The judge settled on the open porch where a cool breeze relieved the day’s heat. Ragan handed the men bowls of blackberry cobbler with a generous portion of thick cream over the top. Leaning back, Procky stroked his pet. “These raids are getting more and more violent. Kitty could have been killed today. It’s nothing short of a miracle that someone hasn’t been shot during the raids. It’s time to call a town meeting.” He focused on Johnny. “Son, I’m curious. What would you do about this problem?” A muscle tightened in Johnny’s jaw. “It’s none of my concern.” Disappointment lined the judge’s features. “Any suggestion would be welcome at this point. I would assume you are not a stranger to the problem. You’d have a fresh outlook on it.” Pouring coffee, Ragan said softly, “Mr. McAllister, if you have any ideas—” “I don’t.” He didn’t know a thing about gangs, and he resented the inference that he did. He’d been convicted for a crime he didn’t commit.
