by Judith Pella
The afternoon was gray. Clouds hung low in the sky, almost seeming to touch the prison walls. In the distance, perhaps five miles away, lightning flashed with brilliant regularity. Deborah had seen many summer storms such as this and knew instinctively that it was moving toward her, that its deluge of rain and wind would be released upon the prison before the hour was over.
The women were anxious to get their daily outdoor exercise before the rain struck. More than a dozen of them walked about the yard, or loitered alone or in small groups, several glancing up at the darkening sky periodically. There was a palpable tension in the prison yard; Deborah felt it as she completed her third lap around the perimeter of the yard, walking briskly, stretching her legs and feeling like a penned-up racehorse, hungrily assessing the height of the wall. But, of course, the idea of escape was nothing more than a whimsical fancy. She would never do it, and she had told Nedra so when the woman had approached her a week ago.
Sam had written from Philadelphia of his success. He’d found a good lawyer who was willing to take her case. They had left together for Texas and would arrive soon. Escape was only for the hopeless, and Deborah had renewed hope now.
Such was not the case with many of Deborah’s inmates. As Deborah paused to catch her breath, Nell approached, giving her a hard look. Nell had never been very friendly to Deborah, ridiculing her faith when she could, constantly complaining about being locked up with Deborah and Lucy, the prison’s two biggest “goody-two-shoes.” She had even approached the guards and the warden about getting moved.
“Hey, would ya watch it?” Nell took a double step as if to catch herself from tripping. “Ya nearly knocked a body over stopping sudden like that.”
“I’m sorry,” Deborah replied, stepping aside.
“Yeah, well, next time you’ll really be sorry.”
Lucy came up to them. “Aw, Nell, you don’t own the place, you know.”
“Shut up,” Nell said.
“Make me.” Lucy placed her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin in gritty defiance.
Nell was taller, heavier, and far tougher than Lucy, but the Boston saloon girl did not shrink away even when Nell took a menacing step toward her. Deborah shouldered her way between the two.
“Listen,” she said quickly, “it’s going to rain soon and this’ll be the last chance we have for outdoor exercise for a while, so let’s make the most of it.”
Nell glared at them. Lucy glared back.
“I don’t like either of you,” Nell said. “So you best just keep outta my way.” She stalked off.
A few moments later the rain came. It gave no warning but fell in an immediate torrent, like an enormous bucket of water being dumped from the sky upon the prison yard. Deborah and Lucy were near the small overhang of roof that gave a very limited protection from the rain while they waited for the guard to open the doors. Nell, on the other hand, was across the yard and received a thorough drenching as she jogged toward protection. She glared at her two cell mates as if her plight were their fault. Deborah looked away, but, unfortunately, Lucy grinned at the woman with obvious delight.
Deborah knew there would be trouble. It had been brewing for days, and the incident in the yard, combined with the tensions accompanying the storm, proved all the catalysis it needed to erupt.
Right after dinner, after being escorted back to their cell following the meal, Nell was talking about having a nice smoke before turning in for the night. Deborah thought she was making an inordinately big deal out of it. Tobacco was a precious commodity in prison, even among the women, many of whom had taken up smoking out of sheer boredom. Favors were done for one another, or for guards, and payment was often made in tobacco. One such “favor” was that of protecting weaker inmates against bullies, or the bullies themselves agreeing not to harass others in return for tobacco. In this way Nell was able not only to smoke as freely as she pleased, but also to bribe guards for various privileges.
As soon as they were let into their cell, Nell went to the small footlocker where she kept her personal possessions. She took the key she wore on a chain around her neck and opened the locker and began rummaging through it. Suddenly her head jerked up.
“Hey! One of my tobacco pouches is missing!” she declared as she jumped up and leveled an accusing look at her cell mates.
“What’re you looking at us for?” Lucy challenged.
“’Cause there ain’t no one else who coulda took it.”
