I asked him where the hammer is, and he said he threw it in the woods by the Mill Village. He spoke quietly, one hand clutching the back of his chair. “I throwed it hard,” he said, “way out into a mess o’ cat claw and creeper and poison ivy.” He demonstrated the pitch he used to send the hammer flying into the brush. He didn’t think anyone could possibly have found it. Maybe Karl was lying? he suggested. Maybe he was trying to trick me in some way?

I don’t know what to make of it all. I knotted my hands together, trying to think. I remembered Jesse’d had the wherewithal to put on a pair of the work gloves when he got rid of Martin and the hammer and the motorcycle. My fingerprints would be on the hammer, but not his. That gives me a strange sense of peace. I don’t know what they would do to me, but if they found Jesse guilty of murdering a white man, I am sure that would be the end of him.

I sat down with this journal and began to recount what just happened. Writing has a way of calming me, but Jesse is angry and keeps interrupting me.

“What’re you doing?” he asked. “You supposed to fix that motorcycle!”

I promised him that I would. I looked over at the mural, at my distinctive, prideful signature in the lower right-hand corner. I wonder if I’ll ever get a chance to see the mural hanging in the post office? What will they do with it if I am locked away in jail?

Later on Friday

Everything changed just minutes after I wrote about Karl’s visit this morning. My whole life changed.

I was mixing some of the paint I’d need to cover the motorcycle and restore the ladies’ dresses when Peter burst into the warehouse. His face was red, his pale hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

“The cops are coming to arrest you!” he said breathlessly, his eyes on me. He said that two policemen came to his house and asked him if I kept a hammer in the warehouse and he’d said yes, not knowing he was getting me in trouble. He glanced at Jesse. He said the police think both of us killed Martin. He was bent over, trying to catch his breath. “You need to run!” he said.

Run where? I stood up, my heart pounding, thinking, my baby will be born in jail. And they will kill Jesse. I had the mob scene, the brutal lynching, already running through my mind when Jesse jumped to his feet, pulled out his pocketknife, and stabbed it into one edge of the mural. Then he sawed at it, cutting the fabric free from the stretcher.