The heavy, rear doors of the courtroom opened. I craned my neck and head around just as Cousin Stephen walked through the doors. Two steps into the courtroom, he stopped short and examined the crowd for a moment. By the expression on his face, I guessed he didn’t expect such a full house.
Nearly a year and a half had passed since I last saw Cousin Stephen, a shorter, slightly less handsome version of Daddy, but he looked exactly the same as he did on the April afternoon he appeared with the tall stranger and Marshal Brooks back in Frisco City. If only I could have predicted then where their questions would lead.
After the bailiff motioned him forward with a few flicks of his fingers, Cousin Stephen marched to the witness stand, took the oath, and sat down. I wish I could have seen Daddy’s face as he looked upon his cousin, now batting for the other team. I hope he gave Cousin Stephen a nasty glare.
“Please state your full name and profession for the record,” Mr. Poole said, looking down at the podium rather than at his new witness. After scribbling something on his trusty notebook, he finally lifted his head and stared forward. I had to assume he looked at Cousin Stephen, although my view was a bit skewed because his back turned to me.
“Uh…I’m Stephen Andrews. A deputy in Jackson.”
“And how do you know the defendant?”
“He’s my cousin.”
“And did you see the defendant at any point on the morning of January 31, 1934?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see the victim that morning?”
“Objection!” Mr. Jones snapped to his feet, abandoning his casual behavior for the first time. The crowd reacted to the outburst with an appreciative gasp, but I feared they approved Mr. Jones’s dramatic flair rather than the possibility of his pointing out an infraction. “Mrs. Andrews has not been established as a victim. I move that word be struck from the record.”
“Agreed,” said Judge Bedsole. Turning to the jury, he ordered, “The jury will disregard the word ‘victim’.”
“My…apologies, Your Honor. I’ll… uh… restate,” stammered Mr. Poole, appearing a bit ruffled by Mr. Jones’s interruption. “Deputy Andrews, did you see Mrs. Addie Andrews at any point on the morning in question.”
“Frank, you know I did. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Cousin Stephen’s sarcastic tone garnered a few muffled guffaws from the audience.
“Deputy Andrews,” Mr. Poole said, stressing each part of Cousin Stephen’s official title, a subtle yet effective way of chastising Cousin Stephen for his use of Mr. Poole’s first name, “at what time did you see Hubbard and Addie Andrews that morning?”
“I guess it was around 9 a.m.”
“Please describe for the jury your interaction with the defendant that morning.”
“Well, I had stepped outside the station for a smoke when Hubbard pulled up out front.”
“Was he alone?”
“Not exactly.” Cousin Stephen shifted in his seat and leaned on the right armrest.
“Who was with the defendant?”
“Well, he had Addie with him.”
“And what condition was Addie in when you saw her?”
Leaning forward a bit, Cousin Stephen lowered his voice, “You know what condition she was in, Frank.”
“Describe for the record, Deputy Andrews, Addie Andrews’s physical condition.”
Cousin Stephen hesitated and stared straight at me. With a pained expression, he nearly whispered, “She was dead. Addie Andrews was dead.”
“Please speak up, Deputy Andrews. Were you able to determine what killed Mrs. Andrews?”
“Yes,” Cousin Stephen said, and then coughed into his hand. “She had been shot.”
“And how did you determine that?”
“How did I determine what?”
“That Addie Andrews had been shot. Did you view any wounds that would lead you to believe she had been shot?”
“Yes. Of course.” Agitation grew on Cousin Stephen’s face as he answered the prosecutor’s questions through clenched teeth.
“So, what wound did you see? Describe the effect of the gunshot,” Mr. Poole ordered.
“The top of her head was gone!” Cousin Stephen shifted in his seat again, and then, “Frank, man, her family is here! There’s no need for this. For Christ’s sake, her daughter’s right there!” As Cousin Stephen pointed at me, the entire audience twisted in their seats to gaze upon the poor, grieving daughter. “Hattie don’t need to hear this,” Cousin Stephen pleaded to Judge Bedsole.
The courtroom erupted as the crowd struggled to look at me, their mouths gaping open as they practically drooled at the newfound excitement in the room. Reporters closed in around me.
