Scott laughed and nodded his head. When he finally remembered I was there, he gave me a cool look. "That's all for now," he said, dismissing me.
I was about to give him a piece of my mind when I felt Deputy Dattilo's hand lightly touch my arm. He nodded at me, and I followed him out of the jail and into the main office of the sheriff.
"Who are those guys?" I asked.
"Trouble."
I wasn't going to argue that.
"Your client, there, has friends in low places. Couple of ex-cellmates. They go by the names Spider and Ray-Ban. They actually tried to walk in here with a six-pack. Cute, huh?"
"I'm charmed." These were the guys Millie had told me about.
Dattilo closed and locked the door to the jail. "Those two rode into town yesterday, and we've had three complaints on them already. They've been riding through The Grove, gunning their motors, yelling, throwing beer cans at kids. That kind of stuff. As soon as we can catch them in the act, they'll be in the cell beside their buddy."
The Grove was a part of Zinnia that was predominantly black. "Does the word self-destructive come to mind when you look at Scott Hampton?" I asked, disgusted with my client. He'd greeted the two bikers like long-lost brothers.
"The word guilty comes to mind," Dattilo said. "Guilty and not nearly as smart as he thinks he is."
9
Sitting astride Reveler. I greeted the sun Friday morning as it nudged against the water oaks along the banks of the Tallahatchie River. In August, the heat provides a half-light in those hours before true sunrise—a time when past and present mingle in shadows and whispers.
A thick mist hung over the cotton fields that grew right to the edge of the river. The fields stretched into the fog, and as I stared, I saw the silhouettes of slaves walking the rows, checking the plants for insects and fungus, pulling the weeds.
They moved silently, intent on their tasks. Harvest would come in mid-fall. The pickers, long sacks dragging behind them, would bend to the white tufts of fiber that burst from the boles. A fast picker could harvest up to three hundred pounds in a day.
Reveler stomped his hoof in impatience to be moving, and Sweetie Pie came bounding out of the Tallahatchie, shaking the cool water from her fur. My horse, my dog, and I were the present, but there was another presence in the fields. The past seemed to rise from the dirt and blend into the fog, creating shapes and images down the rows of cotton. One of the distant shadows craned his neck to look at us. He turned back to his work, singing as he did. The low, mournful sound seemed to wind itself into the mist, hanging in the air.
Farther away, another shadow answered, and the song spread across the field. It told a story both joyful and sad. Like the history of this land that I loved, the blues were a contradiction.
The sun topped the trees and sent a shaft of light into the misty field. The silhouettes of the men and women evaporated, and I was alone again.
Those images still in my mind, I nudged Reveler into a canter and raced through the last cotton field. Ahead, Dahlia House rose solid and real against a pink-and-mauve sky. I dismounted in the front yard, intending to walk Reveler cool.
"Red sky in the mornin', sailors take warnin'," Jitty said from the porch. "We'll have rain this afternoon."
She was wearing a sleeveless orange shift and matching pumps. The way she stood, determined yet vaguely unsure, she reminded me of a young woman setting out for her first job interview.
"So now you're a weather forecaster," I said, hoping to make her smile. My own thoughts were troubled by both the past and the present.
"Your great-great-grandma used to say that about the sky. She was more often right than wrong. Back then, bein' able to predict the weather meant survivin' for another day. Maybe for a season, if a crop was at stake."
"Did you ever harvest cotton?" I asked Jitty.
Instead of answering, she looked down at her hands. They were long and elegant, the palms soft. "We've both done hard labor, Sarah Booth. I'm more interested in what you're gonna do today than what I did yesterday."
"Scott's bond hearing is this morning." I walked Reveler the length of the porch, turned, and circled back toward her.
"Do you really believe he's worth helpin'?" Jitty asked.
I pondered her question. Yesterday, in his presence and under the full blast of his charisma, I'd believed him when he said he was innocent. This morning, I was having second thoughts. "I can't be sure."
"A man like Scott Hampton can make a woman believe just about anything he wants her to believe."
