I’d left Boston three days ago, just two weeks shy of my twenty-fourth birthday. My family had high hopes for 1961. John F. Kennedy was president, a black man, Floyd Patterson was heavyweight champion and the cold war was thawing.

    But for me, a musician with a pretty good singing voice, and a flair for writing blues songs it was a time of frustration. Elvis had made another dreary movie, Little Richard was a minister, Buddy Holly was dead and I had grown tired of playing my music in local bars and getting little recognition.

    My plan to drive to New Orleans and try to find a more receptive audience had met little resistance from my family. My parents were too busy fighting to pay much attention to me. As an only child I’d always taken care of myself anyway and at a young age I’d learned the best way to make friends was with my guitar.

    As I headed south with my Gibson guitar in the back seat of my ‘54 Ford I was full of confidence. I didn't have much money, but figured I could play some gigs along the way to make enough to get to the Gulf coast. I was Jack Kerouac making my way across country. Didn’t all the great blues singers create their own breaks?

    Two days into my trip I was driving a two-lane highway through the Georgia mountains when I spotted a town in the distance. It was nestled in a gentle bend of the Wilmington River and surrounded by rolling hills. The main street seemed like something out of "Gunsmoke."

    Old farmhouses dotted the valley, cows grazed and a pair of horses moved toward one another. The scene transported me back to an earlier time and I could imagine Muddy Waters walking the streets with a guitar strapped over his shoulder.

    My first mistake was stopping for lunch at Jake’s Roadside Café. Jake’s was a windowless honky-tonk, dimly lit, and decorated with cartoon images of deer, moose and cattle. From a tinny speaker behind the bar Hank Williams crooned, "Your Cheatin’ Heart." The place was nearly empty, but at the far end of the football field sized room was a stage.

    The bartender was built like a fireplug - two hundred and fifty pounds at least. The buttons of his denim shirt struggled to stay together and a package of Raleigh cigarettes peeked out of the pocket.

    "What’ll it be?" He grunted

    "A Budweiser will do for a start. Are you Jake?"

    He reached into a cooler, pulled out a bottle and popped the cap. "That’s what my wife calls me on a good day."

    When he slid the beer in front of me I nodded toward the speaker, "I do Hank Williams."

    He grabbed a cloth and swiped at the bar. "You and every drunk that comes in here."

    I took a gulp of beer. "I’m different. I got a recording contract and I’m heading down to New Orleans to cut a record." I held out my hand hoping the lie didn’t show on my face. "Bob Chambers. In about six months you'll be hearing a lot of that name."

    "Recording contract, huh?"

    I nodded "I’m thinking of staying in town for a few days. You need some music? You’d be able to say I once played in your club."

    His wattley neck shook as he laughed. "Club? I ain’t never heard this place referred to as a club." He narrowed his eyes. "But, hey, I’ll take a chance. I couldn’t pay you more’n five dollars, but I’ll throw in sandwiches. The heckling drunks are free, too."    

    I did a fast calculation in my head. Without more money my trip to New Orleans might just end in Wilson Springs, Georgia. But hell, John Lee Hooker played in worse places than this and got discovered.

    Jake’s big hands enveloped my delicate fingers as we shook.

    The first night I played was like so many nights around Boston. Bartender’s clinked their bottles, waitresses whisked beers on and off tables, the cash register clanked and the two dozen or so people in attendance gabbed. No one paid much attention to the skinny kid on the stage with the guitar.

    Except the woman who sat alone at a table in front and seemed mesmerized.

    She was round, tan and sultry with the guarded look of Cajun in her eyes. Her features were hard, but there was something fragile about her. A bruise on her cheek had yellowed and between sets as we talked she nervously fingered it. When I sang she never took her eyes off me.

    The second night she sat at the same table. When I finished my final set she followed me out to the car. I put my Gibson in the back seat and turned to face her.

    The air was a mixture of the aromas of hardwood forest, creek water, wildflowers and baking earth. It was an unusual smell to a city boy, but what bothered me most was the look of anticipation on the woman’s face.

    "I’m a damn good dancer," she said doing a slow twirl. "But, who cares in this small town. Now New Orleans would be a different story. I could be discovered there. We could become stars together. You with a recording contract and all."

    I smiled for an instant, recognizing the same hunger in her that I had. Maybe that was the attraction. "Don’t you have family here?"

    She shook her head. "My folks died when I was little. I live with my Aunt, but she hates having me around. Only job I have is doin’ little things for people that are old or sick BB pick up their groceries, clean their houses, things like that. I make a few bucks, but there’s got to be more to life. I'm twenty-two. That's old enough to be heading out on my own. When are you leaving for The Big Easy?"

