Much of West Colleton’s student body seemed to be there with their somber-faced parents, who had to be thinking that there but for the grace of God they could be the ones standing in Sarah and Malcolm’s shoes.
In the next half hour, we met and passed several of my nieces and nephews and their friends, and yes, at least half of those little thumbs were texting away on the keys.
“Emma’s freaking,” Jessica said. “She’s at the entrance of the room and she can see Mallory’s casket and she doesn’t want to go on in.”
“She should have stayed back here with us,” said Jane Ann.
“Like Aunt Barbara was gonna let her do that,” said Ruth.
“Did she confess about the party?” I asked, as the line moved forward.
They nodded and Jess said, “And it went just like Annie Sue said it would.”
Another corner turned and there was Ellen Englert Hamilton in full rant mode. She had her back to me and spoke in tones that were clearly meant to be heard by all around her. The teenage boy beside her must have recognized me, for he gave her a nudge, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“—and then just turned him loose without even the slap on the wrist she’d given the others. Just let him go with nothing but a mealymouthed little lecture after the trooper testified that he was weaving and staggering and —”
“
“Ah, Deborah,” she said, looking not a bit embarrassed. “I was just comparing notes with some of my friends. They’re MADD, too.”
It took a moment to realize she meant Mothers Against Drunk Driving and not that the women behind her were angry, although from the sharp looks and frowns they were giving me, she might well have meant that, too.
“I was telling them how you dismissed all the charges against a drunk driver yesterday,” she said coolly.
“And did you explain that the state hadn’t proved he was over the limit?”
“Since when does a judge take the word of a drunk against the word of a state trooper?” asked one of the Englert-Hamilton clones.
“Ever since our Constitution said that someone’s innocent until proven guilty,” I said sweetly. “That’s what it means to be a judge. To decide if there’s enough proof to determine guilt. Did Ellen tell you about the other dozen or so that I did find guilty?”
“But then you turned around and gave suspended sentences and probation to more than half of them,” Ellen snapped back. “The only way people who abuse alcohol are going to get the message is to give them jail time every time they’re charged.”
“You honestly think a judge should always rule for the officer even when the evidence doesn’t support him?”
“Absolutely! If there’s enough for a charge, there’s enough for a conviction. And a conviction should carry jail time.”
“Oh dear,” I said with mock chagrin. “Does that mean I was derelict because I didn’t send your mother to jail when she was charged with possession of untaxed liquor?”
Except for the MADD women, everyone within earshot, including Ellen’s son, grinned.
“That was different and you know it!” Ellen cried, but her cheeks were burning and she seemed only too glad to turn the next corner.
The MADD women quickly followed.
Dwight shook his head at the others, who were still smiling. “Can’t take her anywhere,” he told them.
Before I could pat myself on the back for my smart-alecky putdown of that sanctimonious prisspot, Patsy Denning, my fifth grade teacher, who had listened to the exchange without comment, now drew even with Dwight and me and she put a firm hand on my arm. In her low sweet voice, she said, “Don’t let the messenger sour you on the message, Deborah. Even though Ellen doesn’t want anybody to drink anything alcoholic ever, the organization itself has helped save a lot of lives.”
She was right.
I sighed. “All the same.”
“I know.” Mrs. Denning’s eyes shone with mischief behind her polished glasses and she squeezed my arm before the line moved on. “All the same, she’s certainly her mother’s daughter, isn’t she?”
CHAPTER 10
—J. C. Penney
Eight o’clock had come and gone before we worked our way back to the front lobby, and a good fifty people had entered after us. It would be well after nine before poor Sarah and Malcolm shook the last hand, hugged the last friend, thanked the last person for the words of sympathy.
We found Miss Emily still surrounded by a cluster of neighbors, former students, and the parents of current students.
Nancy Faye and Beth had worried that speaking to so many people would have exhausted their mother, but I thought she seemed reenergized when she stood up to join us.
As we moved through the lobby, the modest wreaths and floral sprays from Mallory’s friends gave way to more elaborate offerings and the chilly smell of refrigerated carnations and greenery grew stronger the closer we got to the main room. Malcolm Johnson and his older brother worked with their father, who owned Triple J, one of the largest insurance companies in the county. The company had been started by Malcolm’s grandfather back when this
