By Benjamin Shapiro
The shirt stuck to Sheriff Jack Brody’s body like a child to vinyl car seats. He looked at the temperature only to see that his thermostat was broken, stuck in the triple digits. He swiped his forearm across his brow to keep the salty droplets of sweat out of his eyes. Looking at his holster hanging on the wall, he realized it was too hot for justice. Perhaps he would sit in the shade of the courthouse and take shots at rabid dogs. Maybe he could go into the church catacombs and investigate the rumors of a haunting. Or, he could always visit his mother in her crumbling plantation, grown thick with vines. He hated to do so, for she had taken to drinking since the servants quit.
No; chances were he would go over to the diner where the lone waitress made him feel strangely unwelcome as the preacher-man leered towards her; as if they wanted privacy, even in that public place. He buried his feelings like this town he kept the law in buried its secrets and its racial divide. Putting on his hat, he ventured out the door into the hot sunlight of Alabama.