It was just shy of three o’clock, the sun slipping in and out of hazy cloud cover. Wallace Jenkins, in the middle of a three-mile run, making up his route as he went, used the time to think. His jaunt took him along the periphery of The Central Market parking lot and past the pond with the sign warning people not to feed the alligators. Just past the pond, he turned down a road towards the beach. The breeze coming off the ocean worked to dry the sweat that poured from him. Wallace jogged past the clubhouse where white folks, dressed in crisp white clothes, played croquet on a lush green court. He glanced at his watch and did the math. He usually ran about a nine-minute mile, but he had to figure in his stop. It had been unscheduled, to answer his cell phone. More complications.
It was jus
