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“If I remember correctly, you went to Dartmouth for college and Harvard Law, Mr. Battle. So you’re one of those high-and-mighty elites you just denounced.”
“Well, I sure don’t see myself that way, son. I came up middle class.”
“Uh-huh, and, again, why is that man here, do you think?”
“I believe Mr. Pickett senses an opportunity with this case.”
“What sort of opportunity?”
“Oh, I guess we’ll have to wait and see. Now, I got to get back inside and comfort Mrs. Hanover. Terrible thing your client did. Robbing the lady of her parents.”
Battle hurried back into the house, while Jack drove toward the gate.
As he approached, the TV anchor saw him and the man said something to Pickett. The coal millionaire turned and stood in the way, forcing Jack to stop the Fiat.
Pickett came around to the driver’s side and motioned Jack to roll down his window. He smiled and said, “I’m Howard Pickett, Mr. Lee. Nice to meet you.”
“Hello,” said Jack as he looked at the cameraman filming this encounter.
“You’re a nice-looking white man, law degree and everything, I’ve been told. So what the hell are you doing representing a Negro who killed some fine elderly white people in their own home?”
“And you’re a millionaire many times over. And you get chauffeured around in a big, fancy car. You have your own plane that you fly George Wallace around in, and have somehow convinced the common man you’re just like him.”
The smile grew wider. “I grew up with nothing, son.”
“So did I, and that’s pretty much what I still have.”
“Maybe it’s because you associate with the wrong color of folks.”
“Or maybe it’s because I don’t have any coal mines,” retorted Jack.
“I like your attitude, son. I think we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Really? Are you a lawyer, too?”
“No, but I hire ’em by the dozen,” said Pickett.
“Would that include Mr. Battle, by chance?”
“Oh, you best not go there, son. That could be considered slander.”
“I’ll be heading on. Got a lot of work to do,” noted Jack.
“You got a lot of thinking to do. Make sure you come to the right conclusion.”
“Which is?” asked Jack.
“Be loyal to your race. And don’t be no longhair, either.”
“Longhair?” said Jack.
“Hippies, potheads. And don’t be no pointy head,” added Pickett.
“You’ll have to define that one for me too.”
“Academic types. You know, Ivy Leaguers who don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground and look down on ordinary folks.”
“So you didn’t go to college, then?”
