The march had been whispered about since Monday, but its details had not been finalized. When the week began, the execution was days away, and there was a fervent hope in the black community that a judge somewhere would wake up and stop it. But the days had passed and the higher powers were still asleep. Now the hour was near, and the blacks in Slone, especially the younger ones, were not about to sit idly by. The closing of the high school had energized them and left them free to look for a way to make noise. Around 10:00 a.m., a crowd began to gather at Washington Park, at the corner of Tenth Street and Martin Luther King Boulevard. Aided by cell phones and the Internet, the crowd multiplied, and before long a thousand blacks were milling about, restless, certain that something was about to happen but not sure exactly what. Two police cars arrived and parked down the street, safely away from the crowd.

Trey Glover was Slone High School's starting tailback, and he drove an SUV with tinted windows, oversize tires, glistening chrome wheel covers, and an audio system that could break glass. He parked it on the street, opened all four doors, and began playing "White Man's Justice," an angry rap song by T. P. Slik. The song electrified the crowd. Others streamed in, most of them high school students, but the gathering was also attracting the unemployed, some housewives, and a few retirees. A drum ensemble materialized when four members of the Marching Warriors arrived with two bass drums and two snares. A chant began, "Free Donte Drumm," and it echoed through the neighborhood. In the distance, away from the park, someone lit a round of firecrackers, and for a split second everyone thought it could've been gunfire. Smoke bombs were set off, and as the minutes passed, the tension grew.

The brick was not thrown from Washington Park. It came from behind the police cars, from behind a wooden fence next to a house owned by Mr. Ernie Shylock, who was sitting on the porch watching the excitement. He claimed no knowledge of who threw it. It crashed into the rear window of a police car, jolted the two cops into a near panic, and caused a roaring wave of approval from the crowd. The police ran around for a few seconds, guns drawn, ready to shoot anything that moved, with Mr. Shylock being the first possible target. He raised his hands and yelled, "Don't shoot. I didn't do it." One cop sprinted behind the house as if he might chase down the assailant, but after forty yards he was winded and gave up. Within minutes, reinforcements arrived, and the sight of more police cars fired up the crowd.

The march finally began when the drummers stepped onto Martin Luther King Boulevard and headed north, in the general direction of downtown. They were followed by Trey Glover in his SUV, windows down, rap at full volume. Behind him were the others, a long line of protesters, many holding posters that demanded justice, a stop to the killing, and freedom for Donte. Children on bikes joined the fun. Blacks sitting idly on porches got up and began walking with the crowd. The parade grew in size as it inched along, seemingly without a destination.

No one had bothered with a permit, as required by Slone ordinance. The rally the day before in front of the courthouse had been legally conducted, but not this march. The police, though, played it cool. Let 'em protest. Let 'em yell. It'll be over tonight, hopefully. Blocking the parade route, or trying to disperse the crowd, or even arresting a few, would incite them and only make matters worse. So the police held back, some following at a distance while others circled ahead, clearing the way, diverting traffic.

A black officer on a motorcycle pulled alongside the SUV and yelled, "Where you going, Trey?"

Trey, apparently the unofficial leader of the event, replied, "We're going back to the courthouse."

"Keep it peaceful and there won't be trouble."

"I'll try," Trey said with a shrug. He and the officer both knew that trouble could erupt at any moment.

The parade turned onto Phillips Street and inched along, a loosely organized assemblage of concerned citizens enthralled by their freedom of expression, and who were also enjoying the attention. The drummers repeated their precise, impressive routines. The rap shook the ground with its deadening lyrics. The students shook and gyrated with the beat while chanting a variety of battle cries. The mood was at once festive and angry. The kids were quite proud of their ballooning numbers, yet they wanted to do more. Ahead of them, the police blocked off Main Street and spread the word among the downtown merchants that a march was headed their way.

