Viola’s really all right.”
“She is, I swear.”
Jimmy intoned something that sounded like a prayer. Then he turned sideways and worked his dark body through the crack in the tree. He might as well have been entering a cave.
Thank God,
Sonny thought, as the stained white T-shirt vanished. He shone his flashlight through the crack. Jimmy stood a few feet away, staring at something at the center of the hollow tree. Sonny took the beam off his back and shone it around. The hollow trunk created a round room like some turreted castle tower. The way the walls narrowed as they reached skyward gave him a sort of religious feeling. “What you looking at?” Sonny asked.
Jimmy moved aside and pointed at the floor.
At the center of the round room lay a yellowed skeleton.
Not human,
Sonny realized. “That’s just a deer,” he said, noticing a carpet of other bones beneath it. “Probably crawled up in here wounded last hunting season.”
“You don’t have any board to nail up, do you?” Jimmy said in a fatalistic tone.
“No,” Sonny said, almost apologetically. “That’s a fact.”
Jimmy turned slowly and raised a hand against the beam of the flashlight. The whites of his eyes glowed in his black face. Revels was twenty-six years old, but he looked like a teenager.
“You swear my sister’s all right?” he insisted.
“I do,” Sonny said in a shaky voice. “And if it makes you feel any better, finishing this up out here is going to save your hero’s life.”
Jimmy blinked in confusion. “Who do you mean?”
“Senator Kennedy.”
“What about him?”
“You dying here is going to save his life.”
The boy pondered this for several seconds. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll never be president. If not your bunch, somebody else will get him. The best men never make it. Moses, Jesus … Medgar, Malcolm. Even Dr. King. He won’t live to see the Promised Land.”
Sonny had a feeling the boy was right, but he was glad not to be part of that business anymore.
“Someday,” Jimmy said, dropping the hand shielding his eyes, “you tell Viola where to find me, okay? It ain’t right to leave a person not knowing about their kin. You were in the service. You know that. Even if you lie about how they died, you tell ’em where the body is. To give the family peace.”
Sonny swallowed and raised his pistol. He didn’t enjoy killing in cold blood, but neither had he ever hesitated to do his duty. And they’d gone too far to reverse course now. Everything had to be buried.
No body, no crime,
Frank always said. “Maybe someday,” Sonny lied, trying to make it easier on the boy.
Revels plainly didn’t believe him. Sweat poured off the kid’s face, and Sonny had to shake his own head to get the burning sweat out of his eyes.
“You got any last words?” he asked, tilting his head to wipe his face on his shirt.
Revels nodded soberly.
“Get on with it, then.”
“Are you listening, Mr. Thornfield?”
Sonny prepared himself for some dreadful curse in the name of God, or perhaps some ancient African demon. “I’m listening.”
“I forgive you.”
2005
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
—
Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER 4
Natchez, Mississippi
AS A YOUNG LAWYER, I had a recurring dream. My father stood in the dock, accused of some terrible but unknown crime, and I was charged with defending him. There were a dozen versions of this dream, all turned to nightmares by different mistakes on my part. Some were routine, such as realizing I’d failed to file a critical motion or to ask for a continuance, or being physically unable to get into the courtroom. Other variations were more alarming. Sometimes the prosecutor could speak but I was mute; other times everyone could speak but I was deaf, and thus powerless to save my own father. The strangest part of this whole experience was that I was an assistant district attorney—a prosecutor, not a defense lawyer. Stranger still, my father had led
“She is, I swear.”
Jimmy intoned something that sounded like a prayer. Then he turned sideways and worked his dark body through the crack in the tree. He might as well have been entering a cave.
Thank God,
Sonny thought, as the stained white T-shirt vanished. He shone his flashlight through the crack. Jimmy stood a few feet away, staring at something at the center of the hollow tree. Sonny took the beam off his back and shone it around. The hollow trunk created a round room like some turreted castle tower. The way the walls narrowed as they reached skyward gave him a sort of religious feeling. “What you looking at?” Sonny asked.
Jimmy moved aside and pointed at the floor.
At the center of the round room lay a yellowed skeleton.
Not human,
Sonny realized. “That’s just a deer,” he said, noticing a carpet of other bones beneath it. “Probably crawled up in here wounded last hunting season.”
“You don’t have any board to nail up, do you?” Jimmy said in a fatalistic tone.
“No,” Sonny said, almost apologetically. “That’s a fact.”
Jimmy turned slowly and raised a hand against the beam of the flashlight. The whites of his eyes glowed in his black face. Revels was twenty-six years old, but he looked like a teenager.
“You swear my sister’s all right?” he insisted.
“I do,” Sonny said in a shaky voice. “And if it makes you feel any better, finishing this up out here is going to save your hero’s life.”
Jimmy blinked in confusion. “Who do you mean?”
“Senator Kennedy.”
“What about him?”
“You dying here is going to save his life.”
The boy pondered this for several seconds. “It doesn’t matter. He’ll never be president. If not your bunch, somebody else will get him. The best men never make it. Moses, Jesus … Medgar, Malcolm. Even Dr. King. He won’t live to see the Promised Land.”
Sonny had a feeling the boy was right, but he was glad not to be part of that business anymore.
“Someday,” Jimmy said, dropping the hand shielding his eyes, “you tell Viola where to find me, okay? It ain’t right to leave a person not knowing about their kin. You were in the service. You know that. Even if you lie about how they died, you tell ’em where the body is. To give the family peace.”
Sonny swallowed and raised his pistol. He didn’t enjoy killing in cold blood, but neither had he ever hesitated to do his duty. And they’d gone too far to reverse course now. Everything had to be buried.
No body, no crime,
Frank always said. “Maybe someday,” Sonny lied, trying to make it easier on the boy.
Revels plainly didn’t believe him. Sweat poured off the kid’s face, and Sonny had to shake his own head to get the burning sweat out of his eyes.
“You got any last words?” he asked, tilting his head to wipe his face on his shirt.
Revels nodded soberly.
“Get on with it, then.”
“Are you listening, Mr. Thornfield?”
Sonny prepared himself for some dreadful curse in the name of God, or perhaps some ancient African demon. “I’m listening.”
“I forgive you.”
2005
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
—
Oscar Wilde
CHAPTER 4
Natchez, Mississippi
AS A YOUNG LAWYER, I had a recurring dream. My father stood in the dock, accused of some terrible but unknown crime, and I was charged with defending him. There were a dozen versions of this dream, all turned to nightmares by different mistakes on my part. Some were routine, such as realizing I’d failed to file a critical motion or to ask for a continuance, or being physically unable to get into the courtroom. Other variations were more alarming. Sometimes the prosecutor could speak but I was mute; other times everyone could speak but I was deaf, and thus powerless to save my own father. The strangest part of this whole experience was that I was an assistant district attorney—a prosecutor, not a defense lawyer. Stranger still, my father had led
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