by Shana Burg
“What do you mean?” the judge asks.
“Well, Judge, that there receipt in your hand shows my husband, Ralph, sold three hundred twenty-one thousand, two hundred four butter bean seeds to Mr. Mudge on July twenty-second this year. That was just a few days after the last Garden Club meeting when we’d finally decided what to plant. Now then, we all know that the vegetable garden is six acres, so if there are nine hundred twenty-three butter bean seeds per pound and it takes fifty-eight pounds to cover one acre with thick vines, then you can see that to cover six acres would require…well, three hundred forty-eight pounds or…” Mrs. Tate rolls her eyes up in her head. When they fall back down again, she says, “Exactly three hundred twenty-one thousand, two hundred four seeds. And if the seeds are sold in fifty-pound sacks, then to cover six acres you’d need…” Her eyeballs roll up and down again. “Seven sacks,” she says.
I reckon I’m proud Mrs. Tate can do butter bean math in her head too!
But now Mrs. Tate’s smile fades. “My husband, Ralph, may not be the cheeriest man in Kuckachoo,” she says, “but he is loyal to his friends. And that’s why I hope you’ll forgive him for standing up for his friend Sam Mudge, who started him out in seed sales in the first place. I know Ralph is so shocked by this butter bean crime he can’t come to see the truth yet himself. But we all have a little space in our hearts where the truth resides even if we don’t want to look there. And I know eventually my husband will look into that space and be proud of me. Proud I stood up for all of us who planned this garden. And so you might say I’m doing this favor for my husband, sparing him from getting into the awkward position of turning in a friend who has already turned on him.”
In the back of the courtroom, Miss Springer applauds. I see lots of hats bobbing up and down. Pink hats. Black hats. Blue hats. It seems all the ladies in the viewing gallery have turned to their neighbors to whisper.
Then a gravelly voice shouts, “Traitor!” and folks go crazy. Some holler at Mrs. Tate as she leaves the witness-box. The judge bangs his hammer.
And me? I’ve got to get to the stand. I’ve got to prove what Mrs. Tate says, it’s the no-doubt-about-it, one-hundred-percent, honest-to-goodness truth.
CHAPTER 30
October 21, 1963, Early Afternoon
At long last it’s quiet in the courtroom. Now’s my chance. I press past Mama’s knees, fly down the center aisle, and wave my hand like I’ve figured out the answer to the challenge problem in school. It all makes sense. My dream, I know it’s true. And I know I’ve got to tell Miss Gold what the night said.
But the judge sees me first. “What on earth is this spectacle?” he roars.
“Please, Your Honor,” says Miss Gold. “She’s Bump Dawson’s niece.”
“Get her outta here!” the judge shouts.
The next thing I know, two court officers lunge at me from both sides. They wrap their fat hands round my arms and lift me up in the air.
Then thwack! A loud thud vibrates from the back of the courtroom. I turn my head. There’s Mrs. Jacks slamming her walking stick into the courthouse floor. And dog my cats! I reckon even Mrs. Jacks misses school for real important things.
“Your Honor, if you would permit just one more unscheduled witness, I would like to call this girl, Addie Ann Pickett, to the stand,” Miss Gold says.
White folks howl with laughter. The judge bangs his hammer again and again, but the shrieking giggles roll on. I shuffle my legs in the air like I’m riding an imaginary bicycle, which is the only kind I’ve ever had, so I know just how to do it. And the news reporter takes pictures of me with his Polaroid instant camera.
One thing’s clear: the judge is good and scared this mess in his courtroom will be tomorrow’s front-page news, because at long last he gives in. “Fine!” he yells over the hubbub. “Bring her up!”
When the officers drop me into the witness box, I look out at all the people laughing at me. And the strange thing is I know just what to do. This time I don’t need my brother’s instructions. I stand up. But I don’t look down the way Mama always says I should. Instead I raise my eyes to stare—no, glare—at the members of the Kuckachoo Garden Club. I see blue eyes sinking in pity, hazel eyes tickling with gossip, and brown eyes burning with hate. And I see other eyes, like Honey Worth’s, quivering with questions.
