Black Water

by Bobby Norman

  He approached one end o’ the jury box and looked each person in the eye as he walked to the others. “Y’all have a very weighty decision to make. There are tools…tools you can use to make that decision. You know what we call those tools? Facts. That’s right, facts. Fact number one—tool number one—Hub Lusaw killed two men. He freely admits it. Admits the fact. And then, fact number two—tool number two—he freely admits that given the opportunity, he would do,” he smacked one hand in the other with each word, “The Same Damn Thing Again! He said he was sorry he had to do it? Does that sound sorry to you? Contriteness? Doesn’t t’me. Yesterday the truth come to the top when he said he’d be more’n happy to stoke the furnaces o’ Hell to keep ’em screamin’. Remember that? His very words. Turned my insides to butter, it did.

  “Your job, as jurors, is to use those tools, those facts, to determine whether or not he is guilty of cold-blooded, premeditated murder. And he is! There is no other verdict you can possibly come to. If the brothers hadn’t already been murdered, and if it was them on trial, you woulda found ’em guilty, guilty, Guilty! Well, what’s good for the goose, so to speak...so’s he.”

  He slapped the jury box railing like it was a done deal. “I thank you very much, you’re good people.” And with that, he walked to his chair and plopped down, exhausted from another day of slayin’ Satanic dragons.

  After listening to that, Luther believed Sam Dimwiddie was absolutely right about one thing. They shoulda sold tickets.

  “Mr. Knox?”

  CHAPTER 24

  Luther pushed his chair back, rose, and approached the jury box clutching another paper. “Ladies and gentlemen, naturally we’ve heard all about what was done to the Komes brothers. That’s what this trial’s about. It was a bad thing. I’m not slighting that. It can’t be slighted. And...as much as I hate to give anything to the prosecution, Mr. Dimwiddie’s right about my wanting you to think about what was done to Hub Lusaw through the savage murder of Loretta, his nineteen-year-old sister.

  “Nineteen…,” he slowly shook his head, imagining. “I have a sister. Eighteen. And I can’t begin to imagine what Hub Lusaw’s gone through. I’ll be honest with you, it scares me to think what I would’ve done...if something like this had happened to her. If I had found her like Hub did Ret.”

  He’d just committed perjury. He didn’t have a sister. Or a brother. He was an only child whose parents’d doted on him all his life.

  “This,” he said, holding up the paper, “is the coroner’s report on Loretta. I’ll start at the top. Hair had been yanked from her scalp, probably from being drug about. These are the coroner’s own words. She had a concussion. Facial bones crushed. A broken jaw. Five of her teeth had either been broken or knocked completely out. The coroner found one in a lung. Bruises at her throat indicated she’d been strangled. A dislocated shoulder, five busted ribs, bitten on her neck, her belly, high on the inside of both thighs. Her backside. Raped and sodomized. Every time I look at this, it just makes me sick. Multiple internal damages from severe blows to her midsection, probably from being kicked. He says down here at the bottom, that any one of these could have been the cause of her death. But what had she actually died from? She bled to death. It goes on, but, because there’re ladies in attendance…we’ve already heard more than enough about the hammer handle.” He took a long breath and then, almost as if talking to hisself, “Two big, grown men. One little girl.

  “Now, here comes the part the prosecution calls the sucker punch. I prefer to call it your conscience punch. Contrary to what Mr. Dimwiddie would have you believe, the law is not black and white. It actually allows for those occasional gray areas. And it gives you, a jury, the…freedom…the latitude…for give and take. It’s not the tools or even the facts…but you who will not only determine his guilt or innocence, but to what degree. I don’t want to get long-winded here, but I do want you to try and put yourself in the same place Hub was on that night.

  “It’d been a hot, sweltering day, but the evening had cooled down and Hub was walking home after the dance, when he came on his pretty, nineteen-year-old sister. She was laying just off the side of the road. In the dirt. But she wasn’t pretty anymore. Was he surprised? Was he confused? Was he stunned? Was he shocked beyond belief? Could this possibly be his little sister? What if it’d been a favorite dog or a horse? What would he have felt? What would you have felt? But it wasn’t his favorite dog, and it wasn’t his favorite horse.”

