Page 75 of The Reformatory

“I don’t think there’s a name I haven’t called myself,” John Dorsey said, matching the judge’s smile. “But, yessir, ‘lawyer’ is one. And I also understand the sheriff’s office never formally pressed charges. I’m just pointing out maybe it seemed like everyone knew this boy couldn’t do real harm to a strong football player like Lyle McCormack. And Robbie Stephens, wrong as he was, knew that too. In fact, I’m thinking if word had gotten around too much about it, Lyle might get cracks at school. I wouldn’t have wanted that going around about me in the schoolyard—or the locker room—when I was sixteen, seventeen. I expect you wouldn’t either.”

Judge Morris chuckled. “Heavens no.”

Lawyers were wizards. The judge was listening to him. Agreeing with him.

“Now, I know Robbie surely won’t be talking about it if he comes home, but I can only imagine what kind of talk goes on at the Reformatory. And what talk comes out,” the lawyer said.

Judge Morris shrugged. “Bird told Red to leave it be.” Gloria held her breath.

“Bird?” John Dorsey said.

“County sheriff,” Harry T. Moore told him quietly.

“Red boxed the boy’s ear,” the judge said. “The whole thing with Lyle happened in the quiet: nobody there to see. Bird said if he picked Robbie up like Red wanted him to, word might get out. You’re right, Mr. Dorsey, that’s why there weren’t formal charges. But I still have discretion to impose that sentence.” Despite his smile, his eyes were flinty with challenge.

“I had no doubt of that, Your Honor,” John Dorsey said. “I’m only asking whether you can see fit to let this child go home to the discipline of his family so he’s not locked up so long with boys who might influence him wrong. And who most likely talk too much.”

Miz Lottie spoke up. “My grand-nephew, June, lives with me—he’s working today—but he’s like a father to the boy. June will see to it his lesson stays learned. And I’ll keep him close to the Lord. I’ll have him in church twice a week.”

The judge stared at his notes. “I don’t like to reverse a sentence. No judge does.”

“Commute, Your Honor,” John Dorsey said. “Not a mistake—a mercy. A lesson.”

How did his pretty words come to him so fast? John Dorsey lobbed gentle words like grenades, so hard to argue against.

“Nothing breaks my heart more,” the judge said, “than when I don’t believe a defendant should be locked up, especially a child. Sometimes I sentence people I’ve known my whole life. But I’m bound by the law. I gave him half the time.”

Gloria was dizzy before she realized how long she had not drawn a breath.

“Lyle pushed Robbie first,” Gloria said, more like gasping. “Lyle was… making advances at me.” Gloria had never known that words could fill her throat and choke her, but she could barely go on when she saw the judge’s eyebrows knit close, incredulous. “Robbie thought he was protecting me. He was… confused. Just ask Lyle and he’ll say so. Even Mister Red knows it. Lyle admitted it to Mister Red. I was there. I heard him. He slapped Lyle’s face over what he did.” Her last words were almost a whisper.

Judge Morris was no longer smiling. Telling the truth always broke the peace.

Miz Lottie wrapped her arm around Gloria’s shoulders, viselike. “She’s plenty upset about her brother, Your Honor. She’s almost like a mama to him too. She’s a trusted house girl for Miss Anne Powell. She left school to work after their mama died of cancer.”

But Miz Lottie’s bids for sympathy did not soften the judge’s face as he stared at Gloria. “Young lady,” he said, “you are sitting in my chambers, telling McCormack family business.”

Was that all he’d heard? “Yes, sir, I’m sorry,” Gloria said. “It’s only for Robbie’s sake.”

“You of all people,” the judge said, not satisfied, “should understand why people don’t want their family business told.”

Too late, Gloria realized the lawyer was frantically tapping her shoulder to quiet her.

The judge looked back at the lawyer. He slipped on reading glasses that transformed his face, making it hard to remember his smile. “What’s the NAACP’s interest in this case?”

“Just to bring a young child home, Your Honor,” John Dorsey said.

“You came all the way from New York for that?” The judge’s sarcasm called him a liar.

“These two ladies caught up with me while I was here in Florida, and most lawyers won’t work pro bono.” He hesitated just enough for Gloria to notice; he didn’t want to say the next part. “I’m in Florida on my way to Lake County with Mister Moore.”

A bigger picture snapped to focus in the judge’s eyes. Gloria remembered Papa’s stories from Lake County—about Negro homes and businesses shot up and burned as mobs of whites rampaged after four black men, the Groveland Boys, were accused of raping a white woman. At the time, it had seemed like other people’s problems, long before she’d imagined someone would accuse Papa too. Now Gloria remembered that mobs had swarmed in Gracetown in the past. Mama had told her. Miz Lottie had told her. Mobs came when Negroes stood up for themselves, a bonfire of pent-up hate and envy sparked by the lie rape.

“Y’all got a mess down there,” the judge said.

“Sure do,” said Mr. Moore.

“And I do not,” the judge said, raising his voice, suddenly red-faced, “want that kind of mess up here.”