Jeff felt the commuter plane's wheels touch down softly on the small landing strip at the Brooks Airport. From the plane's window, the town of Brooks appeared the same as when he left sixteen years ago. He remembered it as a racially segregated community located on the banks of the Sandy River. It held many bad memories. His father, Jeff, Sr. had dared to stand up for his rights and tried to register to vote in the tense atmosphere during the civil rights struggle of the sixties. For this act of personal courage, the senior Webster and several other black residents of Brooks landed in jail. The deputies brutally beat all of the prisoners while handcuffed in their cells. No one defended them. Eventually, the State Chapter of the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People interceded and arranged bail for the hapless victims. Jeff Senior had to walk the seven miles home where a grateful family greeted him.

The plane's twelve passengers got off on the simmering tarmac and headed toward the concrete block terminal building. No one paid much attention to this young black man as he walked to the car rental counter inside. The blond young woman behind the counter smiled pleasantly and greeted Jeff, who asked to rent a car for the day. He noticed her name tag read, "Tully Shores." That name struck a familiar chord. The local sheriff who pursued the Webster family as far as the state line sixteen years a go had the same surname.

Jeff presented his credit cards, filled out the forms and received the keys to a car. The clerk wound up the transaction by wishing him to have a "Good Day." Surprised by the Southern courtesy, he smiled and mused; "Some attitudes must have changed around here."

Out in the parking lot, Jeff casually threw his suit bag and briefcase into the rental car's trunk. He put the long green box he carefully carried from Chicago on the passenger's seat. Next, he took off his necktie and suit jacket laying them on the back seat. The day's temperature remained around ninety degrees. Where he planned to go, the heat might go even higher.

The oppressive heat triggered Jeff's recall of the Websters' flight from Southern segregation and discrimination. He was only fourteen years old. Jeff's father heard from a friend in town that a white lynch party might descend upon them that night. Fearful, he carefully checked the pickup truck's gas tank in preparation for flight. It was full. Trying to fight them off alone would be impossible.

Mary Rose, Jeff senior's wife, agreed to leave that very night even though he had just been released from jail. The rumors in town had some irate whites planning "to finish what the deputies started." When they left the rented house and farm for the last time, Mary Rose sat beside her husband. They only took time to throw a few things into a bag before getting into the truck. Every nerve in her body felt irritated and raw. Leaving everything behind was so hard to do. She thought about their mar riage of sixteen years, and how they struggled to make enough crop money to survive. Through it all, they managed to raise Jeff and his younger sister Tina – both good children.

The frightened youngsters sat in the back of the truck—their hearts beating faster and faster. Mary Rose cautioned the children to stay out of sight. Thus, the Websters reluctantly prepared to leave all they had known. Someday, they had dreams to buy their own farm and build a good life together. That dream would have to wait.

They pulled onto the road and saw other car headlights coming toward them at high speed. Jeff's Daddy jerked the steering wheel hard to avoid a collision. The other car careened like it had a drunken driver. Heads stuck out of the vehicle's windows shouted loud curses at the Websters. The rumors came true. These "Night Riders" terrorized black people who dared to stand up for their rights as humans. Jeff Sr. yelled at the children in the back to lie down and to stay out of sight. With that war ning, he floored the gas pedal, lurching ahead. Shots rang out with one or more bullets crashing through the driver's side door and one shattering the back window!

The offending vehicle made a sharp U-turn and pursued the racing pickup at full speed. Jeff and Tina hugged each other in fright as the horrible event played out. Mary Rose tried to swallow her terror as she saw the headlights of the following car looming nearer. Suddenly, that car left the road and crashed into the drainage ditch. Mary Rose reported this to her husband and they reasoned that the driver of the attacking car somehow lost control. The driver's misfortune perhaps saved the family from mass murder!

Later, Jeff Sr. called back to his son, "Come up here Jeff, and drive for awhile. One of those bullets hit me." He pulled the truck over near the road's edge and stopped so Jeff could climb into the cab. Like most farm boys, Jeff Jr. drove the tractor and the pickup truck at planting and harvest times, so he was familiar behind the wheel.

