A Savage Wisdom

by Norman German

  Palmer turned to face Toni Jo. “Or woman. Each spouse insists on his or her sole guilt. Perhaps they are thinking this ploy will enable each of them to elude justice. I caution you, therefore, not to aid and abet them in a miscarriage of justice. I will close my opening statement by asking you to look through superficial appearances and into the heart of the accused and read the dark inscription there. Then, on a conclusion that follows from circumstantial and physical evidence, base your decision on unchanging moral principles.”

  Throughout the prosecutor’s presentation, Prudhomme had been scribbling notes on a yellow pad and consulting Vincent Levine, a seasoned lawyer Prudhomme had asked to assist him. Prudhomme’s hands shook as he stood and tidied the papers before him. At the jury railing, he scanned the two tiers of jurors.

  “Gentle ladies and men of the jury, the attorney representing the state has suggested that your judgment of my client not be based on her youth and beauty, but on her deed. Mr. Palmer is a seasoned advocate. He knows, by asking you not to consider Toni Jo’s youth and beauty, that he is calling attention to those very qualities in her. Thus, when you come to make your decision, you will discover a prejudice against her implanted in your reasoning by reverse psychology and may find yourself compensating in the opposite direction of your thoughts as they will have been formulated over the two or three weeks of this trial. So I would also ask you to follow my adversary’s advice and base your decision on the evidence, and only the evidence. Remember, too, that we are not trying this young woman because Joseph P. Calloway had a wife and children. We are trying her for an action she does not even deny. Her very honesty betrays the fundamental goodness of her soul. Likewise, I would ask you to follow Mr. Palmer’s advice about not looking at Toni Jo’s exterior, but into her heart, a heart originally innocent but later vilely corrupted, as you will see, by a man who deceived her in every way imaginable. Thus, in the case at hand, there are several extenuating circumstances. What I will suggest now, and prove to you later, is that the multiple aliases of Mr. Calloway so confused my client that she questioned her own identity as a good and decent person, and on that night, her reason muddled, in a moment of passion, she committed an unpremeditated act and lashed out at the cause of her internal conflict.

  “I will conclude with two points. My adversary has asked you to distrust your spontaneous emotions. Going against my colleague on this matter, I would ask you instead to feel—feel for the brutalized virtue of my client, feel and thereby understand and, understanding, render a compassionate verdict. Second, ladies and gentlemen, while we are not trying Toni Jo based on her youth and beauty, neither are we trying her based on Mr. Palmer’s facile use of language nor on his expertise in the finer aspects of courtroom disputation. In summary, don’t be, as Mr. Palmer directed you to be, dispassionately objective. Instead, project yourself into the heart and mind of my client and you will see that if you had been in her place, you might have acted exactly the same and would hope for compassion and leniency, too. For mercy is an indispensable component of justice. Without it, we become unfeeling abstractions of the State. Mr. Palmer spoke of moral principles. Let me close by reminding you of the highest moral principle, of treating others as you would like to be treated in similar circumstances.”

  Over the next days, Toni Jo’s interest waxed and waned as the two attorneys contended with each other, matching reason with reason, outbursts of feeling with logical calm, parrying with legal subtleties, then thrusting with guarded evidence at opportune moments. Details of the trial spread by newspaper, radio, and first-hand accounts. Letters from all over the parish began pouring in as the trial progressed, some castigating Toni Jo for her misspent life, most supporting her in her tribulations and suggesting she repent and ask God’s forgiveness for her deed.

  The American Courier granted Arkie Burk’s trial only a fraction of the coverage his wife’s was given. As Toni Jo read the newspapers in her cell, the impressionistic reportage riveted the scenes in her mind.

  * * *

  “She took the gun from you, you say. Did you try to wrest it from her?”

  “No. She threatened to shoot me.”

  The sarcastic expressions on some of the jurors’ faces indicated their doubt.

  ——————

  “The terrible irony, members of the jury, is that my client is accused of a crime he tried to prevent. In fact, he confesses to a crime he didn’t commit in order to protect someone he loves, despite the fact that he saw a terrible side of the human heart on that cold Valentine’s night.”

  ——————

  “The fact that the accused did not actually pull the trigger is utterly beside the point. After the bullet was transferred from its home in the gun to the head of the victim, by whoever pulled the trigger, Horace Finnon Burk helped to hide the body. The tracks at the scene of the crime irrefutably demonstrate that. The fact that he picked up the hitchhiker, that his gun was used, that blood is in his car, that his rope was still around the victim’s neck—all of this suggests that he is more than an accessory, that he is the principal if not sole perpetrator of the misdeed.”

  * * *

  In the middle of the third week, Toni Jo was called to the stand in her own trial. She wore a light print cotton dress and sandals.

  “Mrs. Burk,” the prosecutor began. “Both you and your husband have confessed to murdering Mr. Joseph P. Calloway. Although, hypothetically, both of you could be lying, it’s more likely that only one of you is lying. But despite all of these little spousal games you and your husband are playing, there is ample precedent for convicting both of you for the murder of J. Paul Calloway. Now, just for the record, Mrs. Burk, did Joe Calloway ever try to kill you?”

