Off-the-charts applause as Tashi scanned the people seated down on the floor and then over to a side exit where several Watchmen stood. There were maybe a dozen of them, in the black hats, black T-shirts, and military-style gear. All of them had guns on their hips. Another half dozen flanking the stage as Vardaman spoke.

“None of y’all asked for any handouts,” he said. “Y’all aren’t those kind of people. Am I right? We all pulled ourselves up by our bootstraps to feed our families. We are all hardworkin’, tough-talkin’, God-fearin’ rednecks. And we owe it to our children, and our children’s children, to stand our Southern ground. Too many good men, good people, fought and died for what was taken away from us. So much blood spilled not more than five miles from where we stand.”

Huge, gushing, thunderous applause and lots of rebel yells. Jessica cut her eyes to Tashi. She’d seen the Watchmen, too. Jessica shook her head, leaned into Tashi, and said, “We’re not getting anywhere near him.”

“What are they going to do?” Tashi said. “Shoot us?”

“Maybe,” Jessica said into her ear. “Yeah. That’s a distinct possibility.”

“I’m going to ask him,” Tashi said. “I’m headed right down after the speech to put the microphone in front of his face and ask him about those pictures of his hunt lodge.”

“And then what?” Jessica asked. “So Brandon Taylor was on his land. What do we ask as a follow-up question?”

“I just want to see his reaction,” Tashi said. “See how he handles it.”

“What if he doesn’t react at all?” she said. “What if he acts like he has absolutely no fucking clue?”

Tashi didn’t answer, transfixed by everything she was hearing. The crowd standing on their feet, yelling and screaming to take back their country, their Mississippi. Fists raised and flags waving. “I’m still working on that part.”

*   *   *

“Do you recognize anything from these pictures?” Quinn asked, spreading the photos Hubie Phillips had given them out on the Taylor family kitchen table.

Both Rhonda and Shaina Taylor sat with him. Shaina held a little lapdog, a white Shih Tzu, that went for Quinn’s throat the moment he walked in the door. Rhonda Taylor had on pink sweatpants with PINK written across her backside. Her daughter, Shaina, was ready for work, dressed in blue jeans and a white blouse, a blue Dollar General vest with her name tag attached hung over a nearby chair. Her styled blonde hair falling over her shoulders. The women looked so much alike it was a little strange sitting with them both at the same table.

“Where’d you get these?” Shaina asked.

“I can’t say,” Quinn said. “But I was hoping y’all might make some sense of them.”