Sharyn Mccrumb_Elizabeth MacPherson_07 by MacPherson's Lament

was, though of course it’s all built over now. There is a historical marker.”
    Huff stared at him. “Did you say
train
wreck?”
    â€œYes. The wreck of the old 97. It’s a folk song. Johnny Cash recorded it a good while back. Isn’t that how you heard of Danville?” Bill hummed a few bars of the song. “ ‘It’s a mighty rough road from Lynchburg to Danville, And a line on a three-mile grade.’ That’s us.”
    Nathan Kimball fought back giggles as he tried to picture Mr. Huff as a fan of country music while that austere gentleman himself seemed to be choking on unspoken comments. Their native guide, happily oblivious to the visitors’ reactions, prattled on about Dan River textiles and pit-cooked barbecue. “And we do have one local celebrity. Have you ever heard of Wendell Scott?”
    For the first time Huff looked interested. “General Winfield Scott of the Mexican War? I didn’t know he—”
    â€œNo, sir, not him. Wendell Scott, the stockcar racer. Richard Pryor played him in a movie called
Greased Lightning.
He was from right around here, but I think they shot the film somewhere else. They usually do.”
    â€œWe’d very much like to see the city,” said John Huff in tones of strangled politeness.
    â€œOf course, if you’re thinking of moving here, you probably have a lot of practical questions about the area,” said Bill. “What sort of business are you in, sir?”
    â€œI am an investor, but American history is something of an avocation for me. I understand this house we’ll be looking at has some historic significance.”
    â€œYes sir. It dates back to the 1840s, and as you know, it has been used as the Home for Confederate Women since the turn of the century.”
    â€œMay I know to whom it belonged before that time?” asked Mr. Huff. “Was it by any chance a Colonel W. T. Sutherlin?”
    â€œNo,” said Bill, looking surprised. “According to the information on the deed, the house was owned by a Mr. Phillips.”
    John Huff smiled. “Even better!” he declared, and strode off toward the parking lot, leaving the two attorneys scrambling after him to wonder why he had suddenly seemed so pleased.
    Â Â Â A. P. Hill had never looked forward to a date with anything like the eagerness with which sheanticipated her twenty-minute interview with Tug Mosier. She felt a shiver of excitement at the prospect of defending someone against the most serious of charges: first-degree homicide.
    She would have to keep reminding her mother that Tug Mosier was technically innocent until a jury said otherwise, because the word from southwest Virginia was that the Hill family did not think much of the idea of their little Amy associating with the likes of the defendant. In her excitement over her first major case, Powell had phoned home with the news, only to learn that murder cases did not fall under the heading of a godsend in her parents’ estimation. There was even talk of having Cousin Stinky look into the matter, which Powell Hill definitely did not want, because Stinky knew so many good old boys in legal circles that he could probably get her taken off the case (“in the best interests of the accused”) in a New York minute.
    The powers-that-be would be delighted to replace her with a Silverback, and they’d probably think they were doing Tug Mosier a favor. In fact, she had already had a similar conversation with the courthouse Silverback, and he had allowed her to keep the case, but his misgivings in the matter were evident. He had advised Powell Hill to plea-bargain, and to avoid a trial at all costs. That wasn’t a decision she felt she could make yet, but one thing was certain:she had better do a good job on this case. Her immediate future was riding on it.
    A. P. Hill’s client was hunched in a wooden chair, awaiting their conference without