Free Swift Justice: The Southern Way by R.P. Wolff Page B

you have already spoken to him without offering him counsel is concerning.”
    “We offered him the public defender, but he refused it,” the Sheriff lied. The Sheriff just realized that this Goldstein character has no idea that they also arrested Leon’s family and friends. The Sheriff chuckled to himself to think how Goldstein was going to react on discovering that new development.
    “Oh, he was, huh?”
    “Yeah.” The Sheriff was happy to see that Goldstein had a look of surprise on his face. The Sheriff must have thrown him a curve ball.
    “Okay, the state trooper and I are going to sit in your little lobby area and wait to see my client.”
    “Why do you have the state trooper with you?” the Sheriff asked. The Sheriff noticed that the state trooper, a tall muscular man who looked to be in his early thirties, appeared awkward and seemed reluctant to be there.
    “Well, for my safety, and the safety of my client. Your county has a bad reputation—”
    The Sheriff interrupted. “There’s nothing wrong with our county. Our county has a great reputation. Don’t you come over here and criticize our county.”
    “All right, I’m going to sit over here.” Goldstein pointed to the five chairs that laid against a wall. “I am not leaving until I see my client. So you go ahead and talk to whomever you need to talk to, but I am seeing my client. I can assure you that if you check the law, Leon Brooks is entitled to see his attorney.”
    “You’re walking on dangerous water, mister fuckin’ Jew boy.” The Sheriff sighed. He figured that he might have to give in and let Leon speak to his client. This attorney seemed connected. “Okay, motherfucker, I’ll see what I can do. Have a seat.”

Chapter 8
    “Wake up, Leon!” yelled the Sheriff. “You have a visitor.”
    Leon woke up from a deep sleep. He had no idea how long he had slept.
    “Come on boy, I’m not going to ask you again. Get up.”
    Leon jolted up and walked up to the cell entrance to get his hands cuffed as before. He hoped that Goldstein was the visitor.
    The cops escorted Leon to the same interrogation room as before, sat him down, and cuffed him to the eye bolt as before.
    “Wait here,” barked Junior.
    A few minutes later, Junior led Goldstein into the room.
    “Take those cuffs off my client while I speak to him,” ordered Goldstein.
    “No fuckin’ way,” said Junior. “He’s fuckin’ dangerous.” Before Goldstein could continue his objection, Junior left the room and closed the door.
    Goldstein shook his head in disapproval and sat down across from Leon. “Hello. I’m Howard Goldstein. We spoke over the phone. How are you?”
    Leon sighed. “I’m really tired and sore from the beatings.”
    “Beatings from last night when they tried to hang you?”
    “Yes, and the beatings from when we turned ourselves in.”
    “Wait, you were the only one who was supposed to turn yourself in.”
    “Oh, you don’t know,” said Leon. “They have arrested my papa, my brothers, and a friend of ours.”
    “They’re in jail with you, right now?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why do they have them in jail?”
    “They think we all did it to the three white men.”
    Goldstein sighed heavily. “Go on and tell me everything that happened.”
    Leon told Goldstein everything except for the part of him kicking the white guys after they were dead.
    Goldstein sat there pondering Leon’s story.
    “Mr. Goldstein.”
    “Yes.”
    “Can I ask you why you are helping me? I mean there aren’t any white people that I know that are willing to help a Negro.”
    “Why do I help you? I’m glad you asked that question.” Goldstein paused. “Well, I’m a holocaust survivor. I was a Jew in Germany during World War II. I came home one day and I saw my father hung, certainly by the Germans. Before I even had a chance to mourn my father’s death, my mother took me and my siblings to try to escape. I was only eight years old. They cornered us in an alley. There was a