“We’ll be needin’ a cot for the girl,” said Melvin.
“Yes, Sir, we’ll bring one up. You’re on the second floor. After ya get settled and freshen up, come on down for supper. Henrietta’s got some deee-licious pot roast on the stove. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
I smiled when I heard Henrietta’s name, not only because her name meant supper would be fantastic, but also because she was here. Not everything had to change constantly.
As promised, a cot was placed in the room for me. The rest of the furniture in the room was the same as it had been a year ago when we draped sheets over it and boarded up the windows. Back then, the room I shared with Meg seemed plenty spacious for the two of us, but now, between the suitcases, vanity, double bed, and my cot, we could barely move around in the room. The three of us were crammed in there like sardines, and after the long, hot drive, Uncle Melvin kind of smelled like a bony fish. I hung my dress for court as quickly as I could, and ran downstairs to the café, partly to see Henrietta, partly out of hunger, but mostly to protect my nose from Uncle Melvin’s stench.
“Miss Hattie, you come give me a hug!” Henrietta said as she saw me walk through the café. She hugged me so tightly that she nearly squeezed the wind out of me. “You must be in town fo’ your Daddy’s trial. I’s hopin’ to see you.”
“Yes, Ma’am. The trial starts tomorrow.”
“Oh, I know, Child. Ain’t nobody talking ‘bout nothin’ else. Just yo’ Daddy. Did he or didn’t he and all that.” Henrietta must have seen me flinch at the mention of Daddy’s possible guilt, because she went on to say, “Oh, Honey, but I believe the good Lord knows he didn’t hurt your momma. He’ll make sure he goes free. Don’t you worry none.”
Henrietta always believed that enough faith in the Lord could move mountains. I knew God could move mountains, but I didn’t know if he wanted to move this particular heap.
“Thank you, Henrietta,” I said and, “Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin are on their way down. I think we just want to get a bite of supper before we go to bed.”
The strangeness of the situation had started to sink in. For the first time, I was going to eat in the café as a customer, and then sleep on the second floor, rather than the fourth, as if this building was never my home. The sun had already set outside. I was hoping a good meal and the cool, moonless sky would cause me to drift off to sleep quickly. I had a feeling I would need every bit of strength I had once I sat down in the courtroom.
The next day, the trial was to begin at 9:00 a.m., but Aunt Mittie insisted we be there by eight. By 8:30, the place was packed. Every seat was filled, and reporters covered nearly every bit of floor space, apparently waiting for the trial of the century to start. As I looked around the room, I wondered if any of the businesses in Grove Hill were opened that day, as I’m pretty sure every shopkeeper, salesman, and clerk from Main Street, Jackson Road, and Court Road was crammed in the pews. The First Methodist Church Ladies’ Auxiliary had filled the last row on the left side, and were busy fanning themselves and running their mouths when the bailiff first entered. I guess they opted to watch a courtroom drama rather than listen to their tawdry radio soap stories that day.
L.V. Thompkins had been appointed bailiff for Daddy’s trial, and he did his best to silence the excited audience. He looked over the crowd for a minute, loudly cleared his throat, and then, “Listen up! Now, Judge Bedsole has seen this here crowd and gave me permission to clear the room if ya’ll cain’t keep quiet.”
The crowd immediately went silent at the threat of missing out on the spectacle. After that, the prosecuting attorneys, Mr. Frank Poole and County Solicitor A. S. Johnson, took their seats. Then Mr. Jones and Daddy’s team came into the courtroom. The crowd immediately started whispering about who was smarter, who was more charming, and who came from which long-suffering Alabama family.
A collective gasp, as if everyone sucked in air at the exact same time, came from the crowd when two sheriff’s deputies led Daddy into the room and seated him next to his attorneys. The sight of Daddy stunned me. Someone had gotten him a nice suit for the event, and he looked freshly shaven, but he was thinner than I had ever seen him. It had only been a year since I was last seated here, but now he looked much, much older. His hair had begun to gray at the temples. Fine lines had formed near his eyes and connected his nose to the corners of his mouth. Still, his natural charm and timeless good looks were undeniable. He gave a half smile to the crowd and a wink to me, which triggered an audible sigh from the Ladies’ Auxiliary and a throaty warning from the bailiff.
