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  “That’s it.”

  “I remember that one. It happened right when me and my old man, damn his eyes, got here. Just about my first week tending this bar.” She laughed briefly. “Hell, I thought this damn job was always gonna be that exciting. Folks were real interested in that little girl. There were newspapermen from Tallahassee and television all the way from Atlanta. That’s how I got to recognize your type. They all pretty much hung out here. Of course, there’s no place else, really. It was quite a set-to for a couple of days, until they announced they caught the boy that killed her. But that was all back then. Ain’t you a little late coming around?”

  “I just heard about it.”

  “But that boy’s in prison. On Death Row.”

  “There are some questions about how he got put there. Some inconsistencies.”

  The woman put her head back and laughed. “Man,” she said, “I don’t bet that’s gonna make a lot of difference. Good luck, Miami.”

  Then she turned to help another customer, leaving Cowart alone with his beer. She did not return.

  The morning broke clear and fast. The early sun seemed determined to erase every residual street puddle remaining from the rain the day before. The day’s heat built steadily, mixing with an insistent humidity. Cowart could feel his shirt sticking to his back as he walked from the motel to his rental car, then drove through Pachoula.

  The town seemed to have established itself with tenacity, situated on a flat stretch of land not far from the interstate, surrounded by farmland, serving as a sort of link between the two. It was a bit far north for successful orange groves, but he passed a few farms with well-ordered rows of trees, others with cattle grazing in the fields. He figured he was coming in on the prosperous side of the town; the houses were single-story cinder block or red-brick construction, the ubiquitous ranch houses that stand for a certain sort of status. They all had large television antennas. Some even had satellite dishes in their yards. As he closed on Pachoula, the roadside gave way to convenience stores and gas stations. He passed a small shopping center with a large grocery store, a card shop, a pizza parlor, and a restaurant clinging to the edges. He noticed that there were more houses stretched in the areas off the main street into town, more single-family, trim, well-kept homes that spoke of solidity and meager success.

  The center of town was only a three-block square area, with a movie theater, some offices, some more stores, and a couple of stoplights. The streets were clean, and he wondered whether they had been swept by the storm the night before or by community diligence.

  He drove through, heading away from the hardware stores, auto parts outlets, and fast-food restaurants, on a small, two-lane road. It seemed to him that there was a slight change in the land around him, a fallow brown streakiness that contradicted the lush green he’d seen moments earlier. The roadway grew bumpy and the houses he saw by the road were now wooden-frame houses, swaybacked with age, all painted a fading whitewashed pale color. The highway slid into a stand of trees, swallowing him with darkness. The variegated light pouring through the branches of the willows and pines made seeing his way difficult. He almost missed the dirt road cutting off to his left. The tires spun briefly in the mud before gaining some purchase, and he started bouncing down the road. It ran along a long hedgerow. Occasionally, over the top, he could see small farms. He slowed and passed three wooden shacks jumbled together at the edge of the dirt. An old black man stared at him as he slowly rolled past. He checked his odometer and drove another half mile, to another shack perched by the road. He pulled in front and got out of the car.

  The shack had a front porch with a single rocker. There was a small chicken coop around the side, and chickens pecked away in the dirt. The road ended in the front yard. An old Chevy station wagon, with its hood up, was parked around the side.

  A steady, solid heat washed over him. He heard a dog bark in the distance. The rich brown dirt that served as a front yard was packed hard underfoot, solid enough to have survived the previous evening’s rainstorm. He turned and saw that the house stared out across a wide field, lined by dark forest.

  Cowart hesitated, then approached the front porch.

  When he put his foot on the first step, he heard a voice call out from inside, “I see you. Now what y’all want?”

  He stopped and replied, “I’m looking for Mrs. Emma Mae Ferguson.”

  “Whatcha need her for?”

  “I want to talk to her.”

  “You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’. Whatcha need her for?”

  “I want to talk to her about her grandson.”

  The front door, half of it screen that was peeling away from the cracked wood, opened slightly. An old black woman with gray hair pulled severely behind her head stepped out. She was slight of frame, but sinewy, and moved slowly, but with a firmness of carriage that seemed to imply that age and brittle bones didn’t really mean much more than inconvenience.

  “You police?”

  “No. I’m Matthew Cowart. From the Miami Journal. I’m a reporter.”

  “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody sent me. I just came. Are you Mrs. Ferguson?”

  “Mebbe.”

  “Please, Mrs. Ferguson, I want to talk about Robert Earl.”

  “He’s a good boy and they took him away from me.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m trying to help.”

  “How can you help? You a lawyer? Lawyers done enough wrong for that boy already.”

  “No, ma’am. Please, could we just sit and talk for a few minutes? I don’t mean to do anything except try to help your grandson. He told me to come and see you.”

  “You saw my boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “How they treating him?”

  “He seemed fine. Frustrated, but fine.”

  “Bobby Earl was a good boy. A real good boy.”

