by Shana Burg
But me? I can’t move. I’m weighed down by a ton of anger and a barrel of grief. From this day on, Uncle Bump will be called a criminal, and Mrs. Tate a birdbrain, all because I can’t find what I’m searching for.
Miss Gold’s the only one left with me under this oak tree. “I know I saw something. I did,” I tell her. My voice, it’s lower than the drop out my bedroom window. Then I can’t help it. I burst into tears.
I’m only at the start of my cry when I hear the most frightening sound: a hiss like a snake’s. Miss Gold and me peer over the edge of the ditch, but thank goodness, there’s no snake in sight. We hear the hiss again. Now we look toward the sound. And there, a stone’s throw away, stand the news reporter, the judge, and Mrs. Tate. They’re pointing to something up in a tree. That tree, it’s also an oak.
Gooseflesh covers me. “He’s never hissed before,” I say.
“Huh?” Miss Gold asks.
“Well, only in my dream,” I whisper. “We’ll need that shovel.”
I lead Miss Gold to the other oak tree.
There’s Flapjack, up on a branch, swiping his paw at a blackbird nest, the same nest he wanted to pounce on when we bolted through the forest the day of the garden picking.
The mother blackbird caws at Flapjack. And I can’t stand to see my cat attack, so I scold him till at long last he comes on down.
Then I set to work turning up the dirt beneath the branch with the nest on it. I reckon Mrs. Tate and the judge think I’m sweating up my brow for nothing at all, so they set off again across the forest. But the newsman stays behind to gather the facts.
I’m all wore out, when all of a sudden I hit burlap.
With his instant camera, the news reporter snaps a picture. Then he shouts real loud through the woods for the judge, Mrs. Tate, Mr. Hickock, the bailiff, and all the jurors to come on back.
When everyone’s gathered round the ditch, I pull out seven empty sacks. I rub the dirt off one. My palm gets scratched on the burlap, but it’s more than worth it because there on the side of the sack, in big red letters, it says BUTTER BEAN SEEDS, 50 LBS.
Flapjack, a regular hero, purrs at the edge of the hole.
Everyone can see that the butter bean fiasco has grown even thornier. And me? I burn with anger. To think Mr. Mudge almost sent Uncle Bump off to jail without regret!
CHAPTER 32
October 21, 1963, Late Afternoon
By the time we get back to the courthouse, I could drink a lake. We pass through the judge’s private room with all the books, and then into the courtroom. As soon as folks see us, they close up their fans and sandwich bags and shuffle back to their seats. I find my way to sit beside Mama. I’m in the middle of telling her what happened when I hear a clang against the floor. And there’s Uncle Bump, ankles shackled, moving real slow, like dead lice are falling off him, while the court officers lead him back to his chair.
The judge bangs his hammer. “I believe folks in this courtroom have been waiting long enough,” he says. “The prosecution will now close its case.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Hickock says, and stands. Of course, no amount of mustache twirling will get him a victory now, but still, he gives it a good try. “Gentlemen,” he says, “we were all young once, and one of the first things we learned in school was that one plus one equals two. I don’t have to tell you we learn the basics of life first. Be nice to your neighbors, share your toys, and one plus one equals two.
“Now let’s remember that Bump had the motive to destroy your garden. He wanted to avenge the death of his nephew, Elias. Also, Bump had the means to wreck the garden. When Bump was weeding and watering under Mr. Mudge’s direction, he had access to the butter bean seeds stored inside the garden cabin.”
Mr. Hickock rocks back on his heels. “Earlier today Mrs. Worth testified that the garden cabin on Mr. Adams’s land was filled with seed sacks that were not used at the planting. Sure Mrs. Tate showed you a silly list of seeds that she says were in the garden cabin after Mr. Adams died. According to that list, there were no butter bean seeds in the garden cabin. But with all due respect, Mrs. Tate probably wrote up that list of seeds on a piece of old newsprint just this morning.”
I can’t believe Mr. Hickock’s calling Mrs. Tate a liar! Worse, he’s acting like he didn’t just see the evidence we turned up in the forest. All of a sudden, I’m seized by the urge to give Mr. Hickock a mustache trim. By hand! I’ll yank each hair out one at a time. His eyes will tear up from the pain. And every now and then, he’ll let out a howl. I’ll just tell him, “So sorry. For the deluxe special trim, it’s gotta be done real slow and careful.” But the good news for Mr. Hickock is I’ll donate my labor for free!
