Free Mr. Justice by Scott Douglas Gerber Page B

her Irish stew: a delicious concoction of lamb, carrots, potatoes, and gentle spices from the Emerald Isle.
    Peter’s father had been the gourmet in their household. His specialty was marinated Chicago strips as thick as a suburban phonebook. He also could bake a cherry pie that put Rachel Ray to shame.
    Culinary skills aside, what Peter, Jenny, and Megan enjoyed most about cooking was the time they got to spend together. Peter and Jenny were the copilots in the kitchen—they prepared the food and the table—while Megan was the gap-toothed navigator. She got to suggest the menu. Or at least Peter and Jenny liked her to believe she suggested it. They usually had to remind their young daughter that it might be nice to make something other than “humbragger and french frieds” for dinner.
     
    The critical care nurse rose from her chair to check the monitors again. Professor McDonald was still alive… .

CHAPTER 29
     
     
    The young black man tied to the tree thought of Denzel Washington in the whipping scene from the movie Glory . Denzel had won his first Academy Award for his portrayal of a proud former slave who fought for the Union army during the Civil War but refused to kowtow to the white officers who led the black brigade in which he served. The young black man remembered Denzel’s character staring defiantly at his white commanding officer while being whipped for deserting his post to find shoes that didn’t cut his feet. Tears clouded Denzel’s character’s eyes as both the pain of the whipping and the memories of a lifetime of whippings flooded over him. Denzel’s character didn’t scream, though. He refused to give the white man the satisfaction.
    This wasn’t a movie. No matter how hard he tried and no matter how much he wanted to deny the white men in white sheets the pleasure they obviously felt in watching him suffer, the young black man couldn’t help but scream.
    Billy Joe Collier said, “Scream, nigger. Go ahead and fuckin’ scream. Your mama can’t do nuthin’ for you now.” Collier spat in the young black man’s face.
    Several other members of the konklave hurled rocks at the young black man’s naked body. “Bull’s-eye!” one of them shouted when a particularly large rock hit the young black man in the head. A second rock to the head knocked the young black man unconscious.
    “Wake him up,” Collier said. “Wake the fuckin’ nigger up.” Collier wanted the young black man to feel what the konklave was about to do to him.
    A hydra reached for a canteen and unscrewed the cap. He splashed water into the young black man’s face. “Wake up, nigger! Wake the fuck up!”
    The young black man began to cough and wheeze. He was regaining consciousness. He wished that he wasn’t. His eyes opened to the sight of more than a dozen white men in white sheets glowering at him as if he had done something wrong… . The only thing he had done “wrong” was be born black.
    But that was more than enough for Billy Joe Collier. “Give me a knife,” Collier said. “Give me a fuckin’ knife!”
    The same hydra who had splashed water into the young black man’s face reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He slapped the knife into Collier’s palm like a nurse handing a surgeon a scalpel.
    Collier snapped open the blade. Thpp. “Give me your hand, nigger. Give me your fuckin’ hand.”
    The young black man was strong—he moved furniture for a living—but he couldn’t overpower a dozen men, especially when he was tied to a tree. He tried, but it was pointless.
    The hydra grabbed the young black man’s hand and pried open his fingers.
    The young black man knew what was coming. “Don’t,” he said. “ Please , don’t.”
    But a plea for mercy from a black man simply inspired Collier to press forward more vigorously. He kissed the blade for luck and began to saw off the young black man’s forefinger.
    Howls of pain echoed through the woods.
    Collier smiled.
    The konklave