“Nell, that’s impossible.” Deborah tried to reason with her. “Your locker is locked and the key is around your neck. How—?”
“I don’t care how, you two-faced, thieving—” She gave Deborah a fierce shove, pushing her against the wall with a painful thud.
Then she began tearing apart Deborah’s bedding, ripping the thin mattress off the bedsprings and shaking out the blanket before she dumped out the contents of the small box where Deborah kept her few personal belongings because she didn’t have enough to warrant a locker. Having no success, Nell turned toward Lucy’s bed.
“Just you wait a minute!” Lucy stood before Nell with a warning glint in her eyes.
“Get outta my way!” Nell shouted. She pushed Lucy and went for her bed, stripping off bedding, flinging it across the room.
“You’re crazier than a loon!” Lucy yelled.
“Don’t you dare—” Nell swung around and lunged at Lucy.
By now the ruckus had alerted the guards, who had just locked up the last of their charges. One of them appeared at the cell door. “What’s going on?” she asked.
“One of these lying thieves stole my tobacco.”
“That’s impossible,” Deborah said. “You were in your locker this morning and nothing was missing. No one could have gotten into it since then.”
“I was in a hurry this morning and didn’t have time to notice. But one of you coulda took my key while I slept last night—”
“Aw, you’re nuts,” Lucy said.
Nell turned to the guard. “Make her open her locker,” she said, pointing at Lucy.
“Go ahead, Reeves, open up,” the guard said.
“I will not! She’s loco—”
“Open it, now!” the guard demanded.
Lucy shrugged and obeyed. She unlocked the chest and flung open the lid. There was nothing besides half a dozen books, a couple of knitting projects. and a few other personal items.
“I tell you, I’ve been robbed, and these are the only ones that coulda done it,” Nell insisted.
While attention was on Lucy’s locker, Deborah noticed a pouch lying on the floor among the scattered bedding. Obviously, Nell had engineered this entire incident to get her and Lucy into trouble. Deborah picked the pouch up with the intention of tucking it under Nell’s pillow.
“What’s that?” The guard turned slightly and saw Deborah’s movement just as she pulled the pouch out from where it had been half hidden under a blanket. It was obvious the tobacco pouch had been among either hers or Lucy’s things.
“That’s it!” Nell declared triumphantly, seizing the pouch.
“Oh, how would you know it’s yours? They all look alike—” Lucy was silenced as Nell displayed the side of the pouch that bore a large letter N stitched across it.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Killion?” the guard asked.
Deborah had no ready defense. She didn’t want to see anyone get into trouble, but perhaps it was better that blame fell on her rather than Lucy, who was, she was certain, equally innocent and had the most to lose.
“I didn’t take anything.” But she doubted the guard would believe her.
“Nell’s just trying to get us into trouble,” Lucy said.
“I’ll just have to take both of you to the warden.”
“This is ridiculous,” Deborah said. “Why would Lucy do something so stupid with only a few days left to her sentence?”
“I’ve seen crazier things,” the guard said. “But if she didn’t do it, then that just leaves you.”
> “Come on!” protested Lucy. “I keep trying to tell you, Nell’s had it in for us for days.”
“I only have the facts,” said the guard. “And that pouch was found among yours or Killion’s things.” She then leveled a rebuking look at Nell. “And if you hadn’t been so all-fired quick to take this into your own hands, I might have been able to discover exactly in whose things it was.”
“Lucy is innocent,” said Deborah.
“Then that means you must have done it.”
Deborah said nothing. Let them think what they would.
“Well, it makes sense,” the guard said. “It would be dumb for Lucy to do it.” She grasped Deborah’s arm.
Lucy hurried toward them. “Deborah couldn’t have done it, either!”
“You don’t have to defend me, Lucy,” said Deborah. “Think about it. It’s better this way.”
Nell looked positively deflated as the guard led Deborah out of the cell. “What about Reeves?”
“It just doesn’t make sense that she did it,” answered the guard.
