I sat and talked with the woman all the way across Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. Every hour or so she would excuse herself and run to the lavatory, where she would wail out her grief, terror, and frustration for the son she was soon to lose. While the woman shrieked and screamed in the toilet, the son would sit quietly, playing with his fingers and humming a rhythmless tune. I still consider it a monstrous act of cowardice on my part that I jumped bus in New Orleans. But I could not force myself to cross the border into Texas with that heartbroken woman and her son. I could not muster the courage for the final part of that horrible journey. I only wish the man who had signed the death warrant—the man who prided himself on signing more death warrants than any governor in Texas history—I wish he could have made that trip. Instead, he became president.

I walked inside and looked around. The place was busier than I had expected, but I guess the difficulties of the times have a lot of people on the move. I started to circle the interior and saw Sandy at the same moment she noticed me. As I walked over, she stood and hugged her purse to her body.

“Hello, Sandy. Why don’t we go outside and talk? My car is in the parking lot and we can go anywhere you want.”

She merely nodded her head and marched to the door. As we exited I pointed down the sidewalk.

“This way,” I said.

At the car, I held the door for Sandy and then got in on my side.

Sandy was turned sideways in the seat, looking at me, her purse held to her breast with both arms as though it were a source of protection.

“Do you really want to help, Mr. Tanner?” she asked, launching right in. “Or are you just up to something else?”

I held her face with my eyes. It was tight with suspicion and maybe a bit of fear. But her eyes were clear and questioning. She was trying to determine her next step and didn’t know how to go about it.

“Sandy? What is everyone so afraid of? What are you afraid of? It seems to me that everyone who knew Tonya Causey lives in a stew of utter fear. When I went up to see Joree the other day, at the mention of Tonya’s name, her own brother ran from the house screaming.

“When I stopped to see you and was attacked by Leon Wren, I told myself that it was merely a coincidence—a chance encounter with a lunatic. But I’ve since found out that it was Junior Causey who bailed Wren from jail and then drove him last night where the two of them firebombed a building and took shots at two of my friends.