Voss susurró cerca de mi oído, saboreando su crueldad.
“¿Crees que eres listo? En mi ciudad, nadie te oye gritar. Y nadie viene a salvarte”.
He pushed me through the glass doors toward his running patrol car. A young deputy followed, awkwardly carrying my purse.
My government phone vibrated inside it with an urgent alert.
The message came from my district’s Chief Judge.
Voss creía que había avergonzado a otro extraño indefenso. Nunca imaginó a quién había arrestado; su problema en la estación apenas había comenzado.
My reason for eating in Pell County that Tuesday matters: federal judges do not visit small Georgia towns seeking confrontation.
I am no investigator. Judges rule on cases brought before them; pursuing cases ourselves would be improper.
Yet my family roots lie in Pell County.
My maternal aunt Lorraine Bishop, seventy-six, lives on eleven acres off Old Mill Road, three miles from Halvorsen Springs. After thirty-four years teaching third grade at Pell County Elementary, she still sends me local newspaper clippings, as she has since I attended law school. Each bears a sticky note in her looping handwriting: “Thought you’d want to see this, baby.”
