THE ATTACK

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Jim Backus wasn't stupid, but none of his friends and acquaintances would say he was a towering intellect. Fine by him; he knew he was more than sharp enough when it came to stuff that counted.

When he was fifteen, his mother and father had prodded him into going to Exeter. Wasn't wild about that idea, but he loved and respected them and finally caved.  He spent three years there squeaking by academically and dwarfing the competition at lacrosse.

The Princeton coach was drooling over him. As a center middie Backus would win most face offs, score tons of goals, be a terror on defense, and put the Tigers back in contention for a national championship. But the admissions people had said forget about it. The kid didn't have the chops to make it through four years in a school where the ghost of Einstein shambled down its hallowed halls.

UNC, Maryland, Duke, Virginia? Whole other story. At those institutions lots of the jocks had to be lead around with a rope. That's what tutors were for. And Backus wouldn't need tutors if he chose the right major and made good course selections. Shit, he'd have been happy anywhere he could make All American and have hotties tiptoeing into his dorm room at 2 a.m.

He finally chose UNC mostly because his relatives thought the sun rose and set on Chapel Hill. Besides, couldn't be any worse than the elitists he'd put up with at Exeter. Damn, how many stiffs who thought their shit didn't stink could you stuff into one small town? His roommate, a brother out of the slums of Baltimore, summed it up after their first two nights together. "Jimmy, you ever been in a place where all the black people talk like white people?"

Backus smirked. "Darnell, where I come from, the white people don't talk like white people."

"You my nigga!"

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

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Backus had first met Jake Thompson and Calvin Tubbs when he was fourteen and they were a couple of years out of college. His family had recently moved to Warsaw, North Carolina where his daddy had taken over a furniture company that was on the skids. Daddy didn't need the job; he didn't need to work at all. Was born into railroad money. But he was gifted at breathing life into dying businesses, and would do just about anything to help poor Appalachian folks keep their jobs.

When Jake and Calvin pulled up into the dusty parking lot, Big Time was holding the back of Backus's shirt while the boy was yelling, "Get up, you redneck cocksucker so I can kick your fat ass again."

Big Time was doing his best not to laugh as he looked down on a very drunk Georgie Parkinson lying in the dust and laboring to get upright and preserve what little was left of his dignity. Georgie was nine years older than Backus and outweighed him by a good thirty pounds.

"Calm down, son. Old Georgie's out of gas. You gave him a proper whipping," said Big Time.

"You hear what he called Miss Purvis, Big Time? Racist motherfucker. She's the nicest little lady in the world. And this piece of white trash shit goes and calls her a nigger bitch."

By this time Jake and Calvin had lumbered out of one of the SUV's recently purchased by the county sheriffs department. Jake was white. Tall and lean. Calvin was black and just as tall but heavier built. The former and had been a strong side safety in college. The latter a linebacker. They'd played together on the same team. Neither was quite good enough to go pro. They'd been best friends since first grade.

Big Time, black and bigger than Jake and Calvin rolled together, was still holding on to the back of Backus's shirt. He lifted him up just enough so the boy had to stand tiptoed to keep from choking. Then he rotated the kid a little so he was facing the two cops.