That was what my heart wanted to do, but, in reality, I froze. My lips allowed no sound. My feet were still, as if bolted to the floor, and my limp arms dangled at my sides. Daddy was arrested right in front of me. Daddy was handcuffed and treated like a criminal, a murderer. Daddy murdered Momma? The sheriff thought Daddy looked into Momma’s beautiful eyes and pulled the trigger of his rifle. These men thought Daddy took her away from me.
Before I really knew what was happening, the strange man, who I would later learn to be Detective William Murray of the Clarke County Sheriff’s Office, handcuffed Daddy and told him that he could keep silent if he wanted and that he would be given an attorney.
Daddy glanced at me and said, “I won’t be long. Don’t worry.” Then, the three men took him away.
The front door slamming felt like a slap in the face. Daddy was supposed to fix the hinges on the door that afternoon so it wouldn’t slam shut every time a customer walked through the door. I guessed the door would continue to slam until Daddy came home. I just didn’t know when that would be. As the sting faded, I realized that I was holding my breath.
“Were handcuffs really necessary?” I asked to the empty room.
For a moment, I looked around, wondering what I was supposed to do. Do I tell Meg, Billy, and Albert that Daddy was handcuffed and taken to jail? Do I finish getting the dining room ready for dinner service? Do I tell Henrietta that Daddy was just arrested so I have no clue what we’re supposed to do with the hotel guests or dinner service? Do I run four blocks over to the jail and beg the men inside to let Daddy go?
“Henrietta, I’m going out for a bit,” I yelled toward the kitchen.
I propped the Sorry, We’re Closed sign in the window, and rushed through the café door. I ran down Main Street and then turned right onto Jackson Road, dashing passed the few pedestrians sauntering down the sidewalk. In four short blocks and what felt like mere seconds, I was standing, out of breath, in front of the Clarke County jail. My heart was racing, and I felt beads of sweat streaming down my back under my cotton frock and apron.
I must have appeared insane sprinting down Jackson Road, with my apron on and clutching my pen and tablet, one in each hand. The old biddies back in Frisco City would have loved each delightfully embarrassing morsel of the scene I surely made. I quickly took off my apron, wiped my face with the hem, and then rolled it into a ball around my pen and tablet. I smoothed my hair and tried not to look as crazed as I felt. As I walked into the foyer, I tried to remember all of the legal terms used in the murder mysteries I loved to read, but, much to my disappointment, I just felt incredibly aware of standing alone in a jail looking for my father.
“May I help yew, Miss?” asked the officer seated behind a desk toward the back of the room. The way he squished and dragged out the ‘yewww’, made the hair on my arms stand up, and reminded me of the voices of the men outside Hendrix General Store in Frisco City.
I approached him and said, “I am looking for my father, Hubbard Andrews. I think he was brought here just now.”
“Speak up now,” he said, “I can barely hear ya, Girl.”
So much for discretion, I thought. I repeated myself loud enough for everyone in the entryway to hear.
“Uh, huh,” the officer muttered, “And why do you think that?”
“Because they just arrested him in our God-forsaken dining room!” My voice cracked as tears filled my eyes. I swallowed hard and forced myself not to cry. I looked the officer directly in the eyes; after all, what did I have to be ashamed of; and asked, “Will you please see if he was brought here? Mr. Hubbard Andrews?”
“Wait here, Miss. I’ll go check.”
I sat down on the hard, wooden bench and waited for what seemed like an eternity until the officer finally came back.
“Miss Andrews, your daddy was brought here,” the officer said, then gave me the all too familiar head tilt of sympathy, “Seems the charge is murder. Your momma?”
“Are you asking me if he did it?”
“Oh, no, Miss. Just…well, he was brought here. They’re processing him now. He’ll have to stay here a while.”
“When can he come home?”
“Well, it bein’ Saturday and all…Judge Bedsole won’t be back till Monday. So, the judge will decide Monday.”
“Decide what?”
“Oh, ya know, bail, trial dates, all that,” said the officer as if Daddy was arrested for murder every day of the week; as if Daddy being arrested was common or mundane. I wanted to smack him hard, right across the face, but thought better of it.
