by Rodney Jones
“It was her, Randall. Plain as the nose on my face. You saw her. Everyone did.”
“It wasn’t her. She’s dead, Hugh. It was just some gal who looked like her, is all.”
“Well, what about the dress? I swear to God it had blood down the front of it. And the things she said. I know full well it was her.”
“And you’re sure that was her in the grave?”
“Sure as I’ve ever been about anything.”
They steered their horses off the road and down to the creek, then crossed and turned up the other side—the wrong way. I grabbed my Maglite, pointed it into the trees at their right, and flicked it on for an instant.
Hugh stopped his horse. “What was that?”
“What?” Randall pulled his horse to a halt.
Hugh peered into the darkness. “You didn’t see it? A flash of light off that way.”
“Maybe a storm?”
I tossed a pebble toward the grave.
“Did you hear that?” Hugh sounded pretty shaken.
“Good Lord, Hugh. You’re jumpy as a frog in a skillet.”
“There’s something back there.”
“A mouse.”
“Come on, Randall.”
They steered their horses around and came back toward the grave.
“Right there. See?” Hugh said. “That’s it.” He climbed down from his horse and hesitantly approached the grave. “See? I knew it was hereabouts.”
Randall slid down from his saddle and walked over to the pile of rocks. “Well, it ain’t been messed with, far as I can see. She ain’t climbed out nowhere.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you were expecting. Once you’re dead, you’re dead. It wasn’t her. She ain’t ever comin’ out. Let’s go.”
Hugh stepped around to the other side of the grave. “Something ain’t right. I’m telling ya, that was her at the dance.” He bent down and removed a rock.
“Whad’ya doing?”
He lifted another rock and tossed it behind him. Thump.
“Come on, Hugh. Let’s go. I don’t want any part of this.”
“I just danced with Tess McKinnon. It was her. There ain’t no one in this grave.” He tossed another rock. The clack of it striking a boulder echoed in the woods.
I activated the MP3 player and selected the seventh message. “It’s over, Hugh.”
They both gasped. Hugh stumbled back, tripped over one of the rocks he’d just removed, and landed flat on his butt.
The message continued. “If you were man enough to come alone, I might’ve let you try to warm my cold body, but I won’t be seen with cowards… and narcissists.”
“Oh, my God. My God. Go away.”
“You think you have it all figured out, huh?”
“Jesus, Lord Almighty!” Randall stumbled along the edge of the creek, trying to get to his horse.
“You think it was John Bartley who killed me?”
Hugh thrashed about, flailing as if he were fighting off a whole gang of ghosts.
“Duh. It was the sheriff, you spineless dork. The sheriff murdered me.” I paused the recording.
Hugh managed to make it to his knees. “Please. Please. I didn’t do anything. Let me be.”
I pressed Play. “I’ll leave you alone. But only if you do the right thing. Testify in John’s defense. Otherwise, I’ll haunt you until your last breath then chase you to the gates of Hell.”
Hugh made it to his feet and sprinted for his horse. Moments later, I saw a horse charging down the road, riderless—“Hugh, hurry, my horse got away”—and Randall, limping along after it. “Whoa. Whoa. Get back here!”
Hugh was still struggling to get into his saddle.
“God dang it, Hugh, hurry!”
He finally made it up then tore off down the road after his friend. I waited for the dust to settle then got to my feet and listened as their voices faded in the distance.
chapter thirty-four
John
The morning of the trial, my stomach was in knots. Breakfast arrived, but I couldn’t eat a bite. I sat at the edge of my bunk, wringing my hands, dreading the deputy’s return.
My uncle came over and patted me on the shoulder. “All you can do is pray and trust that no matter what happens, whether it seems right or not, it’s a part of God’s plan.”
I lowered my head into my hands. “I’d just as soon not be a part of any plan right now.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to show a little more faith.”
“Yeah, well, faith’s not making a whole lot a sense to me at the moment, sir.”