I looked at Jitty and realized that she knew I was attracted to Scott. I hadn't even admitted it to myself until that moment. It was an attraction fraught with paradox. He worked on me in a strange way, making me wary of him and yet wanting more of him. In that way, he, too, was like the blues.
"Scott isn't interested in making me believe anything," I told her.
"You can lie to yourself, but you can't lie to me." She stood so still. I'd never seen Jitty so static.
"What if he is innocent and I just walk away?"
"Is he that big a part of your future?" Jitty countered.
I started to repeat to her what Bridge had said, about how Scott could be my ticket to big-time cases.
She held up a hand and stopped me. "This isn't about future cases or the cover of Rolling Stone magazine. Watch yourself, Sarah Booth. A person can recover from hard work, but there are some mistakes that can't never be undone. Don't let Scott Hampton be that for you." She walked through the front door and was gone.
The courtroom was jam-packed when I got there. Scott was seated at the defense table, to the left. Beside him was a young man I recognized as a court-appointed attorney. As I recalled, he'd gotten his law degree two months before.
True to her vow, Nandy was still outside the west-wing door, boom box blaring. She'd made more signs, all of them proclaiming Scott's innocence. One had declared his godhood, but I'd surreptitiously yanked that one out of the ground and hidden it in the camellia bushes. Nandy was not helping matters at all, and I had begun to seriously wonder about her motives. I intended to point out to Coleman that if she'd seen Scott at the club, she was there, too, and was therefore also a suspect.
Ida Mae Keys was in the fourth row behind Scott, seated alone. I slipped in beside her. She nodded once to acknowledge me, then turned her attention to the front of the room as the judge entered.
Coleman stepped into the room through a side door that led to the jury deliberation room. Tinkie was right on his heels, and they both stopped beside the door. Coleman's gaze found me immediately, but I could read nothing on his face.
He bent down to Tinkie, who was giving him an earful about something. His gaze shifted to Ida Mae, brushed over me, and then returned to my partner.
Judge Clarence Hartwell gaveled the room to order. He was a middle-aged man who was popular in town. He'd been a football coach at the high school and was known for his rapid—as in reactionary—judicial decisions. For the first time since I'd known him, he was wearing a robe. On closer examination, I saw it belonged to the First Baptist Church choir.
Lincoln Bangs was at the prosecution table, dressed in a suit that must have cost an arm and a leg. No doubt he had a date with the television crews that were setting up on the lawn. Judge Hartwell had ordered them out of the courthouse. There were several reporters I didn't know sitting across the room beside Cece Dee Falcon and Garvel LaMott from the Zinnia Dispatch. I was only a little surprised to see Cece on the case. High society was normally her beat, but I guess she'd managed to stretch her territory to include high celebrity.
Lincoln gave a brief summary of the evidence against Scott, including the fact that they now had a blood match between the stains on the money found in Scott's saddlebags and Ivory. It was devastating news that drew the intended gasp from the audience.
The young man, who was obviously Scott's lawyer, stood up and stated that the evidence was circumstantial. Linc countered with the fac
t that Scott had no ties to the community and a criminal record. Judge Hartwell set the bail at five hundred thousand dollars. It was over in less than ten minutes.
The bailiff came to lead Scott back to the jail, but Ida Mae was quicker. She was out of her seat and at the defense table in a matter of seconds. She put one hand on Scott's shoulder and squeezed. The face he turned to her was cold.
"Stay out of this, Ida Mae," he said.
"I can't." Her reply was carved in stone.
"I don't want your help." Scott walked away from her, following the bailiff out of the room as a hubbub of noise broke around him. Ida Mae came back to me, ignoring the reporters that sprang in her wake. Her cool fingers touched my wrist. "I want that boy out of jail," she said. "He thinks he can run me off with that bad attitude, but it won't work. I saw Scott sit with my husband and argue about Ivory's reputation in the black community and how he was damaging it by hiring a white, ex-racist ex-con. Scott loved my husband. I won't abandon him now."
"I'm not so sure he wants out of jail," I said. "It might be best if he stayed put." The image of a bloodthirsty lynch mob and the bitter ironies implied by such were racing through my mind.