Now Mr. Hickock rubs his hand over his scraggly face. I reckon he’s trying to appear like he’s thinking real hard, but instead he looks like he’s brushing off the crumbs from his breakfast. “So let’s remember what our teachers taught us,” he says. “One plus one equals two. Bump Dawson had the motive to wreck this garden and the butter bean seeds he needed to commit the crime. One plus one equals two.”
Mr. Hickock twists the edges of his mustache round his finger. “One month ago the garden was laid by. There was nothing left to do but wait for the harvest. That’s when Mr. Mudge left town to tend his sick mother, and the criminal had the perfect opportunity to strike. He broke into the garden cabin, stole the butter bean seeds, and planted them over the entire garden.”
Mr. Hickock smirks like he just cracked an egg on Uncle Bump’s head and is watching the yolk drip down. “Jurors,” he says, “a few empty seed sacks turned up in Mr. Mudge’s forest today. So what! Anyone could have buried those sacks there on Mr. Mudge’s land, most especially someone desperate to frame him!”
Everyone in the viewing gallery whispers. It’s the first they’ve heard of the seed sacks. And I wonder if they can understand. Now that Mr. Hickock’s turned every bit of real evidence inside out and upside down to tell his tall tale, it’s all I can do to pray Miss Gold will rearrange the pieces of the story so the truth will make itself known.
Mr. Hickock saunters back to his seat.
It’s Miss Gold’s turn. She stands, picks an oak leaf off her dress, and drops it on the courthouse floor. “Jurors,” she says, “earlier today Mr. Tate, the biggest seed salesman in Thunder Creek County, testified that butter bean vines grow at a rate of ten inches per week. Mr. Hickock wants you to believe that after Mr. Mudge left town four weeks ago, someone broke into the cabin, stole the seeds, and wrecked the garden with them. But if the seeds were planted over the garden four weeks ago, this butter bean vine would be only forty inches long. Instead, it’s seventy-two inches long. Based upon the length of this vine, we can calculate that those butter bean seeds were planted seven weeks ago. Therefore, the scenario Mr. Hickock describes is nothing less than impossible.”
All I can say is Miss Gold is one clever lawyer lady!
Miss Gold struts over to Mrs. Worth, who’s sitting in the front row of the viewing gallery. I know it’s Mrs. Worth because I can see the back of her purple hat.
“If you follow me now,” Miss Gold says, “Mr. Mudge didn’t want to lose any business from his Corner Store. He simply couldn’t stand the thought of Kuckachookians buying their vegetables from anyplace besides his shop, so he devised a plan to destroy the garden altogether. A couple days after the last Garden Club meeting, he got to work by planting the border of the land with fast-growing Indian corn. He told folks that this corn would shield the growing crops from high winds, but really, that corn would do more.”
What Miss Gold says makes my lip shake.
“Just after he planted the corn,” she goes on, “Mr. Mudge bought the butter bean seeds from Mr. Tate, exactly as Mrs. Tate attested. But Mr. Mudge didn’t keep the seeds in Mr. Adams’s garden cabin. If he had, everyone would have used those seeds at the planting. Instead, he kept them on his own property.”
“The first evening that the men who volunteered to weed and wate
r the garden showed up to do the job, Mr. Mudge sent them off to Roxy’s. He told the men that he had hired Bump Dawson and some others to tend the garden, and these men believed it. But what you must realize is this: after the garden planting, Bump Dawson never came to the garden again.
“Night after night, Mr. Mudge had the farm to himself. After a couple weeks, the Indian corn grew so tall that anyone checking up on the garden could hardly see past it,” Miss Gold says. “That’s when Mr. Mudge committed the crime.”
The courtroom erupts.
The judge bangs his hammer like he’s pounding a dozen nails into his desk, but still, folks go hog wild! So the judge stands up. He spreads his large arms wide open. His black cloak unfolds and he looks like a wizard. “By order of the court,” he yells, “shut up!”
At long last the voices die down enough for Miss Gold to finish building our case.
