Hindsight

by Ronald Kelly

  "He has good reason to be," said the lawman. "He had a little visit from some of Bully's pals last night. From what Harvey told me, they were stinking drunk, cussing to beat the devil, threatening to kill him if he dared testify today. They shot out every window in his house, too. He'd surely have gotten hurt himself if he hadn't hidden in the root cellar till they left."

  "That's awful!" exclaimed Maudie. "Do you know who was behind it?"

  "I've got a pretty good idea it was Otis Schofield and his bunch. But I ain't got a lick of proof to pin it on them, though."

  Willard Shaw's eyes were serious. "Do you think he'll testify truthfully, Sheriff? You don't think he would change his story just to save his hide, do you?"

  "He's plenty scared, but he'll tell the truth when the time comes. He feels mighty guilty for covering up what he did, and I believe he wants to make amends. But that ain't what's bothering me. Did you see how rundown the man looks? I believe his heart has been acting up on him again."

  The district attorney was thoughtful for a moment. "I suppose I could motion for a recess, give him time to calm down a little and have Doc Hubbard check him out."

  "I suggested that to him," said Taylor. "But he just wants to get it over and done with. Can't say I blame him none either."

  "Well, all we can do is keep our fingers crossed," said Clay. He herded his clan up the steps, and they joined the growing swell of spectators who had returned for the second session of questioning.

  Willard Shaw stood on the sidewalk awhile longer, relishing the pleasant mixture of warm sunshine and cool autumn air as it ruffled his hair. Turning back to the job at hand, he was not at all sure that Harvey Brewer's testimony would have the impact he had once hoped it would. He almost felt as if his ace in the hole had been hopelessly lost the night before, swallowed up by the shattering of broken glass and the sound of drunken threats in the darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Harvey Brewer sat in the witness chair before the eyes of Coleman, appearing old and shrunken, a sad shell of the "influential citizen" he had once been. At the turn of the century, he had been one of the wealthiest tobacco growers in Bedloe County. He had reaped over two hundred acres of prime burley and Pryor a year, but after his wife's tragic passing, he had let all of that slip from his grasp. Now he was known only as a recluse, an unsociable hermit who lived on the edge of choking thicket that had once been known as the richest tobacco land in Tennessee.

  The elderly gentleman had taken the oath, and before the prosecuting attorney began with his questioning, Harvey sat there, his nerves worn to a frazzle. His mind raced back to the night before. It had started around midnight, wrenching him from a sound sleep. The roar of trucks and automobiles had washed across his property like a wave of foreboding doom. He had lain there beneath the patchwork quilt that Norma had made forty years ago, listening intently as the rough idling of engines ceased and doors slammed loudly. Then the drunken yells, the hoots and hollers, the barrage of obscenities began.

  You'd best forget about testifying against Bully Hanson tomorrow, you crazy old bastard. You'd best keep your damned mouth shut or you'll be sorry! You hear us, Methuselah? You utter one word against either Bully or

  Claude and you'll be laid out on the undertaker's slab, drilled and dried, before the following morn!

  He had left his bed, clad only in a dingy nightshirt, and approached the bedroom closet. He had intended to get the rifle and fire a few rounds over the drunkards' heads, hoping to scare them away. But the shooting started before he could get there. Windows shattered inward, rifle slugs and buckshot tearing through wooden studs and yellowed wallpaper. Harvey fled like a frightened child down the hallway to the small trapdoor at the rear of the kitchen pantry — the door that led down into the musky depths of the root cellar. He hurried down into the pitch black of the hole, locking the door against the crash of wanton destruction. Curled up in the far corner, he lay there. An awful lance of agony twisted through the center of his shallow chest like a sharpened spike of red-hot iron. There he writhed in horrendous pain until he finally passed out. He had awakened with the dawn, feeling sick and feeble, the pain in his heart only a dull, lingering ache. He had lain there for a long time, listening to the morning birds. The cellar that had once housed a store of canned preserves and potatoes was now an earthy dungeon laced with forgotten spider webs and dank mold.

