that his newspaper had used during the coverage of their killing. The same computer-stored photos had run in this morning’s edition.
“I know it might sound kind of, you know, sick,” she said, bringing his attention back to her eyes. “But there is something about the tragedies of others, Mr. Mullins, that helps remind me that I am not the only one suffering.”
Nick nodded his head.
“I am sorry about your children, Ms. Cotton,” he said, motioning slightly to the photos behind her with his eyes.
“You were very kind to us in your stories, Mr. Mullins. There was a word my minister used for it, I forget …” She closed her eyes for a moment, searching. “Compassion. That was it. He said your writing had compassion in it.”
Again, all Nick could do was nod. He noted the diction in her conversation. A poor black woman, but one who was educated, maybe even well read. She went out of her way to choose her words in the presence of someone like Nick, only letting an occasional slip of slang enter her sentences. It was perhaps an unconscious habit she fell into when she wanted her listener to be comfortable. Nick did the same thing when he was with southerners, slipping into a minor drawl that did not belong to him. His daughters always noticed and would tell him later that he had embarrassed them. He shook off the recollection and reached into his back pocket. He took out the notebook and drew a pen from his shirt, a signal that he was here to work.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Cotton. I don’t want to sound simple here, but in your position, these years later, I was calling to find out what your reaction to Mr. Ferris’s death might be.”
The woman went quiet for several moments, but Nick had learned long ago not to give up on any interviewees other than politicians when he could see in their eyes that they were forming an answer to his questions, testing a reply in their mind.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mullins,” she finally said. “I guess I wanted to say relief, or maybe some kind of feel of justice. But I can’t say I have that. I have long given judgment up to the Lord Himself, and that man is meeting his Maker this very morning on his own terms,” she said with a certainty that Nick was always befuddled by with people of faith.
“No, sir, I would have to tell you, Mr. Mullins, that I don’t believe that any kind of vision of Mr. Ferris has entered my mind for some time. I believe he was already gone in my mind.”
“But you still wanted to see me,” Nick said. “Is there something that you wanted to say about the shooting?”
“Only that I was bothered by some things in the newspapers, not yours, of course, that said maybe I or my people might have done something to get revenge for my girls.”
“OK,” Nick said, without taking his eyes off hers.
“And we did not do anything. I did not,” she said, bringing the strength back into her voice that had been there during Ferris’s trial.
Nick nodded and wrote on the pad, a nonsensical squiggle that the woman could not see, just to make her know she was being heard.
“Revenge is not in my blood, or my family’s blood, Mr. Mullins,” she said. “And I cannot think of anyone I know who would have been wanting to kill Mr. Ferris.”
“I think the detectives will have to look at any and all possibilities, Ms. Cotton,” Nick said. “I would think that’s why they want to interview you, ma’am, not because of anything that was put into the newspaper.”
He stopped. Wondering why he was defending himself.
“But since I am here, has anyone contacted you, Ms. Cotton? Anyone, say, on the phone? Or anonymously written you, someone who might have sounded like they were doing this on your behalf? You know, like taking action because they felt you deserved closure or something?”
Nick hated even using the word. There was no such thing. Closure. It was a buzzword someone came up with and then it spread like kudzu into the vernacular.
“No, sir,” she said, then hesitated, not speaking as she held up the fingers of her right hand, as though stopping time.
“Mr. Dempsey did give me a whole bunch of letters after the trial from folks sending me sympathy,” she said after gathering her memories. “Sometimes he still does. I put them all in a box,