    "As soon as I have enough money. Look, I don’t have a recording contract. That’s just a story I told Jake so he’d give me a job."

    She moved closer. "But you’re a good singer and nice looking, too." She rubbed her fingers along my cheek. "Take me."

    I felt a tingle run through my body.

    A car screeched to a stop. A man got out of a ‘59 white Cadillac, glared at us, than walked quickly in our direction. He was in his early thirties, wearing worn jeans, a plaid denim work shirt and scuffed cowboy boots. He had the soft broad shouldered physique of an out of shape athlete.

    "Randy Sue," he said. "What’re you doing out here with him?"

    "Bob’s thinking of taking me to New Orleans."

    The man’s eyes narrowed. "You like stealin’ other men’s women?"

    When I didn’t answer he grabbed Randy Sue’s hand and tugged her toward him.

    "You’re hurtin’ me, Jerry."

    The last thing I needed was to get in the middle of a lover’s quarrel, but Randy Sue’s hurt expression reminded me of the look on my mother’s face when my father would come home drunk and start pushing her around.

    "Leave her alone," I said.

    The snap of the switchblade was quick and sudden. Jerry’s puffed face was crimson, his eyes froglike. He waved the knife in the air and moved toward me.

    My hand clenched like it had a mind of its own and the next thing I knew I hit him solidly in the face. He wobbled a little, but moved forward the knife still slicing the air. I hit him again, this time harder. He did a slow pirouette like the hippo from Fantasia. Blood gushed from his nose. He shut his eyes and put his hand to his face. Then he tugged Randy Sue's hand and yanked her close. "You caused this." With the side of his hand he slapped her.

    She tried to pull away. Tears streamed down her cheeks

    My vision blurred from anger and I lunged forward. Two swift punches connected with his chin and one with his stomach. He slumped down on one knee, still clutching the knife. I kicked it out of his hand. Then I hit him again and he toppled to the ground.

    He struggled to get up. Randy Sue moved away from him. I moistened my lips and rhythmically tightened, then loosened my fists hoping I didn’t injure my guitar playing hand. Jerry hadn’t touched me, but the tension and strain I felt seemed like I had gone ten rounds with a heavyweight.

    "You’ll pay," he muttered trying to get back on his feet. Then he slumped to the ground.

    "You better get out of here," Randy Sue said.

    "Come on. I’ll drive you home."

    "No." I could hear fear in her voice. "When Jerry’s father finds out about this he's gonna send some goons after you."

    I reached out my hand. "I can handle myself," I said with more conviction than I felt.

    "You don't understand. Old man Gordon owns this town and most of the men in it work for him down at the sawmill. Believe me, people will be gunning for you ‘cause of what you did to his son. You better leave before word spreads."

    "Come with me."

    "No. It’d just make things worse. I'll take care of Jerry." The bar door opened and two men came out. They stared in our direction. Randy Sue pushed me toward the car. "Go."

    I took one last look at Jerry who was still struggling to get up and then drove my Chevy back to the motel outside of town where I was staying. I only had seven dollars to my name, but in the morning I’d head out and not stop until I crossed the state line.

    A few minutes later a car door slammed in front of my unit and someone pounded on the door. "Sheriff," a loud voice said. "You can either open up or my men will break in."

    I opened the door.

    The Sheriff was a thick-necked moose of a man. His hand rested on his holstered gun. Two other men were off to the side, guns drawn.

    I held my hands up. "I didn’t want to get involved, Sheriff, but he hit Randy Sue. He deserved it."

    The sheriff took out his handcuffs, spun me around and snapped them on. "No one deserves to die, son."

    "Dead?" I could hear my voice shaking. "That’s not possible. He was still alive when I left."

    It took about twenty minutes for the sheriff to book me at the station. I felt oddly detached like I was watching a movie and when the words, "The End" came on the screen I’d walk out into the cool night air.

    The clanging of the cell door locking shook me out of my malaise. The room was ten by ten with a lidless commode in the corner and a rotting bench running along one wall. "Don’t I have the right to a phone call?"

    "You’ll have a lawyer in the morning," the sheriff said. "Tell all of your concerns to him."

    Hours passed. The silence of the night was like a stopped guitar. Laughter out on the street broke the stillness. I got up and gripped the cold steel bars with my fingers. As a kid the worst thing I’d ever done was steal a pack of chewing gum from the corner store. I needed to call my family. They’d get a lawyer out here and prove what really happened. But in the pit of my stomach I was scared. Wilson Springs, Georgia didn’t seem like a town that abided by the Constitution.

