“But why? It was self-defense! Anyone who was there knows that knife belonged to Willis.”
“Yeah, but your friend hit Willis, so most of them are willing to overlook that. Add to that the fact that he ain’t from here. That’s a negative in your column as well, young man. And even though I was born and raised about fifteen miles from here, the fact that I’m now driving a Georgia State Patrol car means I’m at least halfway to outsider in the eyes of a lot of these folks. We’re lucky they even listened to me today—”
“Willis hit him first,” Kiernan says. “All he did was say Delia was owed an apology.”
“I already told you it wasn’t what he said. It was the way he said it.” He exhales just as I inhale, and I’m behind him, so I pull in a lungful of foul-smelling smoke. “The Morrell woman didn’t help matters, screaming out his name like she did as y’all were draggin’ her away. Now we got rumors goin’ round that this Waters guy is doin’ more than just drivin’ her car . . . and that’s illegal in the state of Georgia. It don’t take much to get somethin’ started around here, and men have been lynched for a whole lot less. Nine men were dragged out of that very same jail a little over thirty years ago, tied to a fence, and shot by a firing squad of about a hundred, mostly because they decided the jail was too full.”
“So what makes you think Abel’s safer in there?” I ask. “Sounds like it didn’t work so well for those nine men.”
Mitchell’s mouth tightens. “Miss Keller, every decent man and woman in this town would like to avoid a repeat of that night, and most of the people here are good people. But then you got maybe fifty, sixty damn fools out there right now who want to drag him out and lynch him just for the hell of it. Half of ’em probably ain’t even from this county, and most of those who are know full well the man ain’t guilty of any crime greater than bein’ an uppity Negro. As the story of what happened today makes the rounds, it’ll get worse—that mob across from the jail will be double by midnight, and most of ’em will be drunk. I’m just hopin’ Cramer’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut about which way he’s leanin’ on sentencing until tomorrow.”
“So Abel doesn’t even get a trial? It’s up to this judge?” I ask.
Mitchell shakes his head, and from the look on his face, he must think I’ve asked a really dumb question. He takes another draw on the cigarette and says, “If you think a jury trial would make things better for your friend, you don’t understand the situation at all.”
He takes the left onto Mars Hill and does a U-turn in the middle of the road, pulling up behind Kiernan’s truck.
“I’m gonna follow you back to the Eagle. I think you’re both smart enough to know you need to stay inside until tomorrow. The food at the Eagle ain’t the best, but it will keep you alive.”
Kiernan nods and says, “Thanks for the ride, Mr. Mitchell.”
“The ride wasn’t nothin’,” Mitchell says. “What you need to thank me for is the advice. I know y’all don’t like what I’ve been sayin’. I don’t blame you. And again, I ain’t sayin’ it’s right. I’m just tellin’ you how it is, so you can prepare yourselves and your friends, especially if he really is her man and not just her driver. There ain’t no happy endin’ where Abel Waters gets back in that car tomorrow and drives off into the sunset.”
∞21∞
WATKINSVILLE, GEORGIA
August 11, 1938, 9:28 p.m.
The Eagle’s boardinghouse is small, just four stale-smelling rooms that share a single bath in the hallway. The four of us are huddled in Grant and Kiernan’s room, because it has a window that faces the street. Our view is obstructed, however—partly by the trees outside and partly by the cars along the street, so we’re mostly watching what’s happening through the CHRONOS keys.
Delia’s eyes have barely moved since we transferred the stable points from the jail to her key so that she could see Abel’s cell. Kiernan is monitoring two of the stable points he set facing the crowd outside the jail. I split my viewing time between the other exterior point and one aimed at the corridor between the cells and the door into the cell block. Grant moves back and forth between the point in Beebe’s office, where the deputy has been catching a nap at his desk for the past twenty minutes, and the one I set near the front desk. He’s looking for a block of at least three minutes where the front desk is unmanned and Beebe is snoozing, but no luck so far.
Kiernan and I have pretty much concluded that the only way to get Abel out is through the bathroom window downstairs. We’ll have to get the keys, get him out of the cell and downstairs, and all of that’s going to need to happen at a time when the front desk is empty. There are only two bright spots—the office is undermanned, with the sheriff recuperating, and Abel was the last person left in the cells after Kiernan was released. The fewer people in that building when we go in, the better.
I finally convinced Delia to eat half of a Moon Pie and take another dose of the laudanum around eight. I’m very glad I did, because a half hour later, Beebe strolled past the cell carrying Abel’s dinner—an unwrapped sandwich, which he tossed through the bars and onto the floor. Abel just gave the sandwich an idle glance and left it there. Delia, however, started cursing and was ready to storm across the street and rip Beebe’s head off. If the laudanum hadn’t already started kicking in, we’d have had to physically restrain her.
Sounds from the street drift in through the open window. The low hum of crowd chatter blends with the occasional addition of a racial slur, drunken laughter, or a war whoop. It seems to have gotten louder in the past hour, although Kiernan thinks that may be due to more alcohol rather than more people. Mitchell’s estimate of the mob across from the jail is about right—maybe sixty in all, although it seems like maybe it’s thinned out a little in the past half hour. There are maybe fifty more hanging around on this side of Main Street and in front of the courthouse, but they aren’t causing trouble. Most of them seem more worried than entertained. The ones across from the jail, however—the ones Kiernan and I are watching through the keys—are obviously ready to rumble.
When I see the blue flash again, it lasts maybe a second before something moves in front of it, blocking my view. About ten seconds later, I see it again. I note the time and rewind thirty seconds so that Kiernan can watch as well.
He views it twice before saying, “Yeah, I see a blue light.”
I tense up, and then what he’s said sinks in. If the light was from a CHRONOS key, Kiernan would see it as green, not blue. “Not green?”
“Nope.” He yawns and stretches. “Keep an eye on both of those points outside the jail for a few minutes, okay? I’m going down to the kitchen to see if they’ll make us up a few sandwiches and maybe grab some sodas or a pitcher of water. It could be a long night.”
“I’ll come with you,” Grant says just as I’m opening my mouth to say the same thing. “I need to stretch my legs.”
Kiernan shrugs and looks at me. “You and Delia okay here on your own?”
I nod, grudgingly, and Delia mumbles, “We’re fine.”
They’ve been gone maybe ten minutes when I see the blue flash again.
I move over to the other twin bed, where Delia’s sitting, propped up against the wall, still keeping vigil over Abel. “Delia, can you take a look at this? Look for a brief flash of light.”
She pulls her eyes away from her own key and stares at mine. “Hmph,” she says a few seconds later. “Somebody has a CHRONOS key.”
Okay. It’s still possible that Kiernan isn’t lying to me. “What color are the keys for you, Delia?”