“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I’m placing you under arrest, Sheriff.”
“Bull-shit. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about assault. I’m talking about obstruction of justice. I’m talking about evidence-tampering, and conspiracy, and corruption, and probably civil-rights violations, too, though I reckon the D.A. or the U.S. Attorney will know more about that than I do.”
“You’re fired, Cotterell. And that’s the least of your troubles. You unlock this cell and unlock these cuffs, and I mean right now, or I will bury you under this goddamn courthouse.”
“I can’t do that, Sheriff. I’m sworn to uphold the law, same as you. Difference is, I really aim to do it.”
A cheer went up from the crowd when Cotterell and I emerged onto the courthouse steps, where one of the shotgun-wielding deputies still stood sentinel, but it quickly faded when the door closed behind us.
“Where is he?” shouted the big red-haired man I’d seen going inside earlier. Donnelly. “Where’s that sick sumbitch that killed my wife?”
“Where is he?” echoed a jumble of other voices. “Bring him out!”
“Hang on, hang on,” Cotterell called. “Y’all just hold your horses. Sheriff Dixon’s still interrogatin’ him.”
“We already know ever’thing we need to know,” shouted Donnelly.
“Yeah.” I heard. “Yeah! Let’s get it on!”
Suddenly there was a commotion to one side, and the crowd there parted, revealing a six-foot cross, its frame wrapped in layers of cloth—wrapped in swaddling clothes, I thought, in an absurd echo of the Christmas story — and a tongue of flame climbing up from its base and spreading to the outstretched arms. The crowd roared its approval.
“Come on!” yelled Donnelly. Someone thrust something into his hands, and I felt my stomach lurch when I recognized the distinctive shape of a rope noose.
Cotterell held up both hands in an attempt to quiet the crowd. “Not so fast,” he yelled. “We might be gettin’ ahead of ourselves. We ain’t sure we got the right man.”
“Hell yeah we got the right man,” Donnelly jeered. “No doubt about it. Now shut up, Jim. Get with us or get outta the damn way.”
To my surprise — to my deep dismay — I felt myself take a step forward. “Listen to me,” I shouted. “You all are making a mistake.”
“Who the hell are you,” Donnelly bristled, “and what business is this of yours?”
“I’m a forensic scientist,” I said. “I’m the one who identified your wife’s body. The man inside didn’t kill her.” A wave of discontent rippled through the crowd. “Denise Donnelly was strangled. Her throat crushed. That man’s a cripple — he couldn’t have done it.”
“He’s full of shit,” yelled Donnelly. “That nigger is a rapist and a killer, and he’s got to hang.” His words prompted a raw, enraged chorus of agreement.
“That man was behind bars in Brushy Mountain while she was being killed,” I shouted. “She was already dead — long since dead — by the time he escaped.” I fumbled at my shirt pocket, my shaky hand reaching for the small, folded paper bag — the bag containing the hyoid bone I’d plucked from the stained leaves on the hillside a few hours before. But before I could extract it, I was interrupted by a shout from the crowd.
“Nigger-lover,” yelled someone deep in the pack, and the insult was taken up by dozens of voices. “Nigger-lover! Nigger-lover! Nigger-lover!”
Donnelly held up a hand for quiet, and the taunts died away. “We don’t need some liberal, egghead scientist”—I saw spittle spray from his mouth when he spat out the word—“coming in here acting like he’s better and smarter than we are. Go back to your library, professor, and stay the hell out of our business.”
“I’m on the staff of the Tennessee State Medical Examiner,” I said, reaching for my belt and grabbing my badge.
“I don’t give a good goddamn about that,” he shouted. “We got plenty of rope. It wouldn’t take two minutes to cut another piece for you. And that oak limb is plenty strong enough for two men to swing from.”
“Denise Donnelly fought for her life,” I yelled to the crowd. “She had her killer’s skin under her fingernails. A white man’s skin, and a red hair, too.” I pointed at Donnelly. “Y’all ought to be asking Mr. Donnelly here how he got those scratches on his hands and face.”
Finally, my words seemed to be having some effect. The mob quieted, and I saw heads craning to peer at Donnelly.
“I got these scratches clearing a briar patch last week,” Donnelly shouted. “Anybody wants to come see the brush pile tomorrow, you’re more’n welcome. But anybody calls me a liar to my face, you’ve got a fight on your hands.”
I played the last card I had to play. “She’d been unfaithful to him. He had a motive to kill her.”
There were mutterings in the crowd — the sounds of doubt — and I felt a surge of hope. Suddenly, from high overhead, came the sharp sound of glass shattering, followed by a shout from a second story window of the courthouse. “Hey! Hey!” The heads of the mob swiveled upward. Deputy Yates leaned out the broken window. “It’s the sheriff! They’ve got him handcuffed and locked in a cell up here!”
“The sheriff was breaking the law,” shouted Cotterell. “Just like y’all are talking about doing. I couldn’t let him do that. I can’t let y’all do it, either.”
“Get out of the way, Jim, before you get hurt,” warned Donnelly. “Come on, let’s get the sheriff out and give that nigger what he deserves.”
The crowd surged forward. Cotterell snatched the shotgun from the deputy beside him. He fired it into the air, and they hesitated, but only briefly, then surged again. He racked the slide and fired once more, but by this time the mob was already swarming up the steps. Half a dozen hands laid hold of my arms; another half dozen began pummeling my head and shoulders. Beside me, I sensed the same thing happening to Cotterell.
Suddenly my attackers hesitated, then froze, and over the shrieks of the mob, I heard the whine of sirens — many sirens, growing louder as they approached the courthouse. Then I heard the squawk of a loudspeaker. “This is the FBI. Put up your weapons and disperse immediately, or you will be arrested. Put up your weapons and disperse immediately, or you will be arrested on federal charges.”
The hands clutching my arms let go, the rain of blows ceased, and I felt myself sag against the door as I was released and my attackers began backing away. I heard a commotion — a din of voices shouting “FBI! Make way! Make way!”—and the crowd parted and fell back, their faces scowling and cringing, like dogs who’ve attacked in a pack then were routed and set fleeing, tails between their legs. A wedge of federal agents — a dozen or more, all wearing body armor emblazoned FBI, all carrying short-barreled shotguns that they looked ready, willing, and able to use — forced their way to the courthouse steps. A man in civilian clothes stepped from the crowd and huddled with one of the agents. He pointed at Donnelly and at three others in the front ranks, and four agents spun from the wedge and put the men facedown on the ground, cuffing them in the blink of an eye.