“So, he can’t come home yet?”
I felt like I was six years old again lost at the State Fair. I was supposed to hold onto Momma’s hand, but I let go, just for a second. When I turned to grab her hand again, she was gone. All I could see was a sea of legs. The crowd swept in so fast and chaotic, it pushed me away from Momma until I was completely alone standing on a grassy patch next to the main drag. Luckily, on that day, Momma found me within minutes. Momma’s hand wouldn’t lead me away from the nightmare that surrounded me in the jailhouse.
I left the jail and walked back toward the hotel with my head spinning. Daddy would be arraigned on Monday, a term I had learned from my novels. Daddy would enter his plea of not guilty, the judge would set his bail, I would pay the clerk, and then we would wait for the trial, at least that’s what happened in my books. So, I would go to the courthouse on Monday and wait for him. I would get him back.
Around four o’clock, I snuck in through the back entrance to the hotel, cutting through the kitchen. I could smell that Henrietta already had the grease hot for the dinner service. We would have customers soon, so I ran the four flights of stairs up to my room to clean up before going to work. I splashed some water on my face and brushed my hair, re-pinning it back on the sides.
“Meg?” I called down the hall.
She responded with an annoyed, “Yeah, Hattie, what?” from the room we used as a parlor.
“Make sure the boys get dinner and washed up before bed. We’ve got church tomorrow, and you kids have Sunday school,” I told her, “Oh, and, Daddy’s out. If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.” For this last part, I looked straight at her from the doorway of our makeshift parlor, “Make sure it’s an emergency.”
I didn’t have time to tell Meg what happened. I planned to tell her later that night, after the boys were asleep and the customers had all come and gone. Meg would surely have made a huge scene and give some sort of tear-soaked monologue, but I had work to do, so I put off the inevitable, ran down the stairs, and gave the dining room a quick once-over. At four-thirty on the dot, I unlocked the front door and flipped the Sorry, We’re Closed to Yes, We’re Open! Please come in.
The café was crowded that night with a steady stream of hungry customers. When the place was empty and clean, and the front door securely locked, I sat down to a bowl of butter beans and ham. After devouring every bite, I carefully counted the register drawer. Between lunch and dinner that day, there was $46.25 in the register. Daddy always counted the drawer privately after every service, so I had no idea so much money would be in it. I also had no idea how much Daddy’s bail would cost. I hoped the $46.25 would be enough.
The next morning, I awoke in a foggy haze. My muscles ached, and I immediately panicked over Daddy being arrested. When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Momma was sitting at the end of my bed, staring at me.
“Wake up, Hattie. We gotta get to church.”
I sprang up and was about to wrap my arms around her neck, sure that the nightmare of the last nine months was over. However, as my eyes cleared, I realized that I wasn’t looking at my mother’s, but rather her twin’s, face.
“Aunt Mittie, what are you doing here?” I whispered as I glanced at Meg’s bed.
“I already sent Meg downstairs with the boys for some breakfast,” Mittie answered, “I figured we needed to have ourselves a little talk, just us ladies.”
I cou
ldn’t believe how much Mittie looked like Momma, even if she did look a bit older. Momma’s skin was always so smooth, but Mittie had the beginnings of lines around her eyes and more of a tan than Momma ever let herself get. “A wide brim hat is a ladies best friend,” Momma would say every time we headed to the garden to dig around in the dirt. Still, Mittie had my mother’s eyes, cobalt blue, with the power to convince anyone of anything. I hadn’t looked into those eyes for months.
“So, I guess you heard about Daddy?” I asked.
“Yes, Honey. Melvin and I heard last night. You should have sent word. We’re your family.”
“Aunt Mittie, I haven’t seen you since before Momma…”
“I know. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t…but you need me now more than ever. Now, have you heard anything? About your Daddy?”
“All I know is that he’s been arrested for killin’ Momma. His arraignment is on Monday. I’m going.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, and nobody else knows yet, and I think that’s best. I thought about tellin’ Meg, but decided not to. I’ll go on Monday and get this all straightened out. He’ll come home, and there won’t be nothin’ more to talk about.”
