The judge rubbed his hand over his face. The lawyer frowned and pulled on his suitcoat sleeves.
“Can you tell us why he would say this?”
So Grant told about seeing bruises on Little Joe’s face, and how Little Joe tried to hide them, and about his dad seeing Mrs. Thorson with bruises, and how Big Joe promised Christmas dinner, but drank up all the grocery money.
“You didn’t like Big Joe Thorson much, did you, son?”
Grant swallowed. Hard. “No, sir.”
“Can you tell the court who else you heard threaten to kill Big Joe Thorson?”
“Yes, sir. Plenty of people. Frank Swanson, and Grumpy, and my dad.”
“That all?”
Grant swallowed. His mouth was so dry he could hardly form the words. “I did, too, sir.”
“Can you explain to the court what would make you threaten to kill him?”
So Grant explained more about his pitching elbow, and about how much he hated Big Joe and how Big Joe followed him around, it seemed, trying to catch him getting in trouble.
The lawyer asked so many questions, Grant’s brain felt like it had turned to mush.
“Last question, Grant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you tell the court why your .22 rifle is the murder weapon used on Joe Thorson, and how it came to be found in the Thorsons’ lean-to?”
Grant’s head jerked up to face the lawyer. He had known this was possible, of course, but he hadn’t been sure it was the murder weapon. The boulder of petrified wood took over his whole body, and he was afraid he wouldn’t even be able to speak, but finally he managed to whisper, “No idea, sir.”
“That will be all. You may step down.”
By the time he got out of the witness stand, it was time for dinner, and Grant’s legs had gone to sleep. He had to stamp his feet a little on the way back to his row to get the tinglies to go away.
When he sat down, Slider patted his knee again.
The judge banged his gavel. “Witnesses, refrain from discussing evidence over the noon hour. We will resume at ten minutes past one o’clock sharp.”
So Slider and Grant walked home where Mamie had a venison roast ready to eat. “There was news about the trial on the radio,” Mamie said. “Said, ‘In Larkin, a Mandan Indian woman is on trial for murdering her white husband.’”
Slider shook his head.
After dinner, the lawyers asked questions of Mr. Byrne, Grumpy, three other people, and the coroner, Dr. Ashton, who had been called from Minot to help examine the murder victim’s body.
Dr. Ashton took the stand. He was a hefty man with a paunch that he carried as if he were proud that he actually had more than plenty to eat. He had wild, thick gray hair and thick-lensed black glasses that he kept shoving up his nose. Grant had no trouble picturing him in a room with dead bodies.
“Dr. Ashton, would you please tell the court what you found as cause of death for the victim?”
“There were two gunshots, one of which was the cause of death. Two twenty-two-caliber rifle shells were lodged within the victim’s body. The shot fired first penetrated the victim’s heart. It was the cause of death. The other shot was fired later.”
“Can you tell the court how these shots were fired?”
“From the front. The entry holes were both in the victim’s chest, and neither made its way out. The shot that killed him was fired at close range, probably two to four feet away. The other was from maybe ten feet, but that shot entered his body after he was already dead.”
“Dr. Ashton, can you tell the court if any other injuries were sustained by the victim?”
“Yes, he had severe bruising on the back of the head, and suffered a concussion as if struck two or three times by a large, blunt, heavy, and flat object.”
“Could this injury have been caused after death, as a result of tumbling down the basement steps?”
“Absolutely not. Bruising before and after death is different, and this wound happened before he died. There were large bruises on his thighs and chest, which occurred while he was alive, but these seemed older and unrelated. There were multiple other lacerations and contusions that probably occurred after death, which could have happened from the fall down the steps, but the body reacts to an injury when it’s alive. The injury remains static when it’s inflicted after death.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ashton. That will be all.”
The next morning, the lawyers called Frank to the witness stand. Frank had avoided Grant since the trial started. In fact, he had avoided all the other boys since Big Joe died. He hadn’t shown up for a single baseball game. Now, Frank kept his eyes on the floor, even when he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. When he sat down in the wooden chair in front of the judge’s bench, Grant could see the yellowed purply remains of a black eye, and a bruise on Frank’s cheek. Frank kept his eyes on the ground. Grant wished Frank would look up at him and see that Grant was still his friend, no matter what. But he stared at the floor.
