Suzanne Beecher

Dear Reader,

Years ago, book club reader Debbie sent me a lovely green four leaf clover apron and oven mitt. Debbie's from Kentucky, but the apron and oven mitt traveled all the way from Ireland. I love pulling them out of the drawer every March and celebrating St. Patrick's Day.

I've got my Irish apron on and I'm ready to cook some corned beef and cabbage or a tummy-warming Irish Stew, but I want to add to my St. Patrick's Day celebration and need some reader recipes. Would you please do me a favor? If you have a time-tested recipe you use to celebrate St. Patrick's Day would you send it to me? I sure would appreciate it.

Send your recipe to Suzanne@FirstLookBookClub.com

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@firstlookbookclub.com

P. S. This week we're giving away 10 copies of the book Worse Than A Lie: A Novel by Ben Crump. Click here to enter for your chance to win. 

PROLOGUE

September 1978

Houston, Texas

It was Friday, just before sunset, and most of the neighborhood kids were playing outside. But not Beau Lee Cooper—he had no time for play. His doting, no-nonsense mother, Ella Mae, liked to say he was born serious, moving through life with a preternatural sense of responsibility, as if on an urgent mission with little time to waste.

He sat in his bedroom at a small desk stacked with books, reading by the fading light that shone through the handmade window curtains. It was where his mother and siblings could usually find him. Next to the books was an issue of 'Jet' magazine with Thurgood Mar-shall on the cover, dated August 24, 1967—six days before Marshall was confirmed by the U.S. Senate in an overwhelming vote of 69–11, becoming the first Black Supreme Court justice. Beau Lee had taken it from the collection of magazines that his mother kept in stacks on a shelf in the living room. She had issues dating back decades and saw them as cultural encyclopedias—compendiums in which Black people were revered and celebrated.

Beau Lee first read the Thurgood Marshall issue of 'Jet' when he was six. That's when he became interested in legal matters—major cases and rulings that shaped the quality of life for all Americans. Justice Marshall was his hero and inspiration, and he coveted the magazine like it was a prized possession.

His brothers, Harris and Glendon, didn't share Beau Lee's interests. They preferred playing sports and had spent the entire afternoon with their friends at Emancipation Park. Soon, the streetlights would come on, and Ella Mae would call them in for dinner. Beau Lee's sis-ters, Jessie and Janice, had returned home hours ago. They knew to be back before the sun dipped low to the horizon so they could help their mother prepare dinner.

Beau Lee listened to catfish frying in a cast-iron skillet. The smell permeated the house.

"Beau Lee!" Ella Mae called from the kitchen. "Yes, Mama?"

"What are you doing up there?"

"Just reading," he said.

Moments later, she peered through his bedroom doorway. "What's that you're reading?"

He turned toward her, holding the book up so she could see: "'To ''Kill a Mockingbird.'"

"Uh-oh," she said, tilting her head. "You know how that book gets you worked up."

Ella Mae was not surprised that her baby had taken to books the way he had. If he was reading the Harper Lee classic, it usually meant he was upset about something. "Haven't you read that book at least twenty times?"

"Thirty," he said, "and at this rate, I'll read it thirty more times by the end of the year."

The front door slammed. Harris and Glendon barreled into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. They were frantic and huffing as if they'd been sprinting.

They found Ella Mae upstairs in the hallway. Harris stood wiping the sweat from his brow while Glendon braced his back against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

"What's gotten into you two?" Ella Mae asked. "Coming into the kitchen like you don't have home training. You know you can't be slamming that door like that."

Ella Mae studied the boys hard. There was a look in their eyes—a fear she'd seen on the faces of young Black boys and men her entire life.

"What is it?" she asked. "What's happened?"

"It's Mr. Porter," Harris said with downcast eyes. "Police are outside looking for him."

"You talking about Tony Porter?" Ella Mae asked.

Harris nodded. "They said sometime last night he made off with some goods from Mr. Leeds's store without paying."

Ella Mae's arms flew up in disbelief. "They're saying he stole something? That man wouldn't take fruit off a tree."

Beau Lee's sisters came out of their room and joined them in the hallway.

Ella Mae sniffed the air and quickly rushed back into the kitchen. "Doggone it, my fish is about to burn."

The children followed their mother downstairs and into the kitchen, where she tended to the fish, carefully flipping it over and submerging it in the hot grease.

