a call from the grounds crew, saying a group of hooligans were partying out here.”
Mrs. Brown raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like a hooligan to you, sir?”
“No, ma’am,” the officer replied. “You don’t. But you are nonetheless trespassing on private property.”
“I am Mrs. Septima Brown.” She pulled herself to her full height, which must have been close to six feet tall. “This is my school, young man. I’m no trespasser.”
The policeman turned to the officer behind him. “Radio Joe at City and see who this house belongs to.”
I think everything would have been fine if Sarah hadn’t suddenly rushed out on the porch, pulled Mrs. Brown into the house, slammed the front door shut, and locked it.
“We’ll come out when we’re finished what we’re doing!” she yelled through the closed door. “And not one second before!”
When my mom hears this, she shakes her head in disbelief. “Sarah? Sarah slammed the door on the police?”
“Well, Mrs. Brown made her open it back up. But the officer was so mad, he arrested us.”
“And put you in jail? That’s what I don’t understand.”
“He said we were resisting arrest.”
“Were you?”
I shake my head. “But he was pretty mad at that point. As you might imagine.”
Sergeant Treadway taps on the open door to let us know he’s back. “You ladies doing okay in here?”
We both nod, but my mom shoots me a fast look that says, We aren’t done yet, missy.
“Well, I believe your friend, Mr. Monroe, has gotten the story all straightened out for us, and Officer Rose admits that he may have overreacted after having the door slammed in his face. No charges will be pressed, and you ladies are free to go. That leaves us with just one problem.”
“What’s that, Sergeant?” my mom asks in her polite but tough former journalist voice.
“Well, Mrs. Brown seems disinclined to leave her jail cell. Says it’s about time she did her time.”
My mom stands and picks up her purse from the sergeant’s desk. “Would you like us to talk to her, Sergeant Treadway?”
Sergeant Treadway looks relieved. “Would you mind? There’s a concert at the university tonight, some big rock show at the Dome, which means the drunks are going to be piling up. We’re really going to need that cell space come around eleven p.m.”
Mrs. Brown is sitting on the bed in her cell, her purse in her lap. She is smiling. “Oh, good, I was hoping you might stop by! I wanted to let you know that I’m spending the night and you’re not to bail me out. Please don’t even consider it.”
“But Mrs. Brown,” I protest, “you’re not under arrest. You’re free to go.”
“If I refuse to go, they’ll have to arrest me for that,” she says. “One way or another I’m staying. In honor of Harlan. And Martin and Medgar and Fannie Lou Hamer.” She looks at me. “Do you know who Fannie Lou Hamer was?”
I shake my head. But my mom says, “Mrs. Hamer testified in front of Congress in 1963 about how she was treated in jail in Mississippi. She was a leader of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and was a hero of the civil rights movement.”
I stare at her.
Mrs. Brown laughs and claps her hands. “Exactly right! Now, why doesn’t everybody know that?” She leans toward us and whispers, “I’m thinking about starting another school.”
“To teach literacy?” I ask.
“No, to teach children who Fannie Lou Hamer was. That’s what I shall think about tonight as I sit here in my cell.”
“May we bail you out in the morning?” my mother asks.
“Certainly, my dear.” Mrs. Brown smiles. “I would appreciate it.”
She begins to hum, and the strains of “Go Down, Moses” follow us down the hallway.
Emma and Sarah are standing with their parents outside the police station. Monster is over by the curb, talking on his cell phone. He waves when he sees me and my mom walking down the front steps.
“So this is the famous Monster,” my mom whispers. “He’s cute, in a gigantic sort of way.”
Then she turns to the Lymans. “Henry, Ella, fancy meeting you here!”
Mr. and Mrs. Lyman dissolve into a puddle of apologies. “We don’t know how—You know Emma, she’s always been—I have no idea what came over Sarah—We just couldn’t be more—”
My mom waves off their ditherings. “I think it’s wonderful, the girls’ interest in the Freedom School. Maybe they got a little carried away, sure, but I love that they’re passionate about something important.”
Sarah beams at my mom. Emma winks at