Free Contents Under Pressure by Edna Buchanan Page A

dress was undone, and the chubby baby sat on her lap. I sat next to her, declining her offers of food and drink, saying I had to get back to the paper soon. I had learned earlier that D. Wayne had been returning from a community action meeting the night he died. Circuit Court Judge William Randolph and several city commissioners had attended, along with Major Francisco Alvarez, a high-ranking cop who had represented the police department in a discussion on how to combat juvenile crime.
    Alma handed her bright-eyed baby off to a cooing grandmotherly woman and leaned forward. I expected her to divulge something and was ready, notebook open in my lap, pen in hand. What she wanted, however, was to ask what I knew, if I had learned anything more.
    “Britt, I know my husband,” she said quietly, her eyes soft liquid pools. “He obeyed the law, even when he didn’t respect it. I can’t believe we lost him because policemen chased the wrong car. He was not a stupid man. He would never, ever run from them. He had no reason to do so. Why?”
    “I thought you might have some idea.”
    Alma shook her head. “I haven’t slept, trying to understand what happened. He had attended a dinner meeting. He drank nothing but coffee,” she said, as though anticipating the question. “He did stop for a drink with three other committee members, to discuss matters that came up at the meeting. I am told that he consumed one scotch and water. One. My husband was not a drinker or a wild carouser out to party. He was a responsible man who cared for his family and his community. Have you spoken to the police officers who chased him?”
    “I left messages, but they never returned them. That’s not unusual. One of them is Ted Ferrell, the man who was a hero in the projects the other day. I know him to be a good cop.”
    “They’re all white?” Her dark eyes held mine, intent.
    “The ones listed on the accident report as witnesses, yes. White and Hispanic.” I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, hoping she would not put a racial spin on what had happened.
    “They mistook my husband’s car for one driven by a criminal and chased him?’’
    “Apparently, that’s what happened.”
    Alma shook her head in confusion. “Britt, I don’t understand any of this. I don’t believe that he wasn’t wearing a seat belt … My husband was extraordinarily safety-conscious. He always buckled up and made sure the children were strapped in. He even insisted on a car with air bags.”
    I nodded. “But a number of people have been killed because they relied on air bags to protect them and didn’t fasten their seat belts. It’s important to use both.” It sounded inane when I said it.
    “Britt.” She reached for my hand. “All this is so uncharacteristic of him. All I know for sure is that he’s gone. What do I tell our children?” The classic cheekbones seemed to crumble, her composure cracking for the first time. A bevy of murmuring women closed in, as if on cue, surrounding her with hugs and hankies.
    Alma shook them off to see me to the door. “I’m glad you’re the one who wrote the stories,” she said softly. “You’re smart and thorough. We’ve always admired your work. I hope you keep reporting and get to the bottom of it. If you learn anything more, I’d like to know. It would give me great peace of mind.”
    “I’ll find out what happened,” I said boldly, startled by my own words, knowing that so many things people do are never explained, and that this could well be one of them. During the drive back to the office, I thought about Alma. She’d be all right, eventually; she was strong, and the needs and energies of her children would help her to survive this. But the boys, already scampering playfully through the hallway as I left, were too young to grasp the finality of death. They would know their father only in memory. His daughter would not remember him at all. They would miss the guidance he had so freely given to other