Mary Rose pulled the groaning fainting man closer to her and frantically searched for the wound. She tried to stop the flowing blood with her headscarf by pressing it hard over the spot. To her dismay, life slowly oozed from his limp body. Meanwhile, Jeff put the truck in gear and started driving. "Mama, we need to get Daddy to a doctor, or maybe the county hospital. He might bleed to death!"

"I know, Jeff, but the hospital is ten miles back in the other direction! Keep going, maybe we will find a doctor in Selma. Keep driving."

"Listen to me!" Jeff Senior briefly woke out of unconsciousness. "Those killers will find us on the road and finish the job. Turn off the road through Miller's field and head for Simpson Swamp. We can hide there. Jeff – don't let them beat you down, son – don't let them do it to you too!" His voice trailed off into a low mumble. Mary Rose felt his gripping hand on hers slacken and limply drop. In her heart she knew he was gone. And with it a little piece of her soul.

With lights off, Jeff gently drove across the shallow ditch and into Miller's field. The stars above provided the only light for them to see. Soon, the trees of the silent, dismal, wilderness hid the truck and the Websters from the road. When Jeff saw the dancing wildfire he knew the treacherous quicksand was nearby. He often saw the phenomenon while hunting frogs and turtles in the swamp. He stopped the truck in a little clearing and shut off the engine.

"Jeff, get Tina out of the back, and put her on the front seat."

"O.K. Mamma."

The frightened and trembling girl had crawled under a tarpaulin with both hands covering her eyes. She clung to her brother with the tenacity of a drowning victim. Meanwhile, Mary Rose had gotten her moribund husband out of the front seat and onto the ground. She knew he was already dead. There was no time for proper grief. Mary Rose told the children to wait in the truck cab. Then she dragged her husband's body toward the bubbling quicksand and eased his limp form into the greedy pond.

"There! If we can't have him alive, then those nightriders back there can't have him dead! May he rest in peace." Hot, salty tears streamed down her face in the gloomy place. She sadly watched as the devouring swamp easily swallowed the only man she ever loved.

With her face hardened and set, she returned to the truck and simply said, "Your Daddy loved us all very much. He died trying to make life better around here. You must not forget that. We are to never tell where we buried him. That is our family secret. You hear children? Maybe someday we can come back and give him a proper funeral. Jeff, start driving north!"

<<<O>>>

Sixteen years later, driving down Brook's Main Street, Jeff noticed the courthouse clock hands stood permanently at six o'clock. It still had not told time since it stopped forty years ago. The "Old Man's Bench" outside the pre- Civil War building held three wizened citizens who claimed their seats there each day. They seldom spoke while observing the passing people and spitting tobacco juice on the ground. When Jeff's car passed their spot, three pairs of faded blue eyes followed his headway to the northern side of town.

Jeff did not notice the car that slowly followed him out of town to Miller's field. What a surprise to see a new asphalt road across Miller's field to Simpson Swamp. A big roadside sign read, "Simpson Subdivision to Open Soon!" He saw earth moving equipment and mounds of dirt between the trees. The swamp was already half-filled in by the developers! Soon, there would be houses built on top of his father's final resting-place. He got out of the car, cradled the green box under his arm and starte d walking. Soon, he stood under large trees dripping with Spanish Moss. Everything looked familiar and very different. He stopped, stood there, and remembering, broke down and cried. This was his first chance to express personal grief for his father.

Jeff had promised his mother and sister several years ago that he would make this pilgrimage of honor. He agreed to return to Brooks and mark the spot with a dozen roses-the flower Jeff loved the most. This was the time.

Mary Rose, his mother, died last year after struggling for a decade and a half to raise her two children in the unfriendly city of Chicago. Sometimes she worked two and three jobs even while sick. She had done well seeing them both through college and Jeff through law school. Her death certificate read "natural causes," but Jeff and Tina knew that overwork and self-deprivation hastened her demise. Mary Rose had often spoken of their father and how much he loved them. While she looked fine on the ou tside, Mary Rose nursed a broken heart over her deceased husband.

