I drive to the courthouse in Bear Creek and find the sheriff’s office on the first floor. I want to pay a courtesy call on him before I go see the prosecuting attorney. If I do my job right on this case, the sheriff’s job in this case is just beginning. As I walk into the building, I realize I haven’t been here since I was a teenager and signed up for the draft. With the Vietnam War on, a heart murmur, which has never given me a moment’s problem, probably saved my life. As I push open the door, I wonder why this case didn’t make this morning’s edition of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. I can understand that the arrest of a black plant-worker in the rural Delta for the murder of a Chinese businessman would spark no great interest by the media, but Paul’s arrest should be big news. At least it would have been twenty years ago. Maybe he isn’t as rich as I thought.

I open the door and am greeted by a young black secretary behind a desk and a typewriter.

“You lookin’ for Sheriff Bonner? He just called and said he’s on the way.”

She has an old-fashioned bushy ‘fro that I haven’t seen in twenty years. Maybe eighteen at the most, she has an infectious smile that draws a smile from me. The last time I was in this building the only black face was behind a broom.

“May I have a seat and wait for him?” I ask.

“You sure can,” she says brightly.

“Would you care for some coffee?”

I take off my overcoat and sit down across from her. I’ve drunk enough coffee today to float a battleship, but one more cup won’t hurt.

“With just a little milk or whitener in it,” I say, pleased by the courtesy shown me. Could the sheriff be a black man? I realize I’ve got to find out what the hell has been going on for the last thirty years over here before I go too much further on this case.

“You must be a lawyer, but not from around here,” my hostess says, pouring my coffee into a mug that has a replica of the design of the Pyramid office building and sports arena in Memphis.