“Behind the stalks and in the cover of night, Mr. Mudge planted those butter bean seeds,” she says. “First he prepared the soil with his tractor. Then he haphazardly tossed the seeds every which way and waited for the rain to turn them under.”
Miss Gold holds up some pictures. “Jott James, the news reporter and photographer for the Delta Daily, took these instant photographs today at Mr. Mudge’s farm. These photographs document what the jury, the judge, and I saw an hour ago: seven empty butter bean seed sacks buried in the forest next to Mr. Mudge’s farm. Addie Ann Pickett witnessed Mr. Mudge burying these sacks last week when he was supposed to be out of town.”
Miss Gold stacks the photographs in her hand like they’re a deck of playing cards. “While it is true that Mr. Mudge left town to open a new shop in Muscadine County,” she says, “on the day of the picking, he panicked. Like so many criminals do, he threw caution to the wind and sneaked back to the scene of the crime to be extra-sure he had hidden any evidence that could possibly link the fiasco to him.”
And to think that at the time I was running through the forest, I didn’t even know I was watching a crime unfold. Well, I sure do know it now!
Miss Gold chuckles. “Well,” she says, “at least he was smart enough to drive the back roads to his farm, because as far as I know, no one reported seeing his truck the day of the picking. But of course, if anyone had spotted him and asked about his sudden return, Mr. Mudge had the perfect alibi at the ready. He could have simply said, ‘I heard about the butter bean fiasco, so I came right back to help!’”
Miss Gold paces in front of the viewing gallery. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then she stops, dead center, and stares out at us all. “It was Mr. Samuel Mudge who destroyed this community garden. It was Samuel Mudge who wanted to ruin the crop, so that you would still have to buy your vegetables from his Corner Store. It was Samuel Mudge who stole the harvest from your children,” she says.
She turns to face the jury. “You have the wrong man in custody,” she says. “And unless you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bump Dawson is guilty as charged, you must set him free.”
Miss Gold points at one juror. “You!” she shouts. “You might have a hunch Bump Dawson committed this crime.
“You!” She points to another juror. “You might have an inkling he’s guilty as charged.”
She takes a deep breath. Then her voice gets quiet and even. “I am here to tell you that a hunch or an inkling is not enough,” she says. “You need proof! If you convict this defendant without proof he committed this crime, then you are the one who will be found guilty. Not in a court in the state of Mississippi, but in the highest court there is.” Now Miss Gold points her finger to the Heavens and roars, “The Kingdom of God!”
A chill rises up my spine.
Miss Gold hands the stack of photographs to the jury foreman, whose bald head is burned red from the sun. And all I can say is I sure hope his brain didn’t get burned too, because I need him to be able to think real good.
“The defense rests,” Miss Gold says, and returns to her seat beside Uncle Bump.
Next the judge opens his thick black book, reads out some rules, and dismisses the jurors. While the jurors file out of the courtroom, someone shouts clear till tomorrow, “Lock him up and bury the key!”
But we proved our case. The jurors have to believe us. They have to believe the truth. At least that’s what I think till Mama rubs the cross that hangs round her neck and says, “Lord have mercy.” Then she closes her eyes and stays that way.
After I imagine what each and every member of the jury will say when they meet in the back room, my mind’s as tired as my body. My eyes shut too. And it’s funny how the Lord’s right here in his long beard and overalls waiting to have a word. Mama always tells me to be grateful, so I start out with a big thank-you. The Lord smiles. Then I say, “You can’t imagine how much I love Uncle Bump, so please, I’m begging you, don’t let them take him away.”
I’m just about to finish my plea when Mama chugs me in the ribs. She nods at the front of the courtroom. The jurors file back, silent and serious.
My heart thrashes around in my chest like a squirrel stuck in an upside-down bucket.
But aside from Mama’s sniffles, it’s quiet as a cemetery here, so the judge doesn’t have to call for order. He just looks at the jury foreman and asks, “In the case of the State of Mississippi versus Charles ‘Bump’ Dawson, what say you?”
The jury foreman’s chair creaks when he stands. He makes a face like he just took a big gulp of sour milk. Then he opens up his mouth and spits it out. “Not guilty.”
“What?” asks the judge.
