“Yes, Lord!” from the choir stand. “If not now, when?”
Shad is about to respond when Reverend Nightingale eases him away from the pulpit with a forced smile. Althea retakes her pew as the reverend smooths his jacket and says, “I thank Brother Johnson for that thoughtful comment. We sure have a lot to think about these days. Now, the service is almost over, but I think I’d be remiss if I didn’t give our white friends a chance to speak today.”
This is unexpected, but in the silence that follows, my mother stands and turns to the congregation. Her voice is softer than Althea’s, but it too carries in the church.
“Ruby worked for our family for thirty-five years,” she says. “We considered her part of our family, and we always will.”
And she sits down.
The expression on Shad Johnson’s face makes it clear that he views this statement as white paternalism at its worst, but the faces in the pews say something different.
Reverend Nightingale closes the funeral with a prayer, then directs the choir to sing “Amazing Grace.”
The pallbearers carry Ruby’s casket down the aisle and out the front door, preceded by the deacons, who act as an informal security force, hustling reporters away from the door with the help of Daniel Kelly and the Argus men. The congregation waits for our family to depart, then follows us out, and soon we are all gathered in the small graveyard beside the church while five camera crews film steadily from the perimeter of the crowd.
Ruby’s coffin lies above the freshly turned earth, on straps that will lower her into the ground when the graveside service is done. As Reverend Nightingale begins his prayer, a horn honks loudly from Kingston Road, blaring again and again but thankfully dropping in pitch as the vehicle goes on down the road. While a cameraman runs off to try to get a shot of the heckler, Reverend Nightingale increases his volume and pushes right through the twenty-third psalm. When he finishes, he turns to the gathered mourners.
“The family will remain seated. The members will please turn away from the body.”
Though unfamiliar with this custom, I obey. From the air, this would look strange indeed, two hundred people gathered in a circle around a hole in the ground, facing away from it. I’m not sure of the significance of this ritual, but turning away from death is sometimes the best thing we can do. Reverend Nightingale recites another brief prayer, including the words, “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” and the congregation walks away from the grave as one.
A half dozen younger black men remain behind, beside a loose stack of shovels, and I remain with them. After Ruby’s children drop flowers into the grave, they start toward their cars with their own children. I shake hands with them as they pass, and express my condolences. I sense different reactions in each, but all are courteous.
When Ruby’s casket reaches the bottom of the grave, I pick up one of the shovels, and spade it into the soft pile of earth. Dad starts to join me, but I touch his chest, reminding him of his heart trouble, and he rejoins my mother and Annie at the edge of the little cemetery.
I feel like it should be raining, but the sun is hot on the back of my suit jacket. As we shovel the diminishing pile of dirt over the gleaming casket, I think of the white funerals I have attended, how everyone walks away at the end of the graveside service, leaving the coffin to be covered by a backhoe or by a couple of unknown gravediggers. This way is better. We should be covered into the earth by people who loved us.
After the grave is full and tamped down, and the camera crews have shot all the footage they want, only a few people remain on the hill. My parents stand with Annie and Reverend Nightingale beside the BMW, which someone has brought from wherever it was parked. Kelly and his associates drift around the edge of the hill, looking for possible threats. Caitlin and the photographer sit on the church steps, fiddling with a camera as Ike Ransom watches.
After Reverend Nightingale toddles off toward his baby blue Cadillac, Ike beckons me to the side of the church, out of earshot of Caitlin and the photographer. I walk over and speak to my parents, then join Ike.
“What you got?” he growls, stepping around me so that I can see no one but him. The blood vessels in his eyes form a red network around the dark irises, and the smell of cheap whiskey blows past me with his every word. “You got enough to nail Marston on Wednesday?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Working? The trial’s three days from now!”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“So, tell me what you got.”
I quickly summarize my case, from Frank Jones to Betty Lou Beckham and everyone in between.
“Will that bitch testify in open court?” Ike asks, loudly enough to be heard across the hill. “Betty Lou?”
“I don’t know. She’s scared of Presley, and her husband doesn’t want her to testify. I’ve got my father working on her.”
“What about tying Presley to Marston?”
“I’ve got something working,” I say grudgingly, thinking of Peter Lutjens, who at this moment may be risking prison to get a copy of Stone’s original FBI report.
Ike grabs my wrist, his grip like a claw. “What you talking about?”
I jerk my hand free. “I’ll let you know if it works out.”
His glare is disquieting. “Is Stone helping you?”
“No.”
“You ask him to testify?”
“He won’t. Look, I need to go. My family’s waiting.”
“You ain’t telling me shit, man!”
“You need to get some sleep, Ike.”
“Sleep? Let me tell you something. I been thinking. I been thinking I messed up coming to you. You may put Presley in jail, but that ain’t nothing. He’s dying anyway. Marston’s laughing at you, man. Old Shad may be right about you leaving this alone, even though the nigger be a little bright for my taste.”
“I’m going now, Ike.”
He grabs my arm. “You keep me posted, right?”
I nod slowly. “Let go of my wrist.”
He looks down at the junction of our limbs as though unaware he has hold of me. As the hand relaxes, a question comes to me. “Are you a member of this church, Ike?”
“Me? Baptist? I’m Catholic, man. Holy Family.”
“You’ve known more than you’ve told me from the start. Whatever you have, now’s the time to tell me.”
His head moves forward, then back, like a man falling asleep at the wheel of a car. “You think I’m playing the quiet game too?” A faint smile, as though at a private joke. “I told you, man, everybody keeps something back. It’s the only way to stay safe.”
“I’m gone, Ike. Be careful, okay?”