Tina had married and now lived in Oak Park with her young business executive husband. One day they planned to have a family and buy a house to fulfill the American Dream. Like most young men, Jeff wanted to develop a good career before thinking of a serious relationship, or marriage. Now, he worked for the Legal Services Organization in Chicago. His Daddy would have been proud to know his boy represented the poor and voiceless in legal matters.

Jeff stood at the edge of an algae coated pond and opened the green box. He took out one dozen red roses and tossed them one by one as far as he could into the pond. "These are for you Daddy -- from Mama, Tina, and me." The beautiful blossoms slowly sank out of sight in the bubbling reeking water. Then he felt the terrible weight of years of secrecy and anger melting from his shoulders. He had fulfilled a promise to his mother to return and honor his father with flowers.

"Those are pretty expensive flowers!" Startled, Jeff whirled to see a young man about his own age standing there and smiling. He wore a sheriff's uniform, a badge, and a gun. He spoke with that regional Southern drawl and said, "I suppose I should tell you, I'm Denny Shores – the new County Sheriff. Elected last year. My daddy was Sheriff before me."

"Why did you follow me? I came here on a private mission and broke no laws. You have no right to intrude!" Jeff was incensed to the point of striking out and breaking the law.

"I'll bet you're Jeff Webster – and your Daddy is out there!" He pointed to the bubbling mass of quicksand. "No wonder they never found his body!"

"That's right, I'm Jeff. Now back to my first question. Why are you following me?"

"Now, don't get so agitated. It's such a hot day." Sheriff Shores took off his hat and fanned his sweating face. "My Daddy always said one of you Websters would come back to tell us where you put your dead Pa. He figured that the tire tracks and all that blood on the ground meant he died out here in the swamp." Then in a sympathetic tone he said, "Is your Daddy out there in the quicksand? You know, the building contractors plan to fill in that pond with tons of dirt real soon."

"I don't have to tell you anything. I've broken no law and you have no probable cause to stop me." Jeff moved to leave the grove and return to the car. Chuckling, the Sheriff said,

"My, my, don't you talk just like those fancy lawyers who come up there in the courthouse after I've caught their client speeding down Main Street." Jeff did not know whether to be angry or amused by the Sheriff's banter. He just wanted to leave that place. Walking out of the grove, the two adversaries did not speak until Jeff sat in the rental car.

"Maybe, you can stay awhile and see some improvements we've made in Brooks. If you need a room for the night, try the Blue Room Motel. It's nice and clean and used to be owned by David Benton, our tax assessor. But he sold it a couple of years ago. Actually, the new owner is one of the big hotel chains, so enjoy yourself, you hear?"

"Thanks, but no thanks. I'm out of here as soon as that commuter plane is ready to fly." Jeff pulled the car into the traffic and headed for the Brooks Airport leaving the sheriff standing on the roadside.

<<<O>>>

A frustrated Jeff turned in the rental car at the airport drop off lot, wondering what he should do next. He then found out from the ticket counter that the connecting plane could not take off from Atlanta, because of severe foggy conditions over there. Thus, the commuter airline canceled the flight. There would not be another one until the next day.

Fuming, Jeff stalked over to the only rental car agency counter to re-rent the car he had just turned in. His frustration rose higher when informed that someone else had rented the same car he was driving a half-hour ago. The clerk sadly shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. Jeff couldn't believe there were no more cars to rent. He was stuck in Brooks overnight!

Not knowing where to turn next, Jeff threw his carry-on soft bag over his shoulder and walked out the air-conditioned terminal's front door into the stifling heat. Sitting in his car at the curb was the Sheriff who smiled, tipped his hat back and offered Jeff a ride. Muffling his rage, Jeff threw the bag into the back seat and accepted a ride over to the Blue Room Motel on Main Street.

<<O>>

After a tepid shower and a change of clothes, Jeff stood before the mirror to brush his short Afro-styled hair. He now concentrated on finding some food. The motel had no dining room but the welcome card in his room listed several small cafes all within walking distance. He chose one at random – "The Cotton Boll Cafe."

