“Judge Franklin,” says Blake Sims. “I request that Judge Marston be taken out through a side door, to spare the embarrassment of a mob scene. He’s done great service to this city and this state, no matter what else he might have done.”

Technically, Leo is Mackey’s prisoner now, but this is Eunice Franklin’s court. He defers to her.

Franklin stares at Leo, who is looking indifferently ahead, as though bored by the events around him. His problem has become one for the criminal courts, and he knows that particular jungle better than most.

“Take him out the front door,” Franklin says.

As the deputies escort Marston out, Judge Franklin looks to the jury box. “Ladies and gentlemen, you have done your duty. I apologize for the incompleteness of the process. At least it only took one day. You are discharged.” She turns to the gallery. “This court is dismissed.”

A wild roar erupts from outside the building, undoubtedly prompted by the appearance of Leo Marston in handcuffs. I have no desire to be in that crowd of jubilant blacks and confused whites, people who still know nothing of the facts of this case, and who probably won’t fully absorb them for several days. As the spectators rise from the benches in a rush, I am surrounded by people slapping my back and trying to shake my hand.

The first hand I take is my father’s. His grip is firm and strong, his eyes filled with pride. “You did a fair job, son.” He breaks into a smile.

My mother is in tears beside him. She reaches out and hugs me, while behind her Charles Evers and Willie Pinder give me brief salutes, then turn and move toward the door. As I stare after them, Caitlin materializes out of the crowd, smiling with relief.

“Well, I guess we won,” she says. “Right?”

“You’re damn right,” Dad agrees.

“I’m thinking of Ruby,” my mother says quietly.

“Me too,” I tell her.

She takes my hand. “You had to do it. I see that now.”

Before I can say anything else, Caitlin steps up to me, stands on tiptoe, and kisses me on the cheek. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.” She turns to my parents. “I hope you don’t mind public displays of affection.”

My mother surprises the hell out of me by saying, “That’s quite all right.”

I punch Caitlin’s shoulder. “Can you win the Pulitzer if you’re personally involved in the story you’re covering?”

She waves her hand as though swatting a fly. “To hell with the Pulitzer. I’ll take it if they offer it, but I’m not chasing it anymore.”