The march had been whispered about since Monday, but its details had not been finalized1. When the week began, the execution was days away, and there was a fervent2 hope in the black community that a judge somewhere would wake up and stop it. But the days had passed and the higher powers were still asleep. Now the hour was near, and the blacks in Slone, especially the younger ones, were not about to sit idly by. The closing of the high school had energized3 them and left them free to look for a way to make noise. Around 10:00 a.m., a crowd began to gather at Washington Park, at the corner of Tenth Street and Martin Luther King Boulevard. Aided by cell phones and the Internet, the crowd multiplied, and before long a thousand blacks were milling about, restless, certain that something was about to happen but not sure exactly what. Two police cars arrived and parked down the street, safely away from the crowd.
Trey Glover was Slone High School's starting tailback, and he drove an SUV with tinted4 windows, oversize tires, glistening5 chrome wheel covers, and an audio system that could break glass. He parked it on the street, opened all four doors, and began playing "White Man's Justice," an angry rap song by T. P. Slik. The song electrified6 the crowd. Others streamed in, most of them high school students, but the gathering7 was also attracting the unemployed8, some housewives, and a few retirees. A drum ensemble9 materialized when four members of the Marching Warriors10 arrived with two bass11 drums and two snares12. A chant began, "Free Donte Drumm," and it echoed through the neighborhood. In the distance, away from the park, someone lit a round of firecrackers, and for a split second everyone thought it could've been gunfire. Smoke bombs were set off, and as the minutes passed, the tension grew.
The brick was not thrown from Washington Park. It came from behind the police cars, from behind a wooden fence next to a house owned by Mr. Ernie Shylock, who was sitting on the porch watching the excitement. He claimed no knowledge of who threw it. It crashed into the rear window of a police car, jolted13 the two cops into a near panic, and caused a roaring wave of approval from the crowd. The police ran around for a few seconds, guns drawn14, ready to shoot anything that moved, with Mr. Shylock being the first possible target. He raised his hands and yelled, "Don't shoot. I didn't do it." One cop sprinted15 behind the house as if he might chase down the assailant, but after forty yards he was winded and gave up. Within minutes, reinforcements arrived, and the sight of more police cars fired up the crowd.
The march finally began when the drummers stepped onto Martin Luther King Boulevard and headed north, in the general direction of downtown. They were followed by Trey Glover in his SUV, windows down, rap at full volume. Behind him were the others, a long line of protesters, many holding posters that demanded justice, a stop to the killing16, and freedom for Donte. Children on bikes joined the fun. Blacks sitting idly on porches got up and began walking with the crowd. The parade grew in size as it inched along, seemingly without a destination.
No one had bothered with a permit, as required by Slone ordinance17. The rally the day before in front of the courthouse had been legally conducted, but not this march. The police, though, played it cool. Let 'em protest. Let 'em yell. It'll be over tonight, hopefully. Blocking the parade route, or trying to disperse18 the crowd, or even arresting a few, would incite19 them and only make matters worse. So the police held back, some following at a distance while others circled ahead, clearing the way, diverting traffic.
A black officer on a motorcycle pulled alongside the SUV and yelled, "Where you going, Trey?"
Trey, apparently20 the unofficial leader of the event, replied, "We're going back to the courthouse."
"Keep it peaceful and there won't be trouble."
"I'll try," Trey said with a shrug21. He and the officer both knew that trouble could erupt at any moment.
The parade turned onto Phillips Street and inched along, a loosely organized assemblage of concerned citizens enthralled22 by their freedom of expression, and who were also enjoying the attention. The drummers repeated their precise, impressive routines. The rap shook the ground with its deadening lyrics23. The students shook and gyrated with the beat while chanting a variety of battle cries. The mood was at once festive24 and angry. The kids were quite proud of their ballooning numbers, yet they wanted to do more. Ahead of them, the police blocked off Main Street and spread the word among the downtown merchants that a march was headed their way.
The 911 call was recorded at 11:27 a.m. The Mount Sinai Church of God in Christ was burning, not far from Washington Park. A white van with a logo and phone numbers had been parked behind the church, according to the caller, and two white men in uniforms, like plumbers25 or electricians, had hurried from the church into the van and left. Minutes later, there was smoke. Sirens erupted as the first responders answered the call. Fire trucks rumbled26 from two of the three stations in Slone.