“She’s right here, Bob,” the reporter nearest me, crouched on the floor next to my seat, yelled. “It’s Hattie! It’s Hattie!”
Several flash bulbs popped around me as Judge Bedsole pounded his gavel, the sound thundering over the crowd. The next several seconds were a blur of commotion. Uncle Melvin shoved a couple of the reporters, forcing them to keep their distance. Aunt Mittie tried to shield me from the photographers, first holding her pocketbook in front of my face, and then pulling me to her bosom, her arms wrapped tightly around me.
“Order,” yelled Judge Bedsole. “Order! This courtroom will be silent!” He hammered his gavel on his desk until, at last, the frenzy died down. “You will remain quiet, or I will clear this room!”
The crowd fell silent, but the air around me remained charged, almost electrified. I squeezed Aunt Mittie’s hand as I resisted the urge to run from the courtroom and all the way back to Thorsby, where I could live unnoticed. At Thorsby, I was merely Hattie, a good student with a delicate hand for needlepoint and an ear for dictation. Here, I was Hattie, child of the dead woman, and daughter of the accused. Remaining in that room required every ounce of strength I had.
“Now, Frank, get aholt of your witness,” said Judge Bedsole, pointing his gavel at the long-nosed prosecutor. “I’ll stand for no more foolishness. From any of ya!”
“Absolutely, Your Honor.” Mr. Poole consulted his notebook once again, and then raised his head toward the witness stand. “Please describe your interaction with Mr. Hubbard Andrews on the morning of January 31, 1934.”
“Well,” Cousin Stephen began, “as I said, I had just stepped out for a smoke when Hub, I mean Hubbard Andrews, pult up in his car.”
“Was he driving fast? Did he appear to be in a hurry?”
“I don’t recall. Guess not.”
“Go on. What happened after Mr. Andrews pulled his car in front of the police station?”
“Well, Hubbard jumps out and yells to me that Addie’s in the backseat. That she’d been shot. I runned over and looked in, and there she was. Wrapped up in a blanket. I could see a little bit of her hair stickin’ out from under a blanket.”
“And why did Mr. Andrews bring Mrs. Andrews to you rather than to a doctor?”
“She didn’t need a doctor. She was already gone.”
“By the time he drove thirty miles from Barlow Bend to his family confidant in Jackson, she no longer needed a doctor?”
“No. She didn’t need no doctor. It looked like she was killed instantly,” snapped Cousin Stephen, “and I don’t like your tone!”
“Permission to treat the witness as hostile,” Mr. Poole said.
“You’re the one makin’ me hostile!” Cousin Stephen shot back.
“Granted,” ordered Judge Bedsole, “and I’d recommend you calm down right now, Deputy. I’m not afraid to hold you in contempt and toss your behind in a cell of your own.”
Cousin Stephen sunk in his chair, letting out a deep sigh. With a shrug of his shoulders, he appeared to slough off Mr. Poole’s accusations.
“Now, Deputy Andrews,” continued Mr. Poole, “why did Mr. Andrews come to you, all the way over in Jackson, rather than the authorities in Barlow Bend?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Was it because you are his cousin?”
“Maybe so.”
“Was it because the defendant knew that you, his cousin, his trusted flesh and blood, would help him cover up his crime rather than hold him responsible for his heinous act?”
“Absolutely not!” Cousin Stephen smacked the wooden armrest of his chair hard with his hand. “I already told you that ain’t true!”
Before the judge could reach for his gavel, Mr. Jones was on his feet again, protesting Mr. Poole’s line of questions. “He answered the question, now order him to move on!”
Mr. Poole yelled back at Daddy’s attorney, but the two men’s voices jumbled together in an angry, distorted mess.
Judge Bedsole rapped his gavel hard against his desk, rattling the windows that lined either side of the courtroom. “That’s it! The next man that raises his voice will find his butt on the curb!”
The entire courtroom froze. Mr. Poole, Cousin Stephen, and Mr. Jones all turned toward Judge Bedsole. I held my breath and waited for someone, anyone, to speak, terrified of how the judge would react.
