Page 74 of The Reformatory

John Dorsey laughed like Judge Morris was Bob Hope on a USO tour. Judge Morris was the shortest of the men in the room, and John Dorsey stood tall over him as he extended his hand. “John Dorsey, Your Honor,” he said. “From the New York office. It’s a pleasure, sir.”

Gloria would never have thought to say, It’s a pleasure. None of this was a pleasure.

“Your Honor, I’m Harry T. Moore.”

“Must be in trouble now,” Judge Morris said, although he was smiling—almost too much. Up close, his teeth looked like rows of new corn kernels, more yellow than white.

“Oh no, sir, no one’s in trouble,” Mr. Moore said. “We’re grateful for the time.”

Judge Morris closed his door, where his secretary was peeking inside. His smile had wavered, but it brightened as he faced them to go to his desk. “Y’all promised me some of Rita Mae’s fried chicken?” the judge said, his eyes on the foil in Miz Lottie’s lap.

Miz Lottie extended her foil package to him. Gloria saw her hands tremor slightly. “Last night’s batch, but every bit as good.”

“Now who would you be?” Judge Morris asked Miz Lottie as he took the foil. He sounded like Santa Claus talking to a child on his lap at the Gracetown Christmas Fair.

“Lottie Powell, Your Honor. I’m a deaconess at Christ the Redeemer Baptist Church.” Miz Lottie was taking pains with her enunciation. “I’m the legal guardian of Robbie Stephens.”

The judge’s smile wavered again, a tic in the corner of his mouth. But he peeked inside the foil and nodded. “I’ll eat this with my bare hands, if y’all promise not to tell my wife. I’m still a country boy fresh from Misery Swamp.” And he was: Gloria noticed a tobacco stain on his shirt. Mama never would have let Papa leave the house with a stain like that.

John Dorsey chuckled. “Tell the truth, Your Honor, I don’t trust a man who eats fried chicken with a knife and fork.”

Judge Morris pointed at John Dorsey soberly. “Amen.”

“And if there’s a piece left,” John Dorsey went on, “I can take it off your hands.”

“Not much chance of that, Attorney Dorsey,” the judge said, and laughed.

Gloria tried to keep her astonishment from her face. John Dorsey sounded like he had been meeting with the judge for years. Had she ever heard a white man—never mind a judge—call a Negro man anything except his first name, or just boy? She searched her memory, from Papa to her teachers to the reverend, and she could not remember a single time. And John Dorsey was so much younger than the judge, who might be at least fifty. Was it because Dorsey was from the North? Or because he represented the national NAACP? Most whites in Gracetown hated the NAACP—or were they afraid? Was that possible? Gloria thought so as she watched Judge Morris wipe his sweaty brow with a handkerchief also stained with spots of tobacco spittle.

“Y’all have a seat,” Judge Morris said. He noticed Gloria, an afterthought. “I do b’lieve I remember you from my courtroom.”

“Yes, sir,” Gloria said. “Gloria Stephens. I was there to speak for my brother.” John Dorsey squeezed Gloria’s shoulder slightly and Gloria remembered the judge had told them to sit down.

Judge Morris was already taking his first bite of the fat chicken breast, with a coat so crispy that it crumbled to his touch. “Y’all tell Rita Mae she should have a chicken stand on every corner. I’ve been sayin’ it for years.” His mouth was half-full.

“Yessir, she ain’t humble,” Miz Lottie said, and the judge laughed.

Gloria knew chatting was a part of the lawyer’s strategy, but their lighthearted voices were insufferable, no one saying why they all knew they were there. Who knew where Robbie was, or what was happening to him, and the judge and John Dorsey were talking about the humidity in New York and then rumors that Joe Louis was coming out of retirement because of tax troubles. Gloria tried to read impressions from the judge the way she had from Ruby McCollum and Mr. Moore and that terrible deputy on the road, but she’d never been able to command her knowing like a radio dial. The more she tried to read, the less she could see—just the judge’s smile.

When Gloria exaggerated a sneeze from the room’s dust, all eyes came to her.

“God bless you, young lady,” Judge Morris said—and no one else, because they all knew she was faking. Miz Lottie scowled at her.

“I’m hoping for sure He will bless me, Your Honor,” Gloria said. “That’s why I’m here.”

Harry T. Moore moved from behind Miz Lottie’s chair to stand beside it, a step forward. “We want to discuss the case of Robbie Stephens, Judge Morris.”

The smile stayed frozen, but the judge was already shaking his head. He gestured toward Gloria. “Well, this young lady was in my courtroom when I sentenced him to six months. Most boys get at least a year. It’s half the time.” Every time he said young lady, it sounded to Gloria like a curse. Was he trying to impress the NAACP lawyer with his politeness to Negroes? He was already saying no and they had barely started talking. The judge found a legal pad on his desk and flipped a couple of pages, ready to argue facts.

“I didn’t get the chance to tell everything that happened, Your Honor,” Gloria said. She ignored John Dorsey’s hand squeezing her shoulder more urgently.

“Nobody’s saying he should have kicked the young man—” John Dorsey said quickly.

“That boy’s in the trouble of his life,” Miz Lottie said. “I’ll see to that.”

“—but he’s twelve years old,” John Dorsey said. “No trouble with the law before. So now he’s spent a couple of nights away from home, maybe got a few licks. Your Honor, we were hoping you might reconsider the sentence. I understand even the young man involved didn’t want Robbie charged.”

“A juvenile’s parents make that decision,” the judge said. “You ought to know that, you call yourself a lawyer.” The judge’s smile made his words sharper.