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about the truth. It wasn’t about right or wrong for them or the miscarriage of justice. As far as she could tell, the facts fell on deaf ears here. In their minds, Leo Spradlin was a guilty man. Maybe the police presence wasn’t such a bad idea.
    As though on cue, sirens blared in the distance, and a short line of cars pulled up to the end of the block. Two black and whites led, followed by a dark vehicle with tinted windows. Two more police cars brought up the rear. The sirens stopped, and an eerie silence settled over the crowd. All eyes, including Julia’s, were focused on the dark car, waiting. A uniformed cop opened the back door. She held her breath, staring when the man slid out. He stood tall in the punishing sun, face expressionless. The cop steered him by the elbow toward the courthouse.
    He focused on the path straight ahead, no acknowledgment accorded to the mass of ­people or the press. Flanked by police, he looked more like a politician or celebrity, someone who required personal security, than a man who’d just been released from prison for a crime he did not commit. Julia was taken by surprise. Pictures did not do the man justice. He was clean-­shaven; the jailhouse beard he’d worn for years gone. His hair had been freshly cut, and he wore a lightweight, casual suit. The man moved at a languorous pace, as though he had no reason to hurry, relaxed and surefooted. Her lips parted. He was as handsome as any movie star she had ever seen. In all the pictures she’d pored over, in all the old stories and articles she’d read, why hadn’t she noticed that before? Another man, short and rotund, followed Spradlin as he made his way to the podium. Julia thought she recognized him as one of the lawyers from the Freedom and Justice Group.
    A third man dressed in a blue blazer with gold buttons greeted Spradlin near the podium. He said something, reaching automatically for Spradlin’s outstretched hand, dropping it almost as quickly as he shook it. He was taller than Spradlin, broader in the shoulders and chest. Turning his back on Spradlin, he moved to the microphone. The man looked out over the crowd, eyes passing slowly over all those who’d come out to brave the additional heat of pressing bodies. He cleared his throat and pulled the microphone close.
    â€œNeighbors and friends, we are a fortunate lot. We live in a beautiful town filled with wonderful ­people. We live in a town that allows us to raise our families in the best of ways. Little Springs offers a tremendous quality of life, a stable economy, a strong education, and a safe environment.”
    A rumble rose up in the crowd. Someone yelled out from the back, “You mean we were safe! What about now, Mr. Mayor?”
    The man held up his hands as if he could push back on the antagonism. His face was flushed but solemn. “Part of feeling safe is the ability to have faith in the justice system.” There were more rumbles from the mass of ­people, but the man forged ahead. “More than two decades ago, this town faced a crisis. We were scared and worried for the young women who came to school at our college and for our daughters and wives. That changed when Leo Spradlin was taken into custody. We wanted to feel safe again. We desperately wanted to believe we could feel safe again, and so we did.” He paused, wiping his brow with a white handkerchief.
    Julia heard the gasps around her. The inflammatory words had astonished the reporters, but the crowd was momentarily appeased. A chorus of “amens” and “hallelujahs” could be heard across the town square. Julia stole a glance at Spradlin. His face was unreadable; his hooded eyes focused beyond the crowd. He stood with his feet spread, his hands thrust in his pockets, the suit jacket pushed casually out of the way. The lawyer stood a few feet behind Spradlin with his chest puffed out. Other journalists snapped pictures or wrote