“Judge, thought you’d want this. Sometimes the most powerful thing in a room costs a dollar and a quarter. — R.C.”
People still wonder why I let Voss handcuff me and fracture my wrist rather than announce my identity and stop the arrest in five seconds.
I tell them what I told the jury.
The badge in my purse could have protected me. But it couldn’t have protected Hattie Greene, Rufus Tate, or Terrence Holloway’s daughter’s tuition money. It couldn’t have protected a nineteen-year-old waitress whose granddaddy lost his job at the poultry plant, or a young deputy who sat in his truck in the driveway every night because he couldn’t stand to go inside and face his mother.
The only thing that could protect them was the truth, written down, seen, and finally read by someone who would listen.
Dalton Voss told me nobody in his town would hear me scream.
