Later that evening, Lamar yelled from the living room. “There’s breaking news! I think they arrested Mr. Thigpen.”

Kyra, Lamar’s parents and Attorney Smith rushed in. Drayton flashed onto the television screen.

“This is Drayton Wilkerson from WKCU News 6 reporting from in front of the courthouse in Morton, Louisiana. We are waiting for sheriff’s deputies to arrive. We understand Rutherford Thigpen, the man who shot and killed Joshua Phillips weeks ago, has been placed under arrest at his home and is being brought here for booking. You may remember that, initially, Mr. Thigpen said he shot Mr. Phillips in self-defense. A cell phone recording that this station aired seems to show that it wasn’t self-defense. As a result, a warrant was issued for Mr. Thigpen’s arrest.”

Lamar leaped into the air. Kyra clapped her hands enthusiastically. Their parents embraced. Even a normally cool Attorney Smith couldn’t contain his excitement.

“Wait. Wait. Let’s hear the rest of it,” Kyra said, turning up the volume.

“The man who recorded the video, Mr. Craig Wilson, has already been interviewed. Black people in Morton, and some White supporters, who have been protesting for nearly a week to get justice in the case, have been calling for the arrest of Mr. Thigpen. They feel the shooting was racially motivated. A former businessman in Morton, Mr. Thigpen once served on the Morton town council. He once headed the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. I think the sheriff’s deputies are driving up now.”

Lamar and the others watched as the deputies helped Thigpen from the car. Lamar thought he looked older than his seventy-five years. His aging body was bent over, and his almost bald head gleamed in the fading sunlight. The pained look on his weather-beaten face seemed to define the moment. The deputies walked slowly to accommodate Thigpen, whose weary legs looked as if they would give out.

Clicking sounds of photographers’ cameras filled the air. Television news cameras rolled. Rutherford Thigpen glared defiantly and then held up a middle finger to let the reporters know what he thought of them.

“Mr. Thigpen! Mr. Thigpen,” Drayton called out, pushing closer. “Why did you shoot Mr. Phillips? Did you feel your life was threatened?”

Other reporters hurled a barrage of questions at Thigpen, too. He ignored them all.

Drayton jockeyed among the horde that followed the deputies and Thigpen to the entrance of the courthouse.

“Why did you shoot him, Mr. Thigpen? Can you tell us why you shot him?” Drayton wouldn’t give up.

Rutherford Thigpen looked directly into the WKCU News 6 camera, then to the ground where he placed his next step, and at the camera again.

“Can you tell us why?” Drayton asked again, placing the mic near his mouth.

“No n—— gonna talk to me the way he did!” Thigpen shouted unexpectedly, his words of hate piercing the air like a knife. “Do you know who I am?! I’m Rutherford Thigpen. I come from three generations of Thigpens in this parish.”

One of the deputies grabbed him firmly and ushered him through the entrance of the building.

“Well, you heard it here on WKCU News 6,” the shocked reporter said, speaking to the camera again. “This is Drayton Wilkerson reporting. We’ll have more on News at Ten.”

“Did you hear what he said ?”

“Yes, we heard him loud and clear, Kyra,” her dad answered.

“He shot Gramps because he felt Gramps talked back to him. You can’t get lower than that.”

“All that hate!” Lamar’s mom murmured, shaking her head. “Hatred just festered and metastasized. It could have been any Black person.”

“Papa probably wasn’t gonna bow down to him like the old days,” Lamar’s dad added. “That old racist couldn’t take it. Well, he’s in jail now. But I’m afraid he’s gonna get leniency because of his age.”

“But, Dad,” Lamar wanted to know, “how could he? He just came right out and said he shot Gramps because no n—— gonna talk to him that way.”

“I heard him, Lamar. I heard him.”

Lamar looked at Attorney Smith. Everyone else did, too. Lamar and the family had gained a lot of respect for him during the last week. They waited for his response, his point of view. The attorney chose his words carefully.

“This arrest is just the first step,” he explained. “We have to find out what the charge will be. We should know that tomorrow or the next day. I think it should be at least second-degree murder. Rutherford Thigpen didn’t plan the murder. He did, however, willfully shoot Mr. Phillips. So I think second-degree murder should be considered. We’ll see. It’s obvious to me, too, that this qualifies as a hate crime. And those two deputies should be charged as well. Just suspending them isn’t enough. They broke the law. We also have to make sure the authorities find out who set fire to that church.”

“We didn’t do all this protesting for nothing, did we, Mr. Smith?” asked Lamar’s mom. “It seems that there is so much more to do.”

“No! No!” Attorney Smith answered quickly. “Don’t underestimate what we have accomplished so far. We got the wheels of justice turning. That doesn’t happen often in small towns like this. Without the protest, there probably wouldn’t have been an arrest. These protests put a spotlight on this case. We just have to make sure that the wheels of justice keep turning. Listen, you all have given so much of your time to ensure that there is justice for your father and grandfather. But y’all know the road to justice is long and filled with roadblocks and discrimination that has been a part of the justice system for centuries. But you gotta be encouraged. Your efforts have made a difference.”

“So do we still continue to protest?” Kyra wanted to know.

“That’s your call, Kyra. You and your group and Reverend Thurmond and his people. But personally, I think we can take a break for now and see what happens. You have missed days from school and after-school activities. Others have missed days from work. We can always come back when we need to. You’ve forced a reckoning in this town. I don’t think it can go back to the way it was.”

Slowly, Lamar walked away and headed to his room.

“Lamar,” his father called.

“Let him go,” Lamar’s mom told her husband. “He probably wants to be alone.”

“I guess we’ve had a lot to take in for one day,” Mr. Smith said.

When Lamar reached his room, he wanted to view the video he had done of his grandfather at the town council meeting. But the DA still had his laptop. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone to look at the photos he had saved of his grandfather. There were some of his Gramps giving those council people a piece of his mind. He looked at each photo intently. Then he fell across the bed, tears flowing. It seemed as if there might be justice for his grandfather. But that wouldn’t bring him back. He missed his Gramps.

“Are you all right?” Kyra asked, standing in the doorway of Lamar’s room.

When she saw Lamar sobbing, she walked in and sat on the bed next to him. Kyra could always find words to express what she felt, and to comment on most any situation. This time, however, she struggled. At first, the words wouldn’t come.

Then she nudged Lamar. “You know what I’ve been thinking? Let’s ask Reverend Thurmond if we can set up a Black history program at church. Do you think that’s a good idea? Maybe you can help me organize it.”

That caught Lamar’s attention. He began wiping the tears away.

“You think he would let us do that?” he asked Kyra.

“I’m sure he would,” she assured him. “We just have to put it together. Are you up for it?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Lamar answered. “I’ll ask kids from the middle school to come.”

Lamar sat upright on the bed and thought for a moment. Then he turned to his sister. “I got so much to learn. Gramps said that the more you know about your history, about your people, the better you’re prepared to deal with anything. I got a lot to learn.”

“Me too. We all got a lot to learn. So why are you sitting on that bed? Let’s get to it!”

“You bet,” Lamar said with a glow on his face.

“And get that video camera ready,” Kyra added.