At the corner of Phillips and Main, the march came to a halt. The drummers were still. The rap was turned down. They watched the fire trucks go racing27 by, headed into their part of town. The same black officer on the motorcycle stopped at the SUV and informed Trey that one of their churches was now burning.
"Let's disband this little march, Trey," the officer said.
"I don't think so."
"Then there's gonna be trouble."
"There's already trouble," Trey said.
"Ya'll need to break up before this thing gets outta hand."
"No, you need to get outta the way."
Ten miles west of Slone there was a country store and deli called the Trading Post. It was owned by a large, loud, garrulous28 man named Jesse Hicks, a second cousin of Reeva's. Jesse's father had opened the Trading Post fifty years earlier, and Jesse had never worked anywhere else. The Post, as it was known, was a gathering place for gossip and lunch, and it had even hosted a few campaign barbecues for politicians. On Thursday, there was more traffic than usual, more folks stopping by to hear the latest on the execution. Jesse kept a photo of his favorite niece, Nicole Yarber, on the wall behind the counter next to the cigarettes, and he would discuss her case with anyone who would listen. Technically29, she was a third cousin, but he called her a niece since she'd become something of a celebrity30. For Jesse, 6:00 p.m. on Thursday, November 8, could not arrive soon enough.
The store was in the front part of the building, the small eating area in the rear, and around an ancient potbellied stove there were half a dozen rocking chairs, all occupied as lunch drew near. Jesse was working the cash register, selling gas and beer, and talking nonstop to his small crowd. With the riot at the high school only a few hours old, and the First Baptist Church still smoldering31, and, of course, the looming32 execution, the gossip was hot and the men chatted away excitedly. A man called Shorty walked in and announced, "The Africans are marchin' downtown again. One of 'em threw a brick through the window of a police car."
This, on top of all the other stories, led to a near overload33 of news that had to be discussed and analyzed34 and put in perspective, and quickly. Shorty had the floor for a few minutes, but was soon overshadowed by Jesse, who always dominated the conversations. Various opinions were put forth35 on what the police should be doing, and no one argued that the police were handling things properly.
For years, Jesse had boasted that he would witness the execution of Donte Drumm, couldn't wait to watch it, would, in fact, pull the switch himself if given the chance. He had said many times that his dear Reeva was insistent36 that he be there, on account of his fondness for and closeness to Nicole, his beloved niece. Every man rocking away had seen Jesse get choked up and wipe his eyes when talking about Nicole. But now a last-minute bureaucratic37 snafu was keeping Jesse away from Huntsville. There were so many journalists and prison officials and other big shots wanting to watch that Jesse got bumped. It was the hottest ticket in town, and Jesse, though on the approved list, had somehow been left out.
A man named Rusty38 walked in and announced, "Another church is on fire! One of those black Pentecostal ones."
"Where?"
"In Slone, near Washington Park."
The thought of a retaliatory39 church burning was at first inconceivable. Even Jesse was stunned40. But the more they talked about it and analyzed it, the more they liked it. Why not? Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. If they want war, we'll give 'em a war. There was a general agreement that Slone was a powder keg and they were in for a long night. This was disturbing, but also stimulating41. Every man sitting around the stove had at least two guns in his truck and more in the house.
Two strangers entered the Trading Post: one, a man of the cloth with a collar and navy jacket, the other man a slick-headed cripple who shuffled42 along with a cane43. The minister walked to a display case and took out two bottles of water. The other man went to the restroom.
Keith set the two bottles on the counter and said "Good morning" to Jesse. Behind him, the experts in the rockers were all talking at once and Keith understood none of it.
"You from around here?" Jesse asked as he rung up the water.
"No, just passing through," Keith said. His speech was crisp, precise, no accent at all. Yankee.
"You a preacher?"
"Yes. I'm a Lutheran minister," Keith said as he caught a nose full of onion rings being removed from hot grease. A hunger pain hit and buckled44 his knees. He was starving, and exhausted45, but there was no time for food. Boyette was shuffling46 over. Keith handed him a bottle, said "Thanks" to Jesse, and turned for the door. Boyette nodded at Jesse, who said, "You boys have a good day."
And with that, Jesse spoke47 to the man who murdered his niece.
In the parking lot, an Audi stopped abruptly48 next to the Subaru, and two men--Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor--crawled out. Quick introductions were made. Aaron and Fred looked closely at Boyette, sizing him up, asking themselves if the guy was real. Robbie would want to know as soon as they got back in the car and called him.
