5
“Okay, open your eyes,” said Nelle.
Truman pulled Nelle’s hands away from his face. He found himself smack in the center of the town square facing the Monroeville courthouse, the oldest and most stately building in the county, even if the clock in its impressive tower always ran five minutes slow.
“What are we doing here?” he asked. He’d wanted to go swimming again but Nelle had had other plans.
“You said you wanted some excitement. Well, here it is,” she said as if it were obvious.
“The courthouse?”
She poked him in the shoulder. “Dummy. Where do you think all the criminals end up? I thought you liked Sherlock Holmes?”
Truman’s eyes grew wide. “Do you think they’ll try a murder case?”
“Who knows? I come here all the time an’ there’s always some kinda mischief going on. Why, sometimes it’s better than going to the picture show.”
Truman pondered this. “Wait. How come they let you in? Isn’t this place for grownups?”
“Heck, no!” she said, pulling him along. “They know me ’cause I got connections . . .”
She headed up to the main entrance, where a few town policemen were milling about. One officer, a lumbering oaf with a large shaggy beard, spotted her straightaway. “Morning, Miss Nelle. Looking for your daddy?”
“Naw, we’re here to watch the new case.”
The policeman raised his eyebrows and chuckled. “Well, this one’s a doozy, Miss Nelle. I hope you and your friend here don’t scare easy.”
Truman didn’t care to be put in his place. “We don’t scare easy. Why, I’ve seen danger up close, sir. I’ll have you know that when I was living in New Orleans, our neighbor kept a tiger in his basement.”
“You don’t say,” said the cop.
“I do, Officer. And boy, that tiger was something fierce! He’d already eaten two people alive that I knew about.”
“Why didn’t he eat you, then?” asked Nelle.
“Well . . . I guess tigers like me,” Truman answered, matter of fact. “Whenever I petted him, he purred just like a kitty. One day, the mailman came by and would’ve been swallowed whole if I hadn’t been there!”
“Huh, don’t that beat all,” said the cop, not buying a word of it. “Well, I guess it’s true what they say—tigers don’t eat shrimp!” He cackled.
The officers had a good laugh, then headed inside the courthouse. Truman stayed put, stewing on the front steps.
“Well, ain’t you coming? You don’t want to miss the show,” said Nelle.
Truman didn’t budge, so Nelle grabbed him by the hand and led him inside, squeezing between the adults in the lobby to reach a small stairway at the far end of the room. “Come on. Best seats in the house,” she said, heading up the wooden steps. They came to a door that said FOR COLORED ONLY, but Nelle ignored the sign and pushed on past it.
They came out onto an empty balcony that overlooked the airy courtroom. Down below, there was an assortment of characters: the oafish policeman from outside, a crotchety old judge in a black gown, a weary-looking court stenographer, and an enormously fat lawyer conferring quietly with his client, a white woman dressed, oddly, like a princess from India, in gold and black robes. Across from them, sitting calmly behind a table, was a man wearing a plain, dark three-piece suit and horn-rimmed glasses, carefully studying everyone in the room.
“Your daddy works here?” asked Truman as they sat down. “He’s not that awful policeman, is he?”
“Course not.” Nelle pointed at the man in the glasses. “That’s him. That’s A.C.”
Nelle’s daddy checked his pocket watch. He seemed like a serious, thoughtful man.
“A.C.? What kind of name is that?” asked Truman.
“A.C. stands for Amasa Coleman, but people just call him A.C. ever since I can remember. He’s a lawyer and a deacon . . . and the editor of the Monroe Journal.”
Truman felt a pang of jealousy pass through him.
“Psst!” Nelle tried to get her daddy’s attention. “A.C.!”
A.C. ignored her. He checked his watch again and considered the empty chair beside him.
“You don’t call him Daddy?”
“Naw. Everyone calls him A.C., why shouldn’t I?” she said. “Hey, look, something’s going on.”
A.C. approached the judge, who then called the other lawyer up to the bench as well. They spoke in hushed tones, back and forth, occasionally looking at the empty chair.
The judge banged his gavel. “Is Mr. Archulus Persons in attendance?” he asked gruffly. “Bailiff?”
The policeman spoke up. “No, Your Honor. Mr. Persons has not yet been seen today.”
The judge nodded, making a note. “Very well. A warrant shall be issued for his arrest this afternoon . . . Is the next case ready?”
Nelle looked disappointed. “Holy cow. Looks like the suspect fled! Hey, that should be exciting—”
“We should go,” Truman said softly. He acted as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Oh, come on, another case is coming up. One’s as good as the next. Why, last week, Mr. Cooper was accused of stealing Miss Anna Mae’s peach cobbler from her window—”
Truman suddenly jumped up and headed for the stairs.
“Truman! Where you going?”
He disappeared down the steps, but she was right on his tail. “Tru! Wait!”
He ran through the lobby, down the courthouse steps, and right onto Alabama Avenue. When she finally grabbed him by the elbow in the middle of the street, she was so winded and confused, she didn’t even see the automobile barreling down on them.