    It was approaching noon when the cell door opened and a man walked in. In his hand was my Gibson guitar. "Thought you might like this," he said resting it against the wall. "Hamilton Coltrane, your lawyer." He extended his hand. "The sheriff called me cause he knows the Gordons don’t scare me none."

    Coltrane was tall and lanky and appeared in his early sixties. In his work shirt and jeans he seemed more like a farmer than a lawyer.

    "You’ve got to get me out of here"

    "No chance of that. The judge won’t be in this part of the county for a few days. The trial will be quick and you’ll be found guilty by a jury of your peers because no one wants to do anything to alienate the Gordons. There are a lot of jobs at stake. The best I can do is keep them from giving you the death penalty."

    "Jesus."

    "A dozen witnesses claim you hit him for no reason."

    "They’re lying."

    "Doesn’t matter. They’ll swear to it in court."

    "Talk to Randy Sue. She’ll tell you the truth."

    "I saw her this morning. She had a few more bruises. I imagine she’ll say what the family tells her to say. Terrence Kimball is the family lawyer. He’s about the best in the state and won’t be satisfied unless they give you the chair."

    I shut my eyes for an instant. "So why are you bothering with me?"

    "I’ve lived in this town all my life. Don’t like what's being done to the trees and the river by the Gordons. Don’t like how his family treats people, neither. Jerry’s the worst. Always pushing folks around, taking what he wants from stores without paying and pulling that switchblade of his if someone looks at him the wrong way. The sheriff’s a good man and hates that family as much as I do, but he’s in over his head." He hesitated. "A man’s got to pick his spots. I don’t get many chances to spit in Gordon’s face. Defendin’ you is about as close as I’m going to get."

    I sighed. "I need to contact my folks."

    "I’ll handle that."

    I put my head back against the wall. "This is like a bad dream."

    "Oh, you’re awake, all right and your nightmare is just beginning." He opened the jail cell. "I’ll check on you tomorrow."

    I picked up my guitar and strummed a few chords. When I was tense and afraid I always got lost in my music. For the first time I understood the injustices that the early blues singers put up with.

    Laughter and loud talking sounded from the hallway. I stood up. Through a window I could see a portion of the sheriff’s office. I recognized the sheriff’s hat and then a face filled the opening, staring back at me. My heart double-thumped and a gasp escaped my lips.

    It was Jerry Gordon.

    He smiled for an instant and then his face disappeared. I don’t know what angered me more, the set-up that was being orchestrated against me or the fact that I hadn’t killed him when I had a chance. Were the Gordons so powerful that they could get me convicted for killing a man who was very much alive? All I knew was if I didn’t find a way to get out of this jail the Gordons would see to it I spent the rest of my life in prison.

    A few hours later the sheriff brought me something to eat. He unlocked the cell and put a tray of food on the floor.

    "I saw Jerry Gordon, Sheriff. When I tell Coltrane, he’ll get me out of here."

    The sheriff’s face reddened. "One thing I’ve learned over the years, son, is to never underestimate the power of the Gordons. Coltrane knows that, too. We just do what they tell us. No one survives in this town any other way."

    "I should have realized he was alive when Coltrane said Randy Sue had some new bruises. Did she argue with Jerry about what he planned to do?"

    "As far as this town is concerned, Jerry’s dead and you killed him."

    "What happens when people see he’s alive?"

    "Oh, he’ll disappear for a few months. Probably head out to one of the other properties the family owns down in Texas. Maybe if we’re lucky he’ll never come back."

    "How can you go along with this charade? Don’t you believe in justice?"

    "What I believe in, son, is keeping my town calm and prosperous. The Gordons are uppity rich folk who think they’re better than the rest of us. Sure, I’d like to see them taken down a peg. But, they own things here. If they pulled out we’d die. So, when they come up with a plan of vengeance on someone who beat up one of the family, I listen. The only one that’s going to get hurt in this deal is you. Weighing that against the whole town I think you’re expendable."

    "Someday it may be you or one of your family that they decide to get. What will you do then?"

    He didn’t respond.

    "A few hours ago I was afraid of what was going to happen at my trial. Now, I can’t wait to testify. I’ll make the judge see the truth."

    The sheriff took a long breath. "The Gordons aren’t fools. There won’t be a trial. The way I hear it, tomorrow about mid-day a group of workers from the sawmill who are angry about what you did are going to break into the jail, take you to the nearest tree and lynch you. I’ll try and stop them, but won’t be able to. Months from now, when the workers find out Jerry’s still alive it’ll be too late. They killed an innocent man and won’t want no trouble. Fact is, old man Gordon will give each of them a bonus."