aside and know for sure that nobody’s sitting in judgment but God.”
“Black churches,” I said.
He nodded. “And black friends.”
I could see his point, but bedamned if I had to like it.
? ? ?
Disconsolately, I stepped inside the lobby to retrieve my umbrella just as Reid was coming in. He grabbed my arm with a big smile.
“Hey, Deb’rah! Sherry said you saw Langston King’s will, too. Guess what?”
“Sister Williams is going to let the land revert?”
His face fell. “How’d you guess?”
“Just a wild stab.”
“I drove over to Cotton Grove—the rain was coming down in buckets, too—and explained it to Mrs. Williams and then she and I went to see Mrs. Avery. She didn’t know about the reversion clause and she wasn’t real sure it was the right thing to do, Mrs. Avery, I mean. We really had to sell the idea to her and then she and Mrs. Williams had to pray on it awhile before she finally agreed. We’re going to start the paperwork first thing tomorrow morning.”
“That’s nice.”
“Hey, you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look a little down.”
“It’s the weather. And it’s been a long day.”
“I don’t suppose you got a chance to talk to Dwight?”
“Actually, I did,” I said. “Unfortunately, half your client’s alibi is over in Dobbs Memorial with his jaw wired shut and the other half’s on her way back to Massachusetts.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Trust me. I’m not,” I said and related what Dwight had told me earlier that afternoon.
He listened intently, shaking his head in dismay. “I’ll see if we can get a court reporter there tomorrow to take his deposition.”
“It’s none of my business,” I said, “but if it were me, I wouldn’t be in too big a hurry about this.”
“How come?”
“Dwight may want to believe that Starling and Bagwell set those fires, but he won’t disregard a solid alibi and last night’s beating ties in with the story A.K. told me at least three hours before the beating occurred. Give him a chance to convince himself and Dwight’ll turn around and convince ATF. Bet you a nickel he’ll have talked with Jerry Farmer and Bobbie Jean Pritchett, too, by tomorrow night.”
“Bet,” said Reid. “And I hope I lose.”
23
If I’d found him, I probably could’ve collected my nickel from Reid when I broke for the afternoon recess the next day.
As I crossed the atrium that connects the new part of the courthouse with the old 1920s part, I almost banged into a hefty young white man who began with an apology and ended with a pleased smile on his face. “Judge Knott! Glad to see your hair’s none the worse for all those sparks.”
It was the volunteer fireman who’d hauled out the pulpit on one shoulder the night Balm of Gilead burned.
I fumbled for his name. “You’re Donny, right? Donny Turner?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he beamed, “and I owe you an apology. I didn’t know I was ordering around a judge that night.”
“No problem,” I said. “How’s it going?”
“Just fine. Hey, maybe you can help me?”
“Sure. What do you need?”
He took a crumpled slip of paper from his jeans pocket. “I got a call to come see Special Agent Ed Gardner? In Major Dwight Bryant’s office? You happen to know where that would be?”
“Well, you could have gone in directly from the street behind, but there’s a staircase. Let me show you.”
I led him through double glass doors, along a wide hall, down the stairs and through another set of glass doors. As we walked, Donny Turner kept up a running chatter on why he was there. He didn’t seem to be completely sure.
“I reckon they want to get an in-depth report of what it was like when them churches was actually burning? From one of the troops? Somebody as was right there, don’t you reckon?”