With that, I hopped out of bed and went to my wardrobe. I chose my blue floral dress and cream slip. From the top shelf, I pulled down my straw hat with a lily-of-the-valley detail on the side that I thought complimented the little flowers on the dress. I also pulled out my cream gloves that matched the hat.
“That’s a pretty dress,” Mittie said.
“Thanks, Daddy gave it to me for my birthday,” I said. I may have emphasized the word Daddy too hard. I saw Mittie flinch in the reflection of the little mirror on my vanity.
“Hattie, Honey, we don’t know what’s gonna happen with your daddy. I know you want him to come home, but just in case…”
“You don’t want him to come home?” I snapped back at her.
“Hattie, I didn’t say that. What I meant is that we have to have a plan. You kids cannot stay here by yourselves if Hubbard doesn’t get out.”
“I’m not a kid. I did just fine yesterday. And we’re not by ourselves. Henrietta and Ruthie are here to help out.”
“You’re barely fourteen years old. Working to the bone in a café is no place for a young lady. You’ll be old and withered before you know it! And who do you think is going to take care of Meg and the boys?” Mittie’s refined façade started to crack.
“I will! I have been doin’ this for months and will keep doin’ it!”
I stopped myself from saying that I was taking care of this family long before Daddy went to jail. By the look on Mittie’s face, I could tell she had her reservations regarding Daddy. I slipped my dress over my head and turned to the little mirror. I looked tired. My hair desperately needed to be washed. My dress was much looser than it was a month ago. Nine months ago, my face was full, and my cheeks had a rosy tint. Sure, I was a little plump then, but I was pretty. Now, my face was a sallow mess. Maybe Aunt Mittie was right; maybe I did need some help.
Mittie stood up and looked at me in the mirror, “We’ll talk more about this after church. Hurry downstairs and get some food before it gets cold.” She kissed the top of my head and left me alone in my bedroom.
After church, while Meg and the boys were in Sunday school, I convinced Mittie not to tell them what was going on with Daddy. We told Meg that we had some business to attend to with the café, prior instructions from Daddy. We told her, in support of our lie, and that she would have to miss school to help Uncle Melvin and Henrietta out with the breakfast and lunch service. Needless to say, she shared a few choice words with me about the injustices of her life once we were alone in our bedroom. As hard as it was, I didn’t snap back at her with the truth. There was no need for both our lives to be turned upside down.
Early Monday morning, Mittie and I headed to the courthouse. Each man we passed tipped the brim of his hat at Mittie, and would then try to slyly look her up and down. Unlike Momma, Mittie either didn’t like attention from men or didn’t notice their admiration. Depending on her mood, Momma would have offered a coy smile or a “Morning, Handsome!”
Momma found the effect she had on men delightful, even hysterical at times, but not Aunt Mittie. Mittie stoically stared straight ahead, her hand tightly grasped around mine.
As we walked, hand in hand, I feared that every man, woman and child on the streets of Grove Hill that morning knew that secretly hidden in my purse was $46.25, the money I had taken from the register and hid under my mattress Saturday night. I had never in my life seen, held, much less walked around in public with that kind of money. I kept expecting someone to snatch my purse and flee down the street so fast that I would never catch up with the thief. I wriggled out of Mittie’s grasp and wrapped both hands tightly around the handles of my purse, holding it close to me. When we reached the courthouse, walked up the stairs, and crossed into the foyer, I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn’t robbed on the street and, therefore, wouldn’t have to explain to Daddy how all of the money earned on Saturday was stolen from me.
My relief was short lived. On a large placard next to the courtroom’s entrance was the docket for the day. Fourth on the list was Daddy’s name and, next to it, the words Murder 1st Degree. I stared at his name for probably a full minute, still unable to believe what happened in our dining room Saturday afternoon. Mittie tugged on my arm, pulling from my stupor.
