ’tention to ’em. They’re assholes. Ya know how dey all be wantin’ you to be on dere side when we playin’ tug-a-war. He looked at his brother’s hefty 250-pound frame. Nosiree, dey cain’t do half the stuff you can. Betcha none a dem ever brung in a string of fish neither, like you do ever’ time we goes down to the creek.

Uh-huh, Luke muttered, unconvinced.

Zeke hurt for Luke. He couldn’t help his clumsy simplemindedness. So many times he had tried to teach his brother to read and write. After countless attempts though, he had finally come to realize that Luke, with his naive, eager-to-please smile, would never be able to do more than read and scribble at barely a second-grade level. The teacher knew it too but allowed him to sit in the back of the classroom, drawing and looking at the pictures in the books. Luke seemed perfectly content just to stumble alongside him to school each day, laughing and sharing secrets, then sit at his desk beside him until recess or lunch—unless the other kids poked fun at him like they had today.

Hey, Luke, Zeke said, moving around and getting in his brother’s face. Let’s go down to the creek right now and pull us up some fish fer Gramma t’cook up fer supper tonight. He watched his brother’s face light up.

Race you dere! Luke yelled over his shoulder as he flashed a grin and darted off.

Relieved, Zeke took off after him. Life didn’t get any better than an afternoon hanging out with a fishing pole and your best friend. It was their secret spot—a sun-drenched boulder jutting out over the creek. They had stashed bamboo poles, extra hooks, line, and a can for worms in a hollow tree trunk nearby. The afternoon was spent talking, wading in the creek, and pulling in fish dancing on the end of a line.

We’ll be like this the rest of our lives, Zeke thought contently, gazing into the dark, brackish water.

Whaddaya think? Luke quipped a couple of hours later, grinning and holding up the string of fish. In the distance, they could hear the five o’clock whistle blast at the cigar factory as the late afternoon sun cast shadows over the creek.

I think we’d better get on home, Zeke shot back. Yep, dey gonna taste mighty fine wrapped around some of Gramma’s hush puppies. He stashed his pole and gathered up his books. Come on. I’m hongry.

After dinner, while Luke slept, Zeke sat across the table from his grandmother in the kitchen as her wrinkled boney fingers wielded her darning needle around a sock. Her cloudy brown eyes squinted behind thick bottle glasses as she worked, quietly listening to Zeke share the latest in a string of bad incidents for Luke at school. Gramma, Zeke agonized, I hate it when dem boys poke fun at ’im. He dropped his hands on the table in frustration. I’ve tried to help ’im learn, but it jes’ don’t do no good. Unlike Luke, he managed to excel in school and looked forward to going every day. Luke, he knew, only went to school to be with him.

I know you have, son. Jesus knows you have, she reassured him, knotting her thread and reaching for another sock.

Gramma, Zeke said earnestly, he done all the book learnin’ he’s able to. Only reason he keeps on goin’ to school is ’cause a me. If’n I quit, he wouldn’t have to put up with dem assholes no mo.

Zeke. Pearl pushed her mending aside and took his hands in hers, looking deep into his sorrowful eyes. Like it says in the Good Book, you are thy brother’s keeper. One day, when I’m gone, you gonna have to be takin’ care of the both a you, and you gonna need all the schoolin’ you kin get. You gotta stay in dat school as long as you can, y’hear me?

Yessum, Zeke muttered, hanging his head. Gramma . . . gone? He shuddered.

Now it’s gettin’ late. Go on to bed.