"Everybody knows he was watching 'Hawaii'' Five-O 'like he always is, at the same time every Tuesday night," Glendon said. "They know because he has it playing at full volume."

"Can't believe the police are rousting a sixty-year-old man over some foolishness," Ella Mae said. "What's he got to steal for?"

"Even Mr. Leeds said he wasn't anywhere near the store," he said, sounding both physically and mentally exhausted.

"I heard the pastor at St. Episcopal went down to the station and tried to talk to the police, but the police didn't care," Glendon said.

"Police don't care about all that," Ella Mae said, casting her eyes away. "They need receipts and white folks to vouch that Mr. Porter is innocent."

"Mr. Leeds himself said it was all one big misunderstanding and was begging them cops to leave it alone," Harris continued desperately, "but they shined him on, and he's a white man . . . Said that Mr. Porter refused to come out the house and talk to them. So they went and got a warrant. Now they did all that, ain't nothing a white man can say to change their minds."

"That poor man is probably scared to death," Ella Mae said. "So, where is Mr. Porter now?"

"Nobody's seen him," Harris said. "He's run off or is hiding out somewhere."

"If those police catch him, it won't be an arrest or trial," Glendon said. "They'll handle him right then and there. Make an example of him just for making them work so hard."

There was a heavy knock at the door. Beau Lee nearly jumped out of his skin and bit his tongue as he was about to speak. The knock repeated harder and louder, and the kitchen fell silent.

"Y'all keep quiet," Ella Mae said. "G'won upstairs, and don't come down until I call for you."

"But Mama," Beau Lee protested, "who's going to look after you?"

"Do as I say, Beau Lee. Now, get on."

Beau Lee had never heard such a tone from his mother's mouth. She had been stern with him plenty of times, but this was something different—it was grave and immediate, and he knew not to question her orders further.

The family tiptoed from the kitchen with Ella Mae in tow. Beau Lee and his brothers climbed the stairs as the knocking persisted, followed by a man's voice shouting, "Open up!" Beau Lee could tell it belonged to a white man with the kind of authority he'd been taught to fear.

The children congregated at the top of the stairs, keeping within earshot of their mother as she slowly opened the front door. It creaked on account of the rusty hinge, and his mama faced down a white man in a police uniform. Beau Lee and his siblings had been taught to avoid police at all costs, and here one was at their door—a truly un-welcome sight.

"Evening," the officer said. "You the owner of this house?"

"Yes, sir?" Ella Mae said. "Something wrong?"

"Well, that remains to be seen. We're canvassing the neighbor-hood looking for a suspect. His name is Nathaniel Porter. Are you and your family familiar with him?"

"Can't say I am, Officer. Might've heard the name in passing but never met him."

"That right?" The officer didn't sound convinced. "Figured all you colored folks knew each other around here."

"It's a good-sized neighborhood. Lots of coming and going," Ella Mae said.

"Uh-huh." He cleared the grit from his throat, and his voice sounded harsher. "If he comes around, you be sure to call the station. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And if I find out you've had any dealings with this Porter fellah, I might have to haul you in for aiding and abetting. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then we're settled here," the officer said. "You have yourself a good night."

Mama didn't shut the door right away. She waited a moment, looking out as the man stepped off the porch and continued his rounds. Then, she closed the door slowly, locking the deadbolt and latching the chain.

Beau Lee and his siblings came downstairs and rallied around their mother. She was visibly shaken, and Beau Lee wondered how many times his mother had stood face-to-face with a police officer. It didn't matter if it'd been a dozen times. He knew it never got easier looking a cop in the eye, especially when they were keen on finding someone they were sure had committed a crime.

"Everything's all right," she said, having lost the trepidation in her voice. "Get washed up for dinner."

"Yes, ma'am," they said in unison. Given what their mother had just endured, no one had the gall to protest, and in a single file, they went upstairs to prepare for what would likely be a lively conversation at the dinner table.

Beau Lee broke from the line and returned to his mother's side.

He hugged her tightly. "I'm sorry, Mama."

"What are you sorry for? You didn't do a thing."

"I'm sorry for all of us," he said. "I hate that we have to go through this kind of stuff, and I'm sorry you couldn't tell the truth about Mr. Porter. When I grow up, I want to live in a world where Black people can tell the truth without being afraid for their lives. I promise you, Mama, I'm going to make it where people like Mr. Porter can get justice."

"And how do you intend to do that?"

(continued on Tuesday)

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