Free Contents Under Pressure by Edna Buchanan

file onto the desk in front of her, papers spilling out every which way, and leaned forward on her elbows, eyes bright. “What happened? Why did we lose him, Britt? You’re in a position to find out. He never let anybody down. The man was world class all the way.”
    “I don’t know, Linda. One mistake, maybe.” I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable, wishing I had an answer. “The best of people do stupid things sometimes. I’ll try to find out more. Let me know if you hear anything.”
    She picked up the file containing the success story of Clarence Overholt and briskly replaced it in her desk, staring bleakly at me as I left, as though somehow I had let her down.
    The church was jammed, the mourners a mix of blacks, whites, hulking football types, weeping relatives, saddened fans, and a battalion of shiny-faced young people in their Sunday best. There were simple working folk who took pride in D. Wayne Hudson’s accomplishments, community leaders who served with him on charitable and civic projects, and, in the back, two pews of ragtag kids from Youth Hall, along with Linda Shapiro and several social workers and corrections officers.
    The dead man’s mother was inconsolable. Short and heavyset, she had spent most of her life as a day worker, cleaning other people’s homes. D. Wayne had been her only son, and the pain of losing him was too much to bear. She sagged into the arms of relatives several times before the service even began.
    D. Wayne’s father, a tall, gray-haired retired sanitation worker, seemed in a trance, unable to comfort his wife. He rarely lifted his eyes from the coffin, and when he did, he looked bewildered.
    Alma remained ramrod straight, reaching out to those in pain around her. Her twin sons, aged six, were solemn and well behaved. I choked back a few tears myself when one boy cried out, “Daddy!”
    Former linebacker Bernie Howlett began the eulogy, talking about a championship season he and D. Wayne had shared. Sure enough, a TV cameraman in a garish Hawaiian shirt and blue jeans climbed up onto one of the wooden pews and turned on his lights. I was delighted when some beefy football players I didn’t recognize hustled the TV crew out a side door.
    We sang and prayed, and amens and sobs filled the church. I strongly related to the second verse of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” the one that asks: “Is there trouble anywhere?” That is a question I get paid for asking every day.
    The rest of the overflowing crowd, who had listened to the service over outside speakers, parted for the husky pallbearers and the casket. The funeral cortege, an endless procession of slow-moving cars, detoured en route to the cemetery in order to pass the Orange Bowl, where D. Wayne had made a few great plays in his prime and later coached underprivileged kids. As the motorcade snaked through a bleak and aging neighborhood, old black men on the street doffed their caps, and I saw one sad-faced shabby woman place both hands over her heart.
    During the burial, friends formed a protective barrier around the widow. It surprised me when Alma approached me afterwards, took my hand, and said she wanted to talk to me back at the house.
    The Hudsons lived in artsy Coconut Grove, on a residential street shaded by ancient ficus trees. The house was attractive but not ostentatious, the long driveway flanked by lush and well-kept flower beds, impatiens, and zinnias. Their bright blooms seemed inappropriate, given the somber tone of the day. Like many Florida homes, there was a screened-in pool and patio with a barbecue and hanging plants.
    The inside of the house was high-ceilinged with skylights, the floors shiny white Cuban tile, and the airy rooms were filled with light and people speaking in hushed tones. D. Wayne’s father sat at the dining room table like a blind man, seeing nothing around him. His wife had retired to a bedroom.
    Alma sat, her hat removed, hair in a neat chignon. The top button of her high-necked