Alex Cross’s Trial

“You will adjourn to the jury room now. I’ll have the bailiff standing right outside your door, if there’s anything you need.”

The jury members looked at one another, waiting for a signal that Judge Corbett had finished his instructions.

But he was not quite done.

“One other thing, gentlemen… I know you enjoyed hearing the defense counsel just as much as I did, but I do want to give you my point of view on a matter he chose to address.”

He claimed to be speaking to the jurors, but his eyes stayed on Maxwell Lewis the whole time.

“The people who wash your clothes and pick your cotton are every bit as capable of telling the truth as any other kind of people.”

Lewis’s face flushed so red I thought he might explode.

But I knew exactly what my father was up to. For the spectators and journalists, some of whom he had allowed into the courtroom to hear the closing arguments, Judge Corbett was showing himself to be a courageous man, boldly making a statement of racial tolerance.

I was neither a spectator nor a journalist, however. I wasn’t buying his act for a minute. I had sat through fifty-four objections that were overruled fifty-three times. My father had systematically sabotaged the prosecution’s chances of getting a fair trial in his court.

The judge banged the gavel I had given him. “Gentlemen, kindly repair to the jury room and do your job.”

Chapter 124

I TRIED TO HURRY past the mob of reporters. I was becoming quite adept at avoiding them, but the more skilled ones-the fellows from New York and Washington -were relentless. They pulled at the sleeve of my jacket. Some actually planted themselves in the middle of my path.

Finally, I had to push them out of my way. It was the only way to get past these rude and opportunistic fellows.

“Mr. Corbett, do you think you have a chance?”

“Jonah, why’d you let a white man give your summation for you?”

“Mr. Stringer, what’s your angle? What’s in it for you?”

I felt someone push something into my hand and looked down to find a twenty-dollar bill.

A reporter I recognized from Washington was grinning at me. “That’s for a private interview, and there’s more if it’s really good!” I wadded the bill and tossed it back at him.

I heard Jonah calling to me across the throng: “See you at the War Room, half an hour.”

The reporters lost interest in me and turned on Jonah. The

War Room? What War Room? What war? Do you think of this trial as a war? Do you think you will lose?

I used this opportunity to escape. I crossed Commerce Street and hurried downtown, to the platform by the nearly deserted depot. One old colored man was attaching a feedbag to a fine brown horse hitched to a flat truck.

I found a bench in the shade near the stationmaster’s house from which I could survey most of Eudora.

The mob was still swirling around the courthouse, a jam of horses and wagons and honking automobiles.

Out on the edge of town, on the dirt road leading out to the Quarters, I saw columns of smoke rising into the sky, the camp-fires of Negroes who’d come from all over southern Mississippi to await the verdict. I had ridden through their camp yesterday, smelling the smoke of fatback, hearing the hymns they sang.

“Sing loud so He can hear you,” I said to the distant columns of smoke.

This was the first time in weeks I’d been alone, without the trial looming in front of me. It was time I did something I had put off for too long.

I took out a sheet of paper, turned the satchel over my lap, and started to write.

Dear Meg,

I have waited weeks to write this letter.

I have waited because I kept hoping that you would reply to my last. I envisioned an envelope with your return address on it. I imagined myself tearing it open to discover that you had changed your mind, that the thought of us living apart was something you had come to believe was a mistake. That you once again believed in the two of us. But that letter never arrived. I am alone, as separated from you and Amelia and Alice as if I were dead-or, perhaps, as if I’d never existed.