“All rise! The honorable Judge Bedsole presiding…”
As the bailiff continued to hail in Judge Bedsole and the jury, a reporter seated next to me whispered to a man with a camera crouching on the floor, “Well, Bob, here we go. Off to the circus.”
My stomach apparently agreed and started turning somersaults.
Chapter 17
September 23, 1935
Grove Hill, Alabama
After an hour of formalities, most of which I didn’t understand, the good part, according to the reporter next to me, was set to begin. I don’t think he knew who I was or why I was there. To the few strangers in the crowd, I must have looked like just another spectator hoping to have a juicy story by suppertime. Surely, if he knew who I was, he would have stopped making his tacky comments within earshot of me.
I wanted to grab him by the shoulders and say, “Listen! I’m that man’s daughter. The victim was my mother!” But I didn’t. Rather, I sat on the hard pew in a complete state of confusion. I didn’t know whether to ignore or memorize everything and everyone around me. Unfortunately, my terror and curiosity got the best of me, so I listened to every word.
The good part, as the reporter mentioned, was opening statements. The lead prosecutor, Mr. Frank Poole, took his place behind a large podium facing Judge Bedsole. I heard the pencils of every reporter in the room working like mad as soon as Mr. Poole stood. He was a tall rail of a man. I had always been surprised by how thin he was, considering the ample portions he would consume in the café. Small, round glasses were perched near the tip of his nose, and his shoulders created sharp points under his suit jacket. He seemed to tower over the room as he began his opening statement. I wondered if the reporters would cast Mr. Poole as a beacon for justice or a cobra rising for his attack in their daily commentary.
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury,” Mr. Poole said as he began to read from the notebook he had placed on the podium, “the State of Alabama will prove to you through the use of expert testimony and accounts from reputable citizens who know Mr. Hubbard Andrews best, that he, Mr. Hubbard Andrews, shot his wife, Addie Andrews, in cold blood on the morning of January 31, 1934. We will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was no accident, as Mr. Andrews would have you believe, but that it was in fact a cold, calculated murder.” Mr. Poole glanced up, momentarily interrupted by the crowd’s reaction to the word murder.
“Settle down,” said Judge Bedsole. Daddy’s trial had barely begun, and the judge already looked annoyed. “Continue, Mr. Poole.” At the arraignment, everything was “all right, Frank,” and “Not yet, John,” but today, Judge Bedsole ruled in a much more formal fashion. Every syllable sounded so serious.
Reading again from his notebook, Mr. Poole started up again, “Facing divorce and financial ruin, driven by desperation and lust, Mr. Andrews led his unsuspecting wife into the woods of Barlow Bend under the guise of a weekend hunting trip. Hidden by the thick pine, darkness, and fog, Mr. Hubbard Andrews took the shotgun given to him by his father-in-law and, at nearly point blank range, shot the beautiful Addie Andrews to death, blowing the top of her head off. Mr. Andrews has taken a mother away from her children and a child and sister away from her loving family. It is your job, ladies and gentlemen, to see that justice prevails. We will prove Mr. Andrews’s crime. You must make him pay for his heinous actions.” Mr. Poole looked up from his paper again, stared at the jury for what see
med to be an uncomfortably long time, and finally took his seat.
A medley of oh my, goodness gracious, unintelligible sighs, and chest thumping erupted from the galley. Whether their sighs and noises were in agreement with Mr. Poole, or a display of their amusement at his remarks and odd stare, I’ll never know. I forced myself to move past the mental picture of Momma’s fatal wound. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured her shiny hair and bright eyes instead.
