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till nine-thirty in Clanton. Was I drunk? They were just concerned, that’s all. As I closed the door I told her I was sober, still sleepy, thanks for being concerned but I would often be in bed past 9 A.M.
    I’d been to the Tea Shoppe a couple of times for late morning coffee and once for lunch. As the owner of the paper, I felt it necessary to circulate and be seen, at a reasonable hour. I was keenly aware that I would be writing about Ford County, its people and places and happenings, for years to come.
    Wiley said the cafés would be crowded early. “Always after football games and car wrecks,” he said.
    “What about murders?” I asked.
    “It’s been a long time,” he said.
    He was right, the place was packed when we walked in, just after 6 A.M. He offered some hellos, shook somehands, exchanged a couple of insults. He was from Ford County and knew everyone. I nodded and smiled and caught the odd looks. It would take years. The people were friendly, but also wary of outsiders.
    We found two seats at the counter and I asked for coffee. Nothing else. The waitress did not approve of this. She warmed to Wiley, though, when he reconsidered and ordered scrambled eggs, country ham, biscuits, grits, and a side of hash browns, enough cholesterol to choke a mule.
    The talk was of the rape and murder and nothing else. If the weather could cause arguments, imagine what such a heinous crime could stir up. The Padgitts had had the run of the county for a hundred years; it was time to send ’em all to jail. Surround the island with the National Guard if necessary. Mackey Don had to go; he’d been in their pockets for too long. Let a bunch of crooks run free and they think they’re above the law. Now this.
    Not much was said about Rhoda because little was known. Someone knew she’d been hanging around the lounges on the state line. Someone said she’d been sleeping with a local lawyer. Didn’t know his name. Just a rumor.
    The rumors roared around the Tea Shoppe. A couple of the loudmouths took turns holding court, and I was surprised at how reckless they were with their versions of the truth. Too bad I couldn’t print all the wonderful gossip we heard.

CHAPTER 5
    W e did, however, print a lot. The headline proclaimed that Rhoda Kassellaw had been raped and murdered, and that Danny Padgitt had been arrested for it. The headline could’ve been read from twenty yards down any sidewalk around the courthouse square.
    Under it were two photos; one of Rhoda as a senior in high school, and one of Padgitt as he was led into the jail in handcuffs. Wiley had ambushed him all right. It was a perfect shot, with Padgitt sneering at the camera. There was blood on his forehead from the wreck, and blood on his shirt from the attack. He looked nasty, mean, insolent, drunk, and guilty as hell, and I knew the photo would cause a sensation. Wiley thought we’d better avoid it, but I was twenty-three years old and too young to be restrained. I wanted my readers to see and know the ugly truth. I wanted to sell newspapers.
    The photo of Rhoda had been obtained from a sisterin Missouri. The first time I talked to her, by phone, she had had almost nothing to say and quickly hung up. The second time she thawed just a little, said the children were being seen by a doctor, that the funeral would take place Tuesday afternoon in a small town near Springfield, and, as far as the family was concerned, the entire state of Mississippi could burn in hell.
    I told her that I understood completely, that I was from Syracuse, that I was one of the good guys. She finally agreed to send me a photo.
    Using a host of unnamed sources, I described in detail what happened the previous Saturday night on Benning Road. When I was sure of a fact, I drove it home. When I wasn’t so sure, I nibbled around the edges with enough innuendo to convey what I thought happened. Baggy Suggs sobered up long enough to reread and edit the stories. He probably kept us from getting