Jeff encountered few people on the street as he walked to the cafe. Most of the shops had closed for the day and the outside neon signs began to flicker into life. He saw the usual small town business places such as a barbershop, beauty salon, food store, and farmers' supply. One store front in particular caught his eye – a signal of changing times and modern technology. The store sign offered for sale a variety of personal computers, supplies, and even an international Fax service. Jeff smiled at t hese indicators of progress located in the midst of what he remembered as a dull, lethargic town.

Once inside the Cotton Boll Cafe, Jeff surveyed the small interior. An ordinary bar stretched out along one wall. It had a reclining framed nude hanging over it. That picture seemed to be the one cheerful feature in a plain and ordinary room. Two small floodlights hidden in the ceiling lighted the painting. Their amber beams seemed to make the nude's skin tones glow with the brilliance of an old master's painting. Jeff enjoyed the view, but wondered how the place got its name. As he approached the bar it became obvious – the artist had cleverly painted a large fluffy white cotton boll in the model's delicate hand! It decoratively covered the model's private parts.

"A drink tonight, sir?" The middle aged white bartender automatically placed a cocktail napkin on the counter and waited an answer.

"Chivas Regal, on the rocks."

"New here in town?"

"Yes, and no." Adding, "I thought everyone would know about my coming here after the Sheriff followed me all around town."

"You mean Denny Boy? Why he's still wet behind the ears. Most people say he won the election because they were afraid of his old Daddy." Jeff sipped the potent liquor and felt it go down slowly with a warming burn.

"Got too old for police work, I guess. He mostly stays around home and takes care of his hunting dogs." Jeff finished his drink, left a generous tip on the bar, and sought out a table near the music box. It was playing a country tune.

"Welcome to the Cotton Boll Cafe!" The voice belonged to Sheri, a shapely waitress who handed Jeff a plastic menu card. "Would you care for coffee or iced tea while you decide on dinner?" She wore long false eyelashes with sparkles on the ends. Jeff smiled and thought she must be imitating one of the popular entertainers whose stage trademark is plenty of glitter.

"Iced tea, with lemon, please." The waitress swished off in the direction of the kitchen, her high heels clicking smartly on the asphalt tile floor.

Meanwhile, more diners had arrived and their chatter gave a little life to the place. Someone played "Stand By Your Man" on the jukebox. The plaintive melody filled the room forcing everyone to raise their voices to be heard. Jeff hated country music and could hardly tolerate the maudlin lyrics of that song.

He was halfway through the tasty country fried steak dinner when Shari returned to whisper that someone at another table sent him a "Hello." She pointed out the table where two young women sat drinking cocktails. They both smiled when he looked their way. One he recognized. She was Tully Shores, who rented him the car at the airport. The attractive young woman still had on her red and gold reservation clerk's uniform. Across from her sat what the Chicago buddies called "A Foxy Lady," dressed in the same uniform as Tully. Before he could ask, "Which one?" Shari had gone across the room to refill the coffee cup of an impatient customer.

Jeff decided to be friendly and play the game. Maybe his unscheduled layover in Brooks would not be so boring after all. He walked over to the young women and spoke in his remembrance of the local idiom, "Hello, back at 'cha! I'm Jeff."

"I'm Tully," said the blond he recognized. "We met earlier today at the airport." Jeff smiled and nodded in her direction.

"I'm Makeba Falani," murmured her very sexy looking African American friend. "Tully and I work for the same company. Sorry I wasn't behind the desk when you arrived today, you would have gotten a Cadillac instead of that compact." Jeff took this as a compliment and an invitation to sit down.

"What do people do around Brooks for evening fun?" Both frowned, but Makeba attempted to make light of Jeff's inquiry.

"We spend it waiting for someone like you to show up in town. The other young men are not interesting enough."

"Oops, I deserved that shot. Sorry if I sounded rude. I've had a rather bad day that included harassment and a delay of my plans to get back to Chicago. I would like to apologize by inviting both of you to my suite at the Blue Room Motel after your dinner. We could have an evening drink and watch one of the cable movies together." He felt lonely and needed some activity to divert the extraordinary anxieties of that day.

