Home Fires

22

Praying hands

Aren’t preying hands

—Sandy Hill United Christian

“So what are you going to do, Ms. DeGraffenried?” Adderly asked. “March out there and throw me to those reporters?”

“No,” Cyl said slowly. “Destroying you doesn’t bring Isaac back.”

“You’re going to keep quiet about this?” I asked indignantly.

“You said it would be my call.”

“But you’re letting him get away with—”

“—with what exactly?” Cyl interrupted sharply. “He didn’t kill Isaac.”

“So he says now.”

“He had no reason to kill. And as for hiding his body and running away, there’s probably a statute to cover it, but I don’t know what it is off the top of my head. Do you?”

“No,” I admitted, although preacher and pragmatist were both frantically flipping through all the cases filed at the back of my skull.

She gave an impatient twitch of her shoulders. “If anything, it’s probably just a misdemeanor that the statute of limitations ran out on years ago.”

I shook my head. “Hiding a body and covering up a violent death? That’s more than a misdemeanor, Cyl. We’re talking felony here and there’s no statute of limitations on felonies in this state.”

When I’d said it would be her call, it was because I’d been so sure she’d go by the book. I had no grudge against Adderly, but neither was I ready to sacrifice my career for him and no way did I like where this situation was headed. Cover-ups are stupid and they never work if more than one living person knows what’s being hidden.

Somewhere a little bell went off, but Cyl made it hard for me to hear.

“Prosecute him for that? What’s the point? Isaac’s still dead, the man that killed him is dead, his accomplices scattered and even if we could round them up, the worst we could charge them with is involuntary manslaughter.”

Smart enough to know that any comment by him might tip the balance scales of justice either way, Wallace Adderly watched us silently, motionless except when his dark eyes shifted from Cyl’s face to mine and then back again as we argued it out between us.

“You’re willing to risk censure if this comes out?” I asked her. “And what about your grandmother? Is she this forgiving?”

“My grandmother admires the man he’s become,” Cyl said stiffly. “She doesn’t know that he’s the same person who stayed in her house twenty years ago.”

“And if she did know?” I persisted.

Her voice hardened with scorn. “You whites can pull a leader off his pedestal every time you notice a clay foot because you’ve got a whole row of men waiting to take his place. We don’t have that luxury. Our leaders have been bombed and shot and lynched and I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to help this culture destroy another one just because he panicked and did something stupid before he was fully mature. Something he could have denied till the day he died, if he’d wanted to, because who could prove anything? You? Sheriff Poole? Doug Woodall? I certainly couldn’t and I was there.”

The little bell was ringing like a fire alarm as the pragmatist tried to get my attention. Something about Wilmington stirred in my memory. Adderly was from Wilmington. Was that it?... No, not Wilmington exactly ... but something that happened in the Fifth Judicial District? Pender County? No. It was something I’d heard about when I was in Pender County. Yes! A Wake County ruling? Something about a fire and someone confessed to setting it, but his conviction was vacated because—

“Well, I’ll be damned!” I said as I finally remembered.

They both stared at me.

“You’re right, Cyl. It’s a naked confession and an uncorroborated, extrajudicial confession cannot sustain a conviction. I forget the case but we can look it up. No witnesses, nothing to show how your uncle died, no evidence of manslaughter, no way to prove or disprove any felonious acts, including how he got under the church. Nada.”

I gave Adderly a congratulatory tip of my imaginary hat. “Lucky you. Nothing worse than a small PR problem if rumors should start.”

Cyl shook her head. “It’s not a complete pass. I guess I do have to tell my boss even if there’s nothing official he can do. And you,” she said to Adderly, “have to tell grandmother.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I owe her that.”

“How quiet it stays is up to them. And to Judge Knott too, of course.” She gave me an inquiring look.

“Your call,” I said again, feeling better about it this time, now that some solid legal ground had appeared beneath that ethical quicksand.

Cyl stood then and smoothed the wrinkles from her linen dress. “I’ll be in touch.”

He nodded and the last of my indignation dissipated.

I’d been flippant about the damage to his reputation, but Cyl was right. It would be a real waste if the act of a scared young man twenty years ago did indeed damage the reputation of the leader he’d become.

Isaac Mitchiner wasn’t the only victim here.

Rain was still falling when we left the building and scurried over to the covered portico in front of the auditorium.

Ralph Freeman was just coming out with his umbrella in hand and he shook his head as we drew nearer.

“I can understand why you might skip the political speeches, but don’t tell me you aren’t eating either?”

“Hungry?” I asked Cyl. “Or do you want to leave?”

She shook her head. “Don’t take this wrong, Deborah, because I do appreciate what you did, the things you said, but—” She turned to Ralph. “If you’re ready to go, Reverend, would you mind giving me a lift back to the courthouse?”

“I’d be glad to.” He opened his umbrella and held it over her.

I watched them go and yes, damn it, I was taking it wrong... if feeling as if I’d been slapped was taking something wrong.

“She didn’t mean it personally,” said Adderly, who had come up behind us and witnessed the whole scene. “Sometimes being with whites is just too stressful.”

“Now you’re going to argue for reverse segregation?” I asked.

“No, but I wouldn’t mind if white folks could appreciate that it isn’t a one-way street, that integration brings losses for us, too. I’m never going to quit working for a North Carolina where all blacks can feel comfortable everywhere, no matter who’s sitting at the table with us—a North Carolina where we can quit having to be a credit to our race every minute of every day because there’s always some honky ready to say ‘Ain’t that just like a nigger?’ if we aren’t. But until that happens, there have to be times and places where we can sink down and lay our burdens aside and know for sure that nobody’s sitting in judgment but God.”

“Black churches,” I said.

He nodded. “And black friends.”

I could see his point, but bedamned if I had to like it.

✡ ✡ ✡

Disconsolately, I stepped inside the lobby to retrieve my umbrella just as Reid was coming in. He grabbed my arm with a big smile.

“Hey, Deb’rah! Sherry said you saw Langston King’s will, too. Guess what?”

“Sister Williams is going to let the land revert?”

His face fell. “How’d you guess?”

“Just a wild stab.”

“I drove over to Cotton Grove—the rain was coming down in buckets, too—and explained it to Mrs. Williams and then she and I went to see Mrs. Avery. She didn’t know about the reversion clause and she wasn’t real sure it was the right thing to do, Mrs. Avery, I mean. We really had to sell the idea to her and then she and Mrs. Williams had to pray on it awhile before she finally agreed. We’re going to start the paperwork first thing tomorrow morning.”

“That’s nice.”

“Hey, you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look a little down.”

“It’s the weather. And it’s been a long day.”

“I don’t suppose you got a chance to talk to Dwight?”

“Actually, I did,” I said. “Unfortunately, half your client’s alibi is over in Dobbs Memorial with his jaw wired shut and the other half’s on her way back to Massachusetts.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Trust me. I’m not,” I said and related what Dwight had told me earlier that afternoon.

He listened intently, shaking his head in dismay. “I’ll see if we can get a court reporter there tomorrow to take his deposition.”

“It’s none of my business,” I said, “but if it were me, I wouldn’t be in too big a hurry about this.”

“How come?”

“Dwight may want to believe that Starling and Bagwell set those fires, but he won’t disregard a solid alibi and last night’s beating ties in with the story A.K. told me at least three hours before the beating occurred. Give him a chance to convince himself and Dwight’ll turn around and convince ATF. Bet you a nickel he’ll have talked with Jerry Farmer and Bobbie Jean Pritchett, too, by tomorrow night.”

“Bet,” said Reid. “And I hope I lose.”