“Frank Swanson,” Mr. Milford, the prosecutor, asked, “Can you tell us how your fingerprints came to be on the murder weapon, one .22 rifle belonging to Grant O’Grady?”
“Yes.” Frank finally lifted his eyes to Grant’s. He looked absolutely miserable and the discolored eye still only opened about halfway. “I’ve shot Grant’s gun a few times.”
“Go on,” Mr. Milford said. “We’re waiting. Please tell us what you did on the afternoon of July second.”
“I was riding my bike to Grant’s house. I had my glove, and I was going to see if he could play ball. But when I was going down Center Road, to ask Little Joe to play, too, and all of a sudden I saw Big Joe walking home in front of me. And I . . .” His voice trailed off. He looked up and finished, “I hate Big Joe, and I was still mad that he shoved me down and knocked me out after the baseball game, so I swerved right at him. I wasn’t going to hit him, but I wanted to scare him and make him jump. He jumped, all right, but he’s fast, even when he’s drunk, and he stuck his leg out in front of my wheel, and I crashed, and he fell on top of me, and I hit my head on my handlebars, here.” Frank pointed to his eye.
“Go on,” said Mr. Milford.
“So when I got up, I said, ‘I’m gonna kill you, you stupid drunk.’ And Big Joe got up and dusted off and started laughing. I rode away and my front wheel was bent, and I was so mad I went straight to Grant’s house. I was going to ask him if we could go hunt jackrabbits instead of playing ball, so I could get my hands on his gun and I was . . . I was going to take off with the gun, and I was gonna go shoot Big Joe. Or at least scare him good. I was so mad.”
Grant held his breath.
“Everybody was gone when I got there—to the O’Gradys. Nobody home. I was steaming mad and I pounded on the door. Hard. Nobody came. So I went around back, and the kitchen door was open. I figured Grant wouldn’t mind too much if I just borrowed his gun for the afternoon, and I knew where he kept it, so I went in and got it.” Frank looked up at Grant miserably. “And a few rifle shells from his box. And then, I was going to go hunting. I really was. But I was so mad, I rode back over toward the Thorsons’.”
“What were you planning?” Mr. Milford asked.
“I don’t really know. I couldn’t see straight, I was so mad. I just wanted a gun and I wanted to get Big Joe. Maybe scare him.”
“So what happened?”
“I got over there, and I could see Big Joe doing something to the back door, so I went around back to see better. I hid behind the dugout at the ball field. And I could see he was trying to get in the door—with his pocketknife, it looked like. And he had a gun in his arm.” Frank demonstrated holding the gun in the crook of his arm so his hands were free. “So I put a shell in the rifle and pointed Grant’s gun at Big Joe’s back. I was ready to shoot, and I wanted to shoot, but I was scared, and I was afraid I’d miss and he’d turn around and shoot me, too, but then he opened the door and sort of fell into the house, and
slammed the door.”
Frank looked at Mr. Milford.
Mr. Milford nodded at him.
“And then I heard a loud thunk—not a gunshot—that’s what I was expecting, a gunshot—but it wasn’t. It was a thunk, and then another thud like the house shook.” Frank looked at Grant again. “Then I waited. After a little while, Mrs. Thorson came out of the house in a hurry. She was carrying a gun—I figured the same one—and she put it in the car. Then she went back in and came out lugging some piece of furniture and put it in the trunk. She could hardly lift it, and I wondered why Little Joe didn’t help her. But she slammed the trunk and got in the car and drove away.
“So I sneaked up to the kitchen window and looked in. I could see . . . all I could see was Little Joe with his back to me, sitting in a chair. So I went and knocked. Little Joe came running over but he didn’t even open the door. He yelled, ‘Who’s there?’
“And I yelled, ‘Frank.’
“And he yelled, ‘Get away, Frank. Go home!’
“I said loud, through the door, ‘I got Grant’s gun. Want to go hunting or anything?’
“Little Joe yelled through the door, ‘No! Why? How’d you get Grant’s gun?’
