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thinks a part of her calling is posting bail for murderers.”
    â€œBut how did she come up with the million bucks? What is she, independently wealthy?”
    â€œShe got Bol out on a property bond. And you won’t believe on what property.”
    â€œIt must have been the fucking Taj Mahal,” Rayburn says.
    â€œIt’s the church’s parsonage.”
    Rayburn stares in disbelief a second. “Are you shitting me? Can she even do that?”
    â€œShe had the power of attorney with her,” I say. “The address is 625 Glendale Avenue, Belle Meade.”
    Rayburn whistles. “Belle Meade? The lots alone are worth a fortune over there.”
    â€œShe had the last tax appraisal with her. A million-five. The original deed was dated 1956. Probably cost a tenth of that back then.”
    â€œOK, so the place is worth the money. How the hell does she sell this to the church?”
    â€œTowns got a new church constitution passed giving her the right to dispose of church property however she sees fit. And she sees fit, apparently, to use it as collateral against the future court appearance of Moses Bol.”
    â€œThe hell she does.” Rayburn is fuming, feeling things unravel with disturbing unpredictability. “Where did this woman come from, anyway? Does anybody know?”
    â€œBasically, she’s little Miss Protest. You remember when the state legislature tried to cut funding for low-income housing? That bunch of people who tried to storm the House chambers? She was a part of that crowd.”
    â€œAnd she’s a preacher?” Rayburn asks. This offends his sense of order. In his thinking, preachers marry, bury, and stay the hell out of the way the rest of the time.
    â€œYeah,” I say. “But the ultraliberal, radical-fringe stuff. Do you know she conducted a funeral in absentia for Bishop Romero?”
    â€œWho’s Bishop Romero?”
    â€œMurdered in El Salvador by government death squads during the Reagan administration.”
    â€œReagan? That’s twenty years ago.”
    â€œRomero never got a proper funeral. Towns wanted to give him one. They had a casket, the whole thing. That was at her previous church.”
    â€œWhere was this?”
    â€œMuskeegee, Michigan.”
    â€œI bet that went over great in Muskeegee.”
    â€œThey fired her for it.”
    â€œGood for them. How the hell did she end up in Nashville?”
    â€œFar as I can tell, she worked for some homeless agencies in Michigan, did a lot of volunteer work. Ended up coming here to work for the Center for Peace and Justice over at Vanderbilt University. That lasted about a year, until the grant ran out—”
    â€œFriggin’ delusiacs,” Rayburn interrupts. Delusiac— a combination of delusional and maniacs— is his favorite, made-up word for any over-the-top political movement he encounters. “All these friggin’ delusiacs hate the government,” he says, “but they don’t have any problem taking money from it.”
    â€œAnyway,” I say, “she quit when they ran out of money, and took the job at the DPC. She’s been there ever since.”
    â€œShe’s a nut,” Rayburn declares.
    â€œYeah, well, she’s got a degree in public policy from Oberlin and a master’s in theology from Harvard. So maybe it’s better not to underestimate her.”
    Everybody looks at each other a second. Rayburn raises an eyebrow. “Shit.”
    â€œCare to know what her dissertation was about?” I ask.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe impact of the death penalty on race relations in the South.”
    A moment of silence, as pieces of a puzzle slide into place. “Son of a bitch,” Carl says. “You think she’s behind this thing with Buchanan?”
    â€œPretty interesting coincidence,” I say. “There’s only one way to find out for sure.”
    â€œIt’s not like you can