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L.J. slammed his fist on the dining room table, rattling the crystal goblets. “Goddamn their lying, cheating asses!”
L.J. was doing all the shouting. Jonah and I were standing back, watching him scream in a way only rich men can. We didn’t try to stop him or calm him down.
“The biggest lie of all,” L.J. said, “is when he says these White Raiders had some kind of official warrant to come into that house after Ricky.”
Jonah looked at me. “All right, Ben, how is Lewis going to demonstrate that in a credible fashion?”
“Easy,” I said. “He’ll put Phineas Eversman on the stand.”
“The policeman?”
“Chief of police, and the only full-time officer on the force,” I reminded him. “He’ll put Phineas on and Phineas will lie through his teeth.”
Jonah looked quizzical. “I thought Eversman was on our side. Or at least neutral.”
“He was on our side for exactly one night,” I explained. “He only arrested those men because L.J. pushed him into it. He’s been looking for a way out ever since.”
I speared a slice of Virginia ham before passing the platter to L.J.
“It didn’t look like it would rain tonight, did it?” said Jonah.
“Not to me,” L.J. replied. “Why?”
“That sure does sound like thunder outside,” Jonah said.
I walked over to the window and pulled back the drapes. First I was surprised; then I was frightened.
“What is it, Ben?”
“About thirty, forty fellows with guns,” I said, “and a few with pitchforks. They appear to be just standing there, watching the house.”
“That’s a mighty big crowd for Eudora,” L.J. said.
“No,” I said. “It’s a mighty big mob.”
Chapter 106
THE MOB CAUSED US no trouble that night. For about an hour they watched us watching them through the windows, then they turned and went away. Every few minutes I peeked out the window, but the streets of Eudora stayed quiet and dark that night.
The next morning the trial began in earnest. I spent a long minute studying the face of Henry Wadsworth North, trying to match the man with what I remembered of the boy on the day Mama took sick. Too many years had intervened. This sallow, blotchy-faced fat man bore only a vague resemblance to the surly kid I remembered from Jenkins’ Mercantile.
Jonah called his first witness: Abraham Cross.
Abraham was wearing his best church suit, of speckled brown wool, and a matching fedora. He rolled in in a rickety wheelchair Moody had borrowed from a crippled neighbor of L.J.’s, a nice woman who sympathized with us.
“Now, Mr. Cross,” Jonah said, “why don’t you take us back to the night of August twenty-fifth. Tell us what you remember.”
Abraham nodded. “Well, sir, I was in the parlor, a-layin’ in my bed, and Moody was tendin’ after me—”
“Excuse me, sir,” Jonah said. “Who is Moody?”
“Moody Cross. My granddaughter. She looks after me.”
“Thank you, sir. Please go on.”
“Like I say, I was a-layin’ in my bed. Not quite sure if I’d been sleeping or not. But then sure enough I come awake. Sound like the cavalry done showed up outside the house. A bunch of horses, I don’t know how many. And men shootin’ off guns, and yellin.’ Like to scared me half to death—and I don’t need to be any closer to dead than I already am.”
Laughter rolled through the courtroom, from whites and Negroes. My father slammed down the gavel to kill it.
