George Shriver leaned his head back, staring into the ceiling. He was breathing hard, sweating profusely, his white shirt rising and falling as he fought for breath and struggled with memories.

His wife had grown quiet, but her eyes had reddened and her hands shook in her lap. 'We ain't special people, Mr. Cowart,' she said slowly. 'George's worked hard and made something of hisself, so that the kids would have it easier. George Junior is going to be an engineer. Anne is a whizbang at chemistry and the sciences. She's got a chance to go on to medical school.' The woman's eyes glistened with a sudden pride. 'Can you imagine that? A doctor from our family. We've just worked hard so that they could be something better, you know.'

'Tell me,' Cowart said carefully, 'what you think about Robert Earl Ferguson.'

There was a solid loud quiet while they collected their thoughts. He saw Betty Shriver take a deep breath before answering.

'It's a hate that goes way beyond hate,' she said. 'It's an awful, unchristian anger, Mr. Cowart. It's just a terrible black rage inside that never goes away.'

George Shriver shook his head. 'There was a time when I would have killed him myself, just so easy, I wouldn't of thought about it no more than you would if you slapped a mosquito off'n your arm. I don't know if that's true for me anymore. You know, Mr. Cowart, this is a conservative community here. People go to church. Salute the flag. Say grace before they eat and vote Republican now that the Democrats have forgotten what they're all about. I think if you were to grab ten folks off the street, they'd say, No, don't give that boy the electric chair; send him back here and let us take care of him. Fifty years ago, he'd a been lynched. Hell, less than fifty. Things have changed, I think. But the longer it all goes on, the longer I think that it was us that got sentenced, not just him. Months pass. Years pass. He's got all these lawyers working for him, and we find out about another appeal, another hearing, another something, and it brings it all back. We don't ever get the chance to put it all behind us. Not that you can, mind you. But at least you ought to get the chance to put it someplace and get on with what's left of your life, even if it is all sick and wrong now.'

He sighed and shook his head. 'It's like we're living in a kinda prison right alongside him.'

After a few seconds, Cowart asked, 'But you know what I'm doing?'

'Yes, sir,' both husband and wife replied in unison.

'Tell me what you know,' he asked.

Betty Shriver leaned forward. 'We know that you're looking at the case. See if there wasn't some unfairness connected to it. Right?'

'That's about as close as you could guess.'

'What do you think was unfair?' George Shriver asked. This was spoken mildly, curiously, not angrily.

'Well, that was my question for you. What do you think about what happened in the trial?'

'I think the sonuvabitch got convicted, that's what… ' he responded, his voice rising quickly. But his wife put her hand on his leg and he seemed visibly to slow himself.

'We sat through it all, Mr. Cowart,' Betty Shriver said. 'Every minute. We saw him sitting there. You could see a sort of fear in his eyes, sir, a sort of desperate anger at everyone as it all happened. I'm told he hated Pachoula, and that he hated all the folks here, black and white, just the same. You could see that hatred every time he squirmed about in his seat. I guess the jury saw it, too.'

'And the evidence?'

'They asked him if he did it and he said yes. Now who would say that if''n it warn't true? He said he did it. His own words. Damn his eyes. His own words.'

There was another quiet then, before George Shriver added, 'Well, of course, I was bothered that they didn't have more on him. We talked to Tanny and Detective Wilcox for hours about all that. Tanny sat right where you're sitting, night after night. They explained what happened. They explained that the case was shaky to begin with. So many lucky things happened to bring him to trial. Hell, they might never even have found Joanie, that was luck, too. I wished they'd had more evidence, yes sir. I did. But they had enough. They had the boy's own words and that was good enough for me.'

And there it is, Cowart thought.

After a moment, Betty Shriver asked quietly, 'Are you gonna write a story?'

Cowart nodded and replied, 'I'm still unsure exactly what kind of story.'

'What'll happen?'

'I don't know.'

She frowned and persisted. 'It'll help him, won't it?'

'I can't tell that,' he said.

'But it could hardly hurt him, right?'

He nodded again. 'That's true. After all, he's on Death Row. What's he got to lose?'

'I'd like to see him stay there,' she said. She rose and gestured to him to follow her. They walked through a corridor, down a wing of the house. She paused in front of a door, putting her hand on the knob but not opening it. 'I'd hoped he'd stay there until he goes to – meet his maker. That's when he'll truly have to answer for all that hate that robbed us of our little girl. I wouldn't want to have his life, no sir, not at all. But even more, I wouldn't want to have his death. But you do what you have to do. Mr. Cowart. Just remember this.'

She swung the door open.

He looked inside and saw a girl's bedroom. The wallpaper was pink and white and there was a fluffy ruffle around the bed. There were plush toys with large sad eyes, and two bright mobiles hanging from the ceiling. There were pictures of ballerinas and a large poster of Mary Lou Retton, the gymnast, on the walls. There was a bookcase stuffed with books. He saw some titles: Misty of Chincoteague, Black Beauty, and Little Women. There was a funny picture of Joanie Shriver wearing outlandish makeup and dressed like a roaring-twenties flapper on the bureau top. Next to that was a box filled to overflowing with brightly colored costume jewelry. In the corner of the room was a large doll-house filled with small figures and a fluffy pink boa hanging over the edge of the bed.

'That's the way it was the morning she left us forever. It'll always be that way,' she said. Then the murdered girl's mother turned abruptly, her eyes filling, sobs summoned from her heart. For an instant she faced the wall, her shoulders heaving. Then she walked away unsteadily, disappearing through another door, which closed behind her, but not tight enough to obscure the painful weeping which filled the house. Cowart looked back toward the living room and saw the murdered girl's father sitting, staring blankly ahead, tears flooding down his own cheeks, incapable of moving. He wanted to shut his own eyes, but instead found himself looking with terrified fascination at the little girl's room. All the little-girl items, knick-knacks, and decorations leapt out at him, and for an instant he thought he couldn't breathe. Each sob from the mother seemed to press on his own chest. He thought he might pass out, but instead he turned away from the room, knowing he would never forget it, and jerked his head toward Detective Wilcox. For an instant, he tried to apologize and to thank George Shriver, but he realized his words were as empty as their agony. So, instead, tiptoeing like some burglar of the soul, he quietly showed himself out the door.

Cowart sat wordlessly in Lieutenant Brown's office. Detective Wilcox was seated behind the desk, pawing through a large file marked 'SHRIVER,' ignoring the reporter. They had not spoken since leaving the house. Cowart looked out the window and saw a large oak tree bend with a sudden breeze, its leafy branches tossing about as if unsettled, then slowly return to position.

His reverie was interrupted when Wilcox found what he was searching for, and tossed a yellow manila envelope on the desk in front of him.

'Here. I saw you take a nice long look at that pretty picture of Joanie Shriver on the wall at her house. Thought maybe you'd like to see what she looked like after Ferguson got finished with her.'