They both accepted the invitation and Jeff left the Cafe to return to his rooms. On the way, Jeff stopped at the hotel desk and ordered a drink setup to be delivered immediately. His own spirits raised at the prospect of having such lovely company for even a short while. He even whistled an aimless tune while punching the television buttons to select a movie. Jeff couldn't decide on which movie and was about to turn it off when he heard a furtive knock on the door.

Jeff anxiously opened the door anxious to see his expected guests, but instead, a tall, dark-brown man stood there. He looked middle aged and dressed as a local farmer just from the field. His broad-brimmed hat was clutched in large callused hands. Timidly peering from behind the big man's back Jeff saw a small frail woman. He could tell she had been crying.

"Mr. Webster?"

"Yes. I'm Jeff Webster."

"We the Jenkins family. Our place is just down the road from the old Simpson's Swamp. We was told you a lawyer."

"That's right, I'm a lawyer. Who told you?

"Sheriff Shores. He said you might be able to help us." Jeff swore to himself and wondered, "When will that sheriff get off my back?" The couple stood there in the doorway as though planted for posterity. So, against his better judgment, Jeff invited them inside.

<<0>>

Once inside, Jeff asked the couple to take seats on the couch while he turned off the television. Mrs. Jenkins sat upright, tightly clutching a purse on her lap. Her husband perched on the edge of the seat cushion. He dropped his hat onto the floor. Recalling the obligatory Southern custom of offering a guest some refreshment or food, Jeff was embarrassed that the table held only liquor, ice, and glasses. He was grateful that the room also contained a small refrigerator. Checking, he found some sof t beverages and offered some to his visitors. Mrs. Jenkins accepted a soft drink in trembling hands. Jeff joined Mr. Jenkins in a scotch and water.

"Now, what can we talk about?"

"Our boy, Robert is only fourteen come December, and he was arrested by Sheriff Shores today. We want you to please get him out of jail. He's a good boy. Never gave us any trouble." Tears slowly rolled down the mother's cheeks. She dabbed at them with an already soggy tissue. Jeff waited for more.

"What was the charge against Robert?"

"Just awful. But I know he wouldn't do something like that. He's a Christian boy who goes to Church Sunday School without fail. And he just started high school. Doing well too."

"I know you're both upset, but can you tell me who said Robert did something, and what that something is?" The big man glanced furtively at his wife before replying.

"The sheriff said Robert 'sposed himself to a white lady here in town. But Mr. Webster, I just know he wouldn't do anything bad like that. He told me himself at the jail." Mrs. Jenkins broke down and cried loudly, hiding her face on her husband's back.

"Do you know the person who called the sheriff?"

"No sir. But they say she's old and lives alone up on Maple Street. Can you do something to get our boy home? We'll pay whatever it takes."

"First, let me say, I didn't come to Brooks to practice law, but you look like hard working folk who could use some help. Let's go see Sheriff Shores right now. Maybe we can learn some more about the case." They all got up to leave when a soft knock came at the door. Jeff opened it to see Tully and Makeba standing there with a blond young man. Momentarily, Jeff had forgotten his new friends were to come for a drink.

"Whoops! Sorry guys. Something came up suddenly and I'm needed over at the Sheriff's office. Come on in and have that drink anyway. I'll get back as soon as possible." The trio looked perplexed, but accepted his offer. Jeff and Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins left the motel and silently walked the two blocks to the Sheriff's office. Located in the County Court House basement, it was the only office with lights on. The rest of the building had closed for the day at six o'clock.

Jeff remembered entering the same Sheriff's office sixteen years ago when he and his mother went to see his imprisoned dad. The dark green walls of the hall had been changed to a lighter sand color. Most of all, the space did not have the fetid smell of a drunk tank like it did years ago. Although the physical appearance differed, it was still a jail.

The open office space reminded Jeff of the old television show set in mythical Mayberry where the mythical Sheriff Andy presided. A single doorway led to the jail cells in the back. Sheriff Shores sat behind his Standard State Government issued desk facing the door.

"Evenin', Counselor! I see these folks convinced you to look in on this matter. I don't usually send families to a lawyer, but since the suspect is so young, it just seemed right, and you probably didn't have much to do tonight anyway."

