The Real Macaw: A Meg Langslow Mystery

supply of the kind of stoic, long-suffering innocent clients that he had been looking forward to defending. After a period of intense soul-searching he’d switched to a civil practice. He now specialized in, as he put it, “helping Davids fell Goliaths”—the Goliaths in question being usually corporations and governments.
    Juries loved him, and rumor had it that during negotiations, more than one opposing legal team had hastily settled after Festus shook his head sadly and uttered, in the mildest of tones, the fateful words, “Well, gentlemen, I do believe we will be obliged to settle this in a court of law.”
    He was standing to the left of the temporary stage, with his left thumb tucked in his vest pocket, sipping a cup of New Life Baptist coffee and surveying the crowd with great satisfaction.
    Part of his satisfaction probably came from the fact that there were two television crews taking crowd footage. The one from the college TV station was no surprise—most of the students who ran it came from Michael’s drama classes. But the crew from one of the Richmond stations—now that was an achievement. I wondered if Festus or Caroline had arranged it, or if news was slow enough in the big city that what passed for a crime wave in Caerphilly had caught their attention.
    And I could tell from Festus’s expression that he liked what the TV cameras were capturing. If they panned across the crowd they’d be showing everything from New Life choir matrons in their Sunday best hats and dresses to farmers in overalls; from county board members in well-worn suits to faculty members in corduroy jackets with elbow patches. And all of them at least temporarily in perfect harmony with each other, united by their outrage against the Pruitts and buoyed by the excitement of the meeting.
    About the only people who didn’t seem terribly thrilled to be here were those few county board members. Clearly they’d have some explaining to do, eventually. They’d probably claim that the mayor had pulled the wool over their eyes, and they’d probably be telling the truth.
    Timmy was sitting with a group of kids from his kindergarten class. Their teacher was pointing to various people in the room and talking to her charges. Using the town meeting as a teaching moment, no doubt. I moved a little closer so I could overhear.
    “No, the town can’t just fire the mayor,” she was saying, “because the town voters elected him. But if enough voters are unhappy and sign a petition, we can unelect him.”
    “Can I sign?” one kindergartener asked, raising his hand. Half a dozen others also began waving their hands to volunteer. I left her to break the news of their disenfranchisement to the eager little citizens.
    It was a few minutes after seven when Caroline Willner stepped to the podium and adjusted the microphone down to where she could reach it. She had a large tortoiseshell cat draped over one shoulder. I doubted live cats would really catch on as fashion accessories, but I predicted that the tortoiseshell would not go unadopted. Several people were pointing at him, and I overheard several variations on “Isn’t he sweet!”
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” Caroline said.
    The crowd began shushing each other, and settled down in a remarkably short time.
    “I’ve been asked to chair this meeting.” Scattered applause greeted these words. “Although I’m deeply concerned with the fate of Caerphilly, I’m not actually a resident, so I probably have as good a chance as anyone at being impartial.”
    Murmurs of approval from the crowd. I couldn’t help thinking what a smart choice she was. Of the Corsicans who had the confidence to tackle chairing a meeting, she was certainly the best choice. Dad would have been too gentle with the crowd and Grandfather too brusque.
    “Before we get started,” she said. “I’d like to ask Reverend Wilson from the New Life Baptist Church to start off tonight’s proceedings with a blessing. Reverend?”
    The reverend, a slightly hunched elderly man with close-cropped white hair and skin like polished mahogany, stepped briskly to the podium. A few people shifted uneasily. No one had ever called any of the reverend’s sermons boring, but then no one had ever called any of them short, either.
    They needn’t have worried. The reverend was a man who knew how to read a crowd.
    “Lord,” he said. “We ask your blessing on this gathering.”
    A few amens rang out from various parts of the barn.