“That depends on him. If he goes along peacefully, he’ll be put in a cell and held until Judge Perkins sets bail. If he gets belligerent it’s hard to say what might happen.”
“Chief,” Harvester said, “A lot of good’s happening on this island. It would be a shame if Earl Manning’s only son was punished without a fair trial. People in Washington DC and Jefferson City have a real interest in Saxon County.”
“There’s other people watching too, old man,” Bump sneered. “Maybe they’re not from Washington or Jeff City, but you’d be smart to keep one eye open anyway.”
Cannon spun the car back in the direction of the bridge, kicking up dust and stones as he hit the gravel. Officers Eskridge and Powter followed with Chan.
###
The patrol car’s sticky back seat smelled of sweat, booze, and vomit. A metal cage separated Chan from Officers Eskridge and Powter. Darrell made a point to hit every bump in the road. Chan got as comfortable as he could with his hands cuffed behind him.
“You messed with the wrong person when you beat up Ricky Smoot,” Darrell said.
“Ricky Smoot is a bully and a drunk. He deserved what he got.”
Eskridge slammed on the brakes, propelling Chan against the metal partition. His right shoulder took the brunt of the impact. The ache from hundreds of innings pitched returned with a vengeance.
“Ricky Smoot don’t deserve nothing!” Eskridge turned in his seat, his face contorted in rage.
“You just used a double negative, Officer,” Chan said coolly. “That indicates to me that you didn’t have Miss Bertie for high school English.”
Eskridge stared at Chan like he was from another planet. Melissa Powter tried unsuccessfully to suppress a giggle.
“He’s from down in the boot heel,” Melissa said. “I had Miss Bertie. I graduated five years behind you.”
Darrell stared at his partner in disbelief. Melissa didn’t seem to care.
“So what’s going to happen, Officer Powter?” Chan pointedly ignored Darrell.
“It’s no secret that Chief Cannon can’t stand you. The story of the whipping you put on him after graduation is epic.”
“What about Ricky Smoot and the whipping he gave that boy on the square yesterday?”
“Nobody saw anything, at least anything they’re willing to talk about.”
“Well I saw it. Miss Bertie was there, too.”
“But you’re on your way to jail for assault,” Darrell said. “Your testimony won’t carry any weight.”
Chan ignored the blustering redneck. “Officer Powter, I can tell you’re a sensible person. You know what happened. What should I do?”
“If it were me—”
“Don’t be advising prisoners, Melissa!”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Darrell. Remember, you barely passed the entrance exam for this job.”
Melissa looked back at Chan and shrugged.
“Judge Perkins is fair. He’ll hear what you have to say.”
The rest of the ride was silent.
###
Adair’s City Hall was built while Chan was away. Two blocks off the square, it was a low-slung brick building. The city jail was accessible from a lower level in the rear.
Chan expected to see Bump Cannon waiting for him, but he was nowhere in sight. Darrell flipped a coin, calling heads as it spun in the air. It landed on tails. Officer Powter would process the prisoner.
She said little, but seemed unafraid as she removed the cuffs and photographed Chan before leading him to an area with two small cells. One was already occupied. The prisoner, lying on a small thin mattress on the floor, rolled over when he heard them coming.
It was the boy Ricky Smoot had beaten up.
“You hold juveniles and adults in the same jail?” Chan said.
“Only when necessary,” Melissa said, holding open the door to the empty cell. “Neither of you will be here long.”
Chan stepped inside and moved away from the door. Melissa closed it quietly and left the cell area, closing a metal door behind her. Chan glanced around. Not much to see. Six by eight, windowless, a mattress similar to the one across the hall, and a toilet with a sink on the back.
Chan moved forward and eyed the boy across the hall. His face showed the results of the pummeling from the day before.
“You Chan Manning?”
“I am. Who are you?”
“Arsenio Beckett.”
Chan smiled. “Arsenio? Like—”
“The guy on TV? Yeah. Mama loved his show. She also liked The Tonight Show, you know, the one before Leno. My brother’s named for him.”
