Alex Cross’s Trial

“-so that no matter what might happen to Hiram, no matter what fate might befall him as he walked the earth, he would always have the Lord Jesus Christ walking right there by his side!”

“Say it, brother!”

“Now, children,” the preacher said with a sudden lowering of his tone, “we know what happened to our son and brother Hiram Cross! We know!”

“Hep us, Jesus!”

“The white man done come for Hiram, done took him and killed him,” the preacher called.

“We should think of our Lord, and how brave he was on that last night when he set there waiting for the Roman soldiers to come. He knew what was gonna happen. He knew who was coming for him. But he did not despair.”

Instantly I found myself wanting to disagree, wanting to cry out, to remind him of the despairing words of Jesus on the cross, My father, my father, why hast thou forsaken me?

“Hiram was just that brave,” said the preacher. “He didn’t bow down or beg them to spare his life. He went along without saying a word, without letting them ever get a look at his fear. We should all strive to be as courageous as our brother Hiram.”

“That’s right!”

“The white man killed Hiram!” he hollered again. “But my friends, we are not like the white man! We cannot allow ourselves to be like that. The Bible tells us what to do. Jesus tells us what to do. It’s plain to see. We have to do as Jesus did, we have to turn the other cheek.”

There were groans from the congregation. It seemed to me that most of them had been turning the other cheek their entire lives.

Abraham’s head had drooped until his chin was nearly resting on his chest. Moody continued to gaze straight ahead at the plain wooden cross on the rear wall.

“As the Lord tells us in Proverbs, ‘Do not say, “I’ll pay you back for this wrong!” Wait for the Lord, and he will deliver you.’ God does not want us taking matters into our own hands.

“That is our charge, brothers and sisters. That is what the Lord tells us, in the book of Matthew: ‘Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be sons of your Father in heaven.’”

“How long, Brother Clifford?” came a voice from the back. “How long we ’posed to wait? Till the end of all time? How long?”

“We wait until the Lord makes his will clear,” the preacher said calmly. “We wait like the children of Isr’al waited, forty years out in that desert.”

The insistent voice spoke again:

“But how long? How long do we go on forgiving? How many of us got to die before it’s time?”

And that is when I saw one shining tear roll down Moody’s face.

We shuffled along, following behind Hiram in his pine box, out the narrow front door. The choir took up an old hymn.

I sing because I’m happy.
I sing because I’m free.
For His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me.
And I know He watches me.

Chapter 64

A BLINDING LIGHT CAME. Then another bright flash.

We were leaving the church, just making our way down the rickety steps.

Another stunning flash of light came.

At first I thought it was lightning, then I realized lightning doesn’t come from a clear blue sky. I blinked, trying to regain my power of sight, and then saw what was causing it: Scooter Willems and his camera, with its flash-powder apparatus.

Beside him were three large men I did not recognize, white men with twisted smiles on their faces, guns at their sides.

Moody left the line of mourners and marched straight over to Willems, right up to him.

“Show some respect,” she said to him. “This is my brother’s funeral.”

“Sorry, Moody,” Scooter said, almost pleasantly. “I thought you might want a photograph for your memory book.”

“I don’t need no photograph to remember this,” she said. “I’ll remember it fine.”

The pallbearers were sturdy young men about the same age as Hiram. They slid Hiram’s coffin onto the back of a buck-board. I made my way over to where Moody was glaring at Scooter and his bodyguards.

Scooter turned to me. “Moody’s all het up because I wanted to take a memorial photograph of the funeral.”

“Too bad you didn’t take a memorial photograph of the lynching,” Moody said. She turned on her heel and fell in step with the other mourners behind the wagon.

“Leave her alone, Scooter,” I said.

Scooter frowned. “Like I said, I just wanted to commemorate the event.”

I turned to leave, but Scooter wasn’t quite finished talking.

“Hey, Ben, how’s about I take one of you against this ocean of colored folks.”

I spun around at him. “Put your damn camera away. Go back to Eudora, where you belong. Leave these folks alone.”

I noticed two little black boys listening to our conversation. As I turned to leave, Scooter spoke to them.