was some kind of cell in the woods, and he had a sensation of the piney woods outside, for he could hear the whisper of needles rustling against each other in the dull breeze.
He said again to the bars and whoever lurked down the corridor, “I DEMAND to see the sheriff. You have no right or legal authority to hold me. You should be horsewhipped for your violations of the law.”
But no one bothered to answer, except that once a loutish deputy had slipped a tray with more beans, some slices of dry, salty ham, and a piece of buttered bread on the plate, as well as a cup of coffee.
Was he in the prison?
Was this Thebes, where uppity niggers were sent to rot?
He didn’t think so. There was instead a sense of desolation about this place, the stillness of the woods, the occasional chirping of birds. The window was too high to see out of, and he could see nothing down the hall. His arms hurt, his head hurt, his dignity hurt, but what hurt even more was his sense of the system corrupted. It cut to the core of the way his mind worked. People were not treated like this, especially people like him, which is to say white people of means and education. The system made no sense if it didn’t protect him, and it needed to be adjusted.
“ Goddammit, you boys will pay! ” he screamed, to nobody in particular, and to no sign that anybody heard him.
At last—it had to be midafternoon, fourteen or fifteen full hours after his capture—two guards came for him.
“You put your hands behind yourself so’s we can cuff you down now,” said the one.
“And goddammit, be fast about it, Sheriff ain’t got all day, goddammit.”
“Who do you think—”
“I think you gimme lip, I’ll lay another swat on you, Dad, and you won’t like it a dadgum bit.”
So this was the fellow who had hit him: maybe twenty-five, blunt of nose and hair close-cropped, eyes dull as are most bullies’, a lot of beef behind him, his size the source of his confidence.
“G’wan, hurry, Mister, I ain’t here to wait on your dadgum mood.”
At last Sam obliged, turning so that they could cuff him, a security measure that was, in a civilized state like Arkansas, reserved for the most violent and unpredictable of men in the penal system, known murderers and thugs who could go off on a rampage at no provocation at all. It was for dealing with berserkers.
Once they had him secured, they unlocked the cell and took control of him, one on each arm, and walked him down the wood corridor, then into a small interrogation room.
They sat him down, and, as per too many crime movies and more police stations than Sam cared to count, a bright light came into his eyes.
The door opened.
A large man entered, behind the light so that Sam could not see details, but he made out a dark uniform, black or brown, head to toe, with a beige tie tight against his bulgy neck, and a blazing silver star badge on his left breast. He wore a Sam Browne belt, shined up, and carried a heavy revolver in a flapped holster, his trousers pressed and lean, down to cowboy boots also shiny and pointed.
“Samuel M. Vincent,” he said, reading from what Sam saw was his own wallet. “Attorney-at-law, Blue Eye, Polk County, Arkansas. And what is your business in Thebes, Mr. Vincent?”
“Sheriff, I am a former prosecuting attorney, well versed in the law and the rightful usage of force against suspects. In my state, what your men have done is clearly criminal. I would indict them on counts of assault and battery under flag of authority, sir, and I would send them away for five years, and we would see how they swagger after that. Now I—”
“Mr. Vincent, what is your business, sir? You are not in your state, you are in mine, and I run mine a peculiar way, according to such conditions as I must deal with. I am Sheriff Leon Gattis, and this is my county. I run it, I protect it, I make it work. Down here, sir, it is polite of an attorney to inform the police he be makin’ inquiries. For
He said again to the bars and whoever lurked down the corridor, “I DEMAND to see the sheriff. You have no right or legal authority to hold me. You should be horsewhipped for your violations of the law.”
But no one bothered to answer, except that once a loutish deputy had slipped a tray with more beans, some slices of dry, salty ham, and a piece of buttered bread on the plate, as well as a cup of coffee.
Was he in the prison?
Was this Thebes, where uppity niggers were sent to rot?
He didn’t think so. There was instead a sense of desolation about this place, the stillness of the woods, the occasional chirping of birds. The window was too high to see out of, and he could see nothing down the hall. His arms hurt, his head hurt, his dignity hurt, but what hurt even more was his sense of the system corrupted. It cut to the core of the way his mind worked. People were not treated like this, especially people like him, which is to say white people of means and education. The system made no sense if it didn’t protect him, and it needed to be adjusted.
“ Goddammit, you boys will pay! ” he screamed, to nobody in particular, and to no sign that anybody heard him.
At last—it had to be midafternoon, fourteen or fifteen full hours after his capture—two guards came for him.
“You put your hands behind yourself so’s we can cuff you down now,” said the one.
“And goddammit, be fast about it, Sheriff ain’t got all day, goddammit.”
“Who do you think—”
“I think you gimme lip, I’ll lay another swat on you, Dad, and you won’t like it a dadgum bit.”
So this was the fellow who had hit him: maybe twenty-five, blunt of nose and hair close-cropped, eyes dull as are most bullies’, a lot of beef behind him, his size the source of his confidence.
“G’wan, hurry, Mister, I ain’t here to wait on your dadgum mood.”
At last Sam obliged, turning so that they could cuff him, a security measure that was, in a civilized state like Arkansas, reserved for the most violent and unpredictable of men in the penal system, known murderers and thugs who could go off on a rampage at no provocation at all. It was for dealing with berserkers.
Once they had him secured, they unlocked the cell and took control of him, one on each arm, and walked him down the wood corridor, then into a small interrogation room.
They sat him down, and, as per too many crime movies and more police stations than Sam cared to count, a bright light came into his eyes.
The door opened.
A large man entered, behind the light so that Sam could not see details, but he made out a dark uniform, black or brown, head to toe, with a beige tie tight against his bulgy neck, and a blazing silver star badge on his left breast. He wore a Sam Browne belt, shined up, and carried a heavy revolver in a flapped holster, his trousers pressed and lean, down to cowboy boots also shiny and pointed.
“Samuel M. Vincent,” he said, reading from what Sam saw was his own wallet. “Attorney-at-law, Blue Eye, Polk County, Arkansas. And what is your business in Thebes, Mr. Vincent?”
“Sheriff, I am a former prosecuting attorney, well versed in the law and the rightful usage of force against suspects. In my state, what your men have done is clearly criminal. I would indict them on counts of assault and battery under flag of authority, sir, and I would send them away for five years, and we would see how they swagger after that. Now I—”
“Mr. Vincent, what is your business, sir? You are not in your state, you are in mine, and I run mine a peculiar way, according to such conditions as I must deal with. I am Sheriff Leon Gattis, and this is my county. I run it, I protect it, I make it work. Down here, sir, it is polite of an attorney to inform the police he be makin’ inquiries. For
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