  He gave it a second. “He wasn’t dreaming…but it was a nightmare. Worse than any nightmare he’d ever had. It was his little sister, and somehow, she’d managed to drag herself out of that shack, where she’d been nearly beat to death…the brothers may have even believed she was…and made it to the road.” He helt the paperwork up again. “And even after all this…this horrible…damage…she was still alive. A good hundred yards from the shack to the road! How did she do it? It was nothing short of proof that there are still miracles in this wicked, wicked world. Through that poor busted face she managed to tell Hub it was the Komes brothers. And then,” he looked like he was picturing it, “while in his arms…she died. Hub actually saw…and heard…her last breath. The life in her eyes, there only a breath before, began to fade like a last tiny ember. And then…other than that horribly tortured little body, his little sister didn’t exist anymore.

  “Ladies, gentlemen, ask yourself, would that be enough—or was it more than enough—for anyone to be affected? Think about how it would’ve affected you, and then make your decision. Hub Lusaw has already served time in Hell, please don’t send him to prison. I thank you for your consideration. You are good, honest people. I have no doubt you’ll do the right thing.”

  That was another bit of artistic fabrication. He walked back to the defense table, hemorrhaging doubt.

  “Thank you, Mr. Knox,” Parks said, sittin’ up. Then he looked to the jurors. “That’s it, folks. Let the bailiff know when you reach a verdict.”

  He pounded the gavel one time, and the bailiff called out, “All rise.”

  Everbody stood up, glad for the opportunity to stretch their legs. The judge stepped down from the throne and passed into the little room in the back. The bailiff motioned for the jury to step out. They shuffled out o’ the box and moved into another little room in the back, and Luther noticed that not one even glanced at Hub. The jury room door closed. Luther saw Sheriff Rowe comin’ to take Hub back to jail. “If you’ve got a lucky rabbit’s foot,” he whispered out o’ the corner of his mouth, “you better start rubbin’ it.”

  At the same time Sheriff Rowe was escorting Hub back to jail, Lootie Komes was some miles away, depositing the gator stick and the three tightly corked vials in a heavy cloth pouch. She had a long way to go, and it’d probly take her the rest o’ the day and most o’ the night to reach her destination, but before she set off, she took the time to step outside, set the pouch in the dirt, and park her skinny butt on the old stump just off the door. The same one she saw Cob sittin’ on the first time Roach brought her to this decrepit hovel she now called home. That thought gave her an internal chuckle. She wondered if Cob had felt as frail and used up, then, as she did now. You’re born, she thought, struggle through a life o’ pain ‘n regret, ‘n then you die. Amen ‘n Amen. She and Cob. Different characters, same story.

  She heard crows cawin’ and little birds twitterin’. Their kin had been cawin’ and twitterin’ before she was born and their kin’d do it after she was gone. Did any o’ the feathered ones remember their forebears, or did their caws and twitters just dissolve into nothingness? Her parents, both real and adopted, were dead. Her own children, dead, and she wondered: what had her being accomplished? What was a life without purpose? What had been her purpose? Any more than the birds? She massaged her gnarly, arthritic fingers. They were cold. Had been since handing over her soul. Regardless o’ what she had on or how warm the weather, she was cold. She heard another crow caw and looked around, but she couldn’t see it. Her one ey
e was too far gone to discern much more than dark and light. She knew where the table, the chairs, and her bed was so she hadn’t fired up a lantern to see her way in some time, but she did have one settin’ on the table, burnin’ low, right now.

  She couldn’t believe she could feel this old and still be alive. Her wrists hurt. Her elbows hurt. Her shoulders. Her feet. Her calves cramped and kept her awake ever night. Her knees popped and creaked. Her hips. Her back. Her neck. Her nose had a scabby growth that bled, continually. Drip drip drip. Her eyes hurt. She’d been oozin’ ‘tween her legs for weeks, both front and back. Bloody pus from the back and pusey blood from the front. Had she been a hog or a horse, some good-hearted soul woulda shot her and put her out of her misery.

