by Delia Owens
She took her bedding to the beach and sat with the gulls. They paid her no mind, preening outstretched wings before settling down on the sand like feathered stones. As they chortled softly and tucked their heads for the night, she lay as close to them as she could get. But even among their soft cooing and ruffling, Kya couldn’t sleep. Mostly she tossed from one side to the other, sitting up each time the wind mimicked footfalls.
Dawn surf roared on a slapping wind that stung her cheeks. She sat up among the birds, who wandered nearby, stretching and kick-scratching. Big Red—eyes wide, neck cocked—seemed to have found something most interesting in his underwing, an act that would normally have made Kya laugh. But the birds brought her no cheer.
She walked to the water’s edge. Chase would not let this go. Being isolated was one thing; living in fear, quite another.
She imagined taking one step after the other into the churning sea, sinking into the stillness beneath the waves, strands of her hair suspending like black watercolor into the pale blue sea, her long fingers and arms drifting up toward the backlit blaze of the surface. Dreams of escape—even through death—always lift toward the light. The dangling, shiny prize of peace just out of grasp until finally her body descends to the bottom and settles in murky quiet. Safe.
Who decides the time to die?
44.
Cell Mate
1970
Kya stood in the middle of her cell. Here she was in jail. If those she’d loved, including Jodie and Tate, hadn’t left her, she wouldn’t be here. Leaning on someone leaves you on the ground.
Before being arrested, she’d caught glimpses of a path back to Tate: an opening of her heart. Love lingering closer to the surface. But when he’d come to visit her in jail on several occasions, she had refused to see him. She wasn’t sure why jail had closed her heart even tighter. Why she hadn’t embraced the comfort he could give her in this place. It seemed that now, Kya being more vulnerable than ever, was reason to trust others even less. Standing in the most fragile place of her life, she turned to the only net she knew—herself.
Being thrown behind bars with no bail made clear how alone she was. The sheriff’s offer of a phone call starkly reminded her: there was no one to call. The only phone number she knew in the world was Jodie’s, and how could she call her brother and say she was in jail accused of murder? After all those years, how could she bother him with her troubles? And maybe shame played a part.
They had abandoned her to survive and defend herself. So here she was, by herself.
Once more she lifted the wondrous shell book Tom Milton had given her, by far her most treasured volume. Some biology texts were stacked on the floor, which the guard said Tate had brought, but she couldn’t hold the words in place. Sentences wandered off in several directions, circling back to the beginning. Shell pictures were easier.
Footsteps clanked on the cheap tile floor and Jacob, a small black man who served as guard, appeared in front of her door. He held a large brown-paper package. “Sorry to bother ya, Miz Clark, but ya got a viz’tor. Ya gotta come with me.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s yo’ lawya, Mr. Milton.” Metal-to-metal clanks sounded, as Jacob unlocked her door and handed her the package. “An’ this here’s from Jumpin’.” She laid the parcel on the bed and followed Jacob down the hall and into a room—even smaller than her cell. Tom Milton rose from his chair as she entered. Kya nodded at him and then looked out the window, where an enormous cumulus cloud with peach-colored cheeks puffed itself up.
“Good evening, Kya.”
“Mr. Milton.”
“Kya, please call me Tom. And what’s wrong with your arm? Have you hurt yourself?”
She jerked her hand, covering the webs she’d scratched on her arms. “Just mosquito bites, I think.”
“I’ll talk to the sheriff; you shouldn’t have mosquitoes in your— room.”
Head down, she said, “Please, no, it’s okay. I’m not worried about insects.”
“All right, of course, I won’t do anything you don’t want. Kya, I came to talk about your options.”
“What options?”
“I’ll explain. It’s hard to know at this point how the jury is leaning. The prosecution has a good case. It’s not solid by any means, but considering how people in this town are prejudiced, you have to be prepared that it won’t be easy for us to win. But there’s the option of a plea bargain. Do you know what I’m referring to?”
