Jonathon King - Eye of Vengeance

"Please," she said, pushing open the screen door for him to enter. Nick took note of the thin forearm, mottled as much as the grass yard, with patches of pink marring the naturally dark skin.

"Thank you, ma'am," Nick said, taking two steps into a darkened living room where the odor of medicine and potpourri battled one another.

When his eyes adjusted he could see the features of Margaria Cotton's face and small figure. They had changed over the years, pulled perhaps by the gravity of grief, as if every bone and every centimeter of skin had been attached to a weight. Her shoulders were slumped, her back, which had been proudly stiff when she sat in the courtroom for Ferris's sentencing, was bowed forward. Her cheekbones were sharp, but in the way of malnutrition versus some role of fashion. Nick, as was his way, preferred to watch her eyes, which still held the intelligence and strength that he had noted three years ago. She did the same, meeting his gaze, not with defiance, but more as a way of showing her confidence and lack of pretension.

"Can I get you something, Mr. Mullins? Coffee? Water?" she said while extending her hand to show him a seat.

"No. Thank you. I'm fine, ma'am."

The woman nodded and took a seat opposite him on a sofa. A low, glass-topped table separated them. Nick noted the stack of newspapers on one end, the Daily News and, he could tell by the style of the type, the Herald, and at least one out-of-town publication.

"I was hoping to get in touch with you, Ms. Cotton," he began. "I assume that you have heard of the shooting death of Mr. Ferris."

"Yes," she said, folding her hands in her lap. "Mr. Dempsey called me yesterday. And I read it in the newspapers this morning." She too looked over at the papers.

"I read the news every day, Mr. Mullins. I suppose it isn't always healthy to let all that ugliness inside my house," she said, but did not look around herself when she made the comment. Nick, however, took the opportunity to take in the small wooden cross mounted on the wall behind her. It was flanked by the elementary school photos of what he recognized as her daughters. They were the same photos that his newspaper had used during the coverage of their killing. The same computer-stored photos had run in this morning's edition.

"I know it might sound kind of, you know, sick," she said, bringing his attention back to her eyes. "But there is something about the tragedies of others, Mr. Mullins, that helps remind me that I am not the only one suffering."

Nick nodded his head.

"I am sorry about your children, Ms. Cotton," he said, motioning slightly to the photos behind her with his eyes.

"You were very kind to us in your stories, Mr. Mullins. There was a word my minister used for it, I forget…" She closed her eyes for a moment, searching. "Compassion. That was it. He said your writing had compassion in it."

Again, all Nick could do was nod. He noted the diction in her conversation. A poor black woman, but one who was educated, maybe even well read. She went out of her way to choose her words in the presence of someone like Nick, only letting an occasional slip of slang enter her sentences. It was perhaps an unconscious habit she fell into when she wanted her listener to be comfortable. Nick did the same thing when he was with southerners, slipping into a minor drawl that did not belong to him. His daughters always noticed and would tell him later that he had embarrassed them. He shook off the recollection and reached into his back pocket. He took out the notebook and drew a pen from his shirt, a signal that he was here to work.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Cotton. I don't want to sound simple here, but in your position, these years later, I was calling to find out what your reaction to Mr. Ferris's death might be."

The woman went quiet for several moments, but Nick had learned long ago not to give up on any interviewees other than politicians when he could see in their eyes that they were forming an answer to his questions, testing a reply in their mind.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mullins," she finally said. "I guess I wanted to say relief, or maybe some kind of feel of justice. But I can't say I have that. I have long given judgment up to the Lord Himself, and that man is meeting his Maker this very morning on his own terms," she said with a certainty that Nick was always befuddled by with people of faith.

"No, sir, I would have to tell you, Mr. Mullins, that I don't believe that any kind of vision of Mr. Ferris has entered my mind for some time. I believe he was already gone in my mind."

"But you still wanted to see me," Nick said. "Is there something that you wanted to say about the shooting?"

"Only that I was bothered by some things in the newspapers, not yours, of course, that said maybe I or my people might have done something to get revenge for my girls."

"OK," Nick said, without taking his eyes off hers.

"And we did not do anything. I did not," she said, bringing the strength back into her voice that had been there during Ferris's trial.

Nick nodded and wrote on the pad, a nonsensical squiggle that the woman could not see, just to make her know she was being heard.

"Revenge is not in my blood, or my family's blood, Mr. Mullins," she said. "And I cannot think of anyone I know who would have been wanting to kill Mr. Ferris."

"I think the detectives will have to look at any and all possibilities, Ms. Cotton," Nick said. "I would think that's why they want to interview you, ma'am, not because of anything that was put into the newspaper."

He stopped. Wondering why he was defending himself.

"But since I am here, has anyone contacted you, Ms. Cotton? Anyone, say, on the phone? Or anonymously written you, someone who might have sounded like they were doing this on your behalf? You know, like taking action because they felt you deserved closure or something?"

Nick hated even using the word. There was no such thing. Closure. It was a buzzword someone came up with and then it spread like kudzu into the vernacular.

"No, sir," she said, then hesitated, not speaking as she held up the fingers of her right hand, as though stopping time.

"Mr. Dempsey did give me a whole bunch of letters after the trial from folks sending me sympathy," she said after gathering her memories. "Sometimes he still does. I put them all in a box, and I think it's very kind."

"Has he brought you anything recently?" Nick said. The mention of paper piqued his interest. Something written and verified, especially with a postage mark, was manna for a journalist. It was the fuel for a paper trail.

"I can't say I recall the last time," Cotton said. "Might have been in the fall. I am not much for keepin' track of time anymore, Mr. Mullins."

"Any names in the box that were familiar, Ms. Cotton?" Nick pressed, envisioning a list of names, something he could use, something solid he could trace.

"Well, I don't really pay much attention to the names, sir. I read the ones from the mothers mostly," she said and a wistful look came into her face, making Nick feel a twinge of guilt at his grilling. But not too guilty.

"Could I perhaps take a look at the letters, Ms. Cotton? Just sort of go through the names, I mean. I don't want to pry," Nick said, lying. Of course he wanted to pry. It's what reporters did.

"I would have to look up in my closets to find them. I believe that's where I might have stored that box away."

Nick looked at his watch. It was late. They would have to leave soon for her to make her appointment with the detectives. But he didn't know what to ask.

"Ms. Cotton, has anyone related to Mr. Ferris, or even someone who said they knew him, ever come to speak to you or even introduce themselves?"

Nick watched her close her eyes, searching again for a picture of the past.