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it when I come tomorrow.”
    He smiled but did not speak.
    “Mr. Clayton brought Mama some fish this morning,” she said. “You feel like cleaning ‘em?”
    “Yeah.” He nodded. “I’ll clean ‘em.”
    “When you git through, I’m gone season ‘em so René won’t have so much to do when she come in.”
    “I’m sho’ she’ll appreciate that.”
    “Reckon y’all gone want potato salad with that fish?”
    “I don’t,” he said. “But they might.”
    “Well then, I might as well peel a few mo’ potatoes while I’m at it.”
    She removed a few potatoes from the bottom cabinet and placed them in the sink. Then she turned on the faucet and began to wash them.
    “Can I ask you something, sis?”
    “Yeah, what?”
    “I heard Mr. Clayton talking a little while ago.”
    “Un hunh.”
    “Reckon it’s possible?”
    “Is what possible?”
    “That they’ve already decided about Marcus.”
    “I don’t put nothing past them people.”
    “Guess that’s why Captain Jack didn’t say much. Maybe he already know.”
    “Could be.”
    Suddenly, his doubts rose. His concerns grew. He wondered about Captain Jack. Who was he? Was he competent? Had he been hired or had he been appointed? How vigorously had the attorney fought for his son’s life? Had he really fought at all?
    “I was thinking about going back over there,” he said. “What you think?”
    “For what?” she wanted to know.
    “To see that lawyer again.”
    “Well, I don’t ‘spect you gone be able to rest if you don’t.”

Chapter
8
    H e received the phone call from Captain Jack’s office by eight o’clock the following morning. He wasn’t asleep when the call came. He had gone to bed and had tried to sleep, but when sleep would not come, he passed the night lying on his back, listening to the soothing sound of crickets chirping outside his bedroom window and the loud, monotonous ticking of the small wind-up clock sitting atop the television in the adjacent room. When twilight dawned, he was still lying in bed fully conscious of the sounds of a well-rested world rising to face another day.
    At five he heard Mrs. Alberta’s rooster crow. At five-fifteen, Mr. Lonzo’s old Ford truck rumbled past. He was on his way to work; he had to be at the plant by six. By five-thirty, the trash collectors arrived. He heard the garbage truck when it pulled off the road in front of his house and he heard the men talking amongst themselves as they worked.
    “What time is it?” Tyrone heard one of them ask the other.
    “Too early to start watching the clock,” he heard the other respond.
    “Look like it’s gone be a hot one,” came an unrelated observation.
    “Weather man say it suppose to rain,” the other retorted.
    “Well, he didn’t tell the good Lawd, ‘cause it ain’t a cloud in the sky.”
    Suddenly, the men were quiet. Then Tyrone heard a loud grunt followed by the sound of trash hitting the bottom of the truck. A few seconds passed before the empty barrel hit the ground. The engine roared, and the truck rolled on.
    At six-thirty, he took a shower. By seven, he had dressed and eaten a simple breakfast—two slices of bacon, one slice of toast, and three scrambled eggs. He had spoken to Janell by eight, and he was on the road by nine.
    As he drove, his mind was preoccupied, and his actions were mechanical. He passed through towns without seeing them. He stopped at signal lights without thought. Instinctively, he drove over hills and through curves, automatically adjusting his speed to negotiate turns or to execute lane changes. With dulled senses and a muted mind, he pressed onward until some abnormality forced in him a temporary state of awareness. Just outside the small village of Epps, it was a slow-moving pick-up truck driven by a middle-aged white man with curly black hair. There were three black boys riding in the back. One stood against the cab, and the other two sat on the railing. They were farmhands. He could tell by their