“Not exactly.”
“You have pleaded not guilty to first-degree murder. If we lose, you lose big: life in prison or, as you know, they are seeking the death penalty. Your option is to plead guilty to a lesser charge, say, manslaughter. If you were willing to say, yes, you did go to the tower that night, you did meet Chase there, you had a disagreement, and in a horrible accident he stepped backward through the grate, the trial might end immediately, you wouldn’t have to go through any more of this drama, and we could negotiate with the prosecution over a sentence. Since you’ve never been charged with anything before, they’d probably sentence you to ten years, and you could be out in, say, six years. I know that sounds bad, but it’s better than spending life in prison or the other.”
“No, I won’t say anything that implies guilt. I will not go to prison.”
“Kya, I understand, but please take some time to think about it. You don’t want to live your entire life in jail, nor do you want—the other.”
Kya looked out the window again. “I don’t need to think about it. I won’t stay in jail.”
“Well, we don’t have to decide now. We have some time. Let’s see how it goes. Before I leave, is there anything you want to discuss with me?”
“Please get me out of here. One way or—the other.”
“I’ll do my best to get you out, Kya. But don’t give up. And please help me. Like I’ve mentioned before, you need to be engaged, look at the jurors now and then . . .”
But Kya had turned to leave.
* * *
• • •
JACOB LED HER BACK to the cell, where she picked up the package from Jumpin’—unwrapped by the warden and taped up haphazardly again. She opened it, saving and folding the paper. Inside was a basket with some tiny vials of paint, a brush, paper, and a paper bag of Mabel’s corn muffins. The basket was lined with a nest of pine straw, some oak leaves, a few shells, and long strands of cattails. Kya sniffed deeply. Pinched her lips. Jumpin’. Mabel.
The sun had set; no dust motes to follow.
Later Jacob cleared away her supper tray. “I declare, Miz Clark, ya didn’t eat much a’tall. Them poke chops and greens as good as dey git.” She smiled lightly at him, then listened as his steps clomped to the end of the hall. She waited to hear the thick metal door shut with heavy finality.
Then something moved on the hall floor, just outside the bars. Her eyes swung there. Sunday Justice sat on his haunches staring at her dark eyes with his green ones.
Her heart raced. Locked up alone all these weeks, and now this creature could step wizardlike between the bars. Be with her. Sunday Justice broke the stare and looked down the hall, toward the inmates’ talk. Kya was terrified that he would leave her and walk to them. But he looked back at her, blinked in obligatory boredom, and squeezed easily between the bars. Inside.
Kya breathed out. Whispered, “Please stay.”
Taking his time, he sniffed his way around the cell, researching the damp cement walls, the exposed pipes, and the sink, all the while compelled to ignore her. A small crack in the wall was the most interesting to him. She knew because he flicked his thoughts on his tail. He ended his tour next to the small bed. Then, just like that, he jumped onto her lap and circled, his large white paws finding soft purchase on her thighs. Kya sat frozen, her arms slightly raised, so as not to interfere with his maneuvering. Finally, he settled as though he had nested
here every night of his life. He looked at her. Gently she touched his head, then scratched his neck. A loud purr erupted like a current. She closed her eyes at such easy acceptance. A deep pause in a lifetime of longing.
Afraid to move, she sat stiff until her leg cramped, then shifted slightly to stretch her muscles. Sunday Justice, without opening his eyes, slid off her lap and curled up next to her side. She lay down fully clothed, and they both nestled in. She watched him sleep, then followed. Not falling toward a jolt, but a drifting, finally, into an empty calm.
Once during the night, she opened her eyes and watched him sleeping on his back, forepaws stretched one way, hind paws the other. But when she awoke at dawn, he was gone. A moan struggled against the strength of her throat.
Later, Jacob stood outside her cell, holding the breakfast tray with one hand, unlocking the door with the other. “Gotcha yo’ oatmeal, Miz Clark.”
