of the lawyer. 'Tell me about the defense.'
'There ain't that much to tell. I moved for a change of venue. Denied. I moved to suppress the confession. Denied. I went to Bobby Earl and said, 'Boy, we got to plead guilty. First-degree murder. Go on down, take the twenty-five years, no parole. Save your life.' That way, he'd still have some living left to do when he gets out. 'No way,' the boy says. Stubborn-like. Got that fuck-you kind of attitude. Keeps right on saying, 'I didn't do it.' So what's left for me? I tried to pick a jury that warn't prejudiced. Good luck. Case went on. I argued reasonable doubt till I was fair blue in the face. We lost. What's to tell?'
'How come you didn't call his grandmother with an alibi?'
'Nobody'd believe her. You met that little old battle-ax? All she knows is her darling grandson is well-nigh perfect and wouldn't hurt a flea. 'Course, she's the only one that believes that. She gets on the stand and starts lying, things gonna be worse. Mightily worse.'
'I don't see how they could be worse than what happened.'
'Well, that's hindsight, Mr. Cowart, and you know it.'
'Suppose she was telling the truth?'
'She might be. It was a judgment call.'
'The car?'
'That damn teacher even admitted it could have been a different color. Sheeit. Said it right on the stand. I can't understand why the jury didn't buy it.'
'Did you know that the police showed her a picture of Ferguson's car after telling her he'd confessed?'
'Say what? No. She didn't say that when I deposed her.'
'She said it to me.'
'Well, I'll be damned.'
The lawyer poured himself another drink and gulped at it. No, you won't be, Cowart thought. But Ferguson will.
'What about the blood evidence?'
'Type O positive. Fits half the males in the county, I'd wager. I cross-examined the technicians on that, and why they didn't type it down to its enzyme base better, or do genetic screening or some other fancy shit. Of course, I knew the answer: They had a match and they didn't want to do something special that might screw it up. So, hell, it just seemed to fit. And there was Robert Earl, sitting there in the trial, squirming away, looking hangdog and guilty as sin. It just didn't do no good.'
'The confession?'
'Shoulda been suppressed. I think they beat it out of that boy. I do, sir. That I do. But hell, once it was in, that was the whole ball of wax, if you know what I mean. Ain't no juror gonna disagree with that boy's own words. Every time they asked him, 'Did ya'll do this, or did y'all do that,' and he answered, 'Yes, sir.' 'Yes, sir.' 'Yes, sir.' All those yes, sirs. Couldn't do much about them. That was all she wrote. I tried, sir, I tried my best. I argued reasonable doubt. I argued lack of conclusive evidence. I asked those jurors, Where is the murder weapon? Something that positively points at Bobby Earl. I told them you can't just kill someone and not have some sort of mark on you. But he didn't. I argued upside and downside, rightside and leftside, over, under, around, and through. I promise you, sir, I did. It just didn't do any damn good. I kept looking over at those folks sitting in the box and I knew right away that it didn't make no damn difference what I said. All they could hear was that damn confession. His own words just staring at him off the page. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Put himself right in that electric chair, he did, just like he was pulling up a seat at the dinner table. People here was mighty upset with what happened to that little girl and they wanted to like get it finished, get it over, get it all done with right fast, so they could go on living the way they was used to. And you couldn't find two folks in this town who'd got up and said a nice thing about that boy. Something about him, you know, attitude and all. No sir, no one liked him. Not even the black folks. Now I'm not saying there weren't no prejudice involved…'
'All-white jury. You couldn't find one black qualified?'
'I tried, sir. I tried. Prosecution just used their peremptory challenges to whack each and every one right off the panel.'
'Didn't you object?'
'Objection overruled. Noted for the record. Maybe that'll work on appeal.'
'Doesn't it bother you?'
'How so?'
'Well, what you're saying is that Ferguson didn't get a fair trial and that he may be innocent. And he's sitting right now on Death Row.'
The lawyer shrugged. 'I don't know' he said slowly. 'Yeah, the trial, well, that's right. But innocent. Hell, his own words. That damn confession.'
'But you said you believed they beat it out of him.'
'I do, sir. But…'
'But what?'
'I'm old-fashioned. I like to believe that if'n you didn't do something, there's nothing in the world'll make you say you did. That bothers me.'
'Of course,' Cowart responded coldly, 'the law is filled with examples of coerced and manipulated confessions, right?'
'That's correct.'
'Hundreds. Thousands.'
'That's correct.'
The lawyer looked away, his face flushed red. 'I guess. Of course, now what with Roy Black on the case, and now you're here, maybe gonna write a little something that'll wake up that trial judge or maybe something that the governor can't miss, well, things have a way of working their ways right out.'
'It'll work out?'
'Things do. Even justice. Takes time.'
'Well, it sounds like he didn't have much of a chance the first time.'
'You asking me for my opinion?'
'Yes.'
'No, sir. No chance.'
Especially with you arguing his case, Cowart thought. More worried about your standing in Pachoula than putting someone on the Row.
The lawyer leaned back in his chair and swished his drink nervously around in his hand so that the bourbon and ice tinkled.
Night like impenetrable black water covered the town. Cowart moved slowly through the streets, stepping through the odd lights tossed from streetlamps or from storefront displays that remained lit. But these moments of dull brightness were small; it was as if with the sun falling, Pachoula gave itself over completely to the darkness. There was a country freshness in the air, a palpable quiet. He could hear his own footsteps as they slapped at the pavement.
He had difficulty falling asleep that night. Motel sounds – a loud, drunken voice, a creaking bed in the next room, a door slamming, the ice and soda machines being used – all intruded on his imagination, interrupting his sorting through of what he'd learned and what he'd seen. It was well past midnight when sleep finally buried him, but it was an awful rest.
In his dreams, he was driving a car slowly through the riot-lit streets of midnight Miami. Light from burning buildings caressed the car, tossing shadows across the front. He had driven slowly, maneuvering carefully to avoid broken glass and debris in the roadway, all the time aware he was closing in on the center of the riot but knowing that it was his job to see it and record it. As he had pulled the car around a corner, he spotted the dream mob, dancing, looting, racing through the flickering fire lights toward him. He could see the people shouting, and it seemed to him they were calling his name. Suddenly, in the car next to him, a piercing voice screamed, panic-stricken. He turned and saw that it was the little murdered girl. Before he could ask what was she doing there, the car was surrounded. He saw Robert Earl Ferguson's face and suddenly felt dozens of hands pulling him from behind the wheel as the car was rocked, pitching back and forth as if it were a ship lost at