“It don’t need to make sense, son.”
I shook my head. “I thought I understood it. It’s always seemed easy enough to say I believe this and that, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe I just believed that I believed.”
“It don’t matter, John. It’s still believing.”
“Sir, I’d always believed that God wouldn’t allow men like Henry McNeil to go about wrecking the lives of good people, but my believing that didn’t make it so, did it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe justice doesn’t always work out the way you think it should. Same as God’s will, it gets confusing. Rest assured, though, if I’m not satisfied with the outcome of this, I’ll see that McNeil suffers for it. I doubt God would mind some help with His will.”
I looked into my uncle’s sober eyes. I’d often suspected that he was holding back thoughts, ideas, and feelings he simply couldn’t find proper words for or see the necessity of expressing. I reckoned I wasn’t a whole lot different in that regard. He could’ve said it in any number of ways; it didn’t matter. The fact that he was making an effort to console me was appreciated.
Deputy Hoffman stepped into the corridor with Mr. Morse right behind him. I had wondered if, after recognizing the futility of my situation, he would even bother showing up.
After the door was unlocked, Morse dragged a stool into our cell. He plopped down and huffed and sighed as he shuffled through his notes. “You know all these people, right?” He handed me a list of names: Mr. Jesse O. Pickett, Mr. Alan J. Stewart, Mr. Hugh G. Stewart, Mr. Randall M. Shaw, and Mr. Henry McNeil.
“Except for this Pickett fellow,” I said.
“These are the folk who’ve been called on to testify for the prosecution. According to Mr. Buckhurst, they’re all in town for the trial.”
“Who’s Jesse Pickett?” I said.
“The coroner.”
“Who do we have testifying on my behalf?”
He didn’t bother consulting a list. “Martha and Zach Heming and your aunt.” He glanced at Uncle Ed. “I don’t know as your testimony would count for much, sir, unless you actually saw someone other than John shoot the gal.”
“I’ll swear on the judge’s Bible that that worthless heap of dung, McNeil, killed her,” Uncle Ed said. “I’ll swear he was intent on her suffering from the moment he first laid eyes on her.”
Morse drew in a breath then nodded.
I handed the paper back to him. “So that’s all I have, huh?”
“We just have to give the jurors cause to doubt your guilt.”
My uncle threw his hands up. “Give them cause to doubt? How ’bout giving ’em cause to hang Henry McNeil?”
“Believe me, sir.” Mr. Morse spoke in a hushed tone. “I’d be going after the sheriff if I had a stitch of evidence. But I’ll be doing all I can to keep John from hanging.”
My uncle grumbled, “I hope you’re more convincing at the trial.”
In the courtroom, I was directed to a chair behind a narrow table at the head of the aisle that divided the gallery’s eight rows of benches. Mr. Morse took a seat to my left and immediately started looking over his stack of documents and notes. Mr. Buckhurst sat behind a separate table to our right. A plump, pallid-looking fellow scoote
d in to his left, and the sheriff sat behind them in the first row of the gallery.
The jurors—twelve somber men decked out as though for a funeral—sat behind a railing in two rows of six. The gallery, by contrast, was a congregation of mostly women, spiffed up as if they were on their way to a dance. The room was filled with murmurings, like the stir after the last amen of a fiery sermon.
I turned in my chair when I heard my name spoken. Aunt Lil was seated directly behind me, and to her left was my sister, Sarah, and my brother, J.W., neither of whom I’d seen since Christmas. J. W. looked as though he’d spent the morning in a barber shop, getting a fresh shave and haircut. Sarah, with her perfect complexion, had her auburn hair pulled tightly back over her ears, not a stray hair on her head. I wanted to leap over the railing and crush them with hugs. Instead, we smiled at each other.
“Ma was wantin’ to come,” my brother said, “but her health won’t let her travel any, as it is. She sends her prayers.”