  She wasn’t the kind to make wishes, but if she had been, she woulda wished for a different life. She woulda wished she wasn’t ugly. That Pearl’d been her real mother. That she’d never given birth to George and Matthew—they probly wished they’d never been squeezed out of a witch. Even worse, a sin eater. She was their mother, and simply because o’ that, she loved ’em. And, simply because she was their mother, they loved her. As children, they’d been as cute and loveable as kittens or puppies. But kittens grow up to be cats; and puppies, dogs. As children, they were difficult to control. Grown, impossible. They were mean, they were lazy, they were liars and thieves and fornicators, and although the subject had never been brought up, she’d always assumed they’d raped and murdered. Ret Lusaw was undeniable proof. From what they’d done to her, it was obvious she hadn’t been their first.

  Add to her bein’ a witch and that Roach Komes was their father—they never stood a chance. Genes filtered down like a plate o’ stale leftovers. Matthew was particularly unbalanced. When he was still a child, she’d occasionally discover a stash o’ maggoty heads: birds, squirrels, possums, dogs, and cats. But his favorite parts were more of the procreative. Collections of animal peckers, stuck in a box, desiccated and stinkin’. Then, out o’ the blue, he’d bring her a fistful o’ flowers with that stupid grin on his face. He was sneaky, conniving, warped, and sadistic and never would be anything more…but he loved his mother.

  Part of her feelings about Hub was simply the fact that he was a Lusaw. She’d put up with grief from that hateful bunch her whole life. She and her doins’d been fodder for many o’ Cornelius Lusaw’s fire and brimstone pulpit rantings. Although she’d had nothin’ to do with his cottonmouth-bitten demise, she’d been accused and was given full credit. She didn’t give a shit. Although it was good advertising. But Hub Lusaw killin’ her boys was the final straw.

  Another crow cawed, bringin’ her rudely back to the moment. She wiped her face brusquely with the back of her hand. The time for tears was passed, and the next-to-last chapter in her life was about to start. She had one purpose left on this side o’ being, and it was best to get goin’. She gave one more long sigh, blew it out, pushed her creaky bones off the stump, and stepped into the shack. Reachin’ for the lantern settin’ on the table, she cranked up the flame, gripped the wire handle, casually swung it a couple o’ times, and tossed it to the far corner. She’d already doused the wall and the floor with the last of her coal oil. Almost immediately, a small blue flame reared its hungry, feathery little head and licked greedily up the wall and across the floor.

  She stepped outside, draggin’ her bad leg, leaned on her walkin’ stick, reached down for the pouch, and hoisted it over her bony left shoulder. It hurt. Dark smoke began curling out the top o’ the front door and wafting back over the roof. The crows raised a ruckus ‘cause o’ the smoke. Before she got very far, she heard the shack begin to crackle and pop.

  That was all right, though, she wasn’t comin’ back.

  ***

  It was 10:25 a.m. and the bailiff stood expectantly beside the judge’s chamber door. Ever minute or so he wiped the sweat off his upper lip with his finger, then off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. Twelve sets of butt cheeks squirmed uncomfortably on the hard wooden seats in the jury box. They’d been waitin’ for almost twenty minutes for his royal judgeness to make his grand appearance. They coulda done this yesterday. The jury’s first vote was taken ten minutes after they were sequestered in the jury room, and the score was twelve t’nothin’. They called in the bailiff and told him, but the judge and the hundreds o’ gawkers’d already gone to dinner, and a dozen clock-watchin’ hookers were already on their backs, faking interest.

  Finally, there was a slight tapping from a fingernail on the other side o’ the judge’s door. The bailiff opened it, leaned in, listened for a second, and nodded. He left the door open and, knowing ever eye in the room was on him, stepped to the front o’ the bench and called out, “All rise!” Everbody jumped up, their eyes glued to the judge’s chamber door.

  Parks, falsely impersonating godliness and goodliness, sauntered in, his black silk robes billowing obediently behind. He ascended the two steps to the throne, hiked up the robe, plopped into the big judge chair, pulled up the sleeves, laced his chubby fingers, and rested his forearms on the bench. He was wearing underwear and had throughout the whole trial. It was hot and humid, and the cloth helped absorb the moisture.