Now the jury foreman shouts as if the words stink to high Heaven. “Not guilty!”
The bayou floods inside me. It spills right out my eyes. Mama weeps too. Elmira dances a jig, Mrs. Jacks sings, “Glory, glory, hallelujah!” The reverend shouts, “Praise the Lord!” And Mrs. Montgomery yells, “Amen!”
I can’t say if it was our prayers or Elmira’s magic or Miss Gold’s words or Mrs. Tate’s papers or the empty butter bean sacks that did the trick. But I reckon things in Kuckachoo might be starting to change, because up till now, even if a Negro man had all the evidence on his side, he’d usually end up in jail or worse.
Of course, setting an innocent Negro free isn’t the same as locking up a guilty white man. One thing’s clear: Mr. Mudge will never pay his dues. But for now, I’m jubilant. And the promise of a future for my family nourishes me like honey cake.
After a court officer unlocks Uncle Bump’s shackles, my uncle makes his way through the jeers and cheers right to me. “You saved my life!” he says. A tear slides down his cheek. “You gave me back my freedom!” He pulls me close, my face against his belly.
Inside this hug, it’s good. Better than good. Sensational! Uncle Bump strokes the back of my head. And me? I’m filled to the brim.
Of all the awkward moments, the strangest comes when I’m leaving the court. There, in the doorway, stands Mrs. Tate, her legs splattered with mud. I’ll tell you one thing: she’s going to need a heck of a lot of carbonated water to get the mud stains off her shoes today! Folks stare at Mrs. Tate, eyes wide. Some nod with admiration. But most are less than cheery.
Mrs. Worth has an all-out hissy fit. “Penelope Tate, I thought we was friends,” she shrieks, “but you sold me down the river. Mark my words, Penelope, I will never speak to you again! Never!”
Mrs. Tate blinks back her tears.
I always thought Mrs. Tate wasn’t too mean for a boss lady, but till today, I never knew she was brave. Now I see while she stood up for herself, she also burned down part of her community. More than anything, I want to thank her, but I’m not sure how I can talk to her in public without shaming us both, so I pass through the courthouse door and leave my thanks unspoken.
Uncle Bump, Mama, and me walk hand in hand down the seven courthouse steps. At the bottom, I tweet, click, click for Flapjack, but after all he’s done today, it’s no wonder he’s gone off to find himself something to eat.
It’s only after Uncle Bump
, Mama, and me cross the tracks that I tweet, click, click again and my cat comes running. I pick him up, hug him tight, and turn down Kuckachoo Lane, where my neighbors shout out congratulations.
Even though I’m twelve, I reckon I just cut my baby teeth. I grew up more in the last four months than in the four years before that. I’d call it something of an inside growth spurt, but I reckon everyone can see it as much as if it was an outside one.
The second we step into the Montgomerys’ house, Uncle Bump shouts out, “Not guilty!” We find my brother in the pantry, Bible in his hand, tears rolling down his cheeks. He doesn’t even swipe under his nose to stop them. After everyone hugs a couple hundred times, Mrs. Montgomery brings Elias a pillow and a blanket, and my brother curls up on the pantry floor. Wouldn’t you know it, in seconds flat, he’s snoring into the night.
And soon as Uncle Bump collapses onto the Montgomerys’ couch, he falls fast asleep too. Mama and me don’t want to wake him, so we take our blanket to the backyard, where we sit in the October night, stare at the ashes of our old lives, and cry. When at long last we’re tired out from crying, we lie back on the charred leaves and count our blessings, one for each star in the sky.
CHAPTER 33
October 26, 1963, Morning
Mama says, “We need the money. That’s that.” And that’s how come Mama and me, we’ve got no choice but to go back to the Tates’ house to see if we’ve still got our jobs.
Mama raps on the back door, fixes her eyes on her feet. I do the same. But Mrs. Tate doesn’t answer right away with Ralphie in her arms.
I look up to see tears filling Mama’s eyes. She bites her lip, and I know it can’t be easy for her to go begging on the white side. She knocks again. Again we wait. “I reckon we better go,” Mama says.
But there’s no way I’m leaving this place without feeling Ralphie’s soft skin or hearing him laugh. “Just wait,” I say.