I nodded. I could no longer recall a time when she wasn’t feeling poorly. I used to worry about her, but I gave that up when J. W. moved to Chester with his wife. I knew they took the best possible care of her, and no amount of worry would ever make a difference.
My neighbor, Mr. Heming, seated to Aunt Lil’s right, acknowledged me with a nod. Behind him were Zach and Polly, and to the other side of Zach, his sister Martha. I gave them all a smile and a nod, hoping to convey at least some small measure of the gratitude I felt for their trouble.
The judge emerged from his chamber then stepped up behind the bench at the front of the courtroom. “May we have order, please?”
The room quieted to a scattering of whispers.
“We are about to hear the state’s case against John Samuel Bartley of Greendale, who has hereby been accused of the murder of”—he glanced down at the bench—“Tess McKinnon, of…” He turned over a sheet of paper. “Well, I don’t suppose it matters now.” He scanned the gallery. “I beg of you all to respect the rules and eminence of this court and remain quiet throughout the proceedings.” He then turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Buckhurst, do you have anything you want to say before we get started?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Buckhurst stood, shuffled out from behind the table, then moved to stand directly in front of me. Turning to face the jurors, he said, “Gentlemen, I first want to thank you for honoring your civic duty in being here today. It is because of exemplary citizens such as yourselves that we live in a country where we do not have to worry about our daughters being lured away from the sanctity of our homes by lecherous murderers and the like. It is through example of efficient justice that such evil is deterred.”
He paused, nodding several times. “You are, I’m sure, aware that only recently, the night of August twenty-fifth, to be precise, a man, no different from you, had his beloved daughter stolen from him in the most heinous of manners right here in your neighbor community of Greendale. What you probably don’t know is that the scoundrel who seduced this young lady and then murdered her”—he tipped his head forward, closed his eyes, and placed his fingertips to his forehead—“is this young fellow here.”
I didn’t catch the move, but just like that, he was standing over me, his eyes drilling into mine. “And why, you might ask, would he have committed such an unthinkable act?” Lifting his hands as though inviting me to respond, he said, “To, no doubt, silence her pleas for justice.”
Mr. Buckhurst again paused then turned back to the jurors. “I’m about to prove to you that this man hiding behind a mask of youth and innocence is in fact a servant of the devil. Our daughters are not safe so long as he lives.”
Most of the jurors looked at me as though they’d found a blight on their corn. The rest kept their eyes fixed on the prosecutor, nodding as he spoke.
“I assure you that before the day is done, the facts of this case will be laid bare in such a manner that nothing is left to deliberate. Your verdict will be clear and easy, and your conscience will suffer not a wink for it.” Mr. Buckhurst strolled the length of the box, making eye contact with each juror as if securing an agreement. “Thank you, gentlemen.” He returned to his chair.
“Mr. Morse,” the judge said, “is there anything you wish to add before we proceed?”
“Your Honor, I was not aware that we were going to be giving prepared speeches to the jurors. I have only brought hard facts with me.”
Titters and chuckles came from the gallery.
The judge gave the audience a stern look. “Then I take it you’re ready for Mr. Buckhurst to call the first witness?”
“Well, I don’t have a speech prepared, Your Honor, but there are a few things Mr. Buckhurst overlooked that I think the jurors should probably know.”
The judge waved his hand. “The floor is yours.”
The feet of Charles’s chair scraped the floor with a loud squawk. He stood and worked his way around the table, grabbing its edge as he stumbled. Recovering, he cleared his throat and addressed the jury. “Gentlemen, I’ll be the first here to point out that I’m no lawyer.”
“And no dancer,” one of the jurors mumbled.
Snickers and laughter rose from the gallery.
Bam, bam, bam! The judge pounded the bench with a small wooden mallet. “Sir, you are not to offer comments. Your duty as a juror is to listen and form an opinion. Silently.”
The offending juror nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The judge put down the mallet. “Mr. Morse, please continue.”