“I said back, ‘I borrowed it,’ and I don’t think Little Joe believed me. He was quiet for a little bit.
“Then Little Joe said, ‘Naw, I can’t go.’
“And I told him I was gonna go hunting, but my head hurt bad, so I was just going home if he wanted to borrow the gun. ’Cause Grant wasn’t home anyway.
“Then Little Joe cracked open the door and looked at me. He scrunched up his face. ‘What did you do to your eye?’ he asked me.
“‘Your dad made me fall on my bike,’ I said.
“Little Joe squinted through the door crack at me and said, ‘That have anything to do with you going hunting?’
“‘Maybe,’ I said.
“Little Joe nodded. ‘You can put the gun in the lean-to if you want,’ he said. ‘I might go hunting. I can take it back to Grant before we leave for Reservation Lake.’
“So I said, ‘Okay,’ and I put the gun in the lean-to, and I rode my bike home. And I didn’t know anything else until we smelled something dead while we were playing ball.”
“And what did you think about the smell of something dead?”
“I thought—I mean, I was afraid—that maybe somebody was dead.”
“Big Joe?”
“I didn’t know. I thought maybe, since Little Joe was still alive when I saw him. I didn’t know.”
“Anything else to tell the court?” Loeffler, who was Mrs. Thorson’s public defender, asked Frank.
Frank shook his head.
“Speak up, son. The court needs to hear you.”
“No, sir. That’s all.”
“Thank you, Frank. That will be all.”
Frank stood up from the witness stand, and he pulled his eyes, one still puffy and yellow-purple, up from the floor. He looked directly at Grant. Grant had known Frank his whole life. He had seen him defiant and angry and full of crazy ideas. He had never seen Frank look sorry. Now, his eyes said I’m sorry to Grant, loud and clear.
Next, the lawyers called Little Joe to the stand.
“It’s been told to this court, young man, that on more than one occasion, you said aloud that you either ‘wished’ your dad was dead, or that you would kill him if you had the chance and could get away with it.” Mr. Loeffler held Joe’s gaze. Neither one blinked. “Is that true?”
“Yes, sir.”
It seemed to Grant that not a person in court even breathed, waiting for more.
“Can you tell us why a young man like you would feel such a thing?”
“Because he whupped us. Beat us up. My mom would have to hide her face because Dad hit her so much she’d have black eyes and be embarrassed to go out. And he hit me plenty of times. I had black eyes and other bruises. And then he promised he’d bring us pot roast for Christmas dinner, and he never came home. He drank all the grocery money away. And then he almost wrecked my friend Grant’s pitching arm and that would wreck his chances of getting in the big leagues, and then he stole Grant’s honey . . .”
The lawyer asked Joe about a thousand questions, and Little Joe never hesitated. He answered every one looking at the lawyer’s face.
“So, young Joe Thorson. Did you indeed kill your father?” Loeffler asked.
“Objection!” yelled Milford. “Leading the witness. This witness is not on trial for murder.”
“Yes, I did,” said Little Joe. Loud and clear.
“Objection!” yelled Milford louder.
“Sustained,” the judge said. “The jury should disregard any response after objections are lodged.”
Grant thought that he saw the thinnest hint of a smile on the judge’s face. “As I said,” Judge Chesterman repeated, “the objection is sustained. Proceed.”
“That’s all for now,” Loeffler said. “Permission to recall the witness at a later time.”
Finally, Mrs. Mary Thorson was called to the stand. Mr. Loeffler asked questions about the beatings and the drinking. Finally he asked, “Mrs. Thorson. Can you tell us exactly what happened on the afternoon and night of July second?”
Mrs. Thorson stared at him, her eyes beautiful, dark, and sad. She shook her head once.
“Mrs. Thorson, you need to tell the court what happened, so they understand what happened and don’t make the wrong assumptions.”
She stared, silent.
“Mrs. Thorson. Please. It’s the only way for justice to happen.”
She looked down, then up at him again. She spoke softly but clearly. “I’m Indian. They’re white. Do you think they care what I say? When do white people give us justice, anyway?”