The next minute stretches like a forty-nine-car railroad train. My silent protest swallows up the laughter one guffaw at a time.
I fix my eyes on Mrs. Worth’s.
Right away, she sits up straight and fiddles with the hat on her head.
At long last there’s more order in the court than there’s been all day.
The court clerk holds the Bible in front of me. I swear to tell the whole truth, so help me God. When I hear those words, I think how much the whole truth can hurt. Lickety-split, it flashes through my mind: a morning not long ago. We were in the middle of a math test. Mrs. Jacks stepped into the hall to talk to the principal. I could feel Jeremiah Taylor’s eyes bore a hole into my paper from behind me. When Mrs. Jacks hobbled back in the room, she said, “I presume we’ve all kept our eyes on our own papers, have we not?” And right then I said, “Yes, ma’am” along with all the others. I reckon you could say I didn’t tell the whole truth, because Jeremiah was cheating and I didn’t let on. And I wondered if I was a bad person after that. But then, what good would it have done me to tell on Jeremiah?
Now I sit down in the witness-box.
“Is there something you’d like to say?” Miss Gold asks.
Here I am, sworn to tell the whole truth and everything, so I imagine I’m not in a courtroom but in a classroom—Mrs. Jacks’s room. I picture myself in school, but after school, talking to the teacher who cares what I’ve got to say. I open my mouth, and what do you know? For once in my life, a bushel of ripe words falls at my feet. “The evidence,” I say. “It’s in the woods next to Mr. Mudge’s farm.”
“Blasphemy!” cries Mr. Hickock.
A breeze blows through the open window. I describe what I saw when Flapjack and me dashed through the forest the day Honey Worth warned me to run.
The judge twirls the hammer in his hand. I’ll bet he’s afraid the news reporter will follow my clues even if he doesn’t. And then how will he look if the evidence turns up? So at long last he bangs the hammer down and says, “The lawyers, the witnesses for the defense, the jurors, and me—we’re going to get to the bottom of this nonsense once and for all. Officers, see to it no one else moves from this court!” He points to the news reporter. “Jott James, you come along too. I know you’d prefer to photograph the Miss Sweetheart competition, but today we’ll need your camera to document the evidence and check the veracity of what this young lady says.” Then the judge looks straight at me and says, “Young lady, if what you say is not verifiable, be warned. I can try you for perjury!”
Thanks to Mrs. Jacks and her Latin roots, I crack the judge’s secret code. By using the words “verifiable” and “perjury,” the judge is telling me that if I don’t prove what I say is a fact, the law will come after me and I’ll face a jury all my own!
A court officer unhooks the latch on the witness-box and opens the gate. Then he grabs me by the arm again, right in the spot where it burns. He pulls me out of the seat. But I shake off his grip. I can walk my own self! I’m not under arrest!
When I look back at Mama, she puts her hand to her lips and blows me a kiss. But it’s not a kiss with a smile. It’s a kiss with a prayer.
Miss Gold walks with me across the court. We follow the judge through his private room. The shelves brim with more books than I’ve ever seen in my life. I only wish I could stay here to read them. I wish I could forget my uncle’s freedom depends on whether I can find the evidence in the forest.
When we leave the judge’s private room and walk out the courthouse into the parking lot, I shield my eyes from the bright sun.
“Do you know exactly where the evidence is?” Miss Gold asks me.
> I nod, but truth be told, I don’t. Well, not down to a gnat’s eyebrow. Here I’ve left half the county sweating inside the courthouse on account of the fact I’m supposed to turn up evidence to clear my uncle’s name. I reckon I might as well make a run for it now, because if I can’t make good on my word, Uncle Bump might never come home to our family again. Heck, I might get locked in the jailhouse too!
CHAPTER 31
October 21, 1963, Midafternoon
Miss Gold and me trail the judge, Mrs. Tate, Mr. Hickock, the news reporter, and the jurors down the road to Mr. Mudge’s farm. I tweet, click, click, and Flapjack scurries to catch up with me.