She took the tray, saying, “Jacob, the black and white cat that sleeps in the courtroom. He was here last night.”
“Oh, sorry as can be. That’s Sundee Justice. Sometimes he slips in wif me and I don’t see ’im ’cause of carryin’ the suppa trays. I end up closin’ ’im in with y’all.” Kind enough not to say locking.
“It’s fine. I liked having him here. Please, will you let him in whenever you see him after supper? Or anytime.”
He looked at her with soft eyes. “’Course I can. I’ll do that, Miz Clark; I sho’ will. Can see he’d be mighty good comp’ny.”
“Thank you, Jacob.”
That evening, Jacob returned. “Here’s yo’ food now, Miz Clark. Fried chicken, mashed taters wif gravy from the diner. Hope ya can eat sump’m tonight, now.”
Kya stood, looking around his feet. She took the tray. “Thank you, Jacob. Have you seen the cat?”
“Nome. Not a’tall. But I’ll keep an eye out.”
Kya nodded. She sat on the bed, the only place to sit, and stared at the plate. Here in jail was better food than she had seen all her life. She poked around the chicken, pushed the butter beans. Having found food, her stomach was lost.
Then, the sound of the lock turning, the heavy metal door swinging.
At the end of the hall she heard Jacob say, “Thar ya go, then, Mista Sundee Justice.”
Without breathing, Kya stared at the floor outside her cell and within a few seconds Sunday Justice stepped into view. His markings were surprisingly stark and soft at the same time. No hesitation this time, he stepped into her cell and walked up to her. She put the plate on the floor and he ate the chicken—pulled the drumstick right onto the floor—then lapped up the gravy. Skipped the butter beans. She smiled through it all, then wiped the floor clean with tissue.
He jumped on her bed, and a sweet sleep wrapped them together.
* * *
• • •
JACOB STOOD OUTSIDE her door the next day. “Miz Clark, ya got anotha viz’ter.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Mr. Tate again. He’s done come sev’ral times now, Miz Clark, either brings sump’m or asks to see ya. Won’t ya see him today, Miz Clark? It’s Saderdee, no court, nothin’ to do in here the livelong day.”
“All right, Jacob.”
Jacob led her to the same dingy room where she had met Tom Milton. As she stepped through the door, Tate rose from his chair and walked quickly toward her. He smiled lightly, but his eyes revealed the sadness from seeing her here.
“Kya, you look good. I’ve been so worried. Thank you for seeing me. Sit down.” They sat opposite each other while Jacob stood in the corner reading a newspaper with considerate concentration.
“Hello, Tate. Thanks for the books you brought.” She acted calm, but her heart pulled into pieces.
“What else can I do for you?”
“Maybe you could feed the gulls if you’re out my way.”
He smiled. “Yes, I’ve been feeding them. Every other day or so.” He made it sound easygoing but had driven or boated to her place every dawn and dusk to feed them.
“Thank you.”
“I was in court, Kya, sitting right behind you. You never turned around, so I didn’t know if you knew that. But I’ll be there every day.”
She looked out of the window.
“Tom Milton’s very good, Kya. Probably the best lawyer in this part of the state. He’ll get you out of here. Just hang on.”
When again she didn’t speak, he continued. “And as soon as you’re out of here, we’ll get back to exploring lagoons like in the old days.”
“Tate, please, you have to forget me.”
“I have never and will never forget you, Kya.”
“You know I’m different. I don’t fit with other people. I cannot be part of your world. Please, can’t you understand, I’m afraid to be close with anybody ever again. I can’t.”
“I don’t blame you, Kya, but . . .”
“Tate, listen to me. For years I longed to be with people. I really believed that someone would stay with me, that I would actually have friends and a family. Be part of a group. But no one stayed. Not you or one member of my family. Now I’ve finally learned how to deal with that and how to protect myself. But I can’t talk about this now. I appreciate your coming to see me in here, I do. And maybe someday we can be friends, but I can’t think about what comes next. Not in here.”
