“What do you mean?”

“That man died in a field. They moved his body to the sniper’s perch. Even the gun doesn’t fit. It’s an infantryman’s rifle, not a sharpshooter’s.”

“I never knew that,” Allen said. “But you could still argue it’s true to the horror of war, truer than those ‘factual’ accounts of correspondents. Brady captured the crucial truth. The soldier was dead, and he’d died young and violently. Brady didn’t arrange that.”

“And you yourself would buy that argument?”

“Yes,” Allen said, as we passed Billy’s store. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I think so,” I said.

THIRTY MINUTES BEFORE THE SECOND PUBLIC HEARING BEGAN, the last chair in the community center had filled. Cameramen from Charlotte and Columbia and Atlanta TV stations staked out the far corners. Three dozen journalists held note pads and tape recorders in their laps and hands, almost as many photographers interspersed among them. A long table had been placed beside the lectern, metal folding chairs behind it. The two placards on the table said WALTER PHILLIPS, DISTRICT RANGER and DANIEL LUCKADOO, STATE SUPERVISOR OF FORESTS.

Phillips was standing off to the side talking to Myra Burrell. Lee hadn’t been interested in any shots of Phillips, but I had developed them anyway, then arranged the photos across a desk as though a police line-up. Will the real Walter Phillips please step forward, I told the photographs. And one of them, the one with the widest perspective, seemed to.

It was the hands, the way he had balled them into fists, like a man ready and willing to stand and fight if pushed far enough. But how far was far enough? As I watched Phillips talk to Myra Burrell I wondered if tonight I’d find out.

At five minutes to seven, Phillips and Luckadoo sat down behind the placards. Myra Burrell filled the third chair.

The last time I’d seen Daniel Luckadoo had been seven years ago at a Forest Watch ceremony. He was grayer now and near retirement. It was obvious from his demeanor that Luckadoo wished he was retired right now, was not here but sitting instead on a screened-in porch sipping an after-dinner drink. But before he could get his gold watch and lake house rocking chair he’d have to drive up here to play Solomon.

I turned to Allen. “So how soon after the meeting does Luckadoo make the decision?”

“Kowalsky said tomorrow morning.”

“What do you think he’ll do?”

“Allow it. He’s getting a lot of political pressure to go that way, from the governor on down. Luckadoo has the look of a man who understands the good-old-boy system.”

I nodded. Luckadoo had been appointed Supervisor of Forests by a governor who wouldn’t have cared if every tree in the state had been cut down. Over the years Luckadoo’s actions, especially in regard to clear-cutting, made it evident he shared the governor’s philosophy.