Nell clamped her mouth shut and said no more. This wasn’t exactly turning out as she had planned and hoped, but there was a certain pleasure involved in seeing that sanctimonious Deborah Killion get into some trouble.
As the guard led Deborah away, Lucy caught her arm and quietly said, “Deborah, you don’t have to do this.”
“I know that,” she said simply. Then she exited with the guard.
****
Lucy might have argued further had she realized what a harsh punishment Deborah would receive for her offense. Such volatile situations among the inmates were dangerous for the prison and had to be treated severely. Deborah would be locked in solitary confinement for a week. This was a tiny room no bigger than a horse stall, with no windows, no bed, not even hay on the hard, cold stone floor. Her food, consisting of gruel, hard bread, and water, was passed into the cell through a small locked grate; and thus, she saw no human the entire time, nor did anyone speak to her.
When they let her out she was paler and thinner than before, and her legs were weak and wobbly in spite of her attempts to exercise in the confined space. Returning to her old cell, she found it vacant. Lucy had been released and Nell had finally talked someone into moving her to another cell. Deborah was relieved.
That night as she was about to lie down to sleep, she found tucked between her mattress and blanket a folded note.
Dear Deborah,
I’ll never forget what you did for me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you, but it won’t be for want of trying. I’m beginning to think a lot more of that God of yours—He must be all right to have someone as fine as you believe in Him. I wish I could have gotten to know you and Him better.
Sincerely,
Lucy
Deborah refolded the paper and lay down, a smile on her lips. The misery of the last week was a small price to pay for the reward of Lucy’s words. She reminded herself once more that God indeed brings good out of bad situations for believers. It was a truth she was going to have to continue to cling to if she was to survive this place.
Before she fell asleep she thanked God for the incident with the tobacco and for what had ultimately come of it. She also prayed for Lucy. Being a free woman was not necessarily going to free her from her problems, nor was she likely to have any easier time making her way in the world than she’d had before prison. Deborah prayed that God would continue to pursue the feisty young woman and watch over her.
34
Two days after her release from solitary, Deborah was told she had visitors. She nearly skipped to the visitors’ room. It must be Sam.
The guard opened the door and let her in, and to Deborah’s surprise the guard waited outside and locked the door behind her. Deborah forgot to ponder this little irregularity the moment she laid eyes on Sam. She ran into his open arms, kissing him and holding him so tight it was a wonder he could still breathe. He returned her passionate greeting enthusiastically.
Only after a few moments did Deborah realize they were not alone in the room. Then she remembered that the guard had said visitors. A little self-conscious at her public display of affection, she slackened her hold on Sam, but even then she didn’t let go entirely. She peered around Sam’s shoulder and smiled at the stranger. He grinned back.
“Forgive us, Jonathan,” Sam said, “but it’s been a mighty long time!”
“Don’t give it another thought, Sam. I haven’t been a widower so long that I don’t remember what it was like, especially after a lengthy absence.”
“Deborah,” Sam said to his wife, “this here is Jonathan Barnum from Philadelphia, our new lawyer.”
“Mr. Barnum—” Deborah began, holding out her hand.
But Barnum quickly interjected, “Please, I don’t stand on formality with my clients, and Sam tells me no one out West holds much with formality, so just call me Jonathan.” He took her hand and shook it firmly. “Now then,” he went on, “I do hate to be a wet blanket when you two must have a lot of catching up to do, but I’m afraid our time here is limited. The guard said half an hour. And we have much to talk about.”
“Yes, we do,” Deborah said. “Why don’t we sit down.”
Three chairs had been placed around a table, and they settled themselves, Deborah and Sam sitting as close together as possible. “Before we start, Jonathan, I want to thank you for coming out here to help me,” Deborah said.