Aaron said, "We're about fifteen minutes from the office, and we'll have to detour49 around downtown. There's a lot going on. Just stick close, okay?"
"Let's go," Keith said, anxious to finish this interminable drive. They drove away, the Subaru tailgating the Audi. Boyette seemed calm, even detached. The cane was resting between his legs. He thumped50 its handle with his fingers, in much the same way he'd been doing for the past ten hours. When they passed the sign indicating the municipal boundaries of Slone, Boyette said, "I never thought I'd see this place again."
"Recognize it?"
The tic, the pause. "Not really. I've seen a lot of these places, Pastor51, small hick towns everywhere. After a while, they tend to blur52 together."
"Anything special about Slone?"
"Nicole. I killed her."
"And she was the only one you killed?"
"I didn't say that, Pastor."
"So there are others?"
"Didn't say that either. Let's talk about something else."
"And what would you like to talk about, Travis?"
"How'd you meet your wife?"
"I've told you before, Travis, leave her out of it. You're much too concerned with my wife."
"She's so cute."
On the conference table, Robbie pushed a button for the speakerphone and said, "Talk to me, Fred."
"We met them; they're behind us now, and they appear to be a genuine minister and one seriously weird53 sidekick."
"Describe Boyette."
"White male, you wouldn't call him handsome. Five ten, 150, shaved scalp with a bad tattoo54 on the left side of his neck, several more covering his arms. Has the look of a sick puppy who's spent his life locked away. Green shifty eyes that don't blink. I wanted to wash my hand after shaking his. Weak handshake, a dishrag."
Robbie took a deep breath and then said, "So they're here."
"They are indeed. We'll be there in a matter of minutes."
"Hurry up." He turned off the speakerphone and looked at his team scattered55 around the table, all watching him. "It might be somewhat intimidating56 for Boyette to walk in here and have ten people staring at him," Robbie said. "Let's pretend like it's business as usual. I'll take him to my office and ask the first questions."
Their file on Boyette was getting thicker. They had found records of his convictions in four states and a few details of his incarcerations, and they had located the lawyer in Slone who'd represented him briefly57 after his arrest there. The lawyer vaguely58 remembered him and had sent over his file. They had an affidavit59 from the owner of the Rebel Motor Inn, one Inez Gaffney, who had no recollection of Boyette, but did find his name in an old ledger60 from 1998. They had the building records from the Monsanto warehouse61 where Boyette allegedly worked in the late fall of that year.
Carlos tidied up the conference table and they waited.
When Keith parked at the train station and opened his door, he heard sirens in the distance. He smelled smoke. He sensed trouble.
"The First Baptist Church burned last night," Aaron said as they walked up the steps to the old loading platform. "Now there's a fire at a black church over there." He nodded to his left, as if Keith was supposed to know his way around town.
"They're burning churches?" he asked.
"Yep."
Boyette struggled up the steps, leaning on his cane, and then they stepped into the lobby. Fanta pretended to be busy with a word processor, barely looking up.
"Where's Robbie?" Fred Pryor asked, and she nodded toward the back.
Robbie met them in the conference room. Awkward introductions were made. Boyette was reluctant to speak or to shake hands. Abruptly, he said to Robbie, "I remember you. I saw you on television after the boy was arrested. You were upset, almost yelling at the camera."
"That's me. Where were you?"
"I was here, Mr. Flak, watching it all, couldn't believe they had arrested the wrong guy."
"That's right, the wrong guy." For someone as high-strung and quick-tempered as Robbie Flak, it was difficult to remain calm. He wanted to slap Boyette, and grab his cane and beat him senseless, and curse him for a long list of transgressions62. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands. Instead, he pretended to be cool, detached. Harsh words would not help Donte.
They left the conference room and walked into Robbie's office. Aaron and Fred Pryor stayed outside, ready for whatever came next. Robbie directed Keith and Boyette to a small table in the corner, and all three sat down. "Would you like some coffee or something to drink?" he asked, almost pleasantly. He stared at Boyette, who stared back without flinching63 or blinking.
Keith cleared his throat and said, "Look, Robbie, I hate to ask for favors, but we haven't eaten in a long time. We're starving."
Robbie picked up the phone, rang Carlos, and ordered a tray of deli sandwiches and water.