"Mrs. Keys! Mrs. Keys!" A reporter who was wearing a name badge from Rolling Stone magazine came up to us. "I'd like to schedule some time to talk," he said.
"I've got one thing to say, and that's all. Scott Hampton didn't kill my husband. He's an innocent man, and Miss Delaney is going to prove it."
I was still recovering from the shock of that bold statement when the reporter leaned in closer. "Your son tells me that Hampton is guilty and that he's got some hold on you. He says it's voodoo."
I could see the insult in Ida Mae's eyes. "Some hold on me like voodoo." She was furious. "I'm a Christian woman and voodoo holds no sway with me. My son is mistaken, as he is in so many things."
"Emanuel Keys said Hampton deceived both you and Mr. Keys."
"My son said these things about me and his father?" It was asked gently, but even the reporter caught the hint of anger.
"That's what he said. If you'd like to refute his statements ..."
"It's Emanuel who's deceived," Ida Mae said. "He's let hatred and ugliness eat away his soul."
She turned abruptly and walked out of the courtroom, ignoring the other reporters that ran after her. I looked up to find that Coleman had gone, and Tinkie was talking with great animation to Cece.
I walked over to them, catching Tinkie's baleful glare.
"That Emanuel Keys is the rudest man I have ever met," Tinkie fumed. "Next time you want some information from him, you can go get it yourself."
Cece's perfect white teeth were revealed in a Big Bad Wolf smile. She shifted her weight from one hip to another in a way that made several courtroom spectators glance up and then down her shapely legs.
"What happened?" I asked.
"I finally tracked him down yesterday evening. When I asked a few questions, he told me to mind my own business. Then he called me a parasite, a bloodsucker who lived off the misery of the poor. And then he told me to tell Oscar that he was looking into filing a lawsuit against the bank."
"A lawsuit?" That was even more than I'd imagined.
"A class action suit. He said that Oscar and my father used race as a qualifying factor in giving out loans."
Tinkie's tiny fists were clenched at her sides, and she stomped one Gucci-clad foot for emphasis. "The nerve of that man."
"I don't think his mama likes him any better than you do," I allowed.
"I told you this case was going to rip the community apart. I told you, but nothing would do but that you put us right in the middle of it."
"Tinkie, you and I both know Emanuel doesn't have any grounds for a lawsuit." I intended to soothe her.
"To hell with the lawsuit!" She was speaking so loudly that several people had stopped talking to watch us. "He can sue till he's blue in the face, for all I care."
"Tinkie!" I put a hand on her arm. "Calm down." She was genuinely upset, and tears glistened in her eyes.
"I don't want to calm down," she said. "Oscar's worked hard to give everyone in this county as much of a break as he could. Black, white, it doesn't matter to him. Dammit." She wiped at a tear that slipped down one cheek. "I hate this, Sarah Booth. I just hate it."
She turned away from Cece and me and left the courtroom by the door she'd entered. She could at least avoid the reporters that way.
I looked at Cece. "Let's go get her. I hate to see Tinkie this upset."
"Let her go," Cece said, shaking her head. "She'll calm down in a bit."
"I wouldn't have sent her to talk to Emanuel if I'd had any idea he would upset her so."
"It's not just Emanuel."
I waited for her to explain, but since I didn't have her favorite bribe—a cheese Danish—I wondered if she'd be cooperative.
"Margene threatened to quit today."
"Margene!" I couldn't believe it. No wonder Tinkie was so upset. "Why?"
"Margene said she wasn't going to work for anyone who defended the man who killed Ivory Keys." Cece had a way of laying it out on the line when she wanted to.
"But—" I sighed. "Scott hasn't been found guilty yet."
"Not by a jury, but if it was left to the community, he'd be swinging from that magnolia tree out on the lawn," she said.
Her words eerily brought back the memory of the noose swinging from the tree. Someone had already made that point quite clearly. "Look, Margene loves Tinkie and Oscar. She loves Chablis. She won't quit."
Cece waited patiently for the truth to penetrate.
"Will she?" I asked.
"Yes. She may not want to, and she may regret it, but she will. Sarah Booth, you have to remember that Ivory was the most successful black man in this county. He stood for a lot of things to a lot of people."
