Mrs. Thorson wrung her hands together. “What would you do? If you knew your husband would kill you, and probably your kids, and—”
“Objection!” Mr. Milford jumped up from his seat.
“Sustained,” said Judge Chesterman. “Mrs. Thorson, try not to lead the jury. Just tell us your story.”
Mrs. Thorson straightened her skirt. “I’m sorry, your honor.”
Grant glanced at Orland’s mom. Her face was whitish, her hand clamped over her mouth.
Mr. Loeffler crossed over closer to Mary Thorson and smiled a tiny bit at her. “So, continue your story, Mrs. Thorson. Where did you go?”
“I drove to Devils Lake.”
“Why?”
“I bought new linoleum.”
“What did you plan to do with it?”
“Well, I knew I couldn’t carry that big oaf’s body anywhere, and I wasn’t going to let him kill my kids, or kill us driving that drunk, and so that meant both of us couldn’t go to Reservation Lake alive.”
“Why did you drive all the way to Devils Lake?”
“To buy linoleum.”
“Why Devils Lake? Why not buy linoleum here?”
“So nobody in town would wonder why I’d just bought linoleum before we went away.”
Mr. Loeffler said, “How on earth, may I ask, could you afford the linoleum?”
“I traded Joe’s mother’s Singer sewing machine for it. In Devil’s Lake.”
Mr. Loeffler nodded. “Go on.”
“I brought it home. Emma and Alice sat guard over Big Joe, to yell at us if he moved, and Little Joe and I and cut it to fit.”
She sighed, deeply, tired so that her shoulders, under the white-and-red flowered dress, moved up and down with the sigh.
“And then, Mrs. Thorson?”
“It took us until almost dark. And then I opened the cellar door, and Little Joe and I dragged him to the cellar stairs and I gave him a push and let him fall down.”
The whole courtroom sucked in its collective breath again.
“And then?” Loeffler asked gently.
“Then I shot him,” Mary Thorson said. “He was all crumpled up, but I aimed for his heart.”
“Why? When he was already unresponsive?”
“Sir, if he had woken up, he would have been like an angry, wounded bear. He said he was going to kill us before. After I hit him in the head, he would have come and found us and killed us, no matter how long it took him to get out of the cellar. I couldn’t risk it. He was full of rage. That’s why. We ran away once before and he came and found us and almost killed us.”
She looked so sad and so tired that Grant couldn’t imagine anybody blaming her for all of this. “It was him or me and the kids. Somebody was going to die that day. And we—we’d had enough.”
“Can you tell me how many times you shot him in the chest?”
“Once. Just once. I figured it was through the heart and once was enough.”
Grant expected Milford to yell objection again, but he didn’t.
“So then, I threw his gun down there, too, and closed the cellar door tight. Then Little Joe and I laid out the linoleum and nailed it down.”
“Why did you wait to shoot him until the last minute?”
“First I thought maybe he was already dead. That maybe I killed him with the pan. But I couldn’t take any chances. Besides, it was so hot. The longer before he stunk, the better, I figured. The later he died, the farther we’d get. And maybe we’d get away.”
“Can you tell me why, Mrs. Thorson, the coroner says there were two bullets in your husband’s body?”
Mrs. Thorson, who had looked so sad, so quiet, so resigned to her fate, looked up at Mr. Loeffler with complete surprise. “No. I don’t know why.”
“No more questions, your honor.”
Mr. Milford got up to ask questions, but nothing seemed to matter after that. Mary Thorson had killed Big Joe. Grant’s heart felt like it had dropped into his shoes.
“The state calls Joe Thorson, Junior, back to the witness stand.”
Little Joe was reminded that he was still under oath, and he took the stand again.
Mr. Loeffler said, “Can you enlighten us, young man, why there were two bullets in your father’s body when your mother says she shot him only once?”
“I shot him.”
“Objection!” shouted Mr. Milford. “The boy is not on trial here.”
“Overruled,” the judge said. “The witness is merely answering questions.”
Mr. Milford sighed back into his seat.