"No sense beating around the bush, Mr. Boyette. Let's hear what you have to say."
The tic, the pause. Boyette shifted and squirmed, suddenly unable to make eye contact. "Well, the first thing I want to know is if there's any reward money on the table."
Keith dropped his head and said, "Oh my God."
"You're not serious, are you?" Robbie asked.
"I suppose everything is serious right now, Mr. Flak," Boyette said. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"This is the first mention of reward money," Keith said, completely exasperated64.
"I have needs," Boyette said. "I don't have a dime65 and no prospects66 of finding one. Just curious, that's all."
"That's all?" Robbie repeated. "The execution is less than six hours away, and our chances of stopping it are very slim. Texas is about to execute an innocent man, and I'm sitting here with the real killer67, who suddenly wants to get paid for what he's done."
"Who says I'm the real killer?"
"You," Keith blurted68. "You told me you killed her and you know where the body is buried because you buried it. Stop playing games, Travis."
"If I recall correctly, her father put up a bunch of dough69 when they were trying to find her. Something like $200,000. That right, Mr. Flak?"
"That was nine years ago. If you think you're in line for the reward money, you're badly mistaken." Robbie's words were measured, but an explosion was imminent70.
"Why do you want money?" Keith asked. "According to your own words, you'll be dead in a few months. The tumor71, remember?"
"Thanks for reminding me, Pastor."
Robbie glared at Boyette with unrestrained hatred72. The truth was that Robbie, at that moment, would sign over every asset he could find in exchange for a nice thick affidavit that told the truth and might save his client. There was a long stretch of silence as the three contemplated73 what to do next. Boyette grimaced74 and then began rubbing his slick head. He placed both palms on both temples and pressed as hard as possible, as if pressure from the outside world would relieve the pressure from within.
"Are you having a seizure75?" Keith asked, but there was no response.
"He has these seizures," Keith said to Robbie, as if an explanation would help matters. "Caffeine helps."
Robbie jumped to his feet and left the room. Outside his office, he told Aaron and Pryor, "The son of a bitch wants money." He walked to the kitchen, grabbed a pot of stale coffee, found two paper cups, and returned to his office. He poured a cup for Boyette, who was bent76 double at the waist, elbows on knees, cradling his head, and moaning. "Here's some coffee."
Silence.
Finally, Boyette said, "I'm going to be sick. I need to lie down."
"Take the sofa," Robbie said, pointing to it across the room. Boyette struggled to his feet and with Keith's help made it to the sofa, where he wrapped his arms around his head and pulled his knees to his chest. "Can you turn off the lights?" Boyette said. "I'll be okay in a minute."
"We don't have time for this!" Robbie said, ready to scream.
"Please, just a minute," Boyette said pathetically as his body vibrated and he gasped77 for air. Keith and Robbie left the office and stepped into the conference room. A crowd soon gathered, and Robbie introduced Keith to the rest of the gang. The food arrived and they ate quickly.
收听单词发音 |
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finalized
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| vt.完成（finalize的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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energized
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| v.给予…精力，能量( energize的过去式和过去分词 )；使通电 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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electrified
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| v.使电气化( electrify的过去式和过去分词 )；使兴奋 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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unemployed
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| adj.失业的，没有工作的；未动用的，闲置的 | |
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ensemble
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| n.合奏(唱)组；全套服装；整体，总效果 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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sprinted
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| v.短距离疾跑( sprint的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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ordinance
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| n.法令；条令；条例 | |
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disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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incite
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| v.引起，激动，煽动 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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enthralled
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| 迷住，吸引住( enthrall的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到非常愉快 | |
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lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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smoldering
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| v.用文火焖烧，熏烧，慢燃( smolder的现在分词 ) | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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overload
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| vt.使超载；n.超载 | |
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analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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bureaucratic
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| adj.官僚的，繁文缛节的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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retaliatory
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| adj.报复的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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detour
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| n.绕行的路，迂回路；v.迂回，绕道 | |
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thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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54
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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intimidating
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| vt.恐吓，威胁( intimidate的现在分词) | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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affidavit
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| n.宣誓书 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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flinching
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的现在分词 ) | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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dime
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| n.（指美国、加拿大的钱币）一角 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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tumor
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| n.（肿）瘤，肿块(英)tumour | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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seizure
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| n.没收；占有；抵押 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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