  There’d been many times, though, especially when the temperature and humidity cooperated, when he didn’t wear nothin’ but a shirt and his boots under the robes. He thought it was funny he could pound the gavel and send abody to jail for a week, or the rest o’ their lives, while twiddlin’ with his turtle-necked doodle. Besides, there were times when judgin’ was boring and having somethin’ to pass the time with made a shorter, more endurable day.

  “The court reconvenes,” the bailiff bellowed, “in the case o’ the State o’ Looziana versus Hubert Marshall Lusaw. Be seated,” and everbody sat.

  Parks nodded through the good mornings to Dimwiddie and Luther and they good morning-ed back. He then looked over to the jury box and, judgey-like, asked the lanky, bald-headed drink o’water sittin’ in the first chair, “Mr. Foreman? Has the jury reached a verdict?” This was bullshit formality—if they hadn’t reached a verdict, they wouldn’ta been in there—but it was a great chance to stretch out the trial o’ the decade.

  There were a number of reporters in the audience, and the judge wanted to give ’em as much to write about as he could. No tellin’ how long it’d be before another howdy-do as heinous as this one come along. He was really hopin’ the reporters got his first name right. They’d fucked it up more than once. It was Almer, not Elmer. He’d wondered more than once what the Hell his folks had been thinking when they came up with Almer.

  The Foreman played his part, stood up, pulled a slip o’ paper from his coat pocket, and proclaimed, “Yes, Your Honor, we have.” Standing in front of a mirror, he’d rehearsed those lines at least a hundred and fifty times last night and again this mornin’. Five little words. Eighteen letters ‘tween ’em, and they were all his. God Damn! They’d probly be engraved on his headstone when he was finally laid to rest. He’d thanked God a thousand times that he’d been given the opportunity to lob the first stone during the vote. There’d been a whole bunch o’ shits and God Damn’s from the unlucky and envious rest when he was designated foreman. He was a veterinarian, and as coincidence would have it, Judge Parks had a bunch o’ cows, horses, and hogs, most requiring medical attention at one time or another. One and one was two. When the vet was dead of old age, and the worms ‘n beetles’d stripped his bones clean, he’d still be known as the Foreman at the Komes Brothers Murder Trial.

  The bailiff strode to the jury box, took the coveted script, carried it back to Parks and, reachin’ over the bench, handed it to him. From that day for’ard, he’d be known as the bailiff who handed the piece o’ paper with the verdict written on it to the judge at the Komes Brothers Murder Trial.

  Parks helt it up so everbody could see. He unfolded the paper and read the verdict to hisself. After draggin’ it out as long as he could by scrunchin’ up his eyebrows, puckerin’ his lips, and noddin’ most judgel
y, he looked over his glasses at the defense table, cleared his throat and said, “The Defendant will rise.” Hub and Luther stood up. Knowin’ everbody was watchin’ Hub and Luther, Parks slipped the paper in his pocket. Next week it’d be framed and hangin’ on his office wall next to his various certificates of accomplishment. “Mr. Foreman, would you please read the verdict to the court?”

  Hesitant and nervous that he’d blow it, the Vet unfolded a copy o’ the paper given to the judge. “We...the jury...in a vote...o’ twelve t’nothin’...find the defendant...Hubert Marshall Lusaw”—and he let it hang in the air. Time stopped. The Earth quit spinnin’ ‘round the Sun. “Guilty,” he finally declared. “On both counts.”

  Hub was flabbergasted it hadn’t gone his way. Dimwiddie was intoxicated it had gone his; his two lucky bourbons had come through. Luther wasn’t anything. It went the way he’d feared, and the rest o’ the cheering courtroom had a cud to chew on for the next decade. Parks regretted wearing underwear. He’d dreamed of rollin the head of his pecker in his fingertips while passing such a sentence as this for years, and now he’d let it slip away.

  He pounded the gavel, alerting the crowd to the next act. “Hubert Lusaw, for the murder o’ George ‘n Matthew Komes, this court sentences you t’forty years hard labor at Angola State Penitentiary. Court’s adjourned.”