“Johnny?”
“Nah, man. Carson. Carson Beckett.”
Chan laughed. “Good to meet you, Arsenio.”
“Call me A.B.”
“You got it.” They reached out and bumped fists.
“So A.B., what brings you to Saxon County?”
The boy looked surprised. “You don’t know?”
Chan shook his head. “Brother, I haven’t been here since high school.”
“We’re all here for Professor Stanley. You know him?”
“Yeah, I met him today. Do you work for him?”
“Naw, man. We don’t work for him. We work with him.”
“Who is ‘we?’”
A.B. scrunched his nose. “We is us, man. The migrants.”
“You’re migrant workers?” It started to make sense. “How long will you be in Saxon County.”
“Forever. Professor Stanley brought us here. No more chasing the harvest.”
Chan nodded his head slowly. “You’re saying that you and some other migrant families are living here? How many families are there?”
After stopping to count, A.B. continued.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty. Most got kids. Maybe sixty of us. More coming all the time.”
Chan chewed on this for a second.
“Sixty... black people? In Saxon County?”
A.B. nodded. “Mostly. A couple families are Mexican.”
“In Saxon County?”
“Yep.”
“And where are you and the other families living? I’m betting not on Main Street.”
A.B.’s laugh echoed off the cell walls.
“Oh man, you funny! You know where we living!”
Smiling, Chan shook his head. “No really, I don’t.”
“Dude, we’re all living down by your place.”
“Down on Grebey Island.”
SEVENTY-SIX
Officer Darrell Eskridge swaggered into the cell area and unlocked A.B.’s cell.
“Exercise time, sport.”
“What does exercise time consist of?” Chan asked.
“Nothing to concern yourself with, boy,” Darrell said brusquely.
Chan and A.B. locked eyes. The kid was scared. Darrell cuffed and led him out. Chan stretched out on the thin mattress and closed his eyes.
People living on Grebey Island.
People of color living on Grebey Island.
What in the world had happened?
A.B. said Grebey Island was their first permanent home. Like all migrant families, they had spent their lives following the harvests. Strawberries, tomatoes, cantaloupes. Whatever needed picking. Chan knew little about migrant workers, other than it could be a grim existence with low wages and substandard living conditions. On the island, A.B. said the families were living in trailers, temporary quarters for most, as they planned to build their own homes in the coming months.
What led Harvester Stanley to help migrant families find a permanent home?
And of all the places, why here?
And how did Earl get involved?
When the cellblock door opened again an hour later, Chan expected to see Officer Darrell Eskridge returning A.B. Instead, it was Bump Cannon.
“It’s your lucky day, Mutt. Somebody cared enough to chase down Judge Perkins. He signed a bail order. Five grand.”
Chan lifted himself fro
m the mattress and stretched to his full height. Bump unlocked the door and pointed for Chan to walk ahead of him. Who bailed him out? Chan thought of Miss Bertie or maybe Harvester Stanley.
A man in his sixties was waiting at the front counter. Small and thin, he wore khaki slacks and a dark green button-down shirt.
“Mutt,” Bump said loudly. “Say hello to your guardian angel.”
The man’s voice was quiet, but direct.
“It’s been awhile, Mr. Manning. I don’t expect you remember me. I’m Richard Smoot. A friend of your father’s.”
Chan’s stomach tightened.
“Forgive me, I must have misheard. Richard Smoot?”
“Yes sir.”
“Ricky’s father?”
Smoot nodded.
Chan glanced around, not liking the situation one bit.
“Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Manning. I don’t condone some of the things my son does. In this case, I feel there were some mitigating circumstances that led to the altercation in town yesterday.”
“Your son beat up a boy for the fun of it,” Chan’s voice grew louder. “If you want to see the proof, look at him. He’s being held here on some phony charges.”