He looked at her. He nodded. “I understand your concern.” He nodded again, and walked a small circle, looking at the judge, and over at each member of the jury. He came back and faced her. “However, Mrs. Thorson, this jury is sworn to do a duty for the court. Judge Chesterman has a reputation for fairness. To be fair and unbiased. The only way the court can do that is if you tell them what happened. Can you tell them about the night you supposedly left on vacation for Reservation Lake?”
She looked at him. She looked past him, at the jury, and finally at the judge. “Yes,” Mrs. Thorson said, “I can.”
“Please do.”
So Mary Thorson began her story. “Big Joe went to the blacksmith shop to work in the morning like usual. He said to have the car packed and a picnic dinner and supper ready to eat on the way, so we could leave for vacation at Reservation Lake as soon as he was done with work. He said he would come home for dinner at noon. Little Joe and Emma and Alice and I had everything ready.
“Then he didn’t come home on time, and I got nervous. Finally at three o’clock, he shows up, drunk as a skunk, staggering down the road, and hollering for us to get in the car so we can get the show on the road.”
“Did you?”
“No. I met him at the door, and I said, ‘Joe, we’re ready to go, but we’re not going anywhere with you driving that drunk. You sober up and we’ll leave in the morning.’ He grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, and then he slapped my face. He said, ‘Don’t you think you’re the boss of me, woman. We’re going today!’ And I said, ‘No, we’re not. You’re too drunk to drive that car.’ And he grabbed me around the throat then and shook me again and he said, ‘You get yourself and those half-breed kids in the car.’ And I said, ‘No, we won’t go with you.’
“And he said, ‘I’ll show you who’s boss of this house,’ and he went to the lean-to to get his .22. I knew that’s what he was after. Little Joe started after him, and I said, ‘Let him be,’ and Little Joe said ‘but he’s getting the gun!’ And I said, ‘Let him! I’ve had enough.’
“And I reached into the sideboard, and I got out my heaviest cast-iron skillet, and I told Little Joe, ‘Get out of here right now. You can come back in a couple minutes.’ And he didn’t wa
nt to go, but I said, ‘Go!’ and he ran upstairs, and I locked the kitchen door and hid with the skillet . . . And when Big Joe couldn’t bust the door, he opened the lock with his pocketknife like I knew he would, and I waited for him to come in.”
Here Mary Thorson, who had warmed to telling her story so much it was hard to believe she had been hesitant to talk, lifted her arms above her head, as if holding the skillet, acting out what she’d one that afternoon. “And when he shoved open the door, he didn’t see me behind it, so he turned to go in the sitting room, and I brought it down, bang, on his head, as hard as I could.” Mary Thorson brought her arms down, showing how hard she’d smacked him.
“And he turned toward me a little bit, but I knocked him out cold. He fell on his face on the kitchen floor.”
The women’s fans stopped again. The whole courtroom of people sat so quiet Grant knew he could have heard dust blow across the floor.
“Then what?” asked Mr. Loeffler.
“Then I kicked him a little to make sure he was out cold, and I pulled the gun out from under him.”
“Go on.”
“Little Joe came running down to see what happened. He yelled, ‘Thank goodness. Mama, I thought he hit you.’ And I smiled. I remember I actually smiled at Little Joe. I said, ‘This big, drunk oaf has hit us for the last time.’”
The silence was unbearable while everybody waited for Mrs. Thorson to continue.
“So I gave Joe the skillet. I thought about giving him the rifle, but I didn’t want him to have to shoot his own father. So I said, ‘He moves, even a tiny bit, you whack him again, hard as you have to, on the head. Keep him out cold.’ And Joe just looked at me like he couldn’t believe all this but he nodded and took the skillet and sat down in a kitchen chair to guard him.
“‘I’ll be gone about an hour,’ I said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t let him get up, or he’ll kill us all. Whatever you have to do.’ He asked where I was going, and I said, ‘You’ll see.’ And just then Emma and Alice came in, and Little Joe said, ‘Mama, go. I’ll explain to them,’ so I went. And I took the gun so Big Joe couldn’t shoot them if he did wake up.”
Slider’s Son Page 24