“After everything your husband has told me about you, Deborah, I can honestly say it’s my honor to do so. Well worth coming out of a very boring retirement for—and a chance to see the Wild West, to boot.” He laid a leather satchel on the table and withdrew some papers. “Now, to business.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Sam has filled me in on many of the particulars of the case, but I’d like to hear it all in your words, Deborah. I realize it may be hard for you to talk about it, and it is time-consuming, but I believe that’s an aspect that can’t be ignored.”
Deborah nodded, then spent the next twenty minutes talking about her disastrous marriage to Leonard Stoner and all the events that led up to his death. Jonathan jotted down extensive notes, interrupting occasionally to ask questions or clarify something. Once or twice Sam interjected something Deborah had forgotten. In the end Jonathan had a pretty complete account of what had happened.
He looked up from his notes. “Well, well, this is all very interesting. Tell me, Deborah, do you believe you got a fair trial?”
Deborah smiled. “Of course not. What criminal does?”
“I see what you’re getting at. No one would have believed you even if you had protested.”
“Not then, and not in Caleb Stoner’s town. But, to tell the truth, at the time I didn’t think to protest. I was so disheartened and distressed by my life in Stoner’s Crossing that I was glad to have it end—even on a gallows.”
“Sam has implied that the whole trial was trumped up. What do you think?”
“I don’t think anyone lied outright, but often testimony was so twisted and distorted that even the truth made me look bad. I don’t know if Caleb actually bribed witnesses, but I think the townsfolk just knew what was expected of them.”
“And you had no legal representation?”
“Oh no. We were lucky to have a circuit judge to conduct the trial. That was nearly twenty years ago, Jonathan, and I’d say the nearest lawyer was in Austin. Even at that, it was just at the end of the War Between the States and so many men were still gone, including lawyers. It was amazing that I even had the benefit of a trial. Caleb was known to hang wrongdoers from the branches of a big oak tree on his land. But I suppose because I am a woman, he wanted to make certain my death was surrounded with at least the semblance of legality.”
“His first mistake.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, had the execution been a success, of course, it wouldn’t have mattered, but from our present perspectiv
e, we will be able to use his sham of a trial to our best advantage.”
“You mean because the trial was no good, Deborah can go free?” Sam asked eagerly.
“Not quite,” Jonathan answered. “Unless we can prove outright perjury or other illegal activity, the decision of the court must stand. However, we might be able to call for a new trial on a couple of different grounds. Because of the frontier status of the area at the time, you were denied your constitutional right to representation. Also, I believe we can easily prove that you were tried in a hostile town. Had you had proper representation, there is no doubt he would have asked for a change of venue—that is, asked for the trial to occur in a town where jurors had no foreknowledge of the case against you. I feel confident that on these grounds, we will be able to convince the court to reverse your conviction and remand for a new trial.”
“That’s as much as I could hope for,” Deborah stated.
“I could hope for a few more things,” Jonathan said. “For example, many of the previous witnesses will be gone now, and that may or may not work in our favor. Of course, we don’t want hostile witnesses around; but, on the other hand, after so much time we may not be able to find any witnesses. Not to mention the fact that memories will be dulled with time, and evidence will be difficult to find. In that event, we will have a hard time making a case. If we get a new trial, it will do us little good if we can come up with no new evidence to present to the court. That’s what I would most hope for, some new evidence—in your favor, of course! If we can throw enough doubt upon the prosecution’s case nineteen years ago, the court may rule in our favor. In our justice system, the burden of proof still lies upon the state, not the defendant.”
“That’s all well and good,” Deborah said. “But my deepest hope is to be proven innocent, to have all doubt removed. I have a daughter, my murdered husband’s child, whose well-being may depend upon that.”
“Then, Deborah, I suggest we build an aggressive defense,” Jonathan said.
“We still need evidence,” Sam said.
“That we do.” Jonathan nodded. “Good, solid evidence. That means you, Deborah, must wrack your brain for anything you may have forgotten about the case, any detail, any point that you might have brushed aside, thinking it too trivial. You must clear away nineteen years of cobwebs, my dear, and inspect everything.”