Little Joe continued. “I was scared my dad would start to move while my mom was gone to Devils Lake. I didn’t know if I could hit him hard enough to knock him out again. Then Frank showed up when Mom was gone. I was scared he’d see Dad’s body, and I wanted to get Frank to leave. But then he said he had Grant’s gun, and that’s why I told Frank to leave the gun, like he said, in the lean-to, in case I needed it, if my dad woke up.”
“So then what happened?”
“After a while, my dad moved his foot, and then he groaned. I hefted the pan, and I hit him again, but it was so heavy, and I was so scared, and he kept moving his feet a little bit, so I ran to the lean-to shed and got Grant’s gun, and I made sure it was loaded, and I brought into the kitchen.”
Grant felt his heart beating about a thousand beats a minute. The petrified wood had taken over the rest of his body, and if the lawyers called him back to the witness stand, he wouldn’t even be able to get up because he was made of stone.
“I told Alice and Emma to go upstairs and wait until I called them,” Little Joe said. “They didn’t want to go, but I made them. Then I sat down in the kitchen chair with Grant’s gun pointed at Dad.”
“Go on.”
“So I sat and waited. And pretty soon, my dad moved again. And he groaned and moved his head, and started to try to get up. And I moved back. Then he sat up and saw me.”
“Go on,” the lawyer said.
“He saw me and saw the gun, and he said, ‘You little half-breed. You wouldn’t dare. Besides, I want you to watch me kill your mama. Then I’ll kill you and your sisters.’ And he started to get up, and he did and he sort of stumbled at me. He said, “All you Injuns are murdering . . .” and reached to grab me. But didn’t finish because I shot him in the chest. And he fell on his face.”
Grant felt as if the petrified wood that was his body split in two. Because Little Joe started to cry. Little Joe, who was as stoic as could be, Little Joe, who wore bruises and cuts from being hit by his dad without ever complaining or whining once, wiped his eyes and said, “And so, yes, I shot my dad. So he wouldn’t kill us.”
“But your mother says she killed him,” Mr. Loeffler said gently.
Little Joe nodded. “I know, but he was already dead when she got home. I had mopped up the blood already. I shot him in the chest. I didn’t want her to have to kill him. I didn’t want her to go to prison and leave my little sisters.” He sniffed and pushed at both eyes with the palms of his hands. “And I dragged him to the side, and cleaned up the blood from his chest. It took a whole towel, and I hid it in the cellar. And it was dark when we threw him down the cellar, so Mama didn’t see the blood on his shirt. She thought she killed him. But I did.” And Little Joe sat and sobbed in front of the whole courtroom and his mom and the judge and all of them.
Loeffler stood directly in front of Little Joe and waited a moment. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling us, clearly, that in order to protect your mother and your sisters and yourself, that you shot your father in the chest. When he got up and came at you and told you he was going to kill your mother.”
Little Joe wiped his face on his sleeve and looked at the lawyer. “Yes, sir.”
Loeffler turned toward the jury. “So when your mother came home, your father was already dead?”
“Yes, sir.” Little Joe wiped his nose again.
“So, if this story is correct, your mother didn’t kill her hu
sband. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No further questions, your honor,” Mr. Loeffler said.
Mr. Milford stepped up to the witness stand. “Young Joe Thorson. Your mother says she killed him. Is she a liar?” Mil-ford asked.
Little Joe wiped his eyes again and lifted them, black with anger, to look Mr. Milford straight in the eye. “My mother is not a liar. I’m telling the truth. She just didn’t know I shot him first.”
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
Little Joe was quiet, biting his lips to keep from crying anymore. Finally he said, “I knew she would feel worse if she knew I had to kill him. She didn’t want me to have to kill him. That’s why she didn’t leave me the gun. But she didn’t know about Grant’s gun. So I cleaned everything up and put the gun back in the lean-to so Frank could give it back to Grant, and I didn’t tell her. Until now.” He looked up at his mother, his eyes sad and shining.
The courthouse erupted in a tidal wave of murmuring. The fans started up again, the pictures of Jesus making the faint sound of a swarm of insects.