  “I know. Please.”

  “All right, Mr. Reporter. I’ll sit and listen. Tell me what you want to know.”

  The old woman nodded her head at the rocker and moved gingerly toward it. She motioned toward the top step on the porch, and Matthew Cowart sat down, almost at her feet.

  “Well, ma’am, what I need to know about are three days almost three years ago. I need to know what Robert Earl was doing on the day the little girl disappeared, on the next day, and the day after that, when he was arrested. Do you remember those times?”

  She snorted. “Mr. Reporter, I may be old, but I ain’t dumb. My eyesight may not be as good as it once was, but my memory is fine. And how in the Lord’s name would I ever forget those days, after all that’s come and passed since?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m here.”

  She squinted down at him through the porch shade. “You sure you’re here to help Bobby Earl?”

  “Yes, ma’am. As best as I can.”

  “How’re you gonna help him? What can you do that that sharp-talking lawyer cain’t do?”

  “Write a story for the paper.”

  “Papers already written a whole lot of stories about Bobby Earl. They mostly helped put him in the Death Row there, best as I can figure it.”

  “I don’t think this would be the same.”

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t have a ready answer for that question. After a moment, he replied, “Look, Mrs. Ferguson, ma’am, I can hardly make things worse. And I still need some answers if I’m going to help.”

  The old woman smiled at him again. “That’s true. All right, Mr. Reporter. Ask your questions.”

  “On the day of the little girl’s murder . . .”

  “He was right here with me. All day. Didn’t go out, except in the morning to catch some fish. Bass. I remember because we fried them for dinner that night.”

  “Are you sure?”

 
“Of course I’m sure. Where was he to go?”

  “Well, he had his ear.”

  “And I’da heard it if he started it up and drove off. I ain’t deaf. He didn’t go nowheres that day.”

  “Did you tell this to the police?”

  “Sure did.”

  “And?”

  “They didn’t believe me. They said, ‘Emma Mae, you sure he didn’t slip away in the afternoon? You sure he didn’t leave your sight? Mebbe you took a nap or somethin’.’ But I didn’t, and I tole them so. Then they tole me I was just plain wrong and they got angry and they went off. I never saw them much again.”

  “What about Robert Earl’s attorney?”

  “Asked the same damn questions. Same damn answers. Didn’t believe me none, either. Said I had too much reason to lie, to cover up for that boy. That was true. He was my darlin’ gal’s boy and I loved him plenty. Even when he went off’n to New Jersey and then came back all street tough and talking trash and actin’ so hard, I still loved him fine. And he was doing good, too, mind you. He was my college boy. Can you imagine that, Mr. White Reporter? You look around you. You think a lot of us get to go to college? Make somethin’ of ourselves? How many you figure?”

  She snorted again and waited for an answer, which he didn’t offer. After a moment, she continued. “That was true. My boy. My best boy. My pride. Sure I’da lied for him. But I didn’t. I’m a believer in Jesus, but to save my boy I’da hopped up to the devil hisself and spat in his eye. I just never got the chance, ’cause they didn’t believe in me, no sir.”

  “But the truth is?”

  “He was here with me.”

  “And the next day?”

  “Here with me.”

  “And when the police came?”

  “He was right outside, polishing that old car of his. Didn’t give them no lip. No trouble. Just yes sir, no sir and went right along. See what it did for him?”

  “You sound angry.”

  The small woman pitched forward in the chair, her entire body rigid with emotion. She slapped her palms down hard on the arms of the rocker, making two pistol shots that echoed in the clear morning air.

  “Angry? Y’all asking me if I’m angry? They done tore my boy from me and sent him away so they’s can kill him. I ain’t got the words in me to tell you about no anger. I ain’t got the evil in me that I could say what I really and truly feel.”

  She got up out of the chair and started to walk back inside. “I ain’t got nothing but hate and bitter empty left, Mr. Reporter. You write that down good.”

  Then she disappeared into the shack’s shadows, clacking the door shut hard behind her, leaving Matthew Cowart scribbling her words into his notepad.

  It was noontime when he arrived at the school. It was very much the way he had pictured it, a solid, unimaginative cinder-block building with an American flag hanging limply in the humid air outside. There were yellow school buses parked around the side and a playground with swings and basketball hoops and a fine covering of dust in back. He parked and approached the school, slowly feeling the wave of children’s voices rise up and carry him forward. It was the lunch hour and there was a certain contained mayhem within the double doors. Children quickstepped about, clutching paper bags or lunch boxes, buzzing with conversation. The walls of the school were decorated with their artwork, splashes of color and shape arranged in displays, with small signs explaining what the artwork represented. He stared at the pictures for an instant, reminded of all the drawings and colored paper and glue montages he was forever receiving in the mail from his own daughter and which now decorated his office. He pushed past, heading through a vestibule toward a door marked ADMINISTRATION. It swung open as he approached and he saw two girls exit, giggling together in great secret animation. One was black, the other white. He watched them disappear down a corridor. His eyes caught a small framed picture hanging on a wall, and he went over to look at it.