  Toni Jo thought for a moment.

  “I believe, in some ways, he did. He tried to kill my spirit—.”

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Burk, I hate to interrupt your provocative answer, but I don’t think anyone has ever been convicted for killing someone else’s spirit. Let me ask you this, then. You have stated in your deposition that you met Calloway in a diner where you worked. Did he force you to go with him to New Orleans?”

  “No.”

  “Did he make you any false promises?”

  Toni Jo thought about how long it would take to give an adequate answer to the question and decided her comments wouldn’t matter anyhow.

  “No.”

  “Did he pay you well?”

  As the questioning proceeded, Toni Jo developed the urge to advance the prosecutor’s cause.

  “Very well,” she replied.

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “Because I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t.”

  * * *

  Closing arguments were scheduled for the last Monday in April.

  Friday night, through the jailhouse grapevine, Toni Jo got word of the outcome of her husband’s trial. After deliberating a little over thirty minutes, the jury had found Horace Burk guilty and sentenced him to die by hanging one year to the day after he did not murder J. P. Calloway.

  Monday morning, prosecutor Richard Palmer delivered his final statement in a three-piece suit and never broke a sweat.

  “Good citizens of the jury, there is no reason for me to prolong this trial with a lengthy address. The facts you have been presented over the past three weeks are incontrovertible. Mrs. Burk even admits her guilt. I would remind you, though, that we are trying Toni Jo Burk for her deed on the night of February fourteenth. We are not trying Mr. Joseph Paul Calloway for his personal shortcomings pointed out by opposing counsel. We simply cannot live in a society that allows a person to murder a man merely because she doesn’t like the way he conducts his private life.”

  Pretending thirst, the prosecutor walked to his table and drank from a glass. Returning to the jury with the tumbler and a bottle of ink, he balanced the two containers on the rail. After dipping a fountain pen in the ink, he held it over the glass. A black bulbous drop fell into the water. In a few se
conds, it swirled into a dark cloud, contaminating the entire vessel.

  “A parable, if you will, ladies and gentlemen. Evil,” Palmer said, pointing to the bottle of ink, “and Good,” pointing to the glass of water. “It takes only a very little evil, just a single drop, to spoil much good. In the instant it takes to pull a trigger, Toni Jo Burk stained not just the life of Joe Calloway, but the lives of his dear wife, now a widow, and his now fatherless daughters. And if you do not find her guilty, you will have let her poison the very fabric of our society, which is founded on fairness and, as you well know, life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” The attorney paused. “It is now up to you to restore order to our society by delivering a fair judgment for her crime.”

  Toni Jo’s attorney knew the jury had made up its mind long ago concerning the guilt of his client. The best Prudhomme could hope for was to convince the panel to return a verdict of manslaughter, for which Toni Jo might receive a sentence of ten years and serve as few as five.

  Prudhomme, too, brought a glass of water and an inkwell before the jury. Pointing to the tumbler, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen, this glass of water represents the life of Toni Jo Henry before she met Mr. J. P. Calloway. And this,” he said, pointing to the inkwell, “represents the heart of J. Calloway.”

  Prudhomme picked up the jar of ink and poured its entire contents into the glass of water. He stared the jury down.

  “Now, I ask you. What chance did this innocent young girl have against such darkness?” Barely able to contain his indignation, he glared at each panel member. “Your job, ladies and gentlemen, is not to restore order to our society by delivering an uncompromising verdict. If it were in your power, your duty would be to restore the life of Toni Jo Henry Burk to its original, pristine condition. But since you cannot do that, I would ask you—I beg you—to temper your judgment with compassion. For you see, Toni Jo Burk did not murder J. P. Calloway. No, friends, I believe that you have been sorely misled these past few weeks. The man my client dispensed with on that cold February night was someone calling himself Harold Nevers. And if we argue that Harold Nevers did not exist, well, then, where is her crime?

  “Arguing this way, you might say, is trickery. But this trial comes down to identity—the identity of a woman as it was besmirched, and the several identities of a man whose name, as far as we have taken this case, is Joseph Paul Calloway. But I wonder, if we delved even farther into his past, if we might not come up with other aliases and other families? And what about the identity of our nation? Mr. Palmer has invoked its very nature by reminding us that it is founded on certain principles. But the most paramount of those principles is the right to defend ourselves when no one else will defend us against our oppressors. I’m sure you remember from school the opening paragraph of the Declaration of Independence.