Finally, after several tense seconds ticked by, Mr. Poole asked his next question, “After viewing Mrs. Andrews’s body in the defendant’s car, what did you and the defendant discuss?”
“I told Hubbard that her body would have to be taken to the coroner in Grove Hill and that an investigation would be conducted. Standard procedure for any gunshot related fatality.”
“And what did Mr. Andrews do next?”
“Well, we decided that I would take Addie’s body to Grove Hill and Hubbard would go home. So I guess he went home.”
“So, you let him leave?”
“He had to go tell the children what happened. He had to plan Addie’s fun’ral.”
“And did Mr. Andrews tell you when he wanted the funeral to be?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“Hubbard said he wanted it to be as soon as possible,” Cousin Stephen said. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he added, “He wanted her buried the next day.”
“So, knowing a full investigation should be mounted into the death of Addie Andrews, you assisted Mr. Andrews, your cousin, the only witness to the supposed accident, bury the body the very next day rather than insist proper time for an investigation be allotted before the burial? Would you give a stranger such assistance? Such allowances?”
“Objection!” Mr. Jones sprang to his feet again and brought with him the gasps and cheers of the crowd.
“Withdrawn, Your Honor,” Mr. Poole said, and pointed a smirk in Mr. Jones’s direction, in full view of the pleased crowd.
“Very well,” said Judge Bedsole. “We’re gonna take a ten minute recess. When we return, Mr. Jones, you’ll get your chance at Deputy Andrews.” Then he waved his gavel over the expanse of the crowd and said, “As for the rest of you, I expect you to cool off and shut up!”
I remained in my seat, my hand clutched in Aunt Mittie’s, through the recess. After the bulk of the crowd rushed out the door, desperate to get a breath of fresh air and empty their lungs of new gossip I assumed, Daddy turned in his chair and looked at me.
“Sweetie,” Daddy said, “don’t worry ‘bout a thing. This is all just a little courtroom drama. It don’t mean anything.”
“Hubbard,” Aunt Mittie warned, as she wrapped her arm around me again, “please don’t.” After her plea, Daddy turned back around in his seat, consulting in whispers with his team of attorneys.
*****
“Deputy Andrews,” Mr. Jones began once the judge and gallery were seated again, “did Mr. Andrews offer an explanation for Addie Andrews’s injuries when you saw him that morning in Jackson?”
“Yes,” answered Cousin Stephen, much calmer than before the recess. “Hubbard said Addie was moving around a big oak, trying to tree a squirrel, when her gun went off.”
“So, Mr. Andrews, Hubbard, told you that Addie’s death was an accident?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any reason to doubt his story?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He was in shock. Covered in Addie’s blood. Just in shock. I felt so bad for him. Having to see her die, right in front of him. And then he wrapped her in that blanket and carried her through the woods. If it were my Louise…I just can’t imagine it.” Cousin Stephen shook his head and let out another deep sigh. “I just can’t imagine it.”
“Just a couple more questions, Deputy Andrews. I know you’ve been raked over the coals this morning,” said Mr. Jones. He paused as the audience collectively snorted in agreement. “How well do you know Hubbard Andrews?”
“I’ve known him my whole life. We grew up together.”
“And have you ever known Hubbard Andrews to be a violent man?”
“Absolutely not,” Cousin Stephen answered. “There ain’t a violent bone in his body.”
“‘Ain’t a violent bone in his body.’ Thank you, Deputy Andrews. That will be all.”
“Deputy Andrews,” Judge Bedsole said, with an air of exhaustion in his deep baritone, “you’re dismissed.”
Cousin Stephen nodded at Daddy as he passed the defendant’s table and walked down the aisle. Several reporters followed Stephen out of the courtroom before Judge Bedsole ordered the prosecutor to proceed.
“Call your next witness, Frank.”
“The State calls Reverend J.T. Mathis.”
