Alex Cross's Trial

funniest joke they’d ever heard.

    “Well, now, correct me if I’m wrong, young Master Corbett,” said Willy, “but I believe the law in these parts says if a nigger goes to boasting, his friends and neighbors got every right to throw him a little rope party and teach him how to dance.”

    My throat was so dry I was surprised any sound came out. “But he didn’t do anything wrong,” I said again. For some reason I thought if I repeated myself, they would see the logic.

    Willy put on a smile that held not a hint of amusement. “Boys, I believe we have got ourselves a pure-D, grade-A, number one junior nigger-lover.”

    The other men laughed out loud. Hot tears sprang up in my eyes, but I willed them not to fall. I would not cry in front of these awful bastards, these cowards.

    I recognized a tall, skinny one as J. T. Mack, the overseer at the McFarland plantation. He slurred his words as if he were drunk. “If this boy is half smart as his daddy, he’ll just turn his ass around and march on back home. And forget he ever come out here tonight.”

    In two steps Willy was on me, gripping my arm, then my throat. J. T. Mack moved in to grab my other arm.

    “Hold on, son. You can’t go home to daddy yet. We need a souvenir of your visit. Come on out of there, Scooter,” said J.T.

    Out of nowhere came a dapper young man in a green-and-white-plaid suit, his hair slicked back with brilliantine. He looked about sixteen years old. He carried a wooden box camera on a large tripod, which he set up in the clearing about ten feet from the motionless body of George Pearson.

    Scooter stuck his head under the black cloak attached to the camera and then pushed back out. “I can’t see nothing. It’s too dark. Bring your light in close to his face,” he said.

    The two men with torches moved closer, illuminating the shining black skin of George Pearson’s face. Scooter put his head back under the cloth.

    With that, Leon pulled hard on the rope. George Pearson stood straight up and then he flew off the ground three or four feet. His eyes opened wide, bulging as if they might explode. His whole face seemed to swell. His body began trembling and jerking.

    The horror of what I was seeing froze me in place. I felt something warm dripping down my leg and realized I had peed my pants.

    No one was looking at me now or bothering to hold me. Slowly, slowly, I began to back away.

    “Hope you got a good likeness, Scooter,” said J.T. “We’ll all be wanting a copy. Something to remember ol’ George by.”

    Everybody hooted and laughed at that one. I turned and ran for my life.

    Chapter 18

    I SUPPOSE THERE might have been one good thing about the punishing southern-style heat wave that had settled over Washington: that night Meg had gone to bed wearing her lightest nightgown. As I opened the door to our room Meg was resting on our bed, pretending to read her leatherbound copy of the book of Psalms.

    “Are you speaking to me?” I asked her.

    “You weren’t here to speak to until now,” she answered without looking up.

    I leaned down and kissed her and was relieved that she didn’t turn away.

    Meg was so lovely just then, and I wanted nothing more than to lie down beside her. But it wouldn’t be fair, not with the knowledge running around in my head.

    “Meg,” I said softly, “I have something to tell you. I’m not sure how you’re going to take it.”

    Her eyes hardened.

    “I went to the White House tonight,” I said.

    Her eyes flashed. In one second the hardness melted into joy.

    “The White House!” she cried. “Oh, I knew it! I knew Roosevelt would have to come around! You’re one of the best young lawyers in town. How ridiculous of him to have waited this long to offer you a position!”

    “It’s not a position,” I said. “The president asked me to… take on a mission for him. It could be for a month or two.”

    Meg sat straight up. The Psalms slid to the floor with a soft plop. “Oh, Ben, you’re going to leave us again? Where?”

    “Home,” I said. “To Mississippi. To Eudora.”

    She exhaled sharply. “What could the president possibly want you to do in that godforsaken corner of nowhere?”

    “I’m sorry, Meg,” I said. “I can’t tell you. I had to give Roosevelt my word.”

    Meg’s rage exploded, and she cast about for a suitable weapon. Seizing the bottle of French eau de toilette I had given her for her birthday, she fired it against the wall with such force that it shattered. A dreamy scent of lavender filled the