“If that turns out to be the case, we’ll deal with it. Right now I’m still gathering the facts. I know this for certain: your father and I were about to enter into a business relationship that was interrupted by his unfortunate death. I’d like to talk to you about that and see if we can salvage something that’ll help you get on with your life.”
Chan looked at Bump.
“Am I free to go?”
Bump nodded at Smoot. “Thanks to that man, you are.”
Chan headed for the door.
“Mr. Smoot, if you’re serious about this business proposal, and it’ll get me away from here, I’m interested.”
“When would you like to talk?”
“Tomorrow morning,” Chan replied. “Let’s meet at my father’s house. Nine o’clock.”
###
The courthouse clock chimed three times as Chan walked out of the police station. He reached for his cellphone, then remembered he had left it in his car at the cemetery. It would be a long walk to the island, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made it.
A horn blew from a far corner of the parking lot. Squinting through the afternoon sun, Chan saw the driver was Officer Melissa Powter.
“Get in. I’ll take you wherever you need to go.”
Chan walked to the passenger side of the late model red Mustang. He opened the door and slid in.
“Nice car. Ticket magnet?”
“Not for me.”
Chan smiled. “One of the advantages of working in law enforcement.”
“No,” Melissa replied. “I don’t speed.”
She started the car and headed for the street.
“Where to?”
“You know where Miss Bertie lives?”
“Who doesn’t?” Melissa took a side street that led out of town. Chan decided this would be as good an opportunity as any to get some information.
“What do you know about Richard Smoot?”
Melissa smiled. “A better man than his son.”
“That’s not saying much.”
“Quiet man, owns some of the best land in the county, mostly rents to tenant farmers. I think he made his money buying and selling farm commodities.”
Chan nodded. “Honest?”
“We’ve had no run-ins with him, but you hear things.”
They rode in silence past the city limits.
“Adair must seem pretty tame after playing baseball for a living.”
“Tame?” Chan rolled his eyes. “In two days I’ve buried my father, stepped in to protect a kid from a drunk redneck, gone to jail, and been bailed out by the redneck’s father. Give me big-city life anytime.”
Melissa’s laughter had a nice ring to it.
“It’s not always like this around here. Usually it’s pretty quiet.”
A few minutes later, Melissa turned into Miss Bertie’s driveway.
“It looks like somebody brought your car back from the cemetery.”
Chan took a long look at Melissa. Her civilian attire consisted of a pair of conservative blue shorts and a white sleeveless blouse. She was quite pretty.
Miss Bertie’s back door blew open and Ryan charged out, Lani close behind.
“Daddy!”
“Why were you in jail?”
Their excitement made a formal goodbye impossible. Chan nodded at Melissa as he unfolded his large frame from the Mustang’s tight front seat.
“Thank you Officer Powter.”
Melissa’s response, if any, could not be heard over the kids’ excited chatter. Chan bent down and held them close, breathing in their smells. When he was finally able to stand up, he turned to wave goodbye, but she was gone.
SEVENTY-SEVEN
Chan needed a diversion. Something more interesting to the kids than a blow-by-blow account of his arrest. Unfortunately, Miss Bertie’s house had few diversions, so for the better part of an hour he answered their questions.
They sat at the kitchen table, with Miss Bertie hovering close by. Dinner was in the works, and the mingling of aromas reminded Chan that he hadn’t eaten since morning.
“Why was the man beating up that boy?”
Ryan’s question was hard to answer. Was Ricky Smoot just another Saxon County racist? Had anything changed? Chan had to admit that he’d noticed some differences. Norma Elgan and Joe Wesley at the doughnut shop, the outpouring of love at the funeral, Toby Harmon, Pastor Duke, Melissa Powter.
Even Ricky Smoot’s father seemed congenial enough.
But there were others. The people who cheered while Ricky pummeled A.B., Officer Darrell Eskridge. Bump Cannon was as mean-spirited as ever.
Chan tended to tread lightly when discussing issues of race with his kids. It was a conscious decision, born out of the racism he’d faced daily as a child. Then, he remembered some of the things Ricky Smoot had said.
