“The Methodist church. She’ll clean their preschool three days a week. Minimum wage but that’s all she can find right now.”

“Is she happy?”

“She filed for divorce two days ago, Jake, and her last name is pretty toxic around here. She has a son in prison, a houseful of deadbeat relatives, a twenty-one-year-old daughter with two unwanted kids. Life’s pretty tough for my mom. A job that pays three and a half bucks an hour is not likely to bring much happiness.”

“Sorry I asked.”

They were on his balcony, outside where the air was brisk but not too cold. Jake had a million things on his mind, and he’d already had a gallon of coffee.

“You remember Charley Pardue, my so-called cousin from Chicago?” she asked. “Met him at Claude’s a couple of months ago.”

“Sure. You called him a shyster who wants money for a new funeral home.”

“Yep, we’ve been talking on the phone, and he’s found a relative over near Birmingham. An old guy in a nursing home, last name of Rinds. He thinks this guy could be the link.”

“But Pardue is after money, right?”

“They’re all after money. Anyway, I’m thinking about driving over this Saturday to find the old guy and ask him some questions.”

“Is he a Rinds?”

“Yes, Boaz Rinds.”

“Okay. Have you told Lucien?”

“I have, and he thinks it’s worth the effort.”

“Saturday is your day off. I’m not in charge.”

“Just wanted you to know. And there’s something else, Jake. Lucien told me the county keeps some of the ancient courthouse records at Burley, the old black school.”

“Yes, that’s true. I went there once, looking for an old file, didn’t find it. The county stores a lot of junk there.”

“How far back do the records go?”

Jake thought for a moment. His phone rang in the distance. Finally, he said, “The land records are still in the courthouse because they get used. But a lot of stuff is basically worthless—marriage and divorce records, birth and death records, lawsuits, judgments, and so on. Most of it should be tossed out but no one wants to destroy court documents, not even from a hundred years ago. I heard once there are trial transcripts dating back to before the Civil War, all handwritten. Interesting, but of little value today. Too bad the fire didn’t destroy it all.”

“When was the fire?”

“Every courthouse burns at one time or another. Ours was severely damaged in 1948. A lot of records were lost.”

“Can I dig through the old files?”

“Why? It’s a waste.”

“Because I love the legal history, Jake. I’ve spent hours in the courthouse reading old court files and land records. You can learn a ton about a place and its people. Did you know that in 1915 they hung a man in front of the courthouse one month after his trial? He robbed Security Bank, shot a man but didn’t really hurt him, made off with $200, then got caught. They tried him on the spot, then strung him up.”

“That’s pretty efficient. I guess they didn’t worry about overcrowded prisons.”

“Or congested dockets. Anyway, I’m fascinated with this stuff. I’ve read an old will from 1847 where some white guy gave away his slaves; talked about how much he loved and treasured them, then gave them away like horses and cows.”

“Sounds depressing. You’ll never find a Brigance who owned a slave. We were lucky to have a cow.”

“Anyway, I need written permission from a member of the bar to get into the old files. County rule.”

“Done. Just do it after hours. You still digging for your roots?”

“Sure. I’m looking everywhere. The Rindses abruptly left this county in 1930 without a trace, without a clue, and I want to know why.”

Lunch in the rear of Bates Grocery was a selection of four vegetables chosen at random from a collection of ten pots and skillets simmering on a large gas stove. Mrs. Bates herself pointed, dipped, served, and commented as she loaded the plates and handed them over while Mr. Bates punched the cash register and collected $3.50, iced tea included, with corn bread. Jake and Harry Rex made the drive out once a month when they needed to eat and talk without being overheard. It was a rural crowd, farmers and farmworkers with a pulpwood cutter sometimes thrown in for balance. All white. Blacks would be served without incident but that had yet to happen. Blacks shopped up front in the grocery; in fact, Tonya Hailey had bought a sack of groceries there and was walking the mile back to her home when she was abducted three years earlier.

The two lawyers huddled around a small table as far away as possible from the others. The table rocked and the ancient floor squeaked, and just above them a rickety fan spun unevenly, though it was still wintertime and the entire building was drafty. In another corner a potbellied stove radiated a thick, pungent heat that kept the narrow room comfortable. After a few bites, Harry Rex said, “Dumas did a good job, for him anyway. That boy loves a good car wreck as much as any lawyer.”

“I had to threaten him, but, yes, he did us no harm. No more than was already done. Thanks for hauling in Arthur Welch for a cameo.”

“He’s an idiot, but my kind of idiot. The stories we could tell. We once spent two nights in a county jail when we were supposed to be in law school. Almost got kicked out.”

Jake knew better than to take the plunge but couldn’t help himself. “Why were you in jail?”

Harry Rex shoveled in a load of collard greens and began, “Well, we’d been to New Orleans for a long weekend, and we were trying to get back to Ole Miss. I was driving, drinking, and somewhere down in Pike County we got lost. Saw blue lights, and I said, ‘Shit, Welch, you gotta take the wheel. Here come the cops and I’m drunk.’ Welch said, ‘I’m drunk too big ass, you’re on your own.’ But we were in his car and I knew for a fact he was not as drunk as I was. I said, ‘Hey Welch, you ain’t had but a coupla beers. I’m stopping this thing right now and you get your ass over here.’ The blue lights were getting closer. He said, ‘No way. I been drunk since Friday. Plus, I already got one DUI and my old man’ll kill me if I get another.’ I hit the brakes and slid to a stop on the shoulder. The blue lights were right behind us. I grabbed Welch, who was quite a bit smaller back then, and tried to pull him over to the driver’s side, and this really pissed him off. He fought back. He grabbed his door handle and stuck his feet into the floorboard and I couldn’t budge him. I was really mad by now so I backhanded him, slapped the shit out of him right across the nose and this jolted him so bad he let go for a second. I grabbed his hair and yanked him over, but the car had a stick shift in the console and he got all caught up in it. We were both tangled up and mad as hell, cussing and clawing like a couple of cats. I had him in a death grip when the trooper said through the window, ‘ ’Scuse me fellas.’

“We froze. At the station, the trooper talked to both of us and declared us to be equally drunk. This was before Breathalyzers and such, back in the good old days.” He gulped some tea, then attacked a small heap of fried okra.

“So what happened?” Jake finally asked.