“Mowing that lawn made my hand sore,” he said aloud.

Before him was the white face of a policeman peering over the steering wheel of a car; two more white faces watched him from the rear seat. For a seemingly endless moment, in the balmy air of an early summer night, he stood immobile, his blistered palm uplifted, staring straight into the blurred face of a policeman who was pointing a blinding spotlight full into his eyes. He waited for them to question him so that he could give a satisfactory account of himself. After all, he was a member of the White Rock Baptist Church; he was employed by Mr. and Mrs. Wooten, two of the best-known people in all the city.

“Come here, boy.”

“Yes, sir,” he breathed automatically.

He walked stiffly to the running board of the police car.

“What you doing out here?”

“I work right back there, mister,” he answered. His voice was soft, breathless, pleading.

“Who for?”

“Mrs. Wooten, right back there at 5679, sir,” he said.

The door of the police car swung open quickly and the man behind the steering wheel stepped out; immediately, as though following in a prearranged signal, the other two policemen stepped out and the three of them advanced and confronted him. They patted his clothing from his head to his feet.

“He’s clean, Lawson,” one of the policemen said to the one who had driven the car.

“What’s your name?” asked the policeman who had been called Lawson.

“Fred Daniels, sir.”

“Ever been in trouble before, boy?” Lawson said.

“No, sir.”

“Where you think you’re going now?”

“I’m going home.”

“Where you live?”

“On East Canal, sir.”

“Who you live with?”

“My wife.”

Lawson turned to the policeman who stood at his right. “We’d better drag ’im in, Johnson.”

“But, mister!” he protested in a high whine. “I ain’t done nothing . . .”

“All right, now,” Lawson said. “Don’t get excited.”

“My wife’s having a baby . . .”

“They all say that. Come on,” said the red-headed man who had been called Johnson.

A spasm of outrage surged in him and he snatched backward, hurling himself away from them. Their fingers tightened about his wrists, biting into his flesh; they pushed him toward the car.

“Want to get tough, hunh?”

“No, sir,” he said quickly.

“Then get in the car, goddammit!”

He stepped into the car and they shoved him into the seat; two of the policemen sat at either side of him and hooked their arms in his. Lawson got behind the steering wheel. But, strangely, the car did not start. He waited, alert but ready to obey.

“Well, boy,” Lawson began in a slow, almost friendly tone, “looks like you’re in for it, hunh?”

Lawson’s enigmatical voice made hope rise in him.

“Mister, I ain’t done nothing,” he said. “You can ask Mrs. Wooten back there. She just paid me off and I was on my way home . . .” His words sounded futile and he tried another approach. “Look, mister, I’m a member of the White Rock Baptist Church. If you don’t believe me, call up Reverend Davis . . .”