J.T. Mathis was the preacher at the Baptist Church in Searight. Momma talked about Reverend Mathis a lot during our visits with Papa Lowman and her sisters. She called Reverend Mathis a childhood chum. I never met him on our trips, so I was surprised by his boyish good looks. He had shiny blonde hair, thick and kind of wavy on top. He was sharply dressed in a freshly-pressed suit and crisp, white shirt. I could see the quick twinkle of shiny cufflinks as he walked to the witness stand. He was shorter than Daddy and a little thinner, but still handsome. Ever since the trial, I have always wondered why Momma never mentioned his good looks. As the good preacher repeated the bailiff’s oath, I thought how silly it seemed to swear in a preacher. Shouldn’t preachers be honest with or without an oath?
“Mr. Mathis, please state for the record your full name and profession,” requested Mr. Poole.
“My name is Jacob Thomas Mathis, and I am the pastor of the First Baptist Church in Searight.”
“And did you know Mrs. Addie Andrews?”
“Yes, Sir, I did.”
“How well did you know the victim?”
“Very well. We grew up together in Searight and remained friends over the years.”
“Did you and Mrs. Andrews communicate on a regular basis?”
“Yes, Mrs. Andrews would come see me when she visited her family in Searight. She often sought my counsel, and we prayed together during her visits.”
“Mrs. Andrews sought your counsel?” asked Mr. Poole.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Regarding what?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” said Mr. Jones, springing to his feet. “Surely, the conversations between a pastor and a member of his flock should be considered confidential.”
“I’ll allow it, Mr. Jones. Reverend Mathis, please answer the question.”
“Addie, I mean Mrs. Andrews, sought my counsel regarding her marriage.”
“And what concerns did Mrs. Andrews have about her marriage?” asked Mr. Poole.
“Well, she had reason to believe that Mr. Andrews was not faithful to their weddin’ vows.” The crowd perked up at that accusation. I could hear the gossip wheels starting to turn again.
“And what was your advice to Mrs. Andrews?”
“I suggested that she speak to her husband regarding the rumors of infidelity and her suspicions.”
“Did she take your advice?”
“Yes, she confronted Mr. Andrews last summer. She told him that the affairs were hurtful and that they must stop.”
“Objection!” Mr. Jones said, “We have no proof that these rumors were actually affairs!”
“The jury will disregard Reverend Mathis’s use of the word affair,” ordered Judge Bedsole. I didn’t see the point, though. The word turned my stomach and seemed to hang in the air. Even if I tried, and believe me I did, I couldn’t disregard the word. Did Momma really tell this man that Daddy had affairs? Did Daddy betray her?
“Please go on, Reverend Mathis. Mrs. Andrews confronted the defendant, and then what happened?” said Mr. Poole, trying to get back on track.
“Well, nothing changed.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because Mrs. Andrews told me. She told me about confronting Mr. Andrews in July and then of an incident in the fall before she died. I…I think in October.”
“And what did Mrs. Andrews tell you happened in October?”
“That they attended a dance at the Methodist church in Frisco City. Apparently, one of Mr. Andrews’s mistresses was there, too. Addie was humiliated.” Reverend Mathis glared at Daddy with hurtful disgust. Mr. Poole, seeing his witness agitated, crossed from behind the podium and stood in front of Daddy, blocking Reverend Mathis’s view.
“So, he humiliated her!” Mr. Poole pointed at Daddy with an arm so long and thin, it seemed to go on for miles.
“Yes.” Reverend Mathis agreed, but Mathis’s voice started to deflate. He dropped his gaze and gripped the wooden railing in front of the witness chair with one hand. His boyish face fell into a deep, sad expression. Until then, I had never considered the possibility that others out there in Nowhere, Alabama, may be missing Momma, too. Perhaps, she was loved by many, not just Daddy, Billy, Meg, Albert, Aunt Mittie, and me. Reverend Mathis obviously missed her, too.
“When did Mrs. Andrews tell you about this incident?”
“During Christmastime. She was in Searight to visit her family. We talked and prayed about her marriage for a long time that day.”
“And what was the outcome of your conversation?”
“Well, Mrs. Andrews decided that she had no choice but to ask her husband for a divorce.” At that, a gasp came from the Ladies Auxiliary, and pain hit me as if I’d been punched in the gut, but Reverend Mathis continued without pause, “She decided she would tell Mr. Andrews after the holiday celebrations were over.”
The Woods at Barlow Bend Page 11
