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spin and managed to block both lanes before stepping from the car. The TV van
ground to a halt a few feet from my door and a cameraman in jungle fatigues
opened the driver s door and started screaming at me to get out of his way.
I examined my nails. They were nice and short. I tried to keep them neat.
Neatness was a very underrated virtue.
You hear me? Get the fuck out of the way, yelled Combat Man. His face was
turning a bright shade of red. Behind his van I could see more media types
congregating as they tried to figure out what all the fuss was about. A small
group of young black males in low-slung jeans and Wu Wear shirts emerged from
a bondsman s office and wandered down to enjoy the show.
Combat Man, tired of shouting and achieving no result, stormed toward me. He
was overweight and in his late forties. His clothing looked kind of ludicrous
on him. The black guys started in on him almost immediately.
Yo, GI Joe, where the war at?
Vietnam over, motherfucker. You gotta let it go. You can t be livin in the
past.
Combat Man shot them a look of pure hatred. He stopped about a foot from me
and leaned in until our noses were almost touching.
The fuck are you doing? he asked.
Blocking the road.
I can see that. Why?
So you can t get through.
Don t get smart with me. You move your car or I ll drive my van through it.
Over his shoulder I could see some prison guards emerging from the lockup,
probably on their way to see what all the fuss was about. It was time to go.
By the time the reporters got on to the main road, it would be too late for
them to find Elliot and Atys. Even if they did find the car, their quarry
would not be in it.
Okay, I told Combat Man. You win.
He seemed a little taken aback.
That s it?
Sure.
He shook his head in frustration.
By the way
He looked up at me.
Those kids are stealing stuff from the back of your van.
I let the media convoy get well ahead of me, then drove along Bluff Road, past
the Zion Mill Creek Baptist Church and the United Methodist, until I reached
Campbell s Country Corner at the intersection of Bluff and Pineview. The bar
had a corrugated roof and barred windows and didn t look a whole lot different
in principle from the county lockup, except that you could order a drink and
walk away any time you wanted. It advertised cold beer at low prices, held a
turkey shoot Fridays and Saturdays, and was a popular stopping-off point for
those enjoying their first alcoholic taste of freedom. A hand-lettered sign
warned patrons against bringing in their own beer.
I turned onto Pineview, past the side of the bar and a yellow lockup storage
garage, and saw a shack standing in the middle of an overgrown yard. Behind
the shack a white GMC 4×4 was waiting, into which Elliot and Atys had been
transferred before Elliot s own car, now being driven by another man, had
continued on its way. It pulled out of the lot as I appeared, and I stayed a
few cars behind it as it headed along Bluff toward 26. The plan was that we
would drive Jones straight into Charleston and take him to the safe house. It
was kind of a surprise, then, to see Elliot make a left into the lot of
Betty s Diner before he even reached the highway, open the passenger door, and
allow Jones to walk ahead of him into the restaurant. I parked the Neon in
back then followed them inside, trying to look casual and unconcerned.
Betty s Diner was a small room with a counter to the left of the door, behind
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which two black women took orders while two men worked the grills. It was
furnished with plastic garden tables and chairs, and the windows were obscured
by both blinds and bars. Two TVs played simultaneously and the air was thick
with the smell of fried foods and oil. Elliot and Jones were sitting at a
table at the back of the room.
Do you want to tell me what you re doing? I asked when I reached them.
Elliot looked embarrassed.
He said he needed to eat, he stammered. He was cramping. Said he was going
to collapse on me if he didn t eat. He even threatened to jump from the car.
Elliot, step outside and you can still hear the echo of his cell door
closing. Any closer and he d be eating prison food again.
Atys Jones spoke for the first time. His voice was higher than I expected, as
if it had broken only recently instead of over half a decade before.
Fuck you, man, I gots to eat, he said.
He had a thin face, so light in color as to be almost Hispanic, and nervous,
darting eyes. His head stayed low when he spoke, and he looked up at me from
under his cap. Despite his bluster, his spirit had been broken. Atys Jones was
about as tough as a piñata. Hit him hard enough and candy would come out his
ass. Still, it didn t make his manners any easier to take.
You were right, I told Elliot. He s quite the charmer. You couldn t have
picked someone a little less irritating to save?
I tried, but the Little Orphan Annie case was already taken.
The fuck
Jones was about to launch into a predictable tirade. I raised a finger at him.
Stop right now. You swear at me again and that salt shaker is as close as
you ll get to a meal.
He backed down.
I didn t eat nothing in jail. I was scared.
I felt a stab of guilt and shame. He was a frightened young man with a dead
girlfriend and the memory of her blood on his hands. His fate was in the hands
of two white men and a jury that would most likely redefine the word
hostile. All things considered, he was doing well just to be sitting upright
with dry eyes.
Please, man, he said. Just let me eat.
I sighed. From the window where we sat I could see the road, the 4×4 and
anybody approaching on foot. Even if somebody had taken it into his mind to
hurt Jones, he wasn t going to do it in Betty s Diner. Elliot and I were the
only white folk in the place, and the handful of people at the other tables
were very deliberately ignoring our presence. If we saw any journalists, I
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