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tentatively, as was his custom, crossing one long leg over the other. In his fifties, with graying hair and sad gray eyes, Mr. Jamison was one of the few adult white people that I truly liked.
    “I’m only going to be here a minute,” he explained as Mama took his hat and laid it on the bed. “I was just down to the Averys and thought I’d stop by before I went back to town to see if you’d heard about the trial.”
    As usual, Mr. Jamison came straight to the point. He understood as well as we did that the friendship and good will we shared with him was different from that which we shared with our neighbors in the black community or that which he shared with his friends in the white community. There was a mutual respect and, because the years had proven it justified, a mutual trust; but there was no socialization other than the amenities. Neither he nor we would have felt comfortable in such a situation, for the unwritten laws of the society frowned upon such fraternization, and the trust and respect were valued and needed more than the socializing.
    “We got the news this afternoon,” Papa replied. “The children heard ’bout it at school.”
    Mr. Jamison glanced over at the boys and me, then back to Papa. “Judge Havershack’ll be presiding. I tried for Judge Forestor, who’s quite a bit more free thinking, but he was tied up in something else up at Tree Hill. Hadley Macabee from Vicksburg’ll be prosecuting.”
    Papa was silent a moment before he observed, “I don’t s’pose it really matters that much who the judge or the prosecutor is, does it? It’s the jury’s gotta decide, and I figure itmade up its mind long before that boy broke into that store.”
    Mr. Jamison sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “A different kind of judge, though, maybe could make a difference . . . a big difference.”
    Papa shrugged. “You naturally got more faith in the law than I do.”
    Mr. Jamison took Papa’s comment in silence. Papa had no illusions about the trial and Mr. Jamison knew it. He glanced around the room before he spoke again. “David, there’s been something that’s been on my mind quite a little while, and now that we’ve got the trial coming up, I think it best we talk about it.”
    I stopped breathing and glanced at Stacey; his eyes did not move from Mr. Jamison.
    “It’s about your children.”
    Relief was on Stacey’s face. I began to breathe again. Mr. Jamison was not going to talk about the fire.
    “Now I’ve spoken to T.J. and he’s told me all his actions on the night Jim Lee was killed. I know that he came by here first and that your children helped him get back home.”
    Christopher-John and Little Man shot a nervous glance at Stacey, their eyes revealing their worry that we might be in trouble all over again.
    “Mr. Macabee is aware of this as well, but he and I both agree that there’s no point in taking T.J.’s testimony beyond the time he says he got a ride back from Strawberry. If we go beyond that time, we’ll have to get into the whole business of the lynching attempt and Macabee doesn’t want that. And I don’t want your children involved . . . in any way.”
    Papa nodded and Mama said, “We appreciate that, Mr. Jamison. More than you know.”
    Mr. Jamison appeared to be somewhat embarrassed by Mama’s words. He looked at her, allowing a slight nod.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Jamison,” said Stacey, “but there any chance of colored folks getting to be on that jury?”
    I expected Mama and Papa to reproach Stacey for butting into so serious a conversation. Neither did.
    Mr. Jamison’s gray eyes met Stacey’s and his answer came as straightforward as always. “Selection of jurors is made from people registered to vote, Stacey. Seeing that there are no colored voters in Spokane County, there won’t be any colored voters to draw from. And even if there were and a colored person was called to duty, there’d be so much pressure on him, he probably wouldn’t