41
"Fleur," Mom said when we left the courtroom. "I think you should sleep at our place tonight."
Fleur hesitated. I thought she was going to refuse, but she said, "Alright, Kay. Let's stop by my house so I can pick up a few things."
We pulled up to her house to see black paint splashed across the door and front steps. A note nailed to the doorframe said,"The cat was a warning. We don't need your kind here. Get lost, pervert."
The writing was scrawly, hard to read, but it looked familiar. I think it was the same as the note tied to the rock.
"Truly, you stay in the car. I'm going in with Fleur," Mom said. "And lock the door."
I kept a watchful eye on my surroundings. The street was eerily quiet, no dog walkers, and no joggers. Maybe everyone around here was as frightened as I was.
Mom and Fleur came out quite quickly. Fleur had a small case and a cloth grocery bag. Mom had Jimmy-James in his carrier. He yowled all the way to our house. Thankfully, it is only a few blocks.
The first thing Mom did was to bring out the wine and three glasses (real wine glasses). Fleur propped open the door of the carrier with a candlestick. Jimmy had stopped shrieking, but he wasn't ready to venture into a strange place.
We sat quietly for a few minutes. After we had each had almost an entire glass of wine, Mom refilled the glasses, and we all took a deep breath.
"I think we should call the police," I said.
"I doubt that would do any good." Fleur swirled the wine in the glass, watching it coat the sides and drip down.
"We must," Mom said.
So we did. One officer came and took our statements. He sat on Dad's chair, his bulky belt, with handcuffs and gun, made it impossible for him to sit comfortably. He asked if we knew who might have left the threatening note, or if we had seen any strangers around the neighborhood.
Fleur was very polite, answering him, "Nothing unusual. We have a lot of activity, people running, riding bikes, or walking their dogs. I see the same people every day —even the Mayor's sons, once in a while. It's easy to recognize them, because they are both quite tall."
He scribbled on a small pad. The policeman stood up, "We'll be in touch," he said. "Give us a call if you have any more trouble." He then left to visit Fleur's house, taking the threatening note with him.
"Well, that was pointless," Fleur said. Lately she gave the impression that words were draining her. She used them thoughtfully, as if she were going to run out of them.
Mom went into the kitchen and scrambled some eggs. She heated frozen biscuits. I would have liked some bacon; apparently, no one else missed having meat, certainly not Fleur. We kept drinking wine with our breakfast/supper, or whatever it was.
Fleur had cat food and two bowls in her grocery bag. While Mom was cooking she went into the kitchen and put out food and water for Jimmy-James. She placed a toy, shaped like a mouse, next to the bowls.
"He hasn't taken one step out of that carrier," Mom said. "Do you think he will find his food?"
"We all have a strong sense of survival, even little kitties. I intentionally put his things far from the carrier. He will have to come out to eat."
Something was bugging me: "Fleur, I think I recognize the handwriting on that note."
"Really, Truly?"
"It looks like the handwriting on the note that was tied to the rock."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Don't you think so?" I wanted her to be more incensed, or at least more curious. "Fleur, you don't seem surprised. Do you know who did it? And more importantly, does that mean that the writer of those notes killed Michael-Ray?"
"I thought I knew. But Eric is under house-arrest. So, now I'm not sure."
My mom was listening with great interest. "Why would you think it was Eric? He confessed to attacking you long after your cat was killed. You had no reason to suspect him then."
"Oh, Kay, I knew he had attacked us. Eric has very distinctive coloring. That curly hair is hard to miss, even in the dark of the parking lot. The boys wore bandanas across their faces, but they covered very little else."
"Aunt Fleur, why would you keep such a secret?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.
"There are so many reasons. He is a child. I felt that he would learn his lesson without my interference. I believe in karma. The justice of the universe is more powerful that the laws of Columbus, Mississippi. Anyway, we all know that nothing will happen to boys who beat up transvestites. They would be heroes in this town."
"I don't get it either," said Mom.
"Well, it would be like turning in Truly for a childish prank. I couldn't do it."
"Oh, please, Aunt Fleur. My daughter is nothing like Eric Alexander!" Mom reddened. Her voice had an angry edge.
"They are more alike than you know." Fleur smiled with her lips closed. Actually, I have new and interesting things to tell you."
We were paying attention to her. But I was thinking that there wasn't much that could top this news.
"Kay, I've been having visits from your mother at night."
"You mean dreams?" Mom is always grounded.
"I'm quite sure that they are visits. She looks wonderful, not at all like when she was sick. I know she's dead, but it makes me happy to see her."
"Does she say anything?" I had to ask.
"She smiles like Mona Lisa. One time she said, 'Tell Hyrum I forgive him.' That's all."
"I would like to sleep now," she said. "We have another rough day in court tomorrow." She took her bag and the cat carrier and headed toward our guest room. "Good night, ladies." She waved her hand over her shoulder.
"I'm much more tired than I realized," Mom said as she stifled a yawn. "I'll see you in the morning, Truly."
"Mom, do you think she is really seeing Grandma Belle?"
"I don't know, dear. Let's get some rest."
