I leave in an hour. We’ve gone over his testimony three times. I resist the urge to tell him that I may be able to try to help him for a change. I have no assurance whatsoever that at this late date Johnson will let me call someone who is not on my witness list.
From the Cotton Boll (where I’m almost too late to get anything to eat) Mr. Carpenter lets me call the Ting residence from the counter. Connie answers, and I tell her about my conversation with Mary Kiley.
“She’s willing to testify Connie.
I think she believes Darla might have killed your father. Darla called her to see if she had been subpoenaed.”
“You’re going to get him off, aren’t you?” Connie says, her voice bitter.
“By itself, this won’t be enough,” I say, watching Mckenzie bring out a dinner salad for me, “unless Darla can be shown to have a motive.”
“Well, you should be happy then,” she hisses into my ear.
“Eddie went back to the plant thirty minutes ago.”
This is Tommy’s doing, I realize. Perhaps their mother. Connie is too bitter.
“Please have him call me if he finds something.”
Connie hangs up the phone in my ear without promising me anything. As I eat a chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, Mr. Carpenter sits with me and tells me the gossip about the trial. It looks bad for Class, but Paul never should have been charged. He adds, “Of course, the people who are saying that are the same ones who, if he’s convicted, will say they knew from the beginning he was guilty.”
I spoon some gravy on the chicken. I could get used to a ten-thousand-calorie-a-day diet. I wonder what people are saying about me but don’t dare ask. I don’t need to lose any more confidence than I already have.
“I guess Paul can run for governor if he’s acquitted,” I say, reminded of a comment Angela made the first time I saw her.
“Governor?” the old man laughs.
“He’s too arrogant to be elected dog catcher! It’s Dick who should have run for office. He would have made a difference.”
The old man doesn’t have a clue. A prominent politician hasn’t come out of east Arkansas for decades. It’s been too bogged down in the politics of race. Mckenzie brings out my bill: $6.50.1 notice she has written at the bottom good luck!
and drawn a “happy face.” I nod vigorously and wink at her. I will need it.
At four in the morning the phone rings, waking me out of a deep sleep.
I have dozed off in my clothes. The last time I remember looking at the clock it was one, and I had been in the middle of taking a stab at constructing my closing argument, a futile exercise since I don’t know what the evidence will be.
It is Eddie Ting, who sounds exhausted.
“All I can tell you,” he says, “is that it looks like some receipts where we purchased hogs have been altered to make it appear we bought fewer than we did, but it would take an accountant to figure out if anything is wrong. Can you get the judge to delay the trial? I could get my CPA in here and see what’s been going on.”
I rub my face, knowing a continuance is out of the question. Johnson may not even let Eddie testify.
I explain this to him and too tired to think, ask, “How do we know it was Darla and what would she get out of it?”
Eddie responds, “Since she was the bookkeeper, she might have been in on some deal where hogs were being stolen before they were even slaughtered.”
This sounds hopeless, but it is all I have.
“Will you testify about this tomorrow,” I ask, “if the judge lets you?” “They said I could,” Eddie answers wearily, “if I found something suspicious.”
I don’t have to ask who “they” are. Before I hang up, I ask if he has had any reason to believe Darla was not as wonderful as she has seemed.
“In retrospect, doesn’t it seem she was trying to head you off by coming up with that stuff on Jessup?”
“I guess it’s possible,” Eddie says, now cautious.
We talk for a few more minutes and he agrees to meet me at the courthouse with the receipts at seven. I get up, wondering whether Johnson will take me seriously after yesterday’s performance. I haven’t given anyone so far much of a reason to drag out this trial.
“Neither of these individuals appears on your witness list, do they, Mr.
Up close they look as cheap as my own.
I am getting used to this form of inquisition by Johnson. This is obviously his way of making a point. He was not at all happy when I called him at six this morning to ask for a hearing back in chambers before the trial to see if he would permit me to put on witnesses I had not previously disclosed to Butterfield.
“No, sir,” I say, knowing if I begin to argue now he will interrupt me.
“And you are not saying that you misunderstood the court’s cutoff date for disclosing your witnesses, are you? I can ask the stenographer to find your response to me if you wish.”
“No, sir,” I say, hating Johnson at this moment. What a pedantic asshole.
“And you are not contending,” he says, “that neither Mr. Edward Ting nor Mrs. Mary Kiley is a rebuttal witness?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what conceivable grounds do you have for them testifying?” he asks, his voice turning into a high whine at the end.
“So far as I can tell, the prosecution has been scrupulously fair to your client and has made available to you everything it has had in this case. And now you are attempting to spring surprise witnesses on him.”
“The prosecutor has been fair, your honor.” I wait for him to nod so I can speak without him cutting me off. Finally he does, and I say, “Your honor, the reason I’d like to call these witnesses is simple justice. It was only yesterday in the middle of Mrs. Tate’s testimony that I began to realize that she might be involved in Mr. Ting’s murder.
If I’m allowed to put Mr. Ting on as a witness, he will show the jury that Darla Tate has falsified receipts in the past year, and Mrs. Kiley will testify that she cannot say that Mrs. Tate was at the school between the hours of two and four on the day Mr. Ting was murdered.
