No Defense - Prologue Continued

Members of my own family-my mother, Gladys, my sister, Jane, and her husband, Buck, as well as my husband Eddie-sat just one row back from that group.

As far as I could tell, the rest of that section was filled with reporters, many of whom I could now identify by name. Ben Gainey, from the Washington Star, was there, of course. This was, after all, his news story, his coup, the kind of story young reporters dream about. Since reopening the fifteen-year-old unsolved civil rights murders and marshaling piece by piece the evidence that ultimately led to my father's indictment, Ben Gainey had ascended to the now familiar role of reporter as hero.

It was not enough that Ben had rooted around in the past that had been buried with our town's infamous crime and come up with my father. Far worse-as more than a few news articles had pointed out-was that my relationship with Ben, my involvement in his work, and my participation in his investigation had been critical to his success.

And so I suffered under the unbearable weight of my own guilt as I approached the defense table, kissed my father good morning, and wished him good luck. Ever calm and cool, he reached for and patted my trembling hand. The sharp contrast between his composure and my distress suggested I was the one on trial here, not him.

I sat down in the first row of seats behind the railing separating my father and his lawyer from the crowd.

A few people reached over the back of the pewlike bench and patted my shoulder, offering comfort.

Someone behind me whispered, "We're with you, LuAnn. Don't worry, hon."

I turned around and forced a small smile. Members of the sheriff's department, the mayor's office, and our many other champions and friends filled the rows on the defense side of the courtroom.

To my disgust, Lucas Terry, the imperial wizard of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and some of his deputies sat in the back row. At Terry's wave, I felt my face redden and I quickly turned away.