Page 67 of The Reformatory

“I know this judge,” Mr. Moore said, again directly to Miz Lottie. “Bob knows this judge, and well. It’s a miracle he only gave Robbie six months.” Gloria remembered the judge’s smile when he sentenced Robbie: he’d been so pleased with himself, thinking how he’d been so fair to a Negro, especially a Negro who was Robert Stephens’s son.

“But here’s the thing about these racist cracker judges,” the lawyer said. “They don’t know they’re racist cracker judges.”

“And don’t give a damn,” Moore said.

“Some do give a damn how they look anyway, Harry,” John Dorsey argued. “They want to be the good guy. I’ve sat in their chambers and told a few jokes and they told a few right back. That’s a tactic Thurgood taught me. Once you’re man-to-man, sometimes you can get through.”

“These Florida sheriffs laugh with you on Friday morning and set the Klan on you Friday night,” Mr. Moore said. “You’re not from here, Johnny.”

“I’m from Indiana. We’ve got crackers too.”

“So you’ll do it?” Gloria said to the lawyer. “You’ll speak up for Robbie with the judge?”

“Now you’re getting their hopes up,” Mr. Moore chided him.

“If that’s what you want me to do,” the lawyer said to Gloria, then he repeated it for Miz Lottie: “If you want me to, I’ll go to Gracetown. But I can only do it today. This morning.”

Mr. Moore gestured Come here to the lawyer, flapping at the air. “A word?”

The lawyer shook his head. “Tell him we’re rescheduling. Make it dinner instead.”

“I don’t like that drive into Lake County at night, Johnny.”

“We’ll drive fast,” the lawyer said, and smiled. “We’ll get there.”

Mr. Moore hurried toward the sliding glass door to the house. “Lemme at least call and see if Judge Morris is at the courthouse today.”

John Dorsey dragged on his cigarette and petted the cat, who was now rubbing against his shiny shoes. “Let’s bring him a hot plate for lunch, ladies,” he said. “Everybody likes to eat.”

He winked at Gloria, and she laughed in a childish way that startled her. “There’s fried chicken in Gracetown that’s good as hoodoo,” Miz Lottie said.

“Good, I’ll try a piece myself,” John Dorsey said.

Gloria almost giggled again but caught herself as she noticed the way the lawyer’s eyes shifted away, mired in his thoughts, and how his mirth was only on the surface. For the first time, she realized he was afraid. Doubts assailed her: as much as she wanted to free Robbie, maybe Mr. Moore was right. Maybe it was better not to rile them and bring up Papa’s name. If the warden was as evil as Mr. Moore said, Robbie might not get out until he was a grown man.

“Thank you,” Gloria said, but she really wanted to ask if he thought they were foolish. Or how someone who had so little faith in the law could feel any hope for Robbie. Maybe it was like Miz Lottie’s faith in Jesus. And Mama’s.

John Dorsey stubbed out the cigarette and rose to his feet. “We’ll see, Miss Stephens. I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise how it’ll fly. Might fly wrong.” He glanced at Miz Lottie. “Harry’s right about that. These crackers are gonna try to kill him one day.”

A sharp knock from the glass door made them all jump like a gunshot. They turned and saw Mr. Moore giving the thumbs-up sign, cradling the phone on his shoulder. In her excited imagination, Gloria thought he had somehow arranged to get Robbie free. Then she realized his true meaning: the judge who had sentenced her brother was at the courthouse in Gracetown.

She and Miz Lottie had found Robbie a lawyer, like she’d promised Papa she would.

18

For the next twenty minutes, nearly thirty, Gloria felt proud of herself—excited, even. The lawyer said his goodbyes at Belle’s, hearing two last requests for legal advice. He handed one young man a folded five-dollar bill, slipping it so deftly that Gloria might have been the only one to see.

While the lawyer gathered his bags, Mr. Moore filled Miz Lottie’s tank from the gas can and explained they would drive separately to the Gracetown courthouse so neither car would draw attention to the other. They were all likely being watched, he explained, and he didn’t want anyone to guess their plan before they reached the judge. Miz Lottie and Gloria would set out first, and then Mr. Moore would follow with the lawyer in his car ten minutes later. They agreed to meet up in front of the courthouse by noon.

Under the hanging tree, Gloria remembered.

The plan gave her oxygen. For the first time since Robbie’s arrest, Gloria felt like she knew anything at all again. She could imagine Robbie at Miz Lottie’s house, and maybe all three of them could go away to Miss Anne’s secret cottages. Or maybe to Chicago. Yes, to Chicago—to join Papa. She should have insisted on it long ago. They would have traveling money now.

On the road, Miz Lottie’s hand felt uneven on the steering wheel, the truck veering too far into the center. She had lost her songs and energy from the morning drive. She looked small and frail beneath her glamorous hat. Worry over Robbie was stealing days, maybe weeks or years, from the end of Miz Lottie’s life.

“You want me to drive?” Gloria said.

Miz Lottie’s head snapped up. “Hush. You don’t know nothin’ ’bout drivin’.”