Certainly, it would be fair for the prosecutor to have some time to interview these witnesses, and they are waiting outside his office right now to talk with him.”
Johnson glares at me as if I am some kind of habitual criminal he has given too many chances already.
“Why haven’t you investigated the possibility that Mrs. Tate might be involved before now?”
I attempt a feeble smile. I could talk for an hour about how stupid I’ve been, but I don’t think we have the time.
“I had, but I didn’t find anything. I guess I kind of got suckered, your honor.”
“What do you say, Mr. Butterfield?” Johnson says to his supposed friend.
Butterfield, not nearly so ebullient or friendly since yesterday, glares at me and says, “Mr. Page has had almost three months to decide to calf these individuals, your honor. If he is allowed to bring witnesses at the last second, you will have prejudiced the state’s position by preventing me from having a careful opportunity to prepare my case. The state is entitled to a level playing field.”
Johnson, who without his robe looks as slight as a welter-weight, frowns at the suggestion he is not being even-handed.
“Would your client be prejudiced,” he asks Dick, who has been quietly sitting in the corner the entire time, “if I allow these individuals to testify?”
To give himself more time to think, Dick takes off his bifocals and rubs the lenses with a handkerchief.
As he does so, it strikes me how easily Darla could have been hired by Paul to murder Willie. No one knows as much about the plant and its employees. In retrospect, Darla made a point to sound bitter toward Paul when I talked to her that first time in her house, but the information she gave me about him and the bank was available from many sources. Of course, at this point I have no way to prove anything.
Jamming his handkerchief in his pocket but co
ntinuing to fidget with his glasses, Dick finally answers, “Your honor, I have no choice but to oppose Mr. Page’s effort to introduce surprise testimony on what may be the last day of the trial. I don’t expect anything either individual may say will prejudice my client, but I’m being forced to make a spur-of-the-moment decision, and so I must object.”
I glance at Johnson, who is tapping the tips of his fingers together, and replay what Dick has just said and the way he said it. I am confident he has too much integrity to allow Paul to take the witness stand and lie, but Paul could easily be lying to him, and Dick, no fool, may suspect it. Still, he has a duty to represent him, and the most prudent course of action is to take no chances and wind up the testimony as soon as possible.
Johnson holds his fingers still and says, “A man’s life is at stake, and I’m not going to punish him because his lawyer may have overlooked something that possibly may be offered in his defense. Would it not be fair to you, Mr. Butterfield and Mr. Dickerson,” he says, “if I allow you an hour to interview these people and then you come back into chambers with Mr. Page, and we’ll discuss where to go from there?”
Neither is being given a choice, but Johnson has implied that he might give them a continuance.
Both give their assent, and then we all stand as the judge makes a show of consulting his watch.
“Please be back here precisely at eight-fifteen.”
My face has begun to burn a bit, too, and I get up and follow behind Butterfield out of the judge’s chambers to wait for Class. Once the door is closed behind us, Melvin says out of the side of his mouth, “And I bet you thought the judge and I were friends…”
Side by side for a moment as we go down the stairs, I have to laugh. I
deserve whatever beating I get. I haven’t been right about anything since I started on this case. I should have suspected Darla from the beginning, but at the time I wasn’t interested.
“Well, he’s not exactly Mr. Congeniality, is he?”
Even Dick laughs.
I stand by as Butterfield explains to Mary Kiley and Eddie Ting that the judge is allowing him and Dick to interview them. Neither seems surprised, but Mary Kiley, I can tell, needs a cigarette bad. Eddie looks as if he didn’t get even an hour’s sleep, and she doesn’t look much better. It is no fun being a witness. Afterward, I go wait in the courtroom for Class, who arrives just as Butterfield sticks his head in the door and crooks his finger at me. Upstairs, back in Johnson’s chambers, both Dick and Butterfield say they still object to the testimony of persons not previously identified on my witness list, but that if the court lets them testify, neither is asking for a continuance.
Butterfield says, “I’m ready to proceed, your honor.”
Dick nods. Neither man would say a word to me on our way up the stairs. This could mean one of two things: they aren’t worried or they don’t want me to have any more time. Johnson shrugs, “Let’s get started, then.”
Back in the courtroom, I notice that though the spectator section is just as crowded as the last two days, its composition has changed.
There are more blacks and fewer whites, which, I interpret, means that they heard there is no evidence against Paul. For the first time, I notice a group of Chinese in the back sitting with the Tings. They may have been here all this time, and I never noticed them. God only knows what they think of the criminal justice system in Bear Creek.
I begin by calling my character witnesses first, and they do well, though Doss’ SAME minister gets a little carried away.
“Mr. Bledsoe’s reputation as a law-abiding nonviolent citizen is as spotless as the son of God’s.”
I turn and see Butterfield scratching his head as if he might be thinking that Jesus is usually portrayed these days as a revolutionary who set out to overthrow the established order, but he decides to let it go. Now that we’ve opened up the door on my client’s character, Butterfield can attack it, but Class appears to have led a pretty quiet life, and the prosecutor sits with his hands in his pockets as if this testimony is so much window dressing, which of course it is.