"Ivory was successful since Scott Hampton came to play in his club," I said with some force. "Before that, he was sucking wind big-time."
She nodded. "Scott was the draw. But Ivory was the man they loved. He was a man that everyone could look up to."
I couldn't deny that. I didn't want to. "Ida Mae believes Scott is innocent. Didn't you see her just ten minutes ago?"
Cece nodded. "I saw her, and I intend to use that in my story. But most folks think Ida Mae has been taken in by Scott."
I saw the fine hand of Emanuel Keys in that rumor. And I wondered what kind of son would paint his parents as stupid and deluded just to win points.
"What, so people think Scott put a spell on Ida Mae?"
Cece's eyes narrowed. "That's exactly what they're saying. Rumor is that Scott sold his soul to Satan to learn to play the guitar like he does. And now he's used his power to convince Ida Mae he's innocent."
I took a long, slow breath. With rumors like that floating around town, things could only get worse.
10
If Ida Mae was going to get Scott out of jail, she was going to have to come up with ten percent of the bond—a cool fifty thousand, cash. That was good only if a bond agent would stand in the remainder. According to the facts Tinkie had pumped from Oscar, there was money in the Keys bank account, but the mortgage on Playin' the Bones was steep, and it would come due every month whether the club was open or not. I didn't think Ida Mae had the scratch to just drop fifty large. Not on top of the five she'd given me, which was once again sitting in the pie safe at Dahlia House.
Since I didn't want to think about Tinkie, or Scott, or Coleman, I was thinking dollars as I left the courtroom. The blare of the loud music stopped me in my tracks. Then I heard the bullhorn.
"Scott Hampton is an innocent man. Let's hear it now. Free Scott! Free Scott! Free Scott!" Nandy Shanahan's voice roared through the amplifying system, but as closely as I listened, I didn't hear a crowd joining in. No big surprise there.
I walked out to the south side of the courthouse, which was nearest the jail. Nandy had moved her headquarters there in the hopes of gaining a glimpse
of Scott. Maybe she was a stalker. Heck, anyone who'd been brought up in a household devoted to a headless queen would be bound to have some emotional scars. One of the rumors from high school was that Mr. Shanahan had taken every photograph of everyone in his household and had them digitally altered to reflect the Stuart nose. Holyrood—the real one in Edinburgh, not the fake one in Zinnia—boasted a gallery of portraits with that very same nose. The portraitists had been ordered to paint the Stuart nose on everyone, to physically reflect their claim to royal blood.
Nandy lifted the bullhorn and turned sideways. I caught a profile, curious to see if she'd done anything with a scalpel to her own schnozzola. Though she'd poked holes in numerous body parts, she'd left her stubby little nose alone.
She was pacing the steps with her bullhorn, exhorting the crowd of six white farmers to take action to save Scott. The only action she got was when one of the men leaned over to spit tobacco on the grass.
"Okay, now all together. Free Scott! Free Scott! Free Scott!" She worked the megaphone. None of the farmers responded. They simply stared at her like they might a two-headed chicken. As she lowered the bullhorn and glared at the men, I recognized the sign of an impending emotional storm. She shot laser beams with her eyes at them and they passively stared back at her.
"I told you to chant with me." She put her hands on her hips and shook back her two-toned hair. "I know you cretins can't read, but surely you can talk."
"We can talk," the one wearing a long-sleeved shirt and overalls said. "The trouble is, you talk too much. Ivory Keys was a good man. He was murdered and robbed, and the person who did it is going to pay. Right now, that guitar man you seem so intent on savin' looks like the murderer to me." He grinned, but it wasn't humorous. "I'd leave that boy in jail if I were you. Bad things might happen if he was out and roamin' around."
The men all laughed and turned away, walking toward Main Street where they'd gather for lunch at Millie's or the competing diner, Arlene's.
"Redneck creeps," Nandy said. She pulled a tube of expensive skin lotion from her pocket and began to rub it into her hands. "Assholes." There was a five-second pause. "Cow fuckers!" she yelled at their backs.
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