Sycamore Row

burned a cross in our front yard. There was even an attempt to kill my husband. A man with a bomb was caught trying to blow up our house while we were asleep—his trial is still pending while he pretends to be insane. At one point, I fled Clanton with our four-year-old daughter to stay with my parents. My husband carried a gun, still does, and several of his friends acted as bodyguards. Finally, when he was at the office one night, during the trial, these people”—and she pointed at Dennis Yawkey—“torched our house with a gasoline bomb. Dennis Yawkey might not have been there in person, but he was a member of the gang, he was one of the thugs. Too cowardly to show his face, always hiding in the night. It is hard to believe that we are here, only twenty-seven months later, watching as this criminal tries to free himself from prison.”
    She took a deep breath and flipped a page. Beautiful women rarely appeared at parole hearings, which were 90 percent male anyway. Carla had their complete attention. She stiffened her back and continued: “Our home was built in the 1890s by a railroad man and his family. He died the first Christmas Eve in the house and his family owned it until it was finally abandoned twenty years ago. It was considered a historic home, though when we bought it there were holes in the floor and cracks in the roof. For three years, with every dime we could borrow, Jake and I poured our lives into that house. We would work all day and then paint until midnight. Our vacations were spent hanging wallpaper and staining floors. Jake bartered legal fees for plumbing work and landscaping and building supplies. His father added a guest room in the attic, and my father laid the brick on the rear patio. I couldgo on for hours, but time is scarce. Seven years ago, Jake and I brought our daughter home and put her in the nursery.” Her voice cracked slightly, but she swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “Luckily, she was not in the nursery when our home was destroyed. I’ve often wondered if these men would have cared. I doubt it. They were determined to do as much damage to us as possible.” Another pause and Jake put a hand on her shoulder. She continued, “Three years after the fire, we still think of all the things we lost, including our dog. We’re still trying to replace things that can never be replaced, still trying to explain to our daughter what happened, and why. She’s too young to understand. Often, I think we’re still in a state of disbelief. And I find it hard to believe that we’re here today, forced to relive this nightmare, like all victims, I guess, but here to stare at the criminal who tried to destroy our lives, and to ask you to enforce his punishment. A five-year sentence for Dennis Yawkey was much too light, too easy. Please, make him serve all of it.”
    She stepped to her right as Jake assumed the lectern. He glanced over at the Yawkey family and noticed that Ozzie and Prather were now standing near them, as if to say, “You want trouble, here it is.” Jake cleared his throat and said, “Carla and I thank the Parole Board for this opportunity to speak. I’ll be brief. Dennis Yawkey and his pathetic little band of thugs were successful in burning our home and seriously disrupting our lives, but they were not successful in harming us, as they had planned. Nor were they successful in achieving their bigger goal, which was to destroy the pursuit of justice. Because I represented Carl Lee Hailey, a black man who shot and killed the two white men who raped and tried to kill his daughter, they—Dennis Yawkey and his ilk and various known and unknown members of the Klan—tried repeatedly to intimidate and harm me, my family, my friends, even my employees. They failed miserably. Justice was served, fairly and wonderfully, when an all-white jury ruled in favor of my client. That jury also ruled against nasty little thugs like Dennis Yawkey and his notions of violent racism. That jury has spoken, loud and clear and forever. It would be a shame if this Parole Board gave Yawkey a slap on the wrist and sent him home. Frankly, he needs all the time here at Parchman you folks can possibly give him. Thank you.”
    Yawkey was staring at him with a smirk, still victorious over the firebombing and wanting more. His cockiness was not missed by several members of the Parole Board. Jake returned the stare, then backed away and escorted Carla back to their seats.
    “Sheriff Walls?” the