"We thank you for your consideration Sheriff. Still, I am here to talk about bail for the Jenkins youngster, so he can leave jail and go home with his family." At that moment, a door with a felt pen lettered sign that read, "Coke Machine," opened into the room. Out stepped young Robert with a soft drink can in his hand. The boy raced across the room and tearfully buried his face in the outstretched arms of his parents. Jeff looked wide-eyed at the unfolding scene and the grinning Sheriff Shores.

"Give me a little more credit, Counselor, we Southerners can be pretty hard sometimes, but did you think I would lock that young boy in a cell by himself? We don't have any juvenile facilities in this county. By the way, Robert plays a tough game of checkers too." The perplexed attorney found it awkward to respond. When Jeff had regained his composure, he asked, "Sheriff, will you tell us the exact charges against Robert?"

"Indecent exposure."

"And who is the complainant?"

"Miss Ella Gates. She insisted that I arrest the boy for exposing himself sexually to her. Under the state's code, I had no choice but to bring him in for questioning."

"Then he isn't under actual arrest at this time?"

"I thought it might be a good idea to let him have some legal help right away, so that's why I sent the family to see you."

" And again we thank you for that consideration Sheriff. Now, can I talk with Robert for a few minutes, alone?"

"Sure thing. I was just going out to get a little supper anyway. You can use this office. Just be here with your client when I get back in a half-hour. Miss Ella should be here soon to swear out a formal complaint. I told her she would have to do it in person."

Sheriff Shores left the nervous group alone in the quiet of the jailhouse. Jeff marveled at the informality of this small town situation. In Chicago, Robert would have been booked and sent to the Juvenile Hall overnight before anyone could see him.

<<0>>

Robert spent the next few minutes denying the charge made against him. He only knew the elderly Miss Gates as a customer on his early morning newspaper route. She always paid promptly when he collected the fee each Saturday.

"Robert, do you know how serious this charge is? If it can be proven that you actually did expose yourself to Miss Gates, you could be severely punished by the State."

"Yes sir, I know what it means, but I didn't do it." Looking at his parents, he added, "I swear!"

"Alright. I believe you. We all believe you. Now let's go over just what did you do this morning while delivering papers. I have to convince the Sheriff and maybe a Judge that you are innocent. Tell me everything."

"Well, this morning I was throwing papers along Maple Street just like I always do before getting the bus for school. It was dark, the sun doesn't come up until about eight o'clock since Daylight Saving Time. By the time I got to Miss Gates' block . . ."Robert hesitated and looked at his mother. Jeff said, "Yes, go on. What happened next?"

"I'm embarrassed to talk like this in front of my mother." He stammered, "I needed to go to the bathroom . . ."

"So?"

"So I relieved myself behind a tree. Then I finished my route and left for school."

Jeff and Robert's parents breathed a sigh of relief at the boy's statement. The attorney's mind was already racing forward to defend his client when the door opened. Sheriff Shores walked in with a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his hand. He had just sat down when Miss Ella Gates entered the room. She was a slightly built woman dressed in a flowered house frock and a black straw hat. Her silver hair was caught in a bun fastened with large mock turtle plastic pins. Looking only at the Sheriff, she immed iately spoke.

"Sheriff Shores, do you have some papers for me to sign?"

"Maybe, Miss Ella. First I want you to tell Mr. Webster, Robert's lawyer, and his parents, what you told me you saw this morning."

"Well!" She sniffed as though offended by the lawman's remarks and said, "You would think I was the one on trial!"

"No one is on trial yet, Miss Ella. Would you kindly cooperate so we can get to the bottom of this?"

Now, for the first time, the aggrieved woman acknowledged the presence of others in the room. She began her account of the situation.

"I know it must be hard raising children today. Lord knows, things are so different than when I was a child." Jeff interrupted, "Could you, Miss Gates, please continue and tell us all you know. Robert says he did not expose himself to you this morning."

"I know what I saw!"

"And what was that?"

"I saw that boy doing a disgusting thing."

"Were you outside, Miss Gates?"

"Heavens, no! It was too dark to be out."

