Just Cause

The center of town was only a three-block square area, with a movie theater, some offices, some more stores, and a couple of stoplights. The streets were clean, and he wondered whether they had been swept by the storm the night before or by community diligence.

He drove through, heading away from the hardware stores, auto parts outlets, and fast-food restaurants, on a small, two-lane road. It seemed to him that there was a slight change in the land around him, a fallow brown streakiness that contradicted the lush green he'd seen moments earlier. The roadway grew bumpy and the houses he saw by the road were now wooden-frame houses, swaybacked with age, all painted a fading whitewashed pale color. The highway slid into a stand of trees, swallowing him with darkness. The variegated light pouring through the branches of the willows and pines made seeing his way difficult. He almost missed the dirt road cutting off to his left. The tires spun briefly in the mud before gaining some purchase, and he started bouncing down the road. It ran along a long hedgerow. Occasionally, over the top, he could see small farms. He slowed and passed three wooden shacks jumbled together at the edge of the dirt. An old black man stared at him as he slowly rolled past. He checked his odometer and drove another half mile, to another shack perched by the road. He pulled in front and got out of the car.

The shack had a front porch with a single rocker. There was a small chicken coop around the side, and chickens pecked away in the dirt. The road ended in the front yard. An old Chevy station wagon, with its hood up, was parked around the side.

A steady, solid heat washed over him. He heard a dog bark in the distance. The rich brown dirt that served as a front yard was packed hard underfoot, solid enough to have survived the previous evening's rainstorm. He turned and saw that the house stared out across a wide field, lined by dark forest.

Cowart hesitated, then approached the front porch.

When he put his foot on the first step, he heard a voice call out from inside, 'I see you. Now what y'all want?'

He stopped and replied, 'I'm looking for Mrs. Emma Mae Ferguson.'

'Whatcha need her for?'

'I want to talk to her.'

'You ain't tellin' me nothin'. Whatcha need her for?'

'I want to talk to her about her grandson.'

The front door, half off its screen that was peeling away from the cracked wood, opened slightly. An old black woman with gray hair pulled severely behind her head stepped out. She was slight of frame, but sinewy, and moved slowly, but with a firmness of carriage that seemed to imply that age and brittle bones didn't really mean much more than inconvenience.

'You police?'

'No. I'm Matthew Cowart. From the Miami Journal. I'm a reporter.' 'Who sent you?'

'Nobody sent me. I just came. Are you Mrs. Ferguson?' 'Mebbe.'

'Please, Mrs. Ferguson, I want to talk about Robert Earl.'

'He's a good boy and they took him away from me.'

'Yes, I know. I'm trying to help.'

'How can you help? You a lawyer? Lawyers done enough wrong for that boy already.'

'No, ma'am. Please, could we just sit and talk for a few minutes? I don't mean to do anything except try to help your grandson. He told me to come and see you.'

'You saw my boy?'

'Yes.'

'How they treating him?'

'He seemed fine. Frustrated, but fine.'

'Bobby Earl was a good boy. A real good boy.'

'I know. Please.'

'All right, Mr. Reporter. I'll sit and listen. Tell me what you want to know.'

The old woman nodded her head at the rocker and moved gingerly toward it. She motioned toward the top step on the porch, and Matthew Cowart sat down, almost at her feet.

'Well, ma'am, what I need to know about are three days almost three years ago. I need to know what Robert Earl was doing on the day the little girl disappeared, on the next day, and the day after that, when he was arrested. Do you remember those times?'

She snorted. 'Mr. Reporter, I may be old, but I ain't dumb. My eyesight may not be as good as it once was, but my memory is fine. And how in the Lord's name would I ever forget those days, after all that's come and passed since?'

'Well, that's why I'm here.'

She squinted down at him through the porch shade. 'You sure you're here to help Bobby Earl?'

'Yes, ma'am. As best as I can.'

'How're you gonna help him? What can you do that that sharp-talking lawyer cain't do?'

'Write a story for the paper.'

'Papers already written a whole lot of stories about Bobby Earl. They mostly helped put him in the Death Row there, best as I can figure it.'

'I don't think this would be the same.'

'Why not?'

He didn't have a ready answer for that question. After a moment, he replied, 'Look, Mrs. Ferguson, ma'am, I can hardly make things worse. And I still need some answers if I'm going to help.'

The old woman smiled at him again. 'That's true. All right, Mr. Reporter. Ask your questions.'

'On the day of the little girl's murder…'

'He was right here with me. All day. Didn't go out, except in the morning to catch some fish. Bass. I remember because we fried them for dinner that night.'

'Are you sure?'

'Of course I'm sure. Where was he to go?'

'Well, he had his car.'

'And I'da heard it if he started it up and drove off. I ain't deaf. He didn't go nowheres that day.'

'Did you tell this to the police?'

'Sure did.'

'And?'

'They didn't believe me. They said, "Emma Mae, you sure he didn't slip away in the afternoon? You sure he didn't leave your sight? Mebbe you took a nap or somethin'." But I didn't, and I tole them so. Then they tole me I was just plain wrong and they got angry and they went off. I never saw them much again.'

'What about Robert Earl's attorney?'