Grant felt the sweat pool under his armpits and run down his ribs, and his hands were so wet he could hardly hold onto his knees, but he knew this was the time to do what he had to do. If Joe and Mrs. Thorson had each shot Big Joe, Little Joe’s shot with Grant’s gun had killed Big Joe. Little Joe would go away, forever, to juvenile jail or a reformatory. Or something worse.
“Dad?” he whispered, leaning close.
Slider bent his head toward Grant to listen.
“They can’t find Mrs. Thorson guilty now, can they?”
“Yes, they can,” Slider said.
“But she didn’t kill him!”
“We know that, and it wouldn’t be justice,” Slider said, “But yes, they can. They could say she acted with malice and intent to kill and her son was her weapon. I’ve seen more senseless decisions than that from a jury, son. Son, sad as it is, she’s still an Indian and a white man is dead.”
If that was true, it was the time for Grant to make his move. It was now or never.
His heart pounding, Grant took a deep breath and stood up. “Excuse me, your honor.”
The judge’s head lifted, and he leveled a look at Grant.
“I killed Big Joe,” Grant said out loud. His knees shook. “It was my gun, after all. I killed him as much as Little Joe did. I killed him as much as Mrs. Thorson did. I hated him. I wanted him dead, too.”
The judge knocked the gavel. “You’re out of order, young man. Sit down.”
“But you see, Judge, I killed Big Joe.” Grant said.
Judge Chesterman narrowed his eyes at Grant, his hand holding the gavel paused mid-air.
“No,” Orland’s voice rang from across the aisle. “No. I killed Big Joe.”
“No, I did.” Sammy’s voice. “I killed him.”
“I killed Big Joe.” Tommy’s voice.
The judge banged the gavel. “Order.”
Tim stood up. “I killed him.”
“No, I killed him.” Grant glanced back. Sue.
“I killed him,” came Bud’s voice.
The gavel banged twice again. “Order!”
“But I killed him.” Frank’s voice.
Grant turned. Frank. Frank hadn’t even been in on the pact. Frank, who mostly cared about his own skin. Frank, who really might have killed Big Joe himself. Frank had come through for the team. For Little Joe. All over the courthouse, the rest of the baseball team, every one, those who didn’t even know about Grant’s plan, popped up and each one of them in turn insisted, “No, I killed Big Joe.”
Judge Chesterman slammed his gavel. “Silence! Order in the court! You are all out of order, and I’d ask you to sit down this instance before I declare a mistrial and throw out everything.”
“But I killed him,” one more voice rang out. Clear as a bell, softer than any of the others, and feminine. Grant turned and looked. Suzy Matheison stood in the back row of the courthouse, on the opposite side, her eyes on Grant. “We all killed him.”
Grant’s mouth fell open. Suzy smiled at him. She crossed her arms and kept smiling and kept standing. “To save Little Joe so his dad wouldn’t kill him,” Suzy finished.
“Order in the court!”
The boys stood, looking at the judge. Suzy stood with them, her eyes on Grant.
“Order!” Judge Chesterman slammed the gavel. “Order in the court! Sit down this instant!”
The boys sat. Suzy sat.
Grant sat. His eyes were burning. He was not going to cry. His friends were loyal. And dad-gum it all, Frank held more than an ounce of human kindness and loyalty in his soul after all.
Little Joe looked straight at Grant. He didn’t smile, but Grant could see disbelief and gratitude shining along with the sadness in Joe’s eyes.
The judge pounded with his gavel again. “Order! Silence! If one more person speaks out of turn in this courtroom, I will consider it contempt of court and clear the courtroom immediately. Understood?” He looked around the room. No one moved. The women’s fans were stilled once more. “And,” he said, leaning forward and looking at the jury. “Members of the jury, I ask you to strike these irrelevant comments from your memory and disregard this outburst as having absolutely no effect whatsoever on the outcome of this trial. If you are unable to do so, I will have to declare a mistrial. Is that understood?”
The jury nodded their collective heads.
“Are you able to disregard these comments and this interruption? Raise your hands if so.”