I decide to call Mary Kiley before Eddie Ting and instantly understand why Butterfield was ready to go forward. Instead of the assertive woman who last evening was willing to stick her neck out, today Mary Kiley seems a timid, shy soul who knows she is in trouble for telling the prosecutor one thing and me another. In her own backyard, she projected a strong, almost bitchy, personality; now, she seems like a little girl who will parrot the last person who talked to her.
Wearing a white dress that gives her a childlike quality, she has to repeat her name three times before the court reporter can get it down.
By the time she sits down, all I have managed to establish is that she isn’t certain that Darla was at the school all afternoon.
On direct examination, Eddie Ting’s testimony is straightforward enough, but as Butterfield begins to wind down, it is clear its usefulness is limited. Paul is motionless while Dick leans forward to hear better. Butterfield is like a giant stork flapping from behind the podium as he follows the timehonored tradition of calling attention to himself and away from the witness on cross-examination.
His next-to-last question to Eddie is, “Isn’t it a fact that all you have discovered is some receipts for the purchase of hogs from Dixie Farms that appear to have been altered?” “Yes, sir,” Eddie says in a meek voice.
Butterfield drapes himself over the podium.
“And you can’t positively say who did it or why they did it, can you, Mr. Ting?”
Eddie folds his arms across his chest as if he wishes he hadn’t ever made the decision to cross the Mississippi River to come to Arkansas.
“No, sir.”
Again Dick declines to cross-examine, and I let Eddie step down. The judge has already prevented him from speculating about why the receipts may have been doctored.
“I’d like to recall Darla Tate, your honor,” I say, and while we wait for her to come from the witness room, I glance at Paul, but he is like a statue. I look behind the railing for Connie and Tommy. They must be thinking that they have been suckered again. I can’t quite see either of them, nor do I really want to.
If Darla has a clue as to why she is being recalled, I can’t guess it from her expression. As she enters the courtroom, she is not smiling, but does not appear afraid either. Today she is wearing a loose, blousy tunic that conceals her biceps. I wish I could make her pull up her sleeves and show the jury her muscles. If Darla doesn’t turn out to be the murderer, I will feel like an idiot, not an uncommon emotion for me the last couple of weeks. My face grows hot again as I think how I have allowed myself to be manipulated in this case.
“Just a couple of questions, Mrs. Tate I say, forcing a smile at her as she seats herself.
She nods, now spreading a plastic grin on her own face. I would like to get her to answer before she figures out what is going on, but if she did kill Willie, she will be ready for me.
“Mrs. Tate, I’m going to show you some documents which have been identified collectively as defendant’s exhibit one,” I say, approaching her.
“Can you tell the jury what these are?”
Darla squints hard at the sheaf of papers, but I notice her palm and fingers are steady as she takes them from me. She goes through them one
by one and announces, “These are receipts from Dixie Farms for hogs.”
“Would you look at these closely and tell me if any of the figures on the number of hogs purchased in each one appear to have been altered?”
I have to admit that Darla is either innocent or a cool customer. As if this were a surprise, she says, “You know, they seem to be. For example, this five appears to have been a six, but it looks as if part of it was erased.”
I pretend to study the pink copy bearing the Confederate logo of Dixie Farms.
“Can you think of a reason why someone would alter these figures?”
Butterfield springs out of his chair.
“Objection, your honor. He’s asking her to speculate.”
Johnson, who has gotten curious and is leaning over to his left to look at the receipts, says, “Overruled.”
Tipped off that she doesn’t have to answer, Darla says blandly, “I don’t know why.”
“Well, let me suggest a reason and see if you agree,” I say, taking the receipts from her and handing them to Johnson, who helps me out by peering at them.
“If somebody wanted to steal some live hogs from the plant and conceal
that fact, wouldn’t it help to make it appear that the actual number of hogs purchased was different than it truly was?”
Darla doesn’t miss a beat.
“All you’d have to do to check,” she says, shrugging, “is call the person who sold them to you and ask him what his copy says.”
“But first you’d have to suspect something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
Darla shrugs.
“I suppose so.”
I go back to the podium, since Johnson is still going through the papers.
“Where do you keep the receipts?”
Darla shifts in her seat for the first time since she has been on the stand.
“In a filing cabinet next to my desk.”
“Is it kept locked?” I ask.
“No, anybody could have access to the drawer.”
I let that answer hang for a few seconds.
“I just asked you if it was locked. Did you alter those receipts, Mrs. Tate?” Darla says, “Absolutely not.”
“Your honor, may I come pick up the receipts and show them to the jury?”
Johnson nods, and I come forward and hand them to Ira Kingston, a white man seated at the end. If he begins to yawn, I’m dead meat.
I turn to Darla and ask, “Are you absolutely certain that you have an alibi for the time Mr. Ting was murdered?”
Darla, indignant now or appearing to be, snaps, “I was at my sons’ school volunteering in the office.
You can ask the school secretary, Mary Kiley.”
I let Darla stew for a moment.
“Did you murder Willie Ting because you were involved in some scheme,” I ask as dramatically as possible, “to steal meat from the plant and he had found out and was about to fire you?”
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