The doors on the three large wire-mesh holding cages have been left ajar so that the sixty-eight people being detained for trial can use the toilets without bothering the sheriff, who can be heard through the open door that leads to the front office. He is trying to figure out where Jerusalem is.
“When there’s sun, which isn’t uh everyday occurrence, it rises through that window,” the sheriff, Chester Combes, is saying, “which means by rights east oughta be somewhere over there.”
“You got to take into account this here is a winter sun, sheriff,” cautions Norman, the rail-thin deputy sheriff who deftly fingerprinted the demonstrators when they were bused in by the state troopers. “Which means a hair south of east oughta be just about where