The 911 call was recorded at 11:27 a.m. The Mount Sinai Church of God in Christ was burning, not far from Washington Park. A white van with a logo and phone numbers had been parked behind the church, according to the caller, and two white men in uniforms, like plumbers or electricians, had hurried from the church into the van and left. Minutes later, there was smoke. Sirens erupted as the first responders answered the call. Fire trucks rumbled from two of the three stations in Slone.

At the corner of Phillips and Main, the march came to a halt. The drummers were still. The rap was turned down. They watched the fire trucks go racing by, headed into their part of town. The same black officer on the motorcycle stopped at the SUV and informed Trey that one of their churches was now burning.

"Let's disband this little march, Trey," the officer said.

"I don't think so."

"Then there's gonna be trouble."

"There's already trouble," Trey said.

"Ya'll need to break up before this thing gets outta hand."

"No, you need to get outta the way."

Ten miles west of Slone there was a country store and deli called the Trading Post. It was owned by a large, loud, garrulous man named Jesse Hicks, a second cousin of Reeva's. Jesse's father had opened the Trading Post fifty years earlier, and Jesse had never worked anywhere else. The Post, as it was known, was a gathering place for gossip and lunch, and it had even hosted a few campaign barbecues for politicians. On Thursday, there was more traffic than usual, more folks stopping by to hear the latest on the execution. Jesse kept a photo of his favorite niece, Nicole Yarber, on the wall behind the counter next to the cigarettes, and he would discuss her case with anyone who would listen. Technically, she was a third cousin, but he called her a niece since she'd become something of a celebrity. For Jesse, 6:00 p.m. on Thursday, November 8, could not arrive soon enough.

The store was in the front part of the building, the small eating area in the rear, and around an ancient potbellied stove there were half a dozen rocking chairs, all occupied as lunch drew near. Jesse was working the cash register, selling gas and beer, and talking nonstop to his small crowd. With the riot at the high school only a few hours old, and the First Baptist Church still smoldering, and, of course, the looming execution, the gossip was hot and the men chatted away excitedly. A man called Shorty walked in and announced, "The Africans are marchin' downtown again. One of 'em threw a brick through the window of a police car."

This, on top of all the other stories, led to a near overload of news that had to be discussed and analyzed and put in perspective, and quickly. Shorty had the floor for a few minutes, but was soon overshadowed by Jesse, who always dominated the conversations. Various opinions were put forth on what the police should be doing, and no one argued that the police were handling things properly.

For years, Jesse had boasted that he would witness the execution of Donte Drumm, couldn't wait to watch it, would, in fact, pull the switch himself if given the chance. He had said many times that his dear Reeva was insistent that he be there, on account of his fondness for and closeness to Nicole, his beloved niece. Every man rocking away had seen Jesse get choked up and wipe his eyes when talking about Nicole. But now a last-minute bureaucratic snafu was keeping Jesse away from Huntsville. There were so many journalists and prison officials and other big shots wanting to watch that Jesse got bumped. It was the hottest ticket in town, and Jesse, though on the approved list, had somehow been left out.

A man named Rusty walked in and announced, "Another church is on fire! One of those black Pentecostal ones."

"Where?"

"In Slone, near Washington Park."

The thought of a retaliatory church burning was at first inconceivable. Even Jesse was stunned. But the more they talked about it and analyzed it, the more they liked it. Why not? Tit for tat. An eye for an eye. If they want war, we'll give 'em a war. There was a general agreement that Slone was a powder keg and they were in for a long night. This was disturbing, but also stimulating. Every man sitting around the stove had at least two guns in his truck and more in the house.

Two strangers entered the Trading Post: one, a man of the cloth with a collar and navy jacket, the other man a slick-headed cripple who shuffled along with a cane. The minister walked to a display case and took out two bottles of water. The other man went to the restroom.

Keith set the two bottles on the counter and said "Good morning" to Jesse. Behind him, the experts in the rockers were all talking at once and Keith understood none of it.

"You from around here?" Jesse asked as he rung up the water.

"No, just passing through," Keith said. His speech was crisp, precise, no accent at all. Y............