The Odds of Getting Even Read Online Free PDF Page A

her.”
    â€œDale!” Miss Lana said. “She’s from Charleston. Give her the benefit of the doubt.” Miss Lana always says give people the benefit of the doubt. The Colonel says give
yourself
the benefit of your doubts, which you get for a reason.
    â€œI’m going home to change,” Dale said, and gave Harm a shy smile. “Thanks for coming today, it means a lot to me. You too, Salamander.”
    Sal knocked over her milk.
    â€œCome on, Liz,” he called, heading for the door. “See you all at the courthouse.”

    An hour later only Lavender remained, polishing off a sandwich.
    The phone rang. “Café,” I said. “Hey, Miss Rose.”
    Dale’s mama kept it short and sweet.
    â€œWe’re on our way,” I told her, and hung up. “Your mama’s Pinto won’t start—again,” I told Lavender. “She needs us.”
    He sighed. He’s brought the Pinto back from the dead so many times, we call it Lazarus. “Thanks, Mo.”
    I grabbed my jacket. “Miss Lana,” I shouted, running for the door, “I’m riding with Lavender.”
    I scooped the last of Capers Dylan’s lost papers from the parking lot and hurled myself into the pickup. “What’s that?” Lavender asked.
    Good question. Tight, blue-inked handwriting crowded the page. A fine tan scribble of mysterious numbers and letters overlaid the words.
    â€œReporter notes?” I guessed, stuffing it into my bag. “I’ll give it to her later.”
    We took off for Miss Rose’s ailing Pinto—and Tupelo Landing’s Trial of the Century.

Chapter 4
    The Trial of the Century
    â€œAll rise,” the bailiff called, and Hanging Judge Wilkins swept into the courtroom wearing a scowl and a billowing shade of black. He climbed into his high desk and stood staring down at us, the light playing against the dark planes of his face.
    A tornado of butterflies whirled through my belly.
    Dale closed his eyes. “Don’t throw up, don’t throw up,” he whispered.
    I turned to scan the courtroom. Townsfolk had snagged the good seats. Strangers fringed the room. Capers Dylan sat among the Azalea Women. A knot of thin, chisel-faced men with blond hair—Dale’s uncles—lurked near the door.
    Johnson men show up for Trial Day. It’s a family tradition.
    Dale’s mama, Miss Rose, smoothed her new dress, and reached for Miss Lana’s hand.
    â€œThis court’s in session. Be seated,” the bailiff sang.
    Judge Wilkins flounced his robes and we all sat down.
    A side door squeaked open.
    Detective Joe Starr followed a short, balding man into the courtroom. The man shuffled like an evil penguin, his feet shackled, his hands chained in front.
    â€œSlate,” Dale whispered.
    Fear rose inside me like a swirl of dirty water.
    Dale gulped. “I ain’t seen him since we captured him. I guess he’s testifying against Daddy too.”
    â€œWhere
is
Mr. Macon?”
    â€œProbably changing clothes,” Dale whispered. “Nobody looks innocent in an orange jumpsuit.”
    â€œGood morning,” Judge Wilkins said, his voice booming like Judgment Day. “I understand our first defendant will enter a plea.”
    A plea?
    Dale’s mouth fell open. Capers peered around the courtroom, her face pale. Skeeter whispered from behind us: “No wonder I couldn’t get it set up for you to testify first, Mo. If Mr. Macon pleads guilty, nobody testifies. Including you two.”
    â€œThank you, Jesus,” Dale murmured.
    My eyes found the Colonel’s. He winked.
    The judge’s gaze raked the empty defendant’s chair. “Mr. Bailiff, if you could hurry Mr. Johnson along . . .”
    The bailiff bustled out.
    In the lull I turned and went into my UpstreamMother Scan, searching for anybody with my hair, my build, my eyes. Nothing.
    A muffled shout broke the