"Then where were you?"

"I heard the dog barking and peeped out through my Venetian blind. That's when I saw him."

"Where?" Across the street at Mrs. Campbell's house."

"Was Robert facing you?"

"No. He was near a tree near the sidewalk. But I know what he was doing!

"And what was that?"

"This is so embarrassing. And I am a single lady. He must have been relieving himself against the tree."

"So you actually didn't see any of his private parts?"

"No. I quickly closed the blind and decided to call the Sheriff later in the day."

Sheriff Shores spoke up to say, "Miss Gates, it sounds like you don't have a case at all. So, I'm going to release Robert to his parents. There are no charges to be made. In fact, I believe you owe Robert and his folks an apology."

"Like hell I'll apologize! The very idea . . ." The haughty woman turned and stomped arrogantly out of the office, complaining about such weak laws and the loss of private citizen rights.

Before she had reached the doorway, Jeff called out, "Robert's parents may sue you for false accusations and defamation of character. You'll be hearing from me soon!" The door slammed loudly.

The Jenkins family did not want to press counter charges against Miss Gates, so he bade them and the Sheriff good night and left. By the time Jeff got back to the motel, his three guests were gone. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered, "I forgot all about them. I'll have to apologize for my bad manners." Jeff did notice that the refreshments he ordered were gone. They had helped themselves adequately while he was gone. For a short while, Jeff sat and thought about the incident just closed at the S heriff's Office. He absentmindedly fingered the soft fifty one-dollar bills the grateful Mr. Jenkins had quickly pressed into his hand. Jeff didn't have the heart to tell these relieved happy people his fee is usually one hundred dollars per hour!

<<O>>

Morning sunshine came too early the next day for a tired, restless Jeff. He rose quickly and turned on the television to get some of the morning news. Between stretches and sliding out of bed, Jeff ached for a bracing shower and some hot coffee. But, first things first. He dialed Room Service and ordered a full breakfast with good old Southern chickory coffee. As he rang off, the front desk clerk buzzed his phone. The woman's voice announced that he had visitors in the lobby. With that news, Jeff was wide-awake. He looked at the clock radio and wondered who would be visiting him at this time of morning. It was not quite 7:00 A.M. His response to the front desk was that he would come into the lobby after his shower and breakfast, and to please ask the person to wait.

Puzzled, Jeff went through the motions of showering and dressing for the day. Before stepping out into the hall, he bolted down the coffee and about half of the delicious breakfast. Jeff immediately noticed the small motel lobby was full of people. It buzzed with excitement. There were perhaps thirty or forty Black men and women milling around. He stepped to the front desk and announced his name to the harried clerk and asked who was his visitor. With a wide sweep of her hand, she pointed and said, "All of them!"

Taking a deep breath, Jeff turned and facing the group, spoke in a loud voice. "Ladies and gentlemen, please, can we have it quiet? I'm Jeff Webster. Did you want to see me about something in particular?"

A slightly built gentleman with a salt-and-pepper gray goatee spoke up. "Mr. Webster, I'm Reverend Mack Wesley. I pastor the Bethel A.M.E. Church here in Brooks. We know you are an attorney from the big city, and not used to a small town like this . . ." He hesitated, but was urged on by several others nearby. "Well, it's like this – when we have troubles here in Brooks, or just need help on making a will, there's no lawyer here to help us – at least one that we trust." The crowd muttered their agre ement with "Sho' is the truth!" "Tell it like it is." and "Amen."

"What I hear you saying is, there is no Black lawyer here in Brooks. Is that right?"

"Yes sir. We heard what you did for the Jenkins family last night and got ourselves together to ask you an important question."

"A question for me? What is it?"

"Would you kindly think about moving to Brooks and helping us out? Since the last Black lawyer in Brooks died in an automobile accident two years ago, we have suffered legally."

Jeff was dumbfounded by the straightforward urgent request from this group of distressed people. Even though the air conditioning was on in the lobby, Jeff felt nervous sweat running down his back. He grasped for words to reply.

