Alex Cross’s Trial

He sat down and lit a cigar, which drew another round of applause.

He was finishing up. When he spoke this time, I felt he was speaking directly to me.

“There’s a question I’m interested in,” he said. “ You-all might have an opinion on this. Why does a crowd of people stand by, smitten to the heart and miserable, and by ostentatious outward signs pretend to enjoy a lynching?”

The room fell so quiet you could hear the nervous cough of one man at the back.

“Why does the crowd lift no hand or voice in protest?” Twain said. “Only because it would be unpopular to do it, I think. Each man is afraid of his neighbor’s disapproval-a thing which, to the general run of the race, is more dreaded than wounds and death.”

Still the audience sat rapt, unmoving.

“When there is to be a lynching, the people hitch up and come miles to see it, bringing their wives and children,” he said. “Really to see it? No-they come only because they are afraid to stay at home, lest it be noticed and offensively commented upon.

“No mob has any sand in the presence of a man known to be splendidly brave. When I was a boy, I saw a brave gentleman deride and insult a mob, and drive it away.

“This would lead one to think that perhaps the remedy for lynchings is to station a brave man in each affected community. But where shall these brave men be found? That is indeed a difficulty. There are not three hundred of them on the earth.”

That’s exactly what Mark Twain said that night. I looked around and saw almost everyone in that audience nodding their heads, as if they all agreed.

Chapter 57

APPARENTLY ELIZABETH’S CARRIAGE HORSE had never encountered an automobile before, at least not after sundown, and not in such profusion.

With all the sputtering and clanging and light-flashing and honking in the streets around the Lyric Theatre, the frightened old horse bucked and snapped at the air. It took some fancy rein work to get us safely back on the road to Eudora.

The trip home made the trouble worthwhile. The stir of a breeze in the sultry night. A fat full moon that seemed stained yellow around its edges.

“I saw Charley’s Aunt in that theater,” Elizabeth said. “I saw Maude Adams in Jackson when she came through as Peter Pan. And they were both wonderful. But they didn’t touch my heart the way Mr. Twain did. Or make me laugh until there were tears.”

“It’s a very special evening,” I said. “Couldn’t have been any better.”

I waited. She didn’t answer.

“It is,” she finally said. “It’s very special to me too.”

These last words caught in her throat. I glanced at her: even in the faint moonlight, I could see the shine of tears in her eyes.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Oh, you know what it is, Ben,” she said. “I should be riding home with Richard. I should be sharing memories of Mark Twain with him. I should be in love… with Richard.”

I knew what I wanted to do then. I wanted to tell Elizabeth my own troubles, Meg’s and mine, tell her how lonely I felt, how devastated when Meg proposed (by letter, no less!) that we put an end to our marriage.

Instead, I drove along in silence. The breeze disappeared, and the moon went behind a cloud.

“Why did you ask me to go with you tonight?” she said.

“I thought you would enjoy it,” I said. “And I guess I’ve been… lonely.”

“Oh, Ben,” she said. “Oh, Ben.” Then she took my hand in hers, and held it for a long moment.

We were riding past the town limits sign now. It was late; Commerce Street was deserted. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed off the storefronts.

I finally pulled to a stop in front of the Nottingham home. I clicked open my watch. “Ten minutes till midnight,” I said. “Very respectable.”

“Respectable,” she said with a little smile. “That is one thing you are. It’s a good thing, Ben.”

I walked her to the yellow door flanked by a pair of flickering gaslights.

“Thank you for a beautiful evening,” she said. She pressed her lips to mine, her body soft against mine. The embrace lasted only a few seconds, but for those seconds, I was lost.

“Ben, do you want to come inside?” Elizabeth said in a whisper.

“I do,” I whispered back. “I most certainly do. But I can’t.”

Then Elizabeth disappeared inside her house, and I went back to Maybelle’s. I had never felt more alone in my life.

Chapter 58

I WAS STILL WAITING for an answer from the White House. Maybe my telegram had been too concise? Too curt or disrespectful to send to the president? Maybe Roosevelt had forgotten about me?

I walked downtown to get out of the rooming house, to do something other than wait. Pretty much every human being within ten miles came to town on Saturday. For a few hours in the morning, the sidewalks of Eudora buzzed with the activity of a much larger town.

I was standing in front of the Purina feed and seed, discussing the weather with Mr. Baker, when I saw an old lady and her grown daughter hurrying along the sidewalk toward us, as if getting away from something.