“Opening statement for the defense?” said Judge Bedsole.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Mr. Jones, rising from his seat. Unlike Mr. Poole, who remained behind the podium, Mr. Jones put his hands in his pockets and began to walk around the courtroom a bit, finally stopping to lean against the front of the podium. I was struck by how relaxed he appeared in his seersucker suit. The room was hot, and everyone in the place was starting to drip, but not Mr. Jones. He looked cool as a cucumber, as if he had ice cubes hidden in his pockets. Facing the jury directly, Mr. Jones began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, what we’ve got here is a tragedy, a terrible tragedy. Mr. Andrews is not the cold-blooded killer that the prosecution would like to trick you into believing with all their fancy experts. Rather, Mr. Andrews was the unfortunate witness to an accident that took his beautiful Addie. Mr. Andrews is a family man and a grieving widower. The simple truth is that Addie Andrews loved to hunt, and Hubbard loved Addie, so as any devoted husband would, he did whatever he could to make her happy. That’s the only crime he’s guilty of: trying to make his wife happy.” Then, walking toward three male jurors on the front row, “Hard work, am I right, boys? Something we should all try to do: make the missus happy,” he paused for just a second. Mr. Jones’s voice was syrupy with empathy. “We shouldn’t punish him for that. We can’t blame him for what he did not do. We can’t convict him of a crime that never happened.” As he leaned in closer toward the jury, both hands on the railing that fenced the box, each member of the jury seemed to hang on Mr. Jones’s every word. His voice softened as he said, “Addie’s death was a tragic accident. Convicting Hubbard Andrews of a crime he didn’t commit would be just as tragic. Don’t let Mr. Prosecutin’ Attorney over there fool ya. You are all God-fearing, good Christian citizens of the great state of Alabama. I know without a shadow of a doubt, ya’ll know what’s right, and will do what’s right. Thank yew.” Mr. Jones bowed his head toward the jury, then turned away from them to cross to his seat, giving Mr. Poole a sly smile.
Mr. Poole called Mr. Dave McCord to the stand as the first witness for the prosecution. Mr. McCord looked about eighty years old. His black skin was as wrinkled as the cotton sheets at Aunt Mittie’s before the hot iron flattened them out. Like a lot of the men in the room, he was wearing what was more than likely the only suit in his thinly-stocked wardrobe.
Mr. McCord used a cane to walk down the aisle, leaning hard on his left side with every step. Steadying himself against the witness chair, he propped his cane on the armrest and placed one hand on the bible balanced in the bailiff’s hand. After Mr. McCord promised to tell the truth, he sat in the wooden chair, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and blotted his forehead. His labored breathing created a rhythmic hum over the captivated crowd.
“Please state your full name and profession,” said Mr. Poole from behind the center podium.
“Dave McCord, and I is a farmer mostly.”
“And where is your farm?”
“I rents a plot in Barlow Bend.” Mr. McCord’s voice was deeper and stronger than I expected it to be, considering his apparent health issues. Even with his head bowed, his voice reflected strength his body no longer possessed.
“And are you familiar with Mr. Hubbard Andrews?”
“Yes, Sir, I is.”
“How well do you know Mr. Andrews?”
“I used to porter for Mr. Andrews and Miss Addie. Back before my fingers got so twisted.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Poole, and then consulted his notes again. “Mr. McCord, you testified to the Grand Jury that on January 31, 1934, you witnessed Mr. and Mrs. Andrews enter the woods near your farm in Barlow Bend. Do you stand by this statement?”
“Yessa, I do.”
“You also testified that approximately three hours later, you witnessed Mr. Andrews emerge alone from the woods.”
“Yes.”
“And you are positive the man you saw was Mr. Andrews?”
“Yessa. He’s carryin’ sumpin big and walked straight back to his car.”
Whispers of “that musta been Addie” rushed through the crowd. Mr. Poole glanced over his shoulder and looked over his glasses perched on his rigid nose to the gallery until silence returned.
Turning back to the witness, Mr. Poole continued his questioning. “Did Mr. Andrews appear to be in a hurry when you witnessed him emerge from the woods and walk to his car with the bundle?”
“Nossah. He looked like he was just walkin’. But he look awful tired.”
“Uh huh. And in the three hours between Mr. Andrews and Mrs. Andrews entering the woods and Mr. Andrews emerging alone, did you hear anything from the woods?”
“Just the usual for that time of year,” said Mr. McCord.
“Did you hear a gunshot?” Mr. Poole’s teeth clacked on the word “shot”.
“Yessa,” said Mr. McCord.
“Thank you.”
“I heard several shots that morning. I guess one of ‘em mighta been the one that got Miss Addie.”
“Thank you, Mr. McCord,” Mr. Poole said, although his tone didn’t sound grateful. “That will be all.”