We took our seats in the courtroom, fifth row from the front on the left side. I had hoped to be on the front row so that Daddy could see me clearly, but the room had already begun to fill. I saw reporters from the Clarke County Democrat, Sheriff’s Deputies, and dozens others I assumed were concerned family members of other men and women on the day’s docket. Aunt Mittie pointed out the prosecuting attorneys seated at the table on the right, directly in front of the judge’s bench. Mr. Frank Poole and County Solicitor A. S. Johnson represented the state of Alabama. Daddy knew these men! They ate at our café at least twice a week, if not more often. How could they think Daddy was guilty of such a crime? For God’s sake, Mr. Johnson came in for lunch three times the week before Daddy was arrested!
I was so surprised at the sight of these men who, until that moment, acted as if they were friends with Daddy, that I nearly missed the man seated three rows in front of us. Grandpa Andrews, Daddy’s father, must have arrived very early to get such a good seat. I couldn’t imagine what he felt when he learned his youngest child was handcuffed and thrown in jail like some common criminal. I don’t even know how Grandpa Andrews learned that Daddy was arrested, but I was thrilled that he was there. Judge Bedsole would see General Jackson Andrews; named so not for any military service, but because he completely deserved such a distinguished name; sitting there, and realize that no son of his could possibly be a murderous letch. I wanted to force my way into his row so that Daddy would see us seated together in solidarity for him, but I decided to sit tight and concentrate on protecting the $46.25 that would buy Daddy’s freedom.
Finally, after listening to the attorneys’ arguments over charges, preliminary motions, and bail amounts of other accused criminals, Daddy’s case was introduced. The sight of him with shackles on both his wrists and ankles nearly brought tears to my eyes, but I forced myself to smile at him, and gave a small wave so that he knew I was on his side. I marveled at the fact that even in shackles, he was the most handsome man in the room.
When Daddy was seated behind the left table next to Paul Jones, his appointed attorney and another frequent diner at the café, the bailiff began, “Next up, Hubbard Andrews, alias Herbert Andrews, alias Hubbard Anders, alias Herbert Anders, unlawfully and with malice aforethought killed Addie Andrews, alias Addie Anders, by shooting her with a gun. The charge is murder in the first degree as held over by the Grand Jury on September 15, 1934.”
“Mr. Andrews,” Judge Bedsole began, “how do you plead?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.” Daddy’s voice sounded sure
and strong.
“Your Honor, we request this charge be dismissed based on the circumstantial nature of the evidence in this case,” said Mr. Jones on Daddy’s behalf. “Mr. Andrews is an upstanding member of this community, the successful proprietor of the Andrews Hotel and Café, and a loving father of four children. He grieves the great tragedy of his dear wife’s death every day.”
“I know all about Mr. Andrews, Paul,” said Judge Bedsole.
“Your Honor, considering the gruesome and egregious nature of this crime, this charge must stand,” Mr. Poole said from behind the prosecution’s table.
“I agree, Frank. What do you propose in the matter of bail?”
“Well, Your Honor, the state requests bail be refused and that Mr. Andrews is remanded to Kilby while awaiting trial.”
When I heard the prosecutor’s request, I immediately started to panic. Why would they refuse to dismiss the charges? Could they refuse Daddy bail? Kilby State Prison was all the way in Montgomery. That had to be at least a hundred miles away. I would never see him!
Mr. Jones jumped in, “Your Honor, if the charge of murder must stand, then we ask that Mr. Andrews be released on his own recognizance. His four children, left motherless by this tragic accident, need their father. Please do not make these babies orphans.”
“No need for the dramatic, Paul,” said Judge Bedsole.
“And, Your Honor, I have in my possession, a letter of bond from several upstanding citizens of Crenshaw County, including the Crenshaw County Sheriff and General Jackson Andrews. If I may, Your Honor?”
“Go ahead, Paul,” instructed the judge.
“The letter states, ‘I, Sam W. Ewing, Sheriff of Crenshaw County, Alabama, hereby certify that the within is a good and sufficient bond in the sum of $5000’…”
The crowd gasped at such a large sum of money. So much chatter erupted that Judge Bedsole rapped his gavel, “Settle down, everyone. Paul, continue.”
The Woods at Barlow Bend Page 6
