Johnson, a small, gray-haired man in his fifties who seems entirely

comfortable being the first black judge in the Delta, shrugs.

“I would imagine Mr. Butterfield has whatever information there is available on the whereabouts of each worker in his file, which he is obligated to turn over to you. Since I have been judge in this district, I have observed that it is his practice to make his file available to the defense without a motion having to be filed. Do you anticipate problems in this regard?”

“Well, I don’t know, your honor …” Dick begins, but the judge cuts him off.

“If you have problems locating witnesses, then you may file a motion closer to trial, but I warn you that I will not grant a continuance unless counsel has shown appropriate diligence and has shown he has complied with the criminal rules of procedure.” He consults his calendar, sets what is known as an omnibus hearing for April 4 to hear any motions that may be pending at that time, and abruptly calls the next case.

As Dick and I walk out of the courtroom, which has all the charm of a bus station with its lime green seats, it is hard not to wonder if we were being picked on because we are white.

There is no reason to schedule a trial with so many witnesses this quickly. I whisper to Dick, “Did you know he was going to be like this?”

Dick doesn’t reply until we are out of the courthouse.

When we are coming down the steps, he mutters, “He and Butterfield are

old friends from Helena. Whatever he can do for him, he will. In civil cases he’s reasonable most of the time. But if Butterfield ever makes it big in politics, which could easily happen now with all the whites pulling out, Johnson’s chances of making it to the federal judiciary go way up. This area of the state has always been neglected when it comes to receiving our fair share of judgeships.”