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and filmed the protest, which she did not, look good, that is, according to Lucille.
    What I did learn that seemed semi-fact-based was that SPASI was formed over a glass of iced tea and a hamburger at the DQ, thus the limited thought given to the name. It was, however, as Mother pointed out, a good generic name that could be used in the future as there were always stupid ideas that needed stopping. Who could argue with that?
    She swore she had nothing at all to do with the AAC people showing up. In fact, the head space cadet seemed kind of worried that the out-of-towners might steal her activist glory. Worse still, apparently, was that Ethel Fossy—AKA that damned Bony Butt who didn’t give a hoot about the town or anybody in it—had lost her ever-lovin’ mind, and not in a way that benefitted Lucille. And just because she was a member of the Church of Christ, it sure didn’t mean that she was the only one going to heaven, because she was not. By God. Bony Butt’s Bible waving and preaching at the AAC people seemed to be a sore spot as well, although it was hard to tell exactly why. There was also a mention of Ethel climbing right into the very hotbed of sin she’d been preaching against, so to speak, but it was hard to follow. What was clear, however, was that the whole thing was just a sorry state of affairs, that’s what it was. (Paraphrasing Lucille is almost as tedious as interviewing her.)
    When my mother starts talking, there are so many layers of angst propagated by the details that it’s hard to know where to start. Not starting at all would be the best plan, but that never seemed to work out that well for me.
    Bony Butt, as Mother was happy to call her, at least behind her back, was Lucille’s rival in a weird religious/female competition sort of way. Basically, Ethel’d had a thing for Mother’s last boyfriend, the aforementioned now-dead mayor. Take a liberal dose of religious fanaticism, mix with politics, add a boatload of jealously, rampant adultery and multi-level coveting, and make up your own story. It can’t be half as ridiculous as what I lived through the last few times I’ve been in this state. A shudder rippled through me. Surely to God not again.
    I don’t know when she quit talking or when I quit writing, but I was staring blankly at the wall when the sheriff’s department back door opened and Leroy came thundering in. “Man, oh man, I’m sorry I took so long,” he said, huffing and puffing. “Couldn’t find the right set of filters, and then the batteries in the flash were bad. Anyway, here it is.”
    He patted a large gray padded suitcase-like thing, then opened it up and began assembling the appropriate lenses and flash. This was professional grade gear and I couldn’t help but be impressed. I’d kind of been expecting your basic digital camera, kind of like I owned myself and only halfway knew how to operate. It was not.
    Leroy and I have developed a tentative truce of late, and while it was kind of weird, I preferred it to the serious head butting and round robin sniping of previous visits. Trying to keep him from killing me hadn’t been that much fun either. But Leroy really did seem to know his camera business.
    “Okay, Miz Jackson,” Leroy said. “Where do you want your picture made?”
    “Well, let’s start in the jail cell, the one next to the drunks, with me looking forlorn. Then we can do a couple of portrait types in the office just in case.” She held out her wrists. “Cuff me, Leroy.”
    Lovely. I propped my elbows on the desk and buried my face in my hands, which apparently evolved into a nap because the next thing I knew, I was jumping out of my skin—and the chair—hitting my knee on the desk, yelping, and hearing a shrill “Wake up, Jolene,” and not necessarily in that order.
    Lucille had her always-ominous black purse over her elbow, a small overnight bag in the other hand and a glint in her eye. “Let’s go. I’d prefer to stay here as a