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And now? Could this be the moment when all that reading and reflection coupled with simply observing the unfair plight of others was transformed into his actually doing something to further the cause of racial equality?
But you’re not a risk-taker, Jack Lee, not really.
But what if you were, just this once?
He picked up his pen and made a list on a piece of paper:
One, formalize his representation of Jerome with the court.
Two, obtain the police record.
Three, visit the crime scene.
Four, interview the arresting officers who had beaten his client.
Five, meet with the commonwealth’s attorney prosecuting the case.
Six, go to church and pray.
Despite his agnosticism that last to-do item might be the most vital.
He stopped there, marshaling his thoughts. If Jerome was telling the truth and hadn’t killed the Randolphs, then who had? They lived in affluent Madison Heights. It could have been a robbery. Were things missing? Had the police even checked? But why would they have? They had their man.
In Freeman County it didn’t get much easier than convicting a Black man in a court of law, particularly one who had been so obliging as to be at the scene of the crime.
Jack went upstairs to his bathroom, put his head in the sink, and opened the tap. He let the cold water wash over him and then toweled his hair dry. He gripped the edges of the sink and stared in the mirror.
Thirty-three years old. Way older than his father when Jack had been born.
And now there was Lucy. And as they got older, Jack might have to care for his parents, too.
So maybe this is not the right time to be taking on a case like this.
And while Jerome said he wasn’t guilty, he could easily be lying.
The Randolphs paid on Fridays. That meant they had cash in the house. Maybe Jerome wanted more than they were willing to pay him. His wife, Pearl, was expecting money. Maybe Jerome hadn’t even worked that day, or possibly the entire week. But he still needed his money. Motive was right there.
But if he had stolen the money, why was he there when the police showed up?
And who had called the police in the first place? He mentally kicked himself. He hadn’t asked Jerome about that. Had he called the police? If so, that would cut against Jerome being the killer.
Then his thoughts drifted to a splash of rye in the sweet tea. How had Miss Jessup known his father liked it that way?
He glanced out the bedroom window, where in the far distance the McHenry River flowed under the Penny Bridge, so named because that had once been the toll to pass over it. The Penny had closed over three decades before, its ancient and brittle supports crumbling too fast for saving. The regal Stonewall Jackson Bridge, about a quarter mile away from the Penny, had taken its place with great fanfare and a visit by the governor, who cut the ribbon and was driven across the span of concrete and steel before anyone else.
As young teens Jack and his brother would venture on their bikes at night to the closed Penny Bridge. They would lie on their backs on one of the little walking paths on either side of the bridge, and gaze at the stars. They always hoped to spy a shooter, but were also content with counting the ones that stayed motionless.
Back then Jack had wanted to be an Army Air Corps pilot, with the dream that, one day, when folks went into outer space, he would be one of the first to climb to the stars. His younger brother was content to keep his feet on the ground and travel the country by boxcar looking for adventure. Neither one had realized their childhood ambition.
One night they had seen some boys about their age at the Black end of the bridge. These boys had lit a stick fire on the span and grilled hot dogs over the flames. The smells of the cooking meat wafted over the Penny to the Lee boys.
Their bellies rumbling, Jack and his brother had looked over at the fire long enough that one of the Black boys brought over two dogs housed in fluffy white buns with mustard smeared on top. The Lees had thanked the boy, who said he was called Homer, named after a great poet from long ago. Jack had not learned who Homer was until college, but that hot dog was the best he’d ever had.
The two groups then came together and sat around swapping tales of adventure and other matters important to boys of all backgrounds until a police car had approached. The Black boys and all remnants of the fire were gone by the time the police car arrived and stopped at the white end of the span.
The Lee boys had glibly lied to the cop who asked if they’d seen a gang of young n——s. “They stole some hot dogs and buns from our side,” he said.
The officer had admonished the Lees to stick to their side of the bridge and added, “You go over there you gonna catch some disease from Africa they all got. You hear me?”