Charles stood there for a moment, scratching his sideburn. “Anyhow, I’m not a lawyer, but I don’t think you need to be to realize that Mr. Buckhurst’s speech contained not one single fact, other than a young gal is dead.”
“I object,” the prosecutor shouted. He stood and shook his finger at Mr. Morse. “Are you calling me a liar?”
Mr. Morse tipped his head back and brought his fingertips to his chest in a gesture of mock surprise.
“Mr. Buckhurst, please,” the judge said.
“But, Your Honor, this is plain underhandedness and should be addressed as such.”
“Please sit down, Mr. Buckhurst.”
The prosecutor steadied a hard glare on Mr. Morse as he lowered himself into his chair.
“Pardon me, sir, but I wasn’t calling you or anyone a liar. Not at all,” Mr. Morse said. “As I was about to point out, there ain’t any law that says a speech has to be about facts. It can be about opinions or just an interesting story.”
Mr. Buckhurst again jumped up from his chair. “I object!”
“Let Mr. Morse finish, Mr. Buckhurst,” the judge said. “The trial hasn’t begun yet, for crying out loud.”
“Your Honor, we’re all aware that Mr. Morse is unexperienced in matters of law. He is a clerk, but this should not excuse him from slander.”
The judge glared. “Mr. Buckhurst, if you wish to press charges, you may do so on your own time. But for now, I would like to get this trial underway.”
The prosecutor stared at Morse then dropped back into his chair.
Morse turned back to the jury. “I just think y’all should keep in mind that there are two sides to every story, and sometimes one side is nothing more than a pack of lies, and…” He scratched at his cheek as if stalling, perhaps anticipating a reaction from the prosecutor. “Well, I suppose that’s pretty much it for now.” He returned to his seat.
The first witness was Sheriff McNeil. He stepped to the front of the courtroom and entered the witness box—a five-foot-square corral with a small door to its left side. He placed his hand on the Bible and swore to tell the truth.
The prosecutor leaned on the polished wooden rail separating him from the sheriff. “Sir, will you please tell the court what had brought you to Greendale the night of that poor young lady’s demise?”
“Well, I happened to be passing through Weston earlier that
day, and I stopped to pay a visit to my dear friend, Pastor Stewart. Mr. Stewart informed me that he’d been told by upstanding members of his congregation that a certain young fellow from Greendale was seen behaving improperly toward a number of young ladies at a recent social.”
“Oh?” Mr. Buckhurst wore a look of surprise. “And who was this young man?”
“That fellow right there, sir.” McNeil pointed at me. “John Bartley.”
“What, precisely, was it that had the citizens of Weston so concerned?”
“He was seen trying to lure young ladies into… compromising situations. One of his victims had apparently been… well, seduced and, uh…” He glanced toward the gallery. “She was…”
“With child, sir?”
He nodded. “Indeed.”
I heard a few gasps, a rustling, and a “tsk tsk tsk” from the spectators.
The sheriff continued. “For fear of shame, she ran away from home. She walked some twenty miles over the mountains to beg the young man to do the honorable thing. When I heard this, I thought of the heartache her family was surely sufferin’.”
“And so you went into Greendale to rescue the young lady?”
“Yes, sir. Concerned for her safety, I was.”
“That’s very commendable, sir. Unfortunately, you arrived mere minutes too late. Am I right?”
The sheriff dropped his head and nodded. He went on to talk about the chaos that ensued, hinting that I was the one who’d started the fire at the mill. Then described his search for Tess, my supposed ambush of him in the dark, and finally his catching me in the act of burying her.
Mr. Morse was then given an opportunity to question the sheriff. “Mr. McNeil, when you discovered Mr. Bartley in the woods, what exactly was he doing?”
“Washing the blood from his hands.” The sheriff held out his hands as though to show everyone they were clean.
“You did not actually see him shoot Miss McKinnon?”
“Her grave was right there next to him. There was a shovel at his feet, which he’d attempted to hide. It don’t take no genius to see what’s what.”
