at it.”
He continued to eat, his appetite unaffected by a situ-
ation that would make my skin crawl if I allowed myself
to dwell on it.
“This lane connects to Ward Dairy Road,” I said.
He nodded, already there before me. “And Ward
Dairy runs right by Bethel Baptist, less than five miles
from where those legs were found. When we finish up
here, I’m going to have our patrol cars eyeball all the
ditches between here and there.”
I glanced at my watch and realized that I was going
to be late if I didn’t hurry.
“Yeah, I need to get back to work, too,” Dwight said.
He put the wrappings in the bag Miss Phyllis had sent
the sandwiches in, wiped his mouth with the napkins
she’d provided and leaned over to kiss me. “The roads
are slick, so don’t speed, okay?”
“Okay.”
He raised a cynical eyebrow. “You say it, but do you
really mean it?”
Fortunately, there were no slow-moving tractors out
on the road this first day of March and I made it back
to court with a few minutes to spare and without going
more than five or six miles over the limit. To my sur-
56
HARD ROW
prise, the litigating parties had indeed decided to settle,
and after I signed all the orders, we moved on to the
next item on the docket, which was more complicated.
Judson “Buck” Harris, a large commercial grower,
had divorced his wife, Suzanne “Suzu” Poynter Harris,
a middle-aged woman who might have been attractive
in her youth but had now let herself go. A bad hair color
was showing at least an inch of gray roots, her skin had
faced too many hours of wind and sun without moistur-
izers, and her boxy navy blue suit and navy overblouse
did nothing to disguise the extra thirty pounds she was
carrying.
The divorce had been finalized a week or so ago and
we were now trying to make an equitable division of
their jointly held assets. “Trying to” because, to my an-
noyance, there was no Mr. Harris at the other attorney’s
table. Said attorney was my cousin Reid Stephenson, a
younger partner at my old law firm and someone who
knows me well enough to know when I’m unhappy with
a situation.
“Your Honor,” he said, giving me a hopeful look of
boyish entreaty, “I would ask the court’s patience and
request one final continuance.”
“Objection,” snapped Mrs. Harris’s lawyer.