  It was a little girl’s picture. She had blonde hair, freckles, and a wide smile, displaying a mouth filled with braces. She wore a clean white shirt with a gold chain around her neck. He could read the name “Joanie” stamped in thin letters in the center of the chain. There was a small plaque beneath the picture. It read:

  Joanie Shriver

  1976–1987

  Our Friend and Beloved Classmate

  She will be missed by all

  He added the picture on the wall to all the mental observations he was accumulating. Then he turned away and walked inside the school’s office.

  A middle-aged woman with a slightly harried air looked up from behind a counter. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m looking for Amy Kaplan.”

  “She was just here. Is she expecting you?”

  “I spoke with her on the phone the other day. My name is Cowart. I’m from Miami.”

  “You’re the reporter?”

  He nodded.

  “She said you were going to be here. Let me see if I can find her.” There was a note of bitterness in the woman’s voice. She did not smile at Cowart.

  The woman stood up and walked across the office, disappearing for an instant into the faculty lounge, then reemerging with a young woman. Cowart saw she was pretty, with a sweep of auburn hair pushed back from an open, smiling face.

  “I’m Amy Kaplan, Mr. Cowart.”

  They shook hands.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch.”

  She shrugged. “Probably the best time. Still, like I said on the telephone, I’m not sure what I can do for you.”

  “The car,” he said. “And what you saw.”

  “You know, it’s probably best if I show you where I was standing. I can explain it there.”

  They walked outside without saying anything. The young teacher stood by the front of the school and turned, pointing down a roadway. “See,” she said, “we always have a teacher out here, checking on the kids after school. It used to be mostly to make sure the boys don’t get into fights and the girls head straight home, instead of hanging around and gossiping. Kids do that, you know, more’n anybody it seems. Now, of course, there’s another reason to be out here.”

  She looked over at him, eyeing him for an instant. Then she went on. “. . . Anyway, on the afternoon Joanie disappeared, just about everyone had cleared off and I was about to go back inside, when I spotted her, down by the big willow over there. . . .” She pointed perhaps fifty yards down the road. Then she put her hand to her mouth and hesitated.

  “Oh, God,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” Cowart said.

  He watched the young woman fixing her eyes on the spot down the road as if she could see it all again, in her memory, in that moment. He saw her lip quiver just the slightest bit, but she shook her head to tell him she was all right.

  “It’s okay. I was young. It was my first year. I remember, she saw me and turned and waved, that’s how I knew it was her.” Some of the firmness of her voice had slid away in the heat.

  “And?”

  “She walked just under the shadows there, right past the green car. I saw her turn, I guess because somebody’d said something to her, and then the door opened, and she got inside. The car pulled away.”

  The young woman took a deep breath. “She just got right in. Damn.” She whispered the swearword under her breath. “Just right in, Mr. Cowart, as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Sometimes I still see her, in my dreams. Waving at me. I hate it.”

  Cowart thought of his own nightmares and wanted to turn to the young woman and tell her that he, too, didn’t sleep at night. But he didn’t.

  “That’s what’s always bothered me,” Amy Kaplan continued. “I mean, in a way, if she’d been grabbed and struggled or called for help or something . . .” The woman’s voice was broken with remembered emo
tion. “. . . I might have done something. I’d have screamed and maybe run after her. Maybe I could have fought or done something. I don’t know. Something. But it was just a regular May afternoon. And it was so hot, I wanted to get back inside, so I didn’t really look.”

  Cowart stared down the street, measuring distances. “It was in the shadows?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re sure it was green. Dark green?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not black?”

  “You sound like the detectives and the attorneys. Sure, it could have been black. But my heart and my memory say dark green.”

  “You didn’t see a hand, pushing open the door from inside?”

  She hesitated. “That’s a good question. They didn’t ask that. They asked me if I saw the driver. He would have had to lean across to open the door. I couldn’t see him. . . .” She strained with recall. “No. No hand. Just the door swinging open.”

  “And the license plates?”

  “Well, you know, Florida plates have that orange outline of the state on a white background. All I really noticed was that these were darker and from somewhere else.”

  “When did they show you Robert Earl Ferguson’s car?”

  “They just showed me a picture, a couple of days later.”

  “You never saw the car itself?”

  “Not that I recall. Except on the day she disappeared.”

  “Tell me about the picture.”

  “There were a couple, like taken by an instant camera.”

  “What view?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What angle did they take the pictures from?”

  “Oh, I see. Well, they were from the side.”

  “But you saw the car from the back.”

  “That’s right. But the color was right. And the shape was the same. And . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You would have seen the brake lights when the car took off. When the driver put it into gear, the brake lights would have flashed. Would you remember what shape they were?”

  “I don’t know. They didn’t ask me that.”