[b]Natchez, Mississippi [/b] Bedlam. That was the only word that came to Boyd Rafferty's mind to describe the scene in front of him. The small house just off the dirt road was a pile of smoking rubble, still smoldering in the early morning light. Around the house were firefighters cleaning up wreckage while the Adams County Sheriff's Department handled the bodies. Six tarp-covered bodies lay on the grass beside the house, four of the tarps were so much bigger than the tiny bodies they covered. Under those six tarps was the entire Johnson family. The firemen found Shelby and the children in the cellar, dead from smoke inhalation. Boyd was thankful they had died before the fire touched them. Will Johnson wasn't so lucky. They found him strung up on the live oak beside the house while the fire blazed. The man's face was beaten into pulp so much so that they were just assuming it was Will since it was his house and his family in the fire. The sheriff's department also handled crowd control around the crime scene. What seemed like the entire black community of Adams County stood on the other side of the cordon. Plenty were yelling and protesting and singing their songs, but plenty still just looked on in some kind of stupor. It looked to Boyd like a sense of defeat so acute that it bordered on heartbreak. Those were the people's gaze whom Boyd hated meeting the most. He could handle outrage and anger, but he could not stand to see that soulless gaze from the people who could not comprehend the scope of the violence. "Boyd!" Terry Wilkerson, Adams County Sheriff, ambled over to Boyd with a dribble of tobacco juice on his lip. "What are you doing here, son? Ain't no charges been filed yet." "A phone call woke me up," he said softly. "I had to see it for myself." "Me and my deputies will do what we can to see that those who committed this crime are arrested," said Wilkerson. "Then we'll let you take it from there, counselor." Boyd was just one of a half-dozen junior lawyers working for the Sixth District Attorney of Mississippi. Adams County and three other adjacent counties made up the Sixth District. A native of Adams County and the most experienced of the DA's prosecutors, Boyd was Assistant District Attorney responsible for all prosecutions in Adams County. "I want my own investigators involved in this one," said Boyd. "People I can trust." Wilkerson snorted and spat a wad of tobacco juice at Boyd's feet. His three hundred dollar loafers nearly ruined by thirty-five cent chaw. "I don't think I like your tone, son." "Too goddamn bad, sheriff." Boyd thrust a finger towards Wilkerson. "For weeks y'all been getting reports from negroes in the county about threats of violence and you just sat on your asses. As soon as I get back to the DA's office, I will request state and federal assistance on this one." Wilkerson's already ruddy face went even redder, a shade of beet red mixed with purple. He slapped Boyd's finger away with his pudgy hand and pushed his face up into Boyd's personal space. Boyd could smell the tobacco on Wilkerson's breath and felt spittle hit his chin as the sheriff hissed his warning. "You goddamn Raffertys are all the same! Just because your granddaddy made all that money, you think you're better than the rest of the county, you think you can talk to anyone like you damn well please. You ain't gonna talk to me like that." "Sheriff." Wilkerson stepped back just as Boyd was preparing to swing his balled fist into the sheriff's face. Instead, he took a deep breath and watched the fat man amble away in the wake of his deputy. Boyd followed after them to see what was going on. The crowd on the other side of the crime scene tape parted as two young men carried an unconscious elderly woman towards the tape. "We need an ambulance," one of them shouted. "Mrs. Tillman done fainted." "Y'all gonna have to get a car for her," Wilkerson told the crowd. "We can't put her in an ambulance. Adams county ain't got any for coloreds." An angry murmur went through the crowd. The last thing these people needed to be reminded of was segregation and how the people that were supposed to protect them had no place for them. "Here," Boyd said as he tossed his keys to the deputy beside Wilkerson. "Take my car. If the county government won't provide for, then I'll help." Wilkerson looked long and hard at Boyd before spitting on the ground. Slowly, two deputies helped the young men carry the old lady through the crowd to Boyd's car. The angry murmur seemed to grow. Boyd heard more shouts and yells and protest before-- "We don't need to be here," someone from the crowd yelled. The people seemed to stir and give a wide berth to someone in the center. Boyd stood on his tip toes and saw a man he recognized standing in the middle, his arms up and speaking loudly. James Calhoun, that was his name. Boyd had never met the man, but he remembered him from the protest at the courthouse a few months ago. "All we're seeing here is a reminder of how powerless we are. It does nothing but makes us angry, which we have every right to be. Six people are dead, four of them children. And who speaks for them? Look around and see who all is here besides us. You got the sheriff, Mr. Rafferty, and a few deputies and that's it. If this were a white family, not even a rich one like Mr Rafferty's family, the sheriff's department would be all over this place like a fly on a cow pie. Will Johnson was a good man, but I'm afraid he and his family will not get their justice. That's why we need to leave, because if we stay here we realize the truth. Justice does not exist for our kind. In Mississippi, justice is for white people." The crowd let out claps and amens at Calhoun's words. "We need to all pray, not for Will and Shelby and the children, because I rightfully believe they're in a better place. I rightfully believe that they are in heaven, at the side of a God who loves everyone regardless of the color of their skin. No, we need to pray for Sheriff Wilkerson and Mr. Rafferty and all the other white people of Adams County that decide who gets justice and who doesn't. Because we've seen this here before many times, and we know the end result. We know justice will not visit those who committed this heinous act. So pray, pray that God touches their hearts and shows them the light." The crowd whooped and let out more amens. Boyd caught Calhoun's eye. Calhoun stared straight ahead at him, seemingly looking through him. In these parts, that was the most condemning stare a negro could give and get away with. Boyd couldn't look at him and instead stared down at his feet. He felt ridiculous in his three hundred dollar loafers and five hundred dollar suit. Calhoun was right. Despite his money and his Ivy League education, Boyd was part of the system whose inaction silently condoned atrocities like what happened to the Johnson family. Sheriff Wilkerson spat another glob of brown liquid towards the cheering and chanting crowd. Boyd saw hate in the man's flushed face. He knew he made the right decision by asking for the help of state and federal agents. Wilkerson would never seriously investigate this case. He'd already made his mind up that justice would not be given to the Johnson family. "Hey, sheriff," Boyd said as he walked over. The fat man turned his head just in time to catch Boyd's left hook square in the jaw. Spit and blood and tobacco juice went flying into the air as Wilkerson crumpled to the ground like a leaf. He muttered something and stared up at Boyd with wide eyes and a crazed look on his face. "I can talk to you any goddamn way I please," Boyd adjusted his cufflinks and spoke softly. "I'm a Rafferty. I can buy and sell your cracker ass a hundred times over if I want. You work for the people of Adams County and you work for me. Don't forget that. If I find out you're obstructing this case or impeding its progress in any way, I will use all my wealth and influence to have you run out of office and run out of this county." Wilkerson held on to his swollen jaw as he spoke. "You son of a bitch. I'll kill you for this." "Try me," Boyd said as he stepped over him. "And I'm taking your car, sheriff. I need a ride back into town since those boys took that old colored lady in my car. You can catch a ride with one of your deputies."