He turned toward the grounds. Afternoon shadows were moving toward the house and sluggish winds wafted the scent of lilac. Channing’s long fingers rubbed silently together. There was no sound except the glider creaking under his weight. “George Naylor was the prosecutor,” he said abruptly. “He sat there, sweat dripping down his three chins, mumbling, ‘We never had no nigra problem,’ which wasn’t surprising since we’d never had any nigras except the McCarrolls. By then the lawn was covered with townsfolk and farmers in overalls making that low, ugly mob sound that’s not like anything else. Our moon-faced sheriff, Bohannon, is pacing in front of George’s desk whining that he can’t hold back the crowd. ‘I know these folks,’ he keeps saying. ‘They’re my friends.’ George stares at him without answering. Finally he sucks himself up and steps out on the porch. The sound gets even lower, like some animal. George has this high-pitched voice; I can barely hear him trying to ask the mob for trust. ‘Just give us the rope,’ a voice yells back. ‘Before you do that,’ George pleads, ‘stop and think if being part of a mob isn’t the lowest thing a man can do. If you men let the law just handle this we’ll try these nigras in two weeks.’ I remember thinking two weeks was pretty fast. But after George promised that, they just milled around without rushing the jail. Finally he came back in, sat down sort of heavy, and said, ‘We’ve got work to do, Luther.’ ‘Then you’d better find out what your case is,’ I answered.”

Channing still looked away, voice edged with disdain. “We went down the hall and had the sheriff bring in Lucy Vines. She sat on a stool, slack-mouthed and not looking up, saying the McCarrolls had raped her—the boy, anyhow. George asked about six different ways if that were true. Lucy wouldn’t budge. When she’d left, George just shook his head and mumbled, ‘Jesus Christ.’”

“I guess Lucy couldn’t have said anything else.”

Channing turned to stare at me. “Well,” he said coldly, “she could have confessed to whoring with nigras.”

He spoke with contempt, I thought for me. “What about the McCarrolls?” I asked.

“George and I went to look them over. The one that’d had the girl—Lucius—was shaking. Moses stood with both hands on the bars asking in this deep nigra voice to see his woman and boy. ‘Don’t be a fool,’ I told him. ‘You want them lynched, too?’ Big tears came rolling down his face, and he said, ‘But I didn’t do nothing.’ ‘Then you’re better off here,’ I answered, and after that he shut up.”

My stomach felt tight. “How did he get convicted?”

Channing folded his arms. “What’s that have to do with Lydia Cantwell?”