  Now, perched upon the witness stand, Harvey swept his rheumy eyes over the milling gallery of spectators. On a pew near the back he spotted them, the culprits of his night of terror: Otis Schofield, his bartender Jasper Berle, and three of the Lynch brothers, a bunch of hooligans who spent their free time boozing and gambling at the Bloody Bucket. They all wore sullen expressions, their bloodshot eyes promising death for his bold disregard of their nocturnal warnings. He ignored them, but the awful fear remained deeply set.

  The source of that paralyzing emotion sat no more than fifteen feet away. Bully Hanson reared back in his chair behind the defense table, a crooked grin splitting his broad face like the skeletal leer of a death's head. Bully's gray eyes had a flatness to them. They were dead eyes, the eyes of a mounted bass on some fisherman's lodge wall. But somewhere beneath that glazed expression lurked a consuming hatred born of pure evil.

  "You are Harvey Brewer?"

  The old man jumped at Shaw's voice. He had not even noticed the lawyer as he approached the stand. "Yes, I am."

  "And you own property along Highway 81, approximately three miles south of Coleman?"

  "That's right." Harvey cast a fleeting glance back at Bully. The big man was toying with a lead pencil, caressing its wooden length like a bone in the jaws of some prehistoric beast. I told you to keep your freaking mouth shut, didn't I? Bully's eyes seemed to taunt. But, no, you gotta spill your guts and finger me for the murderer. Well, that's your mistake, old man. A very bad mistake.

  "On your property there is a small house and a barn used for curing tobacco leaves after they are harvested. Is that correct?"

  Harvey's eyes pulled away from Bully's bitter grin and regarded Willard Shaw. "That's correct. I used the barn up until 1928. My wife, Norma, died then, and I got outta the business."

  "This barn . . . I have heard that it has been used by numerous trespassers as some sort of hideaway. Is that true?"

  "Yes," agreed Harvey. "It sets a far piece back from the road, and it's been locked and chained for years. I reckon there are a few people in this town who sneak down there to find some privacy. Kids mostly, smoking and drinking and necking with the gals. Once a band of hoboes stayed the night, but soon they moved on."

  "And you do not alert the sheriff during any of these trespassings?"

  The elderly man shrugged. "Never really saw no need to. Nobody ever made no trouble for me, so I just left them alone."

  Bully was still glaring straight at him, the sinews of his thick wrists working as he continued to fool with the pencil. If I ever get my hands on you, old geezer, I'll surely kill you. I'll take hold of you and snap your freaking neck like this here pencil. I'll squeeze the very life outta those brittle old bones of yours!

  The pain hit him then. The familiar, searing pain from deep within his chest. It seemed to flare throughout his body much faster than the other times before, arching up his swayed spine, numbing the muscles of his left shoulder with a thousand tiny pinpricks.

  "On the evening of May twenty-ninth, the evening that the three boys were seen at the Bloody Bucket, you were awakened from your sleep," the prosecutor pointed out. "Would you please tell us about that night?"

  The pain grew worse, a new agony blossoming with every beat of his heart. But he went on with his testimony, trying to conceal the extent of his suffering. "I heard a truck turn off the highway and head down the road toward the barn. I didn't think anything of it, till I heard the shots."

  "Shots coming from the vicinity of the barn?"

  "Yes. Sounded deep, like a shotgun."

  "Did you hear anythi
ng after that?"

  Harvey nearly collapsed. The crushing pain in his chest was unbearable. "Yes, a scream," he managed. "Then, after that stopped, more shooting."

  Willard Shaw eyed his witness cautiously, noticing the strained expression on the old man's face. He decided to continue. "What happened after you heard the last shot?"

  "Nothing for a while. Then the truck drove back up from the barn. I'd done gone to the back door and turned on the porch light. The truck pulled up to the porch and someone pointed a shotgun at me from the open window."

  "Did you see who occupied the truck?"

  "No, it was too dark." Harvey had to struggle to keep his mind on the questions being asked. His left arm was numb and heavy, feeling as if it had fallen asleep.

  "Did you recognize the voice of the man driving the truck?"

  "Yes. I certainly did."

  "Then, could you tell the gentlemen of the jury and everyone else in this courtroom exactly who that voice belonged to?"