All the jurors raised their hands. Mrs. Bjelland’s hand was last. It shook as she raised it, her eyes on Orland in disbelief.
Milford squinted at Little Joe, who was looking at his mother. “No more questions, your honor,” Milford said. Little Joe went back to his seat.
The judge tapped his gavel. “The problem here,” the judge said, “is that only Mary Thorson is on trial. We are here only to evaluate the guilt or innocence of Mary Thorson.” He gave the jury a meaningful glare.
After the lawyers’ closing remarks, Judge Chesterman addressed the jury. He gave them explicit instructions to disregard the irrelevant comments, and to consider if they could discern beyond reasonable doubt that Mary Thorson had killed her husband, that she had planned and executed a cold-blooded murder with malicious intent. He reminded them that Little Joe was not on trial, but only Mary Thorson. Little Joe was a different matter.
The jury was excused from the courtroom to deliberate. Little Joe, Mrs. Thorson, Emma, and Alice were ushered somewhere back near the judge’s chambers.
The spectators and the witnesses went into the hallway for drinks of water. Forty-five minutes later, the bailiff came out in the hall and said, “The jury has reached a decision. If you wish to hear the outcome, take your seats quickly and quietly at this time.”
Forty-Three
The Verdict
The rush into the courtroom reminded Grant of a ball team pouring from the dugout when somebody hit a winning homerun.
“Please rise.”
Everybody rose while Judge Chesterman entered. After the formalities, the judge asked, “Has the jury reached a decision?”
The foreman of the jury rose. “We have, your honor.” He extended his hand, and the paper was carried to the judge.
Judge Chesterman stood up and said, “Mary Thorson, please rise.”
Mrs. Thorson stood.
Judge Chesterman looked at Mrs. Thorson. “The jury states: ‘We, the jury, find the defendant, Mary Thorson, not guilty of the murder of Joe Thorson, Senior.”
The courtroom held its breath for a split second, swallowing the news, and then erupted in a chorus of cheers.
The judge pounded his gavel again. “Silence!”
The roar dissolved into quiet.
“Sit!” He thundered. And the courtroom crowd sat.
The judge continued. “And, by the power vested in me, since young Joe Thorson, Junior, is a
juvenile, and does not mandatorily have to stand trial for murder, the decision for his guilt or innocence rests in my hands as a judge of North Dakota Court. I will hold a private hearing for Joe Thorson, Junior, tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. He will remain in custody until that time. This case against Mary Thorson is closed.”
The courtroom erupted again. This time, people jumped from their seats and no one was quieted or made to sit. Milford shook Loeffler’s hand and rushed out.
Joe stood, somber, looking on. Emma and Alice hurried to their mother. Mrs. Thorson turned to her girls and pulled them to her, but her eyes were on Little Joe.
Little Joe came over, and he and his mother just looked at each other over the girls’ heads. They stood there for a few moments. Then Little Joe was led away. Mrs. Thorson and Emma and Alice watched Little Joe go. Mary Thorson held the girls so tight that Grant thought they might crack.
Grant turned away, to let them have some family privacy. At the far side of the courtroom, Suzy stood beside her father, smiling at Grant.
Grant smiled back. “Thank you,” he mouthed at her.
She nodded. “You’re welcome, Grant O’Grady,” she mouthed back. Her father guided her toward the courtroom door, and she beamed at him over her shoulder and lifted her hand in a wave before she turned to leave with her father.
Orland came rushing up beside Grant. They stood, looking at each other, not sure what to say, so not saying anything, and made their way through the courtroom to find Frank and Sammy and the rest of the team.
Grandma Beadlie sat in the very back row, waiting for the crowd to clear before she made her way out with her cane.
“Hello, Grandma,” Grant said.
“See, Granty? I always said you were a good one.”
“But I told a lie in court. That’s not good. And we don’t know what will happen with Little Joe.”
She grabbed his pitching arm with her bony fingers and jerked him toward her. “Rules. Rules and laws were made for people. People weren’t made to fit the rules. Following your heart is the only rule that counts, young man. You’re a good one, Granty O’Grady.” And she let him go.
Slider’s Son Page 25