While we parade down Main Street, Mrs. Tate wobbles in her high heels. I can tell she’s uncomfortable in more ways than one. And me? I’m ten thousand times more nervous than I was when I walked to Weaver with Cool Breeze for the first day of seventh grade! With every step I take, I wonder why Mrs. Tate decided to join our side. Well, whatever her reason, now it’s up to me to prove what she says is true. If I can’t do that, then Mrs. Tate and me, we’re both history.
At long last the whole lot of us stumble up Mr. Mudge’s walkway. And who do we spot digging up dandelions out front? None other than Mr. Mudge himself! This morning in court Mrs. Worth said Mr. Mudge was out of town the past month. But I know better! And look at him. His overalls are streaked with mud. There’s a pile of plucked weeds at his feet. And if tending’s Negro work, I don’t know why he’s doing it himself.
Not surprising, Mr. Mudge is flabbergasted to see us. And I reckon he’s stalling for time, because instead of saying “hello” or “good day” to the lot of us, he pulls off his garden gloves one finger at a time, then folds them awful neat before tucking them in his back pocket. Then he pastes on a smile and says, “Finished taking care of my mother in Florida. After that, had to meet with the Coca-Cola folks all the way in Atlanta to place my order for the new shop. Just got back. And can you believe this?”
Truth be told, no I can’t, but I keep my trap shut while Mr. Mudge beats the devil round the stump. “They say someday soon they’re gonna give me a better price on aluminum cans than glass bottles. Seems we’re moving to the future faster than I can keep pace.”
I can’t help but feel bad for Mr. Mudge, the way he’s wiggling round like a worm on a hook.
“Sam,” says the judge, “I know you won’t mind if we just take a quick look around your property.” The judge looks past all the jurors to me. “That Negro girl over there says she’s found some evidence for the court.”
Here I stand, Addie Ann Pickett, accusing my brother’s boss, Mr. Mudge, of doing wrong. Me? I’m nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs! The way this is going, it doesn’t seem right.
“Look-a-here,” Mr. Mudge says to me. “What kind of evidence could you possibly find on my land?”
“Probably none,” the judge answers for me. “I’m sorry to do this to you, Sam, but you know if I don’t investigate the newspaper will.” The judge takes a paper out of his cloak pocket and shows it to Mr. Mudge. “By order of the court, you’ve got to remain inside your house during the search,” he says.
All of a sudden, Mr. Mudge is furious. His mouth falls wide open, his eyes light up, and he looks just like a jack-o’-lantern. “Scram!” he shouts.
And that’s when I know for certain what the night said is true.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” the judge says. “But you’ll have to stay in your house during the search.”
So Mr. Mudge says to me, “You’re nothing but ungrateful colored trash!” Then he stomps up his steps and slams the house door behind him.
I push against the hot air, try to stay steady, but my legs are shakier than the strings on Mama’s mop. I follow the judge past a wheelbarrow and onto Mr. Mudge’s farm. When we pass Mr. Mudge’s garden shed, the judge picks up a shovel resting against the shed door and hands it to the bailiff.
Flapjack dashes off ahead while Miss Gold asks me to tell everyone what I saw the last time I was here on this land. Part of me, the part deep in my chest, doesn’t want to talk. Despite the mean things Mr. Mudge says about Negroes, he’s helped my family all these years. He gave my brother a job. And just a few weeks ago, he hired the rest of us for the garden planting.
I remember the time Delilah told Cool Breeze the rumor that his daddy was spotted a couple miles away in Bramble. How Cool Breeze searched for his daddy for days without luck. How the rumor turned out not to be true. And how much Delilah hurt him by passing it on. And I shiver to think I could be doing the same to Mr. Mudge.
I think how I swore to God—to God!—to tell the whole truth in this trial. But my insides are screwed up all over the place till I picture Uncle Bump in those chains, those jail clothes, and the words, they come.
“It was almost a week ago,” I say. I lead everyone down a row of sunflowers on the farm, and cross through the pumpkin patch to the edge of the woods. But when I see how many trees are in this forest, my heart flutters in my chest. There’s elm and oak and hickory and pine. How will I ever find the right spot? I shut my eyes, remember what I saw. The tree. The shovel. The farm. If I could see the farm, then that place where Mr. Mudge dug his hole can’t be too deep in the woods. My eyes scan one tree after the next till at long last I see a gnarled oak, and I know that’s the one. I push aside branches, flex my toes in my sneakers, and run straight to it. Then I point my foot on the dirt under the tree. “Right here,” I say. “I saw Mr. Mudge bury something strange right here.”