"You have a very serious problem here in Brooks, and you have just asked me a very serious question. I must say, this is an enormous surprise since I've only been in town for a few hours. Perhaps I should be as honest with you – I came to Brooks to fulfill a family promise made years ago. I've done that. It is my intention to return to Chicago and my law practice there. My memories of this town are heartbreaking, but I won't go into the details now."

"Maybe," Reverend Wesley broke in, "you could return to Chicago and at least think about our plea and offer. Then you could reply."

"Yes, maybe that is a good way to look at it. Thank you for the chance to study the total situation. I don't like to make snap decisions."

Another man in the group cleared his throat, stepped forward and said, "I'm Joe Carroll. I own the hardware store and the little strip mall on Victor Street. If you would come back to Brooks to practice, I have a vacant store there you can use for an office. Of course there would be no rent to you for five years." Hearing this generous proposal, the group applauded with enthusiasm. A stout woman in a flowered dress and stylish hat, quietly said, "I'm Mona Strange, President of the local chapter of t he NAACP. My husband and I have a spare room at home that enters from the side porch that you can live in until you get your own house. And, you won't starve either, I'm also known around here as a pretty good cook too!" With that, the crowd chuckled and clapped their hands in approval.

Jeff's head was spinning with this unusual development. Will these people just stop? All he wanted to do was to get out of that room, and get out of Brooks. Serious questions popped into his mind. Was he being sandbagged into making a promise he did not want to make? Just how bad was the situation in Brooks. What difference could someone like himself make? All eyes were on the young attorney as the assembled citizens waited for Jeff to respond to their request.

"Thank you all for your confidence in me and your generous offer, but unfortunately I have other commitments in Chicago which must be fulfilled. Perhaps some of you may remember that my family and I were chased out of Brooks sixteen years ago. My father was killed by a nightrider's bullet. I saw him die in my mother's arms. Returning to Brooks yesterday to finally pay my respects to the father I loved was filled with massive pain. Why would I ever want to come back here to live and work? Put yoursel ves in my shoes people. It's a hard thing to face."

Reading the disappointment in their faces, and fearing he had insulted them, Jeff mumbled something about catching a plane. Finally, he said he would be in touch later. The concerned attorney excused himself from the group and returned to his room.

Reverend Wesley faced the people to quietly say, "Well folks, at least we tried. Let us pray that God will see us through it all. It's time to go home." The subdued crowd silently dispersed into the street and about their daily business.

<<<0>>>

Jeff boarded the plane and fidgeted while the one stewardess went through her monotone speech of safety features of the aircraft. Once airborne, the plane circled widely to head north. Jeff looked down at the seething town of Brooks and could not help seeing in his mind the pleading faces of those people he just left. But didn't they hear him say he had other commitments and could not help them? Surely they knew how hard it would be for him to stay in that town, especially since his father was murde red there. These and like thoughts went through his head while the plane droned on to its destination where he would catch a flight to Chicago. His restive and sometimes turbulent emotions gave him little comfort and no peace.

Leaving the arrival concourse at Chicago's O'Hare Field, Jeff entered the parking lot where he left his own car two days before. The hot interior of the closed-up car made him think of Brooks' extreme weather and the tense racial situation there. Of course, without realizing it, his decision had been made down there in the Deep South. Yet the commitments in Chicago were real and needed attending. Then why was he thinking so much about Brooks? Could he do what they wanted, and why should he even enter tain the notion?

By the time Jeff reached the Dan Ryan Expressway, his mind became a bit clearer. A decision had formed out of all the stuff that bounced around in his brain. The nice apartment on the lake and the expensive foreign car would become a thing of the past. He knew now that before the evening was over, a telegram would be on its way to Reverend Wesley in Brooks and it would be happily received. He even knew what the words would say to the African American community in that troubled little town. Maybe he c ould make a difference after all. With a broad smile, Jeff rolled along in the hectic Chicago traffic ignoring the impatient taxi horns and the swearing pickup truck driver that cut him off near the "Loop". He knew now his own life would be changed forever, and that, thought Jeff, might work out fine. Maybe that was what the dying Jeff, Senior meant as he whispered, "Don't let them beat you down son. Don't let them do it to you too!"

THE END