But for George Rountree, the drama was a nuisance. Human passions interfered with the law. The law lived in books. The law was the fiction everyone in the community had agreed upon so that their collective life might proceed with a semblance of order and decorum. The law was a kind of story told over and over again. From time to time, one needed to revise it—as he was already revising the role of Negroes and the ballot, Waddell knew.

In the courtroom, Rountree was formidable. He could not match Waddell for fiery eloquence, for inflaming hearts and winning over an audience of nervous jurors. Instead, Rountree relied on the inexorable momentum of logic—fact following fact, figure proving figure, nothing overlooked, crushing his opponent by sheer weight of proof. Rountree won his cases in the law library.

Rountree thrived on information, on knowing more than anybody else. The way to keep him off-balance, then, was to keep him in the dark. Already, at Waddell’s urging, Hugh MacRae had cut him out of some key meetings. It was time to cut him out of a few more.

Waddell pulled out his gold watch—already after seven. Before he finished his plate, the men began to arrive. Within a few minutes, they filled up his parlor, dining room, and library, milling about, pouring coffee down their throats, all dressed up and talking in low tones, like a board of directors.

Aunt Bessie disappeared. She did not even remove the breakfast dishes. Miz Gabby had not come down yet. What ailed her lately? No matter—women had no part in this morning’s business. And where was Samuel Jenks? He had sent word for Jenks to meet him here bright and early. For what they were about to do, he wanted his biographer close at hand.

J. Allan Taylor stood in the entryway, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his trousers. He was nearly as tall as his brother but lacked Walker’s bulk. He was a man with no room for extras. Every few minutes, he yanked his watch out of his vest, snapped it open like he was knifing open an oyster, then dropped it back into the flannel pocket.

Hugh MacRae said, “Expecting somebody?”

Taylor said, “You don’t think the niggers will send word?”

MacRae barely smiled. “As if that matters.”

“But if they give in to everything—”

MacRae clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Now listen, John. They can all sign over the deeds to their houses, it wouldn’t change what we have to do.”

Taylor took his thumbs out of his waistband. “I’m just thinking of George. He’ll hold us to the paper. Like some goddamn contract or something.”

MacRae had sent word to Rountree after yesterday’s meeting that the thing was settled: no call for drastic measures. “You let me handle George,” he said.