Chapter One:
Monday, Sept.9

In the Woods, and an Old Car
With New Holes

My name’s Denise Sumpter, deputy sheriff, Wassahatchka County, Florida. The county seat is Seminole Pines, population—God knows. A fewthousand?

Sheriff Pee-Wee Marion calls me “Midge” for “midget” because he’s about the size of Mt. Rushmore and I’m all of five foot three and 130 pounds. He makes fun of me for being so small. Okay. First day I was on the force, he called me “Midge” for about the hundredth time, and I said, “Sure, Pee-Wee, whatever you say.” You should’a’ seen his jaw drop. But then he laughed, and we’ve been at it eversince.

Pee-Wee’s six foot seven and goes about 320. His real name’s Beaumont. He’s been on the force just over forty years—forty! Sometimes “Pee-Wee” makes him a little mad, but only a little. I make him laugh, so he puts up with me. White man his size who laughs at my jokes, okay by me. I don’t have any bad words for Pee-Wee Marion. He’s a good sheriff and treats me and all his deputies fairly. The citizens of Wassahatchka he treats the same; black, white, hispanic, Asian—don’t matter. If more lawmen were like him, we’d have a fairer and bettercountry.

Tell you something else: when Pee-Wee retires, I’m gonna run for sheriff and I’m gonna win because I’ll get every black person in Wassahatchka to vote for me, and there’re enough white folks with sense—so I’ve heard—to put me over thetop.

There are only two of us deputies who are black, me and Junior Madison. But, then, the whole department ain’t but six people, so 33% of the department is black. I got a B- in English in high school, but I got an A inmath.

Just so you know: You’re hearing first hand from somebody born in Seminole Pines, Wassahatchka County, Florida—a little town out in the piney woods of North Florida east of Tallahassee, West of Jacksonville, south of the Georgia line, north of Southern New York—Miami and Coral gables—and underneath the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. And in the middle of about a million acres of pine trees andpalmettos.

I grew up in an African-American neighborhood, and proud of it. Where I grew up, we’re a close-knit community, and we take care of each other. Maybe you’ll learn something about me, about language, about yourself, when you hear my story. Cut me some slack and hear what I’m gonna tell you. I hope you don’t got a problem with my accent, my “dialect.”This is my voice. You want to hear a good story? It’s coming. I dictate into a machine and my friend Pheebee (not Phoebe), who I’ll tell you about some other time, writes it all out. She don’t changenothing without my say-so. My language is a part of me. So, all