“Your witness, Mr. Jones,” announced Judge Bedsole.
Daddy’s attorney rose from his seat. Walking toward the front of the room, he placed a notebook on the podium, and then took two more steps toward Mr. McCord.
“Mr. McCord,” Jones began, “you’re a sharecropper in Barlow Bend, right?”
“Yessa.”
“You don’t own the land you farm, do you?”
“No,” said Mr. McCord, his pride unfaltering at the mention of renting rather than owning. In Alabama, the only difference between the haves and the have-nots at that time, was land. Other than that, we were all pretty much the same.
“And just to clarify, did you witness Mr. Andrews shoot Mrs. Addie Andrews on January 31, 1934?”
“No, Sir.”
“So, you didn’t porter for them that morning?”
“No, Sir, my hands don’t do so good in the cold air.”
“Did Mr. Andrews ask you to porter for them that morning?”
“Yessa.”
“But you refused on account of your condition?”
“I didn’t feel good ‘bout taken Mr. Andrews’s money if I couldn’t do the work.”
“And you spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Andrews before they entered the woods that morning?”
“Yessa.”
“And do recall anything strange regarding Mr. Andrews’s behavior on that morning?”
“No, Sir. They seemed ready to get to it, get in them woods before the sun come up.” Mr. McCord wiped his forehead again, and then, “Miss Addie brought me a pumpkin pie that morning. She was always real sweet to me. Treated me real good.” Mr. McCord raised his head on that last statement. For a second, his gaze met mine, as if he knew I was Momma’s eldest child. Until Mr. McCord mentioned the pie, I had completely forgotten about helping Momma make it a few days before she walked into the woods with Daddy.
“Did Mr. Andrews appear angry or upset in any way?”
“No, Sir.”
“Did he seem like the murderin’ type?”
Mr. Poole jumped to his feet. “Objection! Speculation. Mr. McCord is in no way qualified to judge Mr. Andrews’ mental or emotional state on that morning.”
“Sustained. Agreed,” said Judge Bedsole. “Stick to the facts, Jones.”
“Certainly,” said Mr. Jones to the judge. “Mr. McCord, how far from Mr. Andrews were you when you saw him emerge from the woods that morning?”
&
nbsp; “Well, that’s hard to say.”
“Approximately, then.”
“Guess a couple hundred yards away.”
“Where were you exactly?”
“I’s in the field, checkin’ for freeze.”
“So, from that distance, would it be fair to assume that you couldn’t really see what state Mr. Andrews was in? Whether he was hurrying or not, upset or not, or even what or who he was carrying?”
“Objection!” Mr. Poole snapped, jumping to his feet again. “We have already determined that the bundle Mr. Andrews carried from the woods that morning was Mrs. Addie Andrews.”
“Actually, Your Honor,” said Mr. Jones, “we have not established that yet. And if Mr. McCord is supposed to be some sort of eyewitness to the account, I think the jury should know exactly where Mr. McCord was and exactly what he thinks he witnessed.”
“Overruled,” said Judge Bedsole, siding that time with Daddy’s team.
“Mr. McCord,” said Mr. Jones, turning back to the old man, “I want to thank you for coming here today. It couldn’t have been an easy trip in your condition.”
“No, Sir, but I does my duty.”
“Yes, you have. But considering your health, I do wonder, how is your eyesight?”
“Well, I s’pose it ain’t as good as it used be neither.”
“Thank you, Mr. McCord. That’s all, Your Honor,” and Mr. Jones returned to his seat.
“You’re dismissed,” Judge Bedsole said to Mr. McCord, and then, “Poole, call your next witness.”
The rustling crowd watched Mr. McCord limp down the center aisle and waited to see whom the State would call to the stand next.
“The State calls Stephen Andrews,” said Mr. Poole.
“But,” I whispered to Aunt Mittie seated next to me, “he’s Daddy’s cousin!” I didn’t understand why Daddy’s own flesh and blood would take the stand for Mr. Poole.
“Shhh,” Aunt Mittie whispered back, lightly patting my knee. “We’ll just have to listen to what he has to say, Hattie.”
The Woods at Barlow Bend Page 10
