I swing the car up onto the road that runs atop the levee. Between the levee and the river lie the perpetually flooded “borrow pits” created by the dredging that built the levee. The blackwater pits teem with catfish, crawfish, gar, water moccasins, alligators, abandoned cars, and the occasional corpse.

“Good fishing down there this month,” Jones offers.

“Do you think Payton was killed for doing civil rights work?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know nothing from civil rights work. He was stirring up a pile of shit, I know that. He used the national union to get himself promoted to quality-control inspector, which was a white job up till then. That pissed off a lot of people. Then he started bucking for injection-mold foreman. What the hell did he expect? Wasn’t nobody out there gonna tolerate a nigger foreman in sixty-eight. Next thing they’d be wanting the front office. Too far, too fast. It’s that simple.”

“Did the Klan kill him?”

Jones’s cheeks redden. “I don’t know nothing about no Klan. Payton just pissed off too many people. Anybody coulda killed him.” He snaps his fingers nervously. “Turn this damn thing around. I gotta get back to work.”

“I noticed you guys were pretty busy.”

“Kiss my sanctified ass.”

He turns on the radio, selects a country station, and adjusts the volume so that further conversation will be impossible. I make a U-turn and head back toward the twin bridges. A couple of minutes later, he surprises me by yelling over the roar of the stereo: “I can’t stand this shit!”

“What?” I ask, turning down the volume.

“All this happy-ass, fake-rock, slicky-boy country shit. They don’t play nothing good no more.”

“What’s good? Hank Williams?”

“Hank’s all right, sure. But Jim Reeves, boy, that’s the prime stuff.”

I almost laugh. I’m no Jim Reeves fan, but whatever differences separate me from this redneck, he and I are bound together by manner, rites, and traditions imprinted deep beneath the skin. That’s why Caitlin’s newspaper story didn’t stop him from talking to me. I am white and Mississippi-born, and at bottom Jones perceives me as a member of his tribe. I wonder how wrong he is. If push comes to shove, and I’m forced to choose between white and black, will I realize there is no choice at all?

“Did the FBI question you?”

“Shit. Federal Bureau of Integration, we called ’em back then.” Now that we’re headed back, Jones has regained some of his old swagger. “Had ’em an office up in the City Bank building. A dozen Yankees with blue suits and ramrods up their butts. Agents came down from Jackson special just to question me. I think Bobby Kennedy sent ’em. Hoover wouldna sent assholes like these were.”

“They were tough on you?”