“I’m not done with that nigra yet.”
“They got no business being here in the first place.”
“Ain’t no dent in the hood of my truck... Mutt.”
“Daddy?”
“Why did the man do it?”
“You might as well tell them the truth, Channing,” Miss Bertie said as she stirred a large pot. “Life isn’t always perfect.”
Chan took a deep breath.
“He beat up the boy because he’s black.”
Lani nodded, but Ryan was confused.
“You mean like Lorenzo?”
“Yes, like Lorenzo. Like me. Like you. He’s a person with a lot of hate for people who don’t look like him.”
“It doesn’t help that he’s dumber than a post,” Miss Bertie interjected, waving a large mixing spoon. “Ricky Smoot never did pass tenth grade English. He probably couldn’t spell cat if you spotted him the c and the a.”
Lani giggled, but Ryan was still working through things.
“Why would somebody not like us because we’re black?”
“Nobody can answer that, Ryan,” Miss Bertie said softly. “Some people have hate in their hearts.”
Lani, always the intuitive one, zeroed in on territory Chan hadn’t broached.
“Were people mean to you Daddy?”
“Well...” Chan searched for the right words.
“Is that why you were scared all the time?” Their conversation from that morning had stayed with her.
“Daddy’s never been scared of anything!” Ryan retorted.
“Everybody is scared one time or another, Ryan,” Miss Bertie said.
“Not Daddy,” Ryan insisted. “He’s not scared of anything! He’s big and strong!”
“I wasn’t always big, Ryan. Truth is, living here was hard, and like I told Lani this morning, I was scared a lot of the time.”
Chan wondered if he had just tumbled from the pedestal he occupied in his son’s e
yes.
Miss Bertie stepped away from the stove and noisily went about final preparations for dinner.
“Lani will you set the table, please?”
Five minutes later a large beef roast filled the center of the table. Carrots, potatoes, and fresh tomatoes rounded out the feast.
“I’ll ask God’s blessing on our dinner,” Miss Bertie said. Chan bowed his head. The kids followed suit.
“Dear God, thank you for bringing Channing and his two beautiful children. In just two days they’ve enriched my life far beyond anything I might have imagined. I praise you for making Channing into a loving father and a brave and selfless man. Father, make clear to him what your intentions are as he moves into a new phase of life.
###
After dinner, a diversion finally presented itself.
Miss Bertie had satellite television, two hundred channels.
Ryan excitedly started flipping through the channels. Chan heard him squeal.
“Lorenzo!”
Chan and Miss Bertie were still in the kitchen, allowing dinner to settle.
“It is Lo,” Lani exclaimed. “Daddy, come see!”
Chan hurried into the living room, Miss Bertie close behind. Lorenzo was batting.
“The Cardinals are in Cincinnati tonight and tomorrow,” Miss Bertie said matter-of-factly.
The St. Louis announcers were speaking highly of Lorenzo as he worked the count.
“You played with him?” Miss Bertie asked.
“He lived with us!” Ryan said proudly. “He slept on our couch!”
With the count full, the Cardinals pitcher threw a soft curve that Lorenzo grounded weakly to third. The third baseman reacted quickly, and his throw barely beat Lorenzo to first.
“See how fast he is, Miss Bertie,” Lani said.
The camera stayed on Lorenzo as he headed back to the dugout.
“Lo wears fifty-one because Daddy helped him so much,” Lani said.
Miss Bertie nodded.
“Besides,” Chan grinned. “I was done with it.”
Chan was not one to watch baseball on television. Miss Bertie noticed his unrest. “Let’s go sit on the porch.”
Chan followed her through the house to the screened-in front porch. Lamp light from inside provided subtle illumination without diffusing the peacefulness and beauty of the stars. A half-dozen chairs were arranged around wicker end tables. Chan chose a large white rocking chair and sat down lightly, testing its sturdiness.
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