Yessum. Zeke nodded, got up, and padded across the kitchen. ’Night, Gramma.

~~~

Luke! Ezekiel! Get yo’ sef outta dat bed! Pearl Brown’s voice rang out from the kitchen early the next morning as she clanged the hefty metal spoon against the iron skillet.

Luke, Luke—get up. Zeke rocked his brother’s shoulder. C’mon, Luke, Gramma’s already fixin’ breakfast.

I’m up, I’m up. Luke yawned, rolled over, and stuck his feet out from under the cozy, warm cotton blanket.

Each day started before dawn in the kitchen with the big black wood-burning iron stove. Each had their chores. Luke brought in wood for the stove, while Ezekiel made sure the well was primed. Pearl poured grits into a pot of boiling water and filled the frying pan with eggs fresh from the henhouse.

Yo’ shirts are washed and ready t’go. Pearl nodded over to the fresh T-shirts hanging on the wall hook. Now don’t y’all go get ’em messed up ’fore ya get to school, she added, stirring the grits. She looked over the glasses perched on the end of her nose directly at Zeke.

Yessum, Zeke answered, sitting down at the kitchen table. Gramma had never had any schooling herself. She had scratched out a meager living washing and ironing for the white gentry of Alachua Springs. He knew she wanted a better, easier life for them than the backbreaking one she had led, although he had never heard her complain.

He thought of all the years he and Luke had accompanied her, pushing her small wooden cart along the back alleys, stopping at the back doors of the big houses where they delivered armfuls of freshly washed and ironed linens and picked up bags of soiled ones. Every day of the week, except Sundays, which were always spent praising sweet Jesus for all their many blessings, was either a scrubbing, ironing, or delivery day. Thank you kindly, he remembered her saying to her customers as she bowed her head and tucked the coins, and occasional dollars, into her small drawstring purse. When her cart was full, they pushed it home, where she scrubbed laundry on a rubboard till her knuckles were raw. She was so happy the day he had brought home that old wringer washing machine someone had left out by the curb. When he plugged it in, it had jumped and danced all over the back porch; but she had held on to it, grinning from ear to ear.

He studied her thin, twisted fingers as she plopped big spoons of thick, buttered grits on their plates. Dat’s good, Gramma, he said, smiling up at her.

Uh-huh, gotta take care a my young’uns, she mused, moving about the kitchen. After all, it be a mighty poor hen who can’t scratch for two li’l bitties.

The boys rolled their eyes at each other across the table. It was just another one of Gramma’s sayings.

While they ate, she loaded their canvas lunch bag with fist-sized biscuits slathered with butter, leftover fried fish, a napkin full of home-baked cookies, and mason jars of lemonade.

Can’t wait fo’ lunch, Luke said, eyeing the food going in the bag. Dat’s the best part of school. He glanced over at Zeke and washed a preserve-topped biscuit down with gulps of milk.

Zeke swallowed hard, thinking about school and wondering what the day would bring for his brother.

You young’uns gonna be late fo’ school less’n you gets yo’ butts movin’, Pearl scolded, handing them their fresh shirts and pushing them out of the kitchen. And dontcha forget to brush dem teeth neither.

They pulled on their school clothes and passed Gramma’s inspection at the front door before heading down the dirt road, toting their notebooks, pencils, and big lunch bag.

Sitting at his desk at school, Zeke’s eyes scanned the room and came to rest on Lexie Tate’s sister, Doreen, as she sat staring out the window. There was still no news about Lexie.

All right, class, Miss Elsie chirped from the front of the classroom. Open your history books to chapter three—

The classroom door flew open. Everyone looked up in amazement as the principal and two grim-faced black men hurried inside. Lucious Tate, distraught, rushed to his daughter Doreen and threw his arms around her. The principal and Brother Bartholomew, the local young black preacher—always donned in his black coat and white collar—huddled around Miss Elsie and spoke in hushed tones.

Zeke strained to hear but could only make out a few words, found her body. Others too must have heard snatches of the conversation as they fidgeted in their desks and turned to whisper to those around them.

