James PATTERSON - Alex Cross’s Trial

He fell into such a deep silence that I thought he might have fallen asleep. Maybe he was beginning his passage into the next world.

But he had a few more words to say.

“Moody said you told the jury a saying from the book of Samuel,” he said.

I nodded.

“That’s one of my favorite passages,” he said. “I sure hated to miss you. Would you say it out to me now?”

“Of course, Abraham,” I said.

I cleared my throat.

“For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.”

Then Abraham spoke the last words he would ever say to me.

“You did fine, Ben. You did just fine.”

“HE’LL SLEEP NOW,” Moody said. “Maybe he won’t wake up this time.”

I followed her out to the little front porch. We sat in the chairs where L.J. and I had spent a long hot night waiting for the Raiders to come.

The worst heat had finally broken. You couldn’t call it a cool day, exactly, but the wet blanket of humidity had lifted.

“I’m glad I got to talk to him,” I said. “His words mean a lot to me.”

Moody said nothing.

“I feel terrible about the way the trial turned out,” I said.

I was hoping, I suppose, that Moody would say something like Abraham had said: that I had done my best and it wasn’t my fault.

She turned to face me. “I know you’re going to think I’m nothin’ but a cold, ungrateful girl. But I don’t just feel bad – I’m angry. Damn angry. Oh yeah, you did your best. And Mr. Curtis did his best. And Mr. Stringer spent all that money… but those murderers walked away free.”

“You’re right, Moody,” I said. “They did.”

“Papaw keeps saying it takes a long time for things to change. Well, that’s fine for him – he’s almost run out of time. I don’t want to be old and dying before anything ever starts to get better.”

I nodded. Then I did something I didn’t know I was going to do until I did it.

I reached over and took Moody’s hand.

This time she did not pull away.

We said nothing, because finally there was nothing left to say. After a few minutes she leaned her head on my shoulder and began to weep softly.

Then she pulled away and sat up. “Listen, Ben, do me a favor. I’m afraid Papaw’s going to get bedsores, and Hemple’s is all out of wintergreen oil. You reckon you could go into town and bring some?”

“Gladly,” I said. “But only if you go with me. You’ve been trapped in this house for days.”

“You are plain crazy, Ben Corbett,” she said. “You think the people of this town want to see you and me parading together downtown? You want to get yourself lynched again?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “Do you care about what the people of Eudora think?”

She pondered that a moment. “No. I s’pose I don’t.”

She wiped her eyes with a corner of the dishtowel. “Oh, hell, Ben, what goes on in that crazy brain of yours?”

I was wondering the same thing.

“Will you go with me?” I said. “I need to do something in town.”

I HELPED MOODY DOWN from the handlebars of the bicycle. She had hollered most of the way into town, threatening bodily harm if I didn’t let her down off that contraption this instant! The noise we made was enough to turn heads all the way up Maple Street, onto Commerce Street, and into the center of town.

Eudora had just begun to settle down again. The last of the photographers and reporters had gone away on the one o’clock train.

I heard the rhythmic clang of iron from the blacksmith shop, and the pop-pop report of a motorcar doing a circuit around the courthouse square.

A few hours ago the eyes of the nation were upon Eudora. Now it was just another sleepy little southern town, happy to go back to living in the past, looking toward the future with nothing but suspicion and fear.

“Shall we?” I asked Moody.

“You’re gonna start a riot,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”

I clasped her hand tightly in mine. Then we began to walk down the sidewalk of the busiest street in Eudora.

To anyone who didn’t know us, we would seem like lovers out for a romantic stroll on a late-summer afternoon.

But of course there was a complication: I was white, Moody was black. My hair was blond and straight, hers was black and tightly curled.

The citizens of Eudora had never seen anything like the two of us.

They stopped in their tracks. Some got down off the sidewalk to put some distance between us. Others groaned or cried out, as if the sight of us caused them physical pain.

Corinna Cutler and Edwina Booth came out of Miss Ida’s store, a couple of plump old hens cackling to each other – until they laid eyes on our joined hands.

Both their jaws dropped.

“Afternoon, Miz Cutler,” I said. “Afternoon, Miz Booth.”

Their faces darkened and they hurried away.

Ezra Newcomb saw us through the window of his barber-shop. He abandoned his lathered-up customer in the chair and stalked to the door. “Ben Corbett,” he shouted, “I oughta take this razor to your damn throat!”

I relinquished Moody’s hand and wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. “Nice to see you too, Ezra.”

Word of our coming spread down the street before us. About half the town stepped out onto the sidewalk to see what was causing the commotion.

At the drugstore I held the door for Moody.

Doc Conover stared down at us from his pharmacist’s bench at the rear. “What do you want, Corbett?”

“A bottle of wintergreen oil, please,” I said.

“We’re fresh out,” he said.

“Aw now, come on, Doc,” I said. “It’s for Abraham Cross. He’s dying, and it would bring him relief. You’ve known Abraham all your life.”

“I told you we’re out,” he said. “Now clear out of here.”

“There it is, up there next to the camphor.” I pointed to the row of bottles on the shelf above his head.

“You callin’ me a liar?” said Conover. “Take off, or I’ll have the police throw you out of here.”

Moody pulled at my sleeve. “Let’s go,” she said.

I followed her toward the front door.

There was a crowd waiting outside to point and jeer at us. We turned left and headed down the block. “Let’s go to the Slide Inn and have some iced tea,” I said.

“I can’t go in there,” she said.

“Sure you can. Who’s going to stop you?”

“Get out of here, nigger-lover!” called a man in the crowd.

We came to Jenkins’ Mercantile, passing the bench where Henry North and Marcus had carried my mother after she had had her stroke.

We walked the rest of the way to the Slide Inn, trailing our little mob of catcalling spectators.

Lunch service was over. There were only three customers in the café – two young ladies sipping coffee and an old woman chewing on a cheese sandwich.

I’d hoped Miss Fanny was on duty today, but it was another waitress who approached us. “Can’tcha read?” she said, poking her thumb at a brand-new sign posted above the cash register:

WHITES ONLY

“I’m white,” I said.

Without a pause the waitress said, “You got a nigger with you. Now go on, get outta here.”

“Where’s Miss Fanny?” I said.

“She don’t work here no more,” the woman said. “’Cause of you.”

We turned to the door. I felt something hit my sleeve and I glanced down. It was a gob of spit, mixed with what looked like cheese. It could only have come from the little old lady.

When we stepped out the door our audience had swelled to a couple of dozen angry people.