George had heard more than one sermon on that verse. Its message was that a wrong done to anyone was a wrong done to Jesus. African Americans, who had more wrongs done to them than most citizens, gained strong consolation from that notion. The verse was even quoted on the Wales Window at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.

Bowyer said: “I went into that church to mock, and I came out saved.”

George said: “I’m glad to hear of your change of heart, Reverend.”

“I do not deserve your forgiveness, Congressman, but I hope for God’s.” Bowyer stood up. “I will not take up any more of your valuable time. Thank you.”

George stood too. He felt that he had not responded adequately to a man in the grip of powerful emotion. “Before you go,” he said, “let us shake hands.” He took Bowyer’s hand in both of his. “If God can forgive you, Clarence, I guess I should too.”

Bowyer choked up. Tears came to his eyes as he shook George’s hand.

On impulse, George embraced him. The man was shaking with sobs.

After a minute, George broke the hug and stepped back. Bowyer tried to speak but was unable to. Weeping, he turned and left the room.

His son shook George’s hand. “Thank you, Congressman,” the boy said in a shaky voice. “I can’t express how much your forgiveness means to my father. You are a great man, sir.” He followed Bowyer out of the room.

George sat back down, feeling dazed. Well, he thought, how about that?

• • •

He told Maria about it that evening.

Her reaction was unsympathetic. “I guess you’re entitled to forgive them, it was your arm that got broken,” she said. “Me, I’m not big on mercy for segregationists. I’d like to see Reverend Bowyer serve a couple of years in jail, or maybe on a chain gang. Then perhaps I’d accept his apology. All those corrupt judges and brutal cops and bomb makers are still walking around free, you know. They’ve never been brought to justice for what they did. Some are probably drawing their damn pensions. And they want forgiveness, too? I’m not going to help them feel comfortable. If their guilt makes them miserable, I’m glad. It’s the least they deserve.”

George smiled. Maria was getting feistier in her fifties. She was one of the most senior people in the State Department, respected by Republicans and Democrats alike. She carried herself with confidence and authority.

They were in her apartment, and she was making dinner, sea bass stuffed with herbs, while George laid the table. A delicate aroma filled the room, making George’s mouth water. Maria topped up his glass of Lynmar Chardonnay, then put broccoli into a steamer. She was a little heavier than she had used to be, and she was trying to adopt George’s lean cuisine tastes.

After dinner they took their coffee to the couch. Maria was in a mellow mood. “I want to be able to look back and say that the world was a safer place when I left the State Department than when I arrived,” she said. “I want my nephews and nieces, and my godson, Jack, to raise their children without the threat of a superpower holocaust hanging over them. Then I’ll be able to say that my life was well spent.”