“Willis was bailed out just before I was,” Kiernan says. “The guys over by the jail are a bunch of his buddies. Willis is claiming the knife was Abel’s and that Abel tried to kill him. His nephews are backing him up, and so is that fool Jody I was fighting. Mitchell says maybe a dozen others say they saw it, too—although half of them weren’t even there. Mitchell and that guy with the camera—can’t remember his name—they’re telling the truth. Some others, too, but I’m not sure it’s going to make a difference.”
“But . . . Mitchell’s, like . . . a deputy or something, right?”
“Not exactly. Georgia State Patrol. They’ve only been around about a year, and there’s still a bit of friction between him and the county officers. Some residents think Mitchell and the state shouldn’t be poking around in local affairs. And the camera guy—”
“Phillips.”
“Yeah, that’s right. He works for the Athens paper. Still lives here, his dad’s the town dentist, but Mitchell says the general consensus is that Phillips thinks his”—he gives a wry grin and clears his throat—“his feces . . . have no odor. Not exactly how Mitchell put it, but you get the point. His word won’t count for much.”
“So what’s the charge?”
“Hasn’t been decided yet. Willis is arguing attempted murder.”
“And you think the judge will listen?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know. All I know is that Mitchell is convinced Abel is safer in jail than he’d be if we try to move him. And he may be right.”
“Then what should we do?”
“Delia needs to give her statement. So do you and Grant. On Mitchell’s advice, I booked two rooms here—one for me and Grant and one for you and Delia—so bring your things in and leave them upstairs.” He casts a meaningful glance down toward my pocket, where the Colt is hiding.
Yeah. Probably not a good idea to take that into the jail.
He glances around and lowers his voice even further. “I told Abel we’d get him out, one way or the other. But Delia needs to tread very carefully. I don’t know what she said. Maybe nothing. But certain rumors are going around about the nature of her relationship with Abel.”
The man behind the desk—Deputy R. Beebe, according to his badge—is young and thin, with a splotchy complexion. The sweat stains under the arms of his uniform spread out like tree rings, so I’m guessing he’s had a long, hot day. He looks nervous, like he’s wishing this was all over. I know I am.
Delia gave her statement first, and she’s waiting outside with Grant now, in the chair I occupied for the half hour she was in here with Beebe. Grant and I didn’t talk much, since there was an officer watching us from the desk in the corner. There were no magazines or newspapers. I have a sneaky feeling they do that on purpose. It felt a lot like when I was a kid and my mom would send me to the time-out chair with no book or music, just the command to sit there and think about what I’d done.
I give Deputy Beebe the cover story the four of us rehearsed in the car. Kiernan and Abel decided on the way to the jail that they’d need to drop the Federal Writers’ Project cover story Delia’s group had been using, because it would be easy to check that with a few phone calls. The new story is that Kiernan and I know Grant, Delia, and Abel because we’re members of the same church up in Boston. Delia is writing a book, so her group has been doing research in Athens for several months. Kiernan is registered to attend the university in the fall—and he actually is registered, if they bother to check. I’m Kiernan’s fiancée, and I’m in Georgia to visit the university, since I’m considering enrolling, too. Kiernan and I decided to drive over this morning to see if we could catch a glimpse of the president here, since it was too crowded in Athens. The CHRONOS keys we’re wearing are religious medals of St. Eligius, patron saint of clock makers—a standard CHRONOS cover story and subtle in-joke, because Eligius foresaw the time of his own death.
I happily walk over to Beebe’s desk when he asks to see the medallion, taking the opportunity to set a local stable point before sticking it back in the pouch. He looks at me like I’m crazy as I run my fingers in the air above the key, shaking his head at what must look like a weird religious ritual. I’ve set two other points in the front office and one in the restroom, which sits at the back of the building near the stairwell going up to the cell block. Kiernan managed to set one in the corridor between the cells and one in the stairwell going down to the front office. Whether they’ll be of any use remains to be seen.
After I finish with the cover story and my version of the fight, Beebe starts asking questions, most of them multiple times, in slightly different ways. This is the third time he’s asked about Willis’s hand.
“No, sir.” It feels weird to call someone this young sir, but Beebe seems like the type who enjoys being in authority, so I follow Katherine’s advice. “As I said before, I didn’t stomp anybody. It’s possible someone shoved me onto his hand. All I remember is some man picking me up and yanking me backward. I was standing near where Delia—Miss Morrell, that is—had just been assaulted, and everything was kind of crazy.”
“From what I’ve been told, what happened to Miss Morrell was an accident, not an assault.”
I shrug my shoulders and frame an answer that avoids an outright lie. “I can’t know what that man’s intent was. All I know is that I saw him hit her very hard with his elbow. He knew he hit her, and he didn’t even stop to see if she was okay. Most people would apologize or at least check on the person they’d hit if it was an accident, especially if it was a lady. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”
He doesn’t answer the question, just kind of grunts, but I can tell from his expression that he does agree, even if he isn’t inclined to admit it. “Were you watching when the Negro pulled the knife?”
He says it as niggra, a slight step above the slur that Willis used but still bad enough to bug the hell out of me.
“No, sir,” I say through gritted teeth. “No one else was watching either, because that never happened. I was, however, watching when Mr. Willis—”
“Mr. Felton,” he snaps. “Willis is his first name.”
“Fine. I was watching when Mr. Felton pulled the knife out of his pocket.”
“Which pocket?”
He didn’t ask that the first time, so I have to stop and think for a minute. “His right pocket. He pulled it out, kind of flicked it open, and then he lunged at Mr. Waters.”
“And you’re sure of that?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Was this before or after Miss Morrell was injured?”
I sigh, because this is getting really tedious. I suspect it’s standard procedure to ask the same things over and over, but I wish he’d wrap it up. “After. As I said before, at least twice. The fight broke out when Mr. Waters suggested Mr. Felton should apologize. Then Mr. Felton stopped picking on Grant—Mr. Oakley—and started in on Mr. Waters.”
“And exactly why are you in Georgia, Miss Keller?”
As I repeat that information for the second time, it occurs to me that there is at least one advantage to life in the 1930s. In my own time, a quick online check of any part of this cover story would expose us as frauds in five minutes flat.
“Is Mr. Waters also a member of this church?”
“Yes.”
The deputy’s nostrils pinch in a tiny bit at that, and I have to remind myself to keep my expression neutral.
“What is the nature of his relationship with Miss Morrell?”
“Are you asking about Mr. Oakley or Mr. Waters?”
“I was referring to Mr. Waters,” he says, “but you can answer for both.”
“Mr. Waters and Mr. Oakley are her colleagues. They are also members of our church. I believe Mr. Oakley is her cousin as well.”