  The elderly man opened his mouth, his eyes growing wide and glassy. The words of final accusation froze solid in his throat. He had made the grave mistake of looking toward Hanson again. Bully had lost his cruel grin. An expression of seething hatred now gripped his ugly features, turning his coarse skin a fiery red. The killer's eyes bored into Harvey's soul, tearing away the armor of his stubborn bravado, exposing the soft underbelly of his fear. I warned you what I'd do, dammit! I warned you! And, with that, in a trembling fit of rage, Bully snapped the yellow pencil cleanly in half.

  The brittle snap rang throughout the courtroom, turning heads toward the source of the sound. It echoed in Harvey Brewer's aged ears like a gunshot, and at that very moment, he felt something snap inside his chest. He let out a grunt, then lurched from the witness chair. His body hit the boarded floor with a resounding thud.

  For a moment, no one made a move. All eyes stared at the prone form of Harvey Brewer, uncomprehending, as if perhaps the old planter were pulling some bizarre practical joke on his neighbors. One of the Lynch brothers snickered loudly from the back row, but received a stiff nudge in the ribs from Otis Schofield. The displaced mirth seemed to break the spell of inactivity, and suddenly the courtroom roared back into life. The rafters of the chamber almost seemed to expand with gasps of surprise and cries of concern.

  Willard Shaw and Deputy Ezell were the first to reach the elderly man. They were soon joined by the judge and Taylor White. "Doctor!" the sheriff called into the crowd. Anson Hubbard was already past the restraining banister, toting the black leather bag that accompanied him everywhere he went.

  The curious multitude began to strain forward, some genuinely anxious to lend a hand, but most just herding closer to get a better glimpse of the shocking turn of events. Lester T. Mullen stepped in front of the gateway before his court could be overrun with gaping spectators. "Please return to your seats," he demanded more than requested. "You have no business up here. We have more than enough people looking after this gentleman. Please, just bear with us." The crowd grumbled and groaned in protest, but returned to their places on the hardwood pews.

  Carefully, at the request of Doc Hubbard, they turned the old man over on his back. Harvey's nose was bloodied, and the upper bridge of his dentures hung haphazardly over his lower lip. The physician tenderly removed the ivory and laid it aside. He delved into his bag and found a stethoscope. Hubbard pressed the rounded piece to several places, attempting to detect a pulse. He found none. Lastly, he positioned the flat of the instrument on the center of Harvey's chest. He could hear liquid filling the elderly man's torso and knew suddenly what had happened. The snap Harvey had felt had been the wall of a weakened artery giving way, flooding the upper cavity with life's blood.

  "I told the man to take better care of himself," said Doc Hubbard almost bitterly. "Told him he had a bum heart. But, no, he wouldn't listen. He was too damned stubborn!"

  The realization of Harvey Brewer's sudden death swept through the courtroom, softening the roar to a respectable whisper. There being nothing more to be done for the man, Ezell and White carried his body out the back way to the meeting room where the town council gathered monthly. They laid him on the long table to await the short trip across the square to Platt's Funeral Home.

  Regaining his seat and rapping his gavel for order, Judge Mullen called the prosecutor and public defender to the bench for a conference. "Mr. Shaw, I don't want to appear callous; but this is a court of law, and the proceedings must go on, no matter what. Do you have any further witnesses to present for the prosecution?"

  The district attorney felt a sinking feeling tug at the pit of his stomach. "No, Your Honor, I don't," he sighed in resignation. "I reckon the State of Tennessee rests."

  Mullen nodded sternly. "Very well. Please return to your seats, gentlemen." After the two had obeyed the judge's request, the balding man with the handlebar mustache regarded the twelve-man jury. "Gentlemen, the prosecution has informed me that its deliberation has concluded. In light of the grave tragedy that has happened this afternoon, I shall postpone further proceedings until tomorrow morning, when the defense will present its witnesses. I will ask that each of you refrain from discussing the aspects of this case with each other or with anyone else, be it family or friend." The gavel rang loudly. "This court is adjourned until nine o'clock tomorrow morning."

