“I was—no, I mean—I was just passing by.”

“And you did not raise a hand to her?”

“No. I just watched is all.” But as soon as she spoke her hand flew up to her mouth to cover it as if the words that escaped her were not her own.

There was a collective gasp from the courtroom, a hushed rustling of bodies, whispers that floated up into the air. Edith Cummings had unknowingly admitted enough to get her in the chair; watching a crime was disallowed. They weren’t to report it—only the victim or the victim’s family could—but they were to turn their backs, their eyes, their ears. Unless of course it was on the scaffold during an outcry. Then they were expected to jeer and chant, to gather gravel in their fists and throw it as far as they could. Only then was a mob welcome, egged on by the Deputies and embraced by the residents.

“You watched?”

“No—” she stammered. “That ain’t what I meant. I was there, walking into town. It was them Thompson boys. They started it.”

“Now you know as well as I that it ain’t of import who started what. Did you or did you not lay hands to Lady Mae Hilvers?”

Realizing the predicament she was in, the girl nodded, as she knew enough, and she knew not to lie in court twice.

“She has asked for one atonement and shall be granted such,” said Deputy Daniels. “You may step down.”

The girl stood. She held on to the balustrade with one hand, jumped down over the two steps and landed hard on the floor. She walked back to her seat slowly, purposefully, sucking her teeth and drumming her hands on her hips. The girl was trying to make Lady Mae look up, who, though wanting to meet the gaze of her assailant and show her she wasn’t afraid, kept her eyes focused on Deputy Daniels.

The Thompson boys were next. Rarely were they seen without each other, acting as one monstrous body in mind and voice. The younger one called the shots—the older one did the work; they were a gang of two, born into a family of nine, and cared not for any consequence they might suffer for their actions. They took the stand together, shuffling their large and small bodies up toward the front of the room, muttering and snarling as they passed Lady Mae. They shouldered one another into the witness stand and tried at first to share the seat, but when they couldn’t fit, the older one stood behind the younger one, his arms crossed and his lips thin.

“Jonathan, Josiah,” Deputy Daniels said.

“Aye,” they replied.

“You have been named perpetrators. What is your plea?”

“Not guilty.”

“Not guilty.”

“State your case.”

“We was just walking home when we saw her.” Josiah pointed to Edith Cummings, whose parents sat behind her in the first row. “She was already throwing stones.”

“That’s not true!” cried the girl.