Lay Down My Sword and Shield (Hackberry Holland 1)

“Like maybe we ain’t just a bunch of uppity niggers.”

“The deputy’s going to be back in a minute.”

“Look, watch out for that motherfucker. The other night one of the blacks started screaming in the tank with the d.t.’s, and he kicked him in the head. I think he’s a Bircher, and the guys in here say he’s got a bad conduct discharge from the Corps for crippling a guy in the brig.”

“Okay, let’s finish before he gets back. Were there any Mexicans on the jury?”

“What world do you live in, man?”

“We can use jury selection in an appeal, even though I’d rather hang them on the charge itself. I’ll have to get a transcript of the trial and talk with your lawyer.”

“Don’t fool with him. I told you he wouldn’t pour water on me if I was burning. He’s a little fat guy with a bald head, he owns five hundred acres of blackland, and he thinks I was brainwashed in Korea. When I asked him about an appeal he chewed on his pipe and farted.”

“What’s his name?”

“That’s Mr. Cecil Wayne Posey. His office is right across the street.”

“Why didn’t you write me before the trial?”

“I don’t like to bruise old friends.”

“Well, you sure picked a shitty time to bring in a relief pitcher.”

“You’re a good man, Hack. I trust your arm.”

I heard the stairway door slam and the deputy walking down the stone corridor in his brogans.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said. “You want anything?”

“No, just watch after yourself in town. They’re pissed, and that southern accent of yours won’t help you none when they find out you’re working with our union.”

“I don’t think they’ll roll a congressional candidate around too hard.”

“I mean it, Hack. They don’t give a damn who you are. We stepped on their balls with a golf shoe. There ain’t been any Klan activity here since the 1920s, and last week they burned a cross on an island in the middle of the river. You better keep your head down, buddy.”

Art lit another cigarette off the butt while the deputy unlocked the cage.

“Tomorrow,” I said.

“Yeah, stay solid, cousin.”

I looked at the black soles of his bare feet as the deputy led him back to his cell. The deputy clanged the door shut, shot the bolt, and stared at me with a fixed gaze while I tore the cellophane wrapper off a cigar. I bit the end off and spit it on the floor. I could feel his hot eyes reaching me through the wire screen. He rattled his change in one pocket with his hand.

“You want to get out of here this morning, Mr. Holland?” he said.

Upstairs by the office door a girl leaned against the wall with a carton of cigarettes in her hand. She wore sandals, bleached blue jeans, and a maroon blouse tied in a knot under her breasts. She had on large, amber sunglasses, hoop earrings, and a thin strand of Indian beads around her neck. Her skin was brown, her body lithe and relaxed, and her curly brown hair was burned on the ends by the sun. Her eyes were indifferent through her glasses as she looked at me and the deputy.

“Would you give these to Art Gomez, please?” she said. Her voice was level, withdrawn, almost without tone.

The deputy took the carton of cigarettes and dropped it in his desk drawer without answering. He sat down in his chair and began to sharpen a pencil with his pocketknife into the wastebasket. I knew that each stroke of that knife was cutting into his own resentment at the restraint his job forced upon him in dealing with a hippie girl and a slick, outside lawyer. He bent over his traffic forms, his knuckles white on the pencil, and began to print out his report as though we were not there.

The girl walked back toward the entrance. There was a pale line of skin above the back of her blue jeans, and her bottom had the natural, easy rhythm that most women try to learn for a lifetime. Everything in her was smooth and loose, and her motion had the type of cool unconcern that bothers you in some vague place in the back of your mind.

“Hello,” I said.

She turned around, framed in the square of yellow light through the entrance, and looked at me. She wore no makeup, and in the black shadow over her face she looked like a nun in church suddenly disturbed from prayer.

“I expect you work with Art’s union. My name’s Hack Holland. I’m trying to file an appeal for Art before he goes up to prison.”