“Well, boy,” Lawson said in a low, somber tone, “we’re going to keep you right here until you tell us what you did . . .”

“Mister, I tell you I ain’t done nothing,” he cried, his mouth twisted, tears streaming down his black, wet cheeks.

“All right,” Lawson said. “It’s up to you. If that’s the way you want it, then that’s the way you can have it. Now, just sit there and catch hell . . .”

He stared at Lawson, trying desperately to understand what was happening to him. He was dreaming; yes, that was it, and Lawson was a dream and he was demanding that he do something impossible.

“Which one did you kill first?” Lawson asked.

He leaped to his feet and screamed with all the air of his lungs, “I ain’t killed nobody!”

Johnson pushed him back into the chair.

“Take it easy, boy.”

“You killed Mr. Peabody first so you could have your way with his wife, didn’t you?” Lawson asked quietly.

Horror came into his eyes as he clasped his hands and knotted his fingers; his head wagged aimlessly, as though it had become too heavy for his neck. Every limb on his body shook; sober reason told him to say no, but every muscle in his body urged him to say yes and get free of this nightmare.

“I ain’t never killed nobody,” he said through chattering teeth.

“Where did you hide the money?” Lawson asked.

Curiously, he felt these questions had the power of projecting him into a strange orbit where, though he was not guilty of a crime, they made him feel somehow guilty. He fought against this enveloping mood.

“Mister, I ain’t got no money,” he spoke in a slurred run of words. “Please, call up Reverend Davis . . .”

“To hell with your goddamn Reverend Davis! We’ll make you forget that goddamn preacher yet!” Lawson yelled.

“Please, you-all . . .”

“Answer the questions! When did you kill those two people!”

“Mister, I ain’t done nothing to nobody . . .”

Johnson caught hold of his chair and pulled it into the center of the room, then all three of them resumed their pacing in front of him.

“Please, mister . . .” he begged, leaning forward in the chair, blinking his eyes to keep tears from blurring his vision. “Let me send word to my wife . . . She don’t know where I am . . .”

“Naw. Let her worry. If you got sense enough to talk, then you can see her,” Lawson said.

“I don’t know nothing about what you say, mister. I swear to God, I don’t.”

“You got it all fixed up, ain’t you, boy?” Lawson asked.

Murphy walked with seeming aimlessness to the back of his chair, and though he saw him he paid him no attention; then, suddenly, he felt himself being tumbled violently upon the floor as the chair was snatched from under him.

“Just a little sample, boy,” a harsh voice came into his ears. “Get up!”