Excerpt from RUSH TO JUDGMENT

CHAPTER ONE
The wind howls down Raintree Inn's chimneys with the smell of ashes from long ago. Shutters rattles like a drumroll. An ominence presence akin to dread has a foothold in Oconee County. Jesse never minded summer storms but this one is different. Th sky turns the color of pewter as a deluge of rain curtains rural Georgia in a surreal world. From the foggy glass window glass to the widw plank floor, the antebellum manor shudders in the visious onslaught.

Fearful of the category five hurricane Katrina people from the coastal areas of Louisiana and Mississipp head inland for shelter. It's inevitable; Raintree Inn is booked solid. Still, the phone rang all morning with pleas from local authorities to take on dditional guests.

The kitchen television broadcasts the local news, then the weatherman follows. "Labor Day Weekend's forecast for Friday, September 2nd, 2005: a severe tropical cyclne headed northeast with winds seventy-five knots approaching Atlanta. Flood warnings are issued for low-lying areas along the Georgia and Florida coasts."

The wrought iron sign on the lawn, RAINTREE INN BED & BREAKFAST SPECIAL OCCASIONS bangs like an anvil against its post. Jesse clenches her fists, closes her eyes when the clap of thunder rattles the dishes in the china cabinet as if awild party overhead isout of control.

Seconds, then minutes pass before her heat slows. Does she dare turn on the computer? Inside her office, once a sunroom, she takes a chance checking the reservations. Her weekend guests remain booked. The University of Georgia's archaeologist, Dr. Brice Appleton, has been frequent visitor. He'll definitely show, including a new reservation, Henrietta Murphy, a.k.a. Henny, the excentric Jackson, Mississippi poet,the state's lat flower child paid in advance.

Last evening, two couples chcked in, an elderly couple with their equally elderly dog from La Fitte, Louisiana, and a pair of evangelists from Savannh. When Katrina's tail sweeps in they disappear inside their rooms.

As Jesse exits the reservation site and urn off the PC, the sound of a horn bleats in the distance. Maybe a stranded driver in a balky car, she reasons. No one in the driveway but it's hard to see in the dowpour. Yet, the horns blars again. Thunder, a corksrew flash of lightening warns her to stay inside. The house lights flicker. A thud hits the front door. Jesse dashes to the foyer, peers through the etched-glass side windows. Nothing. But as she turns, a small squeak follows a howl of real distress. Jesse throws open the door.

A wet child cringes by a porch column. "Ma's car is bad broke." The drenched sweatshirt's hood hides a face, except for a wide-mouth gap between his or her teeth. "Can't fix it no way," says a shivering small form.