Holding his daughter’s hand, Lucious Tate hurried out of the room with tears streaming down his face and followed closely by the preacher and principal.

Stunned at first, the students jumped to their feet, all talking and asking questions at the same time. Glancing out the window, Zeke’s attention was drawn to a crowd of people scurrying into the schoolyard.

Quiet, everyone, Miss Elsie blurted, visibly shaken. Please take your seats.

No one moved. "Sit down, now, she repeated sternly. Sit down. I need to tell you what has happened."

The class returned to their seats, eyes wide and mouths gaping, and faced their teacher. Zeke dreaded what was coming next. Sompin’s bad—real bad, he thought.

Class, Miss Elsie’s lips trembled as she spoke. Our good friend, Lexie… She stammered over her next words. Lexie… Lexie’s body has been found. It was all she could utter before her voice broke.

Body? W-w-what happened to ’er? one student hollered as others cried out in alarm.

Zeke stood up and spoke succinctly for everyone in the room. Tell us what happened to Lexie, Miss Elsie.

Well, she said, her lower lip trembling, as you all know, Lexie was reported, um, missing because nobody knew where she was. She drew in a deep breath. A little while ago, some folks spotted her… her body in some bushes at the bottom of an embankment off Pawley’s Road, next to the creek. She paused, looking around the room. There was total, wide-eyed silence. She had their undivided attention now.

Why… Zeke stammered. I mean, what happened to ’er? What’d she die of? It was the question everybody was wondering.

They are looking into that, Miss Elsie answered. "But if any of you know, or saw, anything that can help them to figure it out, go tell Brother Bartholomew, and he’ll tell the proper authorities."

Why? a voice hollered from the middle of the room. Dey ain’t gonna do nothin’.

The sound of more footsteps rushing down the hall drew everyone’s attention as several frantic parents coming to get their children crowded through the doorway.

Class is dismissed, Miss Elsie announced abruptly over the turmoil. Go directly home and stay indoors. The classroom immediately emptied out.

Whacha ’spect happened to ’er? Luke asked as their bare feet shuffled along the familiar dirt road home.

I dunno, Zeke muttered, clutching his books under his arm. I asked Mister Grover over at the paper the other day if dey was gonna find ’er, but he jes’ shook his head and said he didn’t know. Dat sheriff’s deputy been tellin’ folks ’round town she jes’ run off, but dat ain’t right, Luke. Somebody bad awful got to ’er, and now she’s dead.

W-w-well, Luke stammered, maybe she jes’ up ’n’ died on ’er own.

Dat’s crazy. It’s not like she dropped dead of old age. Naw, somebody’s done gone and kilt ’er, and I wants to find out who and beat the crap out of ’em. An eye fer an eye, Luke, ain’t dat what Brother Bartholomew preaches in church?

They walked on in silence. Nearing their house they saw Gramma’s wiry frame in the yard. With an apron of clothespins tied around her thin waist, she was hanging wash on the clothesline.

Gramma! Luke shouted, running toward her. Gramma, dey found Lexie—dead!

Oh, sweet Jesus, she gasped, slapping her hand over her mouth. What happened? She looked to Zeke for an explanation. A brisk wind whipped the damp sheets around them.

Let’s go inside, Zeke said, picking up her wash basket.

They sat around the kitchen table as Zeke related everything that had happened at school that day.

Gramma listened intently, shaking her head. Dere’s gonna be trouble, she said when he had finished. Big trouble. You boys stay in dis house, and don’t you so much as poke yo’ heads outta dat door, you understand?

Aw, Gramma, Zeke wailed. We jes’ wanna help the sheriff find the ones who dunnit.

You stay away from dat sheriff too, she snapped. He’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg. You stay put fer the next few days. Y’understand me? She held their attention as she shook her finger. Ever’body’s gonna be real jumpy right now. Dis here’s the kinda thang dat gets folks kilt.

Chapter 3

Cradling a shotgun in the crook of his arm, Sheriff Buddy Burch stood in the doorway of his office, surveying the growing crowd of colored men gathered on the courthouse lawn. Light flickering from the votive candles they held in their calloused hands illuminated their stern faces.

What the hell’s goin’ on out there? he barked gruffly. Y’all better get outta here while you still can. Y’hear me?

The crowd hesitated before edging slowly toward him.

Theran, Lowell, Burch