I went to my room, still wide awake. When I tried to close my eyes all I could see was the ugly black paint defacing my aunt's house, and the threatening note. I was frightened and thought everyone else should be, too.
I lay awake for a long time. Every noise in the house was amplified, scaring me and making me flinch. The hum of the icemaker, the ticking of my alarm clock, rustling sounds outside my window, suddenly sounded sinister.
Much later, I heard Dad come home, and I finally relaxed. The muffled thump of his footsteps as he walked to the bar, and the clinking of ice in his glass were familiar and comforting.
42
Next morning, Mom sat at the table with her coffee and cinnamon rolls. Dad wasn't stirring yet. Jimmy-James crouched next to his bowl, making crunching noises as he ate. He looked as comfortable as if he had been living here for years.
Aunt Fleur held the phone. "Yes, I understand," she said. "Of course. I'll call you tonight." She turned to us. "That was Trillian; she and Algonquin received some unpleasant phone calls last night."
"What did they say?" I asked.
"Nothing much," she said as she waved her hand in the air as if she were brushing away an annoying bug, "some name calling, suggestions to leave town, that sort of thing." Fleur is always lady-like. She never curses. We could tell that she was editing. "So they will not be in court today."
Dad came down and poured his coffee before he spoke to us. His eyes were puffy and red. He must have had several martinis last night. He took a sip from his mug, and finally said, "Good morning, ladies."
Mom said, "We should all try to eat something. I think it's going to be a long day."
"I'm not hungry," responded Fleur.
"Aunt Fleur, I'm worried about you. Please eat." The oven timer dinged, I pulled the pan of rolls out of the oven, and smeared the white icing onto them. I put one on a plate and placed it in front of her. She smiled at me and took a tiny nibble.
Dad left first, taking his car so he could be at Mr. Adams' office before court. The three of us went together in Mom's SUV.
Eric was put on the stand to testify as soon as court
was called to order. Judge Sanders declared recess yesterday when he began crying. Maybe that professional persona is a façade. He could have a soft side.
Eric did appear to be feeling better today. He wore the same suit as yesterday, with a shirt that looked freshly ironed. I can't say the same for his father. Hunter's tie was crooked, and the bags under his eyes seemed to have become droopier overnight.
Of all the people in the room, Johnny D. looked the worst. His clothes were badly wrinkled. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had slept in them.
We sat two rows in front of Johnny. Anyone seeing him on the street would probably assume that he was a homeless person. I thought I could make out the sound of soft sobs coming from his direction. When I heard the unmistakable loud honk of someone blowing his nose, I was sure it was him. I guess Mom was right about parents. No one ever gets over the loss of a child.
Mr. Adams was, of course, more gentle with his cross-examination than the D. A. had been. He called him "Eric," instead of "Mr. Alexander." His tone was friendly. You could almost forget that we were here for a very serious reason.
"Now, Eric," he began, "tell the court about the evening when you and your friends discovered the body of Russell Lewis."
Poor Eric, he had told the same story a million times. By now, anyone in the room could repeat it by heart. He explained it all again. I was convinced that he was not lying.
Greg and Butch were allowed to leave their home today. They did not sit in the courtroom with everyone else. When they were called to testify, they were brought from a room on the left side of the bench. Each came out separately, in hand cuffs, with a policeman beside him.
It was so sad. Neither of them looked like hardened murderers. They looked more like frightened boys. Butch cried just a bit when he told his version of the story. Greg tried to remain unemotional, but his voice cracked.
Each boy's recital of the details of that night was almost exactly like Eric's. They drove around for a while, trying to decide how they would confront the coach, what they would say, gathering the nerve to face someone they feared.
Butch's mother broke down when he was brought out in an orange jumpsuit. Her husband put his arm around her shoulder, which calmed her until his testimony was over. Then she dashed out of the room.
There were no more people to testify, so Judge Sanders called recess for lunch. He would hear closing arguments when we reassembled.
Mom and Fleur and I decided to go the Zachary's, a diner almost next door to the courthouse. Today, my dad joined us. We slipped into a booth, hoping that no one would try to talk to us.
"Truly, you understand that this is not looking good." Dad stared directly into my eyes. I was pretty sure that I knew what he was getting at. I was also a little taken aback. He had never called me anything except Gertrude.
"I don't agree, Dad. It seems that there is no real incriminating evidence."
"This is a witch hunt. There is a strong demand for a murder to be solved." He ordered a drink from the bar. It was only 12:30. He gulped it in one swallow, and raised his finger to signal the waitress for another.
Mom put her hand on my arm. "Eric could get some time, maybe a lot of time."
It didn't matter that I was over Eric, still angry and confused about his attack on my aunt. I believed that he was innocent. I did not want him to go to prison.
My hamburger sat like a two-ton lump in my stomach, even though I had only eaten part of it. I wished that we would never have to go back into that courtroom again. We had to, though. I guess I've learned that my wishes are futile.
43
The D.A. took the floor first. He gave a speech rehashing details that everyone already knew. He was dramatic, with his voice rising and falling. I'll bet he has had some stage experience.
He spoke at length on the "incomparable character of Coach Lewis Russell." He was an asset to the community, with ten years as a member of the board of the Historic Preservation Commission. He was a respected educator, much loved by collogues and students alike.
