Chapter 44
CHAPTER
I was late to meet my sisters. Not my fault, there was no help for it. The discovery hearing in a personal injury case ran long. The lawyers put on a show for their clients, objecting to everything, making long, stuffy speeches.
So by the time I reached Coley’s, a restaurant on the other side of town, my sisters were already there. I spotted them in a booth against the far wall. Jordan raised her hand and waved.
Coley’s was busier than usual. I shouldered my way through the crush, trying to avoid stepping on feet. I slid into the red vinyl booth, next to Nellie.
They were dressed all in black, down to the toes of their church shoes.
“Nice service?” I asked.
They both nodded. I could tell Jordan had been crying.
“Well attended, I expect?”
Nellie put her napkin on her lap. “People were asking after you.”
“Well, I hope you told them I had a full schedule at the courthouse. I had cases set. If I could’ve been there, I’d have gone. I feel terrible about Cocheta. Always liked her. I kept track of her after her divorce.”
Jordan leaned forward. “He showed up. The husband.”
I clapped my hand to my chest. “Oh, no, he did not.”
Jordan lowered her voice to a whisper. “He threw himself on the casket. Carrying on and crying like a baby.”
Nellie nodded. “Nobody believed it was for real. All for show. Pastor pulled him off.”
I could picture the scene playing out. I’d seen Karl Bass’s theatrics in my courtroom. “The son of a bitch.”
“The man ought to be in jail,” said Nellie.
I felt the same way. If not for murder, at least for decades of mistreatment and abuse.
To my sisters, I said, “I keep thinking about Cocheta’s body. I can’t put the sight out of my mind.”
The three of us fell silent, experiencing a shared pain.
“What happened to Daddy that night on the way to Birmingham”—I stammered, then fell silent again until I could conquer my fears—“that ain’t gonna happen to me.”
Nellie said, “We never even said anything after what happened to Daddy. He just got back in the car and we went home.”
I shivered at the memory.
“Jordan,” I said. “You weren’t born yet, so you never had to see Daddy getting beaten by that deputy who said he was driving too fast.”
“I always hated that story,” Jordan said. “Especially the part about how scared Mama was for our whole family.”
The brass bell over the entrance jingled.
I looked over as three white men entered the restaurant.
My gut turned. The man in the lead was Mason Phelps, a notorious town troublemaker.
He’d caused plenty of problems over the years.
DWIs. Bar fights. Disturbing the peace. He’d been in my courtroom more than once.
Phelps and his buddies all had the same basic wardrobe. Torn denim jeans, mesh snapback caps, gray T-shirts.
Phelps’s tee bore the words SAVE OUR HERITAGE under the image of the Confederate flag. His companions’ shirts had a different logo. GOD BLESS THE SOUTH was screened under a design of the rebel flag draped over the cross.
Wait. I’d seen that same design before. At the march in town. On the man who rescued me.
It was a hard image to forget.
Nellie nudged me. Nodded in Phelps’s direction. “I swear I’d heard that Phelps had finally given up. Some folks at school were saying his Neo-Confederate Club disbanded.”
Jordan gave a nervous glance over her shoulder as Phelps started putting up posters of the same Confederate flag he wore on his shirt.
“That’s what Trayvone said. He heard the same thing. Folks were saying the white supremacists lost their nerve after Charlottesville.”
I couldn’t believe how na?ve my sisters sounded, considering they’d both lived their whole lives in the Black Belt of Alabama.
“Are you kidding?” I asked. “They didn’t disband. Just went underground for a while. Like hot coals under a layer of ash. People think the fire’s out, but sooner or later it’ll come back to life and burn the whole house down.”
Phelps and his men chose a table with a clear view of us. They settled in and stared with an intensity in their gaze that sent fresh shivers down my spine.
“I don’t like the way they’re staring at us,” Jordan remarked in a hushed tone.
“I don’t like it, either,” replied Nellie. “Best not to start something. They want to get a rise out of us. They want a confrontation. It’s not worth it.”
My sisters tried their best to carry on our conversation and ignore the men.
I could still hear Phelps, though. Every word.
He was talking about Alabama’s abortion law. It was a common topic these days. Everybody had an opinion. Sometimes I wondered whether folks ever talked about anything else.
I caught Mason Phelps staring directly at me. I slipped out of the booth and stepped into the aisle. Had a rage burning deep inside me. I wanted to smack the smirk off his ugly face. The fearsome image of Cocheta swinging from that tree stopped me.
Phelps stood. To make sure he had everybody’s attention, he raised his arms, revealing a mark burned into his forearm. A symbol that looked like the letter K.
Apparently, he had one more announcement to make. He called it out in a booming voice.
“There’s a protest coming up, folks! Biggest one anybody around here’s ever seen! A mess of warriors are coming, they gonna open people’s eyes in this town. Things are changing!”
Then he looked straight at me. “Shit’s going back to how it used to be. God bless Alabama!”
We girls sat frozen at our table until Nellie rose and broke the silence. “Let’s all walk out together.”
I was taking care of the check when I heard Nellie emphatically whispering, “Jordan, no!”
Jordan was standing frozen at the doorway. Staring down the men who represented everything that was taken from her with no repercussions. Staring… almost daring them to be men, to stand up and fight.
Phelps took notice. He stopped his posturing. He stared back and took a bold step forward. His friends swayed as if slightly tipsy, though aware enough to see something big silently brewing.
Nellie walked slowly to Jordan and put her hand on our baby sister’s shoulder. “Jordan, you don’t want this to be your story… not this part… not for your babies. Come on, now. Come on,” she whispered.
I grabbed her hand that had twisted into a tight fist. She loosened it as Phelps slowly turned to her… ready to justify his hate, ready to show the subject of his hate the wrath of his anger.
“Whatchu got, li’l nigra?” said Phelps with a chuckle.
“That’s your problem, Phelps. You don’t know what I got,” said Jordan quietly… her voice steady with the strength of David before bringing Goliath down.
She pulled her hand away from mine and walked out the door. I held it open for a few seconds, staring at them for emphasis, and walked out behind her.
I kept waiting for them to follow us… to light a firestorm… but the parking lot was clear. We hugged goodbye in silence.
I was sure the firestorm would come later. I was sure of it.