“Okay. I understand. Really, I do.”
After a short silence, he continued. “The great horns are already calling.”
She nodded, almost smiled.
“Oh, and yesterday when I was at your place, you won’t believe it, but a male Cooper’s hawk landed right on your front steps.”
Finally a smile as she thought of the Coop. One of her many private memories. “Yes, I believe it.”
Ten minutes later, Jacob said their time was up and Tate had to leave. Kya thanked him again for coming.
“I’ll keep feeding the gulls, Kya. And I’ll bring you some books.”
She shook her head and followed Jacob.
45.
Red Cap
1970
On Monday morning, after Tate’s visit, when Kya was led into the courtroom by the bailiff, she kept her eyes away from the spectators, as she had before, and looked deep into the shadowy trees outside. But she heard a familiar sound, maybe a soft cough, and turned her head. There in the first row of seats, sitting with Tate, were Jumpin’ and Mabel, who wore her church bonnet decked out with silk roses. Folks had made a stir when they walked in with Tate and sat downstairs in the “white area.” But when the bailiff reported this to Judge Sims, still in his chambers, the judge told him to announce that anybody of any color or creed could sit anywhere they wanted in his courtroom, and if somebody didn’t like it, they were free to leave. In fact, he’d make sure they did.
On seeing Jumpin’ and Mabel, Kya felt a smidge of strength, and her back straightened slightly.
The next witness for the prosecution, Dr. Steward Cone, the coroner, had graying hair cut very short and wore glasses that sat too far down his nose, a habit that forced him to tilt his head back to see through the lenses. As he answered Eric’s questions, Kya’s mind wandered to the gulls. These long months in jail, she had pined for them, yet all along, Tate had been feeding them. They had not been abandoned. She thought of Big Red, how he always walked across her toes when she threw crumbs to them.
The coroner tossed his head back to adjust his glasses, the gesture bringing Kya back to the courtroom.
“So to recap, you’ve testified that Chase Andrews died between midnight and two o’clock on the night of October 29 or the morning of the thirtieth, 1969. The cause of death was extensive injuries to the brain and spinal cord due to a fall through an open grate of the fire tower, sixty-three feet to the ground. As he fell, he hit the back of his head on a support beam, a fact confirmed by blood and hair sam
ples taken from the beam. Is all that correct according to your expert opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Dr. Cone, why would an intelligent and fit young man like Chase Andrews step through an open grate and fall to his death? To rule out one possibility, was there alcohol or any other substance in his blood that could have impaired his judgment?”
“No, there was not.”
“Evidence presented previously demonstrates that Chase Andrews hit the back of his head on that support beam, not his forehead.” Eric stood in front of the jury and took a large step. “But when I step forward, my head ends up slightly ahead of my body. Were I to step into a hole here in front of me, the momentum and the weight of my head would pitch me forward. Correct? Chase Andrews would have hit his forehead on the beam, not the back of his skull, if he was stepping forward. So isn’t it true, Dr. Cone, that the evidence suggests that Chase was going backward when he fell?”
“Yes, the evidence would support that conclusion.”
“So we can also conclude that if Chase Andrews was standing with his back to the opened grate and was pushed by someone, he would have fallen backward, not forward?” Before Tom could object, Eric said very quickly, “I’m not asking you to state that this is conclusive evidence that Chase was pushed backward to his death. I am simply making it clear that if someone pushed Chase backward through the hole, the wounds to his head from the beam would have coincided with those actually found. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Dr. Cone, when you examined Chase Andrews in the clinic, the morning of October 30, was he wearing a shell necklace?”
“No.”
To suppress the rising nausea, Kya focused on Sunday Justice grooming himself on a windowsill. Pretzeled into an impossible position, one leg straight in the air, he licked the inside tip of his tail. His own bath seemed to absorb and entertain him entirely.
