Page 66 of The Reformatory

“I don’t care if he kicked the Virgin Mary,” Miz Lottie said. “It don’t make sense.”

“Oh, it makes sense to them,” the lawyer said. “To sentence a child to six months over a schoolyard kick is to willfully ignore that child’s humanity. To rebuke it.”

Gloria was tired of sad, angry words. “How do we get him out?”

“Where is Gracetown?” the lawyer said.

Only now, starting to hope, did Gloria feel afraid of what he might say next. “Outside Marianna,” Gloria said, while Miz Lottie said, “Couple hours’ drive.”

“Northwest,” Mr. Moore said, to make it clear. “Not south. Two hours northwest.”

John Dorsey pointed his cigarette at Mr. Moore. “But setting distance aside… let’s look at all the angles of this thing, Miss Stephens, Miz Lottie.” He leaned closer to them, using a secret-keeping voice. “We can’t expect justice in a racist court,” he said. “It happens from time to time, but most times it won’t. White juries are afraid of Negroes, so even our children seem dangerous on sight. That was the trap laid for Robbie before he ever kicked anyone.”

“Lyle pushed Robbie first,” Gloria said.

“A push is also an assault,” the lawyer said, nodding. “By law. But I’m gonna take a wild guess that the son of a wealthy white planter and business owner didn’t pay a price for assaulting your brother?” He didn’t wait for her answer, which was bubbling as a sob in Gloria’s throat as she remembered that awful morning on McCormack Road. “Of course he didn’t. The law, by design, is to protect the McCormacks. Not us. Not Robbie. That’s the reason no grand jury will indict the postmaster who murdered a child here in town.” His voice cracked and he sat back in his seat. He seemed to have a sob buried in his throat too.

“Welcome to Florida. That sick feeling’s gonna stick with you all the way down to Lake County and probably get worse after you get there,” Mr. Moore said. “But sometimes folks just need to tell their sorrows and all you can do is hear them.” Gloria felt Mr. Moore was talking about her and Miz Lottie, eager to steer the lawyer back to their day’s plans far away.

John Dorsey shook his head to say, It’s okay, and brought his eyes back to Gloria’s, fully focused. “How old is Robbie?”

She had him. Mr. Moore knew it too. He hung his head. “Twelve,” Gloria and Miz Lottie said together.

The lawyer winced. “Twelve-year-olds in prison…”

“They beat Robbie with a whip,” Gloria blurted before she remembered she had only sensed it; she couldn’t prove it. Miz Lottie gave her a surprised look.

The lawyer’s eyebrows jumped. “Flogging’s not legal in Florida prisons, is it?”

Mr. Moore was nodding. “It is at Gracetown Boys’ School. They’ve got a whipping shed. I’ve heard about it. Half my calls from parents are about the Reformatory.”

“They got a damn cemetery out there,” Miz Lottie said. “They’re buryin’ them boys. And doing who knows what all else. Workin’ ’em like grown men besides. Like slaves. Last I heard, Lincoln set us free.”

Every word Miz Lottie spoke made the lawyer’s jaw tighten. Gloria suddenly knew the exact words to steer him: “You couldn’t help Willie,” she said, “but you can help my brother, Mr. Dorsey.”

Mr. Dorsey and Mr. Moore shared a long conversation with their eyes. “Gracetown’s a lot like Lake County,” Mr. Moore said to the lawyer. “They need to know the whole size of it, Johnny.”

Mr. Dorsey nodded and looked back at Gloria. “Say we threw around the NAACP’s name in Gracetown; that’ll get their attention, all right. But will it be the attention you want?”

“We just want Robbie free,” Gloria said. “I don’t care if people are talking about us.”

“This isn’t about talk,” Mr. Dorsey said. “In a case like your father’s—when a white girl is telling the sheriff she was raped by a Negro—it’s never just about talk.”

Gloria’s face felt hot to hear Papa’s story from his mouth. “This isn’t about my father.” She hated the whine in her voice, just when she’d convinced them not to treat her like a child.

“What he’s saying, we’ve got two strikes against us,” Mr. Moore said. “One, he’s Robert Stephens’s son. That hurts us with the judge.” Miz Lottie started to argue but he cut her off. “It’s just facts, Lottie. On top of that, there’s Superintendent Haddock: he’s a special case. Spoils for a fight. He’ll keep a boy for ten years out of spite—until the very last minute of the very last day he can keep a boy by law, and sometimes when he can’t. Sometimes the children are only seven or eight. He’ll keep them ten, twelve years. I’ve seen it. And the governor has the same answer: ‘discretion of the superintendent.’ There’s always a witness willing to say they saw the boy do wrong just before it was time to get out: those boys say what they’re told to say. That gives Haddock a whole lot of sway, always an excuse.”

“Who does Haddock answer to, then?” Gloria said. “He answers to somebody.”

The lawyer patted his suit pocket for a cigarette although the one in his ashtray was only half burned. “The judge,” he said.

Mr. Moore let out a sigh. “NAACP showing up at the courthouse?” He leaned over to clasp Miz Lottie’s hands, voice gentle. “For Robbie’s sake, I think it’s better to let him quietly do his time. You don’t know what could get stirred up. Lake County’s ugly, Lottie.” He lowered his voice. “You don’t want to see it in Gracetown. Send the girl somewhere for a while. It’ll keep her from harm’s way… and may help Robbie get out quicker.”

“If he gets out,” Miz Lottie said.

“How many folks got a child buried at Boot Hill?” Gloria spoke to the lawyer. “What would the judge have to do?”

“Easiest thing, I guess, would be to say he’s reconsidered his sentence, wants to commute to time served. Or he has the power to rescind his sentence entirely.”