The District Attorney sounded like he was about to cry when he told how this man's life had been cut short, in his prime, etc., etc. Oh my god! By the time he was finished listing the coach's assets, I was beginning to feel overwhelmingly sad about the loss of this wonderful man, even though I had never met him.
His argument for a guilty verdict was that the defendant was the leader of a gang of delinquents. They had motive—that they hated the coach. They had opportunity—having been inside the victim's house on the night of the murder. Eric's fingerprints were found at the crime scene. And, they had a history of violence, as witnessed by the brutal mugging of Mr. Florenz Thomas, Mr. Trillian Bacakus, and Mr. Algonquin Sabine.
He walked to the jury box, staring intently into the eyes of first juror, then another, and another. "Ladies and gentlemen, I implore you to find this man guilty of murder in the second degree." His voice was so stern. If I had been a jury member, I would have voted any way he wanted.
"I rest my case."
That was a hard act to follow, to be sure. I felt sorry for Mr. Adams. Could he possibly save Eric? I had my doubts.
He took the floor and dropped his eyes before starting his defense. When he raised his head to face the jury, a strand of hair fell across one eye. I got the impression that Will Rogers was about to address the court.
"Ladies and gentleman," he began, "we have a young man on trial for murder, the very brutal murder of Lewis Russell. The District Attorney would have you believe that the victim was above reproach, a pillar of the community, a devoted husband. Yet he had abused members of the track team for years."
"I object!" The D. A. jumped up. "There is no proof of that!"
Judge Sanders said, "Strike that from the record."
I don't get how striking things from the record does any good at all; everyone has already heard it.
Mr. Adams was not flustered. He went on about how Eric has never swayed in his testimony that the coach was dead when he and his "young friends" arrived. This was no gang, just three boys who had run track together, hanging out on a Friday night.
He tried to debunk the evidence piece by piece. Yes, Eric's fingerprints were found at the scene; however, that was not incriminating since he had often visited the coach. The fingerprints of almost every boy on the team were also found at the crime scene.
As to the attack in the Huddle House parking lot, that was unfortunate, but certainly does not prove murder. "My client has confessed to that incident, and is deeply remorseful," he said in a quiet voice. "You understand that does not make him guilty of murder. Acquittal is the only verdict that makes sense."
In truth, I did not have a good indication as to how things would go. The expressions of the jury members were unreadable.
Court was recessed so that the jury could deliberate.
"This could take a long time," Dad said. "We should just go home."
44
Next morning, the weather held a hint of autumn. It wasn't cool enough for a sweater or jacket, but the slight relief from oppressive heat gave me a small sense of optimism.
Mom and Dad and Fleur and I went downtown. We sat in Mr. Adams' office, across the street from the courthouse. Both Dad and Mr. Adams tried to warn us that this could take days.
"I am feeling a bit more positive this morning," Mr. Adams said. I wished he would elaborate, but that was all he shared with us.
The two men talked together about other cases, particularly ones that involved children. I was surprised at how interested Dad was in the lives of strangers. His years in the Court Clerk's office gave him a real understanding of the law. He made comments that impressed his friend, and suggestions about ways to approach some of the cases.
I didn't understand how they could be so calm. Mom flipped through the magazines in the office. Anyone could see that she was not really reading, or even letting the photographs register in her brain. Fleur stared out the window and I studied the pattern of
the wallpaper. Around noon, I had counted over five hundred tiny gray stars between narrow blue stripes on the wall. The phone rang.
"This is it," Mr. Adams said when he put down the phone. We gathered up our purses and went to the courthouse.
The jury must have reached a verdict sooner than anyone expected. There were fewer seats filled today. Like Mr. Adams, everyone must have thought this would take much longer.
The families were there, of course, and about twenty reporters. All the media outlets were there too—newspapers and television. Some had come from as far as Starkville and Tupelo.
Judge Sanders entered. His face was flushed, like his blood pressure was raised. You would have thought he was the one on trial. When the clatter of voices died down, the judge asked for the jury's findings.
The foreman stood up and said, "In the case of Eric Alexander, on the charge of aggravated assault, we find the defendant guilty. On the charge of murder in the second degree, we find the defendant guilty."
Clementine let out a howl. She sounded like an injured animal. There was a lot of whispering and shuffling around. The judge banged his gavel twice. "Quiet!" he said.
Judge Sanders faced Eric and said, "Will the defendant rise." Eric and Mr. Adams stood next to each other.
From the back of the room came a sound that was unrecognizable as being human. It was a screech, or a scream, or maybe a bark. Johnny D. stood up and stumbled over the knees and feet of the people in his row. He ran to the bench, just as two policemen grabbed his arms.
"Your Honor," John shrieked. "That boy is innocent! I killed the bastard!"
The judged hammered the gavel so many times the courtroom sounded like a construction site. No matter. The room could not be quieted.
Johnny stood before the judge, head hung, sobbing. The officers on each side held him up.
Judge Sanders said to him, "Mr. Daigle, are you confessing to the murder of Lewis Russell?"
Witch Ball Page 12