  As the citizens of Bedloe County filed from the courtroom, armed with sufficient fodder for the Coleman gossip mill for some time to come, Willard Shaw tucked his law books and typed briefs back into his satchel. He watched as Bully Hanson and Claude Darnell were handcuffed. As they were readied for the journey back to the county lockup downstairs, he studied the faces of the accused. Claude was skittish, as jittery as a squirrel. He seemed bewildered by the incident on the witness stand, looking as though he didn't know exactly what had happened.

  On the other hand, Bully knew exactly what had taken place. The attorney could see it in his eyes, in the smug set of his lopsided grin. Murder had been committed that afternoon, cold-blooded homicide plain and simple. Many would label it as a natural demise; the old man's heart had finally done him in. But Willard Shaw saw it quite differently. Schofield and his drunken cronies had primed the pump, so to speak, but it bad been Bully Hanson who had performed the execution. His overbearing presence in the courtroom had been just as deadly for Harvey Brewer as his sawed-off shotgun had been for those three boys in the dark dankness of the old curing barn.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Surprisingly enough, the first witness for the defense the next morning was Otis Schofield.

  "Do you own a drinking establishment outside of Coleman, Mr. Schofield?"

  "Yeah," replied Otis. "The Bloody Bucket across the tracks on Willow Spring Road." The saloon owner was massive, close to three hundred pounds. He had gone to great pains to make himself as presentable as possible. He wore a crisp white shirt buttoned at the neck and cuffs, concealing the bristly mat of chest hair and the bulging forearms with their bawdy tattoos. He had his hair slicked back and his beard trimmed, but there was still the puffy redness of his face and the bloodshot eyes —both signs of a raging hangover. Obviously, Schofield was a heavy drinker and practiced what he preached.

  "Did you have a conversation with James Hanson around the second week of May?"

  "May the twelfth, I believe it was," Schofield agreed. "He told me he and Claude Darnell were going up to Kentucky for the summer. Said his uncle Zeke needed some help with his crops and they were gonna go to Muhlenberg County and give the old man a hand."

  "Are you absolutely sure that this conversation took place on the twelfth?"

  "I'm pretty sure." Schofield glanced over at Bully and was relieved to see a pleased look on the big man's face. "I remember it was my bartender's birthday and Bully bought him a shot of rye whiskey to celebrate. Yeah, it was the twelfth."

  An expression of budding confidence bloomed on the face of Lawyer Branchworth. "Well, then, that casts a new light on the s
ituation. If both James Hanson and Claude Darnell left Bedloe County on the twelfth of May and arrived in Kentucky shortly thereafter, then they certainly could not have been responsible for the heinous slayings of three teenaged boys, which, according to Dr. Hubbard himself, were committed on or around the date of May twenty-ninth. Does that sound like a logical assumption to you, Mr. Schofield?"

  "Yes sir, it certainly does." The honky-tonk owner seemed almost too eager in his answer. He grinned with tobacco-stained teeth, glad to have done a good turn for his friend Bully.

  After Branchworth had finished, the prosecution had its chance to cross-examine. Schofield detected a trace of devilishness in Willard Shaw's good-natured smile. It made him uneasy, for he knew the man was up to no good.

  "Mr. Schofield did the three young men—C.J. Potts, Johnny Biggs, and Billy Longcreek —enter your establishment on the night of May the twenty-ninth?"

  "I don't know if that was the exact date or not, but, yes, they came into my place one night in May."

  "Did they come there to buy liquor?"

  "I reckon. They said they were off to the CCC camps, and that Potts boy, he wanted to buy his buddies a beer."

  "Did you sell them the beer?"

  A nasty grin flickered across the man's bearded face. "Well, I sorta played a little joke on them. C.J. came strutting in there like he owned the joint, so I figured to take some of the wind outta his sails. I gave him one of my special brews."

  "Special brews?"

  "Yeah." Schofield grinned maliciously. "A mug full of horse piss."

  The prosecutor looked disgusted. "Horse urine? That seems like quite a sick prank to pull on someone to me."

  Otis shrugged. "The guys down at the bar sure seemed to think it was funny." That drew a few stray chuckles from Schofield's cronies in the back row.

  Willard Shaw continued his questioning. "Exactly how did C. J. Potts react to such a crude joke?"