“What is it?” Mr. Hickock asks. “What’s buried?”
“The something I saw,” I say.
Mrs. Tate gasps like a willow. “The something?” she cries.
Here Mrs. Tate followed me out the courthouse door, telling all of Kuckachoo she believes I have the evidence to prove what she says is true. She had faith I knew where it is, but now I’ve told her I don’t know what it is.
Me, I stare a hole right through my sneaker.
“You’re old enough to know better than to drag us through the woods on account of something,” says Mr. Hickock. “We’ve come all this way and you don’t even know what it is that was buried?”
My breath ties up in my throat like a shoelace with a double knot. If I’ve ever needed Flapjack, I need him now. I tweet, click, click, but he doesn’t come.
“Did you ever consider, little miss, that Mr. Mudge might’ve been burying a poor raccoon that died in his trap?” Mr. Hickock asks.
No, I never did think of that.
And one thing’s clear: I need to find the something I’m looking for. I need to find it right now! If I don’t, the next time I see Uncle Bump, he’ll be behind prison bars.
I feel myself dying.
My sneaker’s still pointing at the spot beneath the oak tree, so I scrunch my toes and feel Daddy’s dirt there. And I reckon I just might make it through this.
“I assume there’s nothing but dirt and vines here,” says the judge, “but my bailiff will dig one hole—and one hole only—to uncover this so-called evidence. If the evidence isn’t here, then I’m afraid the jury will have to reach a verdict taking into account the fact that you misled me and wasted our valuable time.”
The bailiff digs up the first six inches of ground. He throws the dirt in a neat pile behind him. While the bailiff digs, I hear jurors mumble. “Rubbish!” says one. “A little colored girl!” says another, who spits on the dirt beside him. The only quiet juror is the foreman. Through the leaves, the dappled sun tickles the top of his bald head.
All the while, the judge whistles the Ole Miss fight song. And I can tell he doesn’t care how this turns out. Not so long as he looks good on the front page of tomorrow’s Delta Daily.
At long last the bailiff drops the shovel to the ground. He stands in a huge ditch, surrounded by nothing but spiders, roots, and dirt. The jurors cackle.
One thing’s clear: if they were looking for a village idiot, they found one. My face crumples up like a
tissue.
And I reckon Mrs. Tate’s more than a tad disappointed in me. She turns to the judge. Her voice quivers. “Well, even if there’s nothing here in this forest, surely the bill of sale I showed you proves something,” she says.
“All the bill of sale proves, Mrs. Tate, is that Sam Mudge bought butter bean seeds from your husband. It doesn’t prove Mr. Mudge planted the seeds, and it certainly doesn’t prove he planted them over the community garden,” the judge says. He looks at the jurors. “Without any additional evidence, you’ll have to use the information you already have to decide if the defendant is guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
My heart cracks open like a pecan. Without the evidence I need, we’re finished. Uncle Bump’s finished. The jury won’t have a shadow of a doubt that my uncle’s guilty as charged. He’ll be dragged away and locked up. For five years. Or perhaps ten!
I tweet, click, click over and over. Where’s my cat when I need him?
Now Mr. Hickock tells Mrs. Tate, “I reckon that’s the last time little girls—no matter what their age—should ever be trusted in a court of law.”
And then the most crazy thing happens. The thing I would never expect in all my days: Mrs. Tate busts free from her ladylike manners. She turns to Mr. Hickock and says, “You’re a real prize!” Then she slaps her hand over her mouth and giggles.
Mr. Hickock’s so mad. His face turns red and puffy. He looks worse than crawfish stew. He looks like a plucked pelican. He tromps away through the forest, the jurors following him.
But every few steps Mr. Hickock turns to glare at Mrs. Tate, who’s seemed to shock even herself.
“Please, Mrs. Tate,” the judge says. “Let’s try to get ahold of ourselves. We need to return to court.”
Mrs. Tate nods. But as she walks through the forest with the judge, she giggles again. And again.