  “All right, then. Toni Jo Burk found herself not only defenseless, but abandoned by all the usual means of justice, and took the law into her own hands. Moreover, I would argue that, by turning herself in to save her husband, she has redeemed herself. Taking all of these things into account, then—first, that Calloway most foully wronged a good woman; second, that you cannot restore her innocence; third, that she killed someone who never existed; fourth, that she acted in self-defense when no one else would help her; fifth, that she acted in a moment of passion without malice aforethought—taking all of these unusual and mitigating circumstances into account, then, I would ask you in the name of justice and decency to deliver a fair verdict by finding Toni Jo Burk guilty of a lesser included offense: at the very least, Murder in the Second Degree, or, if you can find the goodness in your own hearts, manslaughter.”

  As the defense attorney returned to his table, he saw spectators in the gallery and standing along the walls make slitting motions at their throats and heard cries of “Hang her! Hang the murderer!”

  For every hour the jury was out, Prudhomme’s hope grew by degrees. Six and a half hours later, the jury foreman stood to deliver the verdict. The courtroom fell silent.

  Judge Page spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” The jury foreman, Wilfred Fontenot, indicated they had.

  The judge directed Fontenot to hand deliver the jury’s decision to the bailiff, who handed it to the judge. Judge Page studied the sheet, then asked the jurors if the document represented their collective judgment. Mr. Fontenot’s last function as foreman was to acknowledge that it was.

  Judge Page turned to the defendant and instructed Toni Jo Burk to stand. She, Prudhomme, and Levine rose simultaneously.

  “Mrs. Toni Jo Burk, the jury unanimously finds you guilty of Murder in the First Degree. Having been found guilty of murder with malice aforethought, the statutes of this state direct me to condemn the convicted to death. Accordingly, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the Department of Corrections pending execution by hanging. May God have mercy on your soul.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that concludes this trial. Thank you for fulfilling your duties. Justice has been served.”

  Judge Page sounded his gavel.

  Immediately after the judge dismissed his court, Michael Prudhomme filed a motion for a new trial based on two grounds: First, he claimed that the crowd’s slitting motions and cries for blood had a prejudicial effect on the jurors. Secondly, the prosecuting attorney, Richard Palmer, was neither qualified before the Louisiana bar nor an elector of the parish or state.

  After reading newspaper accounts of Prudhomme’s emotional plea for leniency, people from all over Louisiana flooded the jail and district attorney’s office with letters supporting the beautiful murderess. Toni Jo was baffled by the contradictory reactions of the courtroom spectators and the general populace. A week later, thousands of letters nationwide augmented the hundreds written by Louisianans.

  * * *

  Toni Jo had to wait through a long, torrid summer for her retrial. Westerly breezes skimming off the lake kept her tolerably comfortable through mid-July. Occasionally, she saw Deputy Sheriff Lambert Deer escorting new inmates to their cells or liberating them to the outside world. Toni Jo felt she might suffocate before reaching her second trial. She needed to get Deer’s attention fast.

  Without warning, the Deputy appeared one afternoon. She observed him midway down the corridor, his khaki shirt sweat-stained at the armpits. Toni Jo hoped the plan she had been rehearsing would work. She stepped to the window and looked directly at the sun as it dropped beneath the dark anvil of a thunderhead. It made her sneeze twice. If Nevers could do it, she figured, so could she. Deer glanced towards her cell.

  “Bless you,” he said. He ambled down the cement passage dividing the chambers. Taller and younger than she had remembered him, the Deputy paused before her door. He tipped his hat up, exposing a crease on his forehead. “Mrs. Burk. Anything I can do for you?”

  “No,” she said, “but I thank you kindly for asking.”

  Deer passed his eyes quickly around her cubicle, then looked at his boots. “Well, you holler if you’re disaccommodated in any way and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.”

  Deer touched his hat. “Afternoon, then. I’ll be getting along.” He turned and took a few steps.

  “There is one thing,” Toni Jo said as if the thought had just rushed into her mind. Deer pivoted.

  “Yes ma’am?”

  “No, on second thought, I guess that wouldn’t be fair. To the others, I mean.”

  Deer looked at her calmly.

  “Well, come on out with it or I’ll never know.”

  Toni Jo looked directly into his eyes with a doleful expression. She made her statement sound like a doubtful question.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any way for you to get me a fan?”

  Deer walked back to her cell. He looked at the high, barred window, then at the ruffled sheet on her mattress that indicated Toni Jo had been standing on it to intercept refreshing breezes.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” h
e said. “No promises.”

  Toni Jo exhaled loudly, exaggerating the relief she already felt.

  “You’d be a life saver if you could do that. Really.”

  Deer turned to go about his business.

  “Remember, no promises.”

  “Fine. I understand,” Toni Jo said. “By the way.” Deer stopped in his tracks. “Can you make it the oscillating type?”

  Deer shook his head and chuckled. As he walked away, Toni Jo heard him speak to both of them. “Watch out, Slim. Next thing you know, she’ll want air conditioning.”

  * * *

  Two days later, Deer showed up with a fan. He opened the barred door, placed the fan on the cement, and pushed it towards Toni Jo like he was feeding a wild dog that might turn on him.

  “Put it together myself from two busted fans at my Daddy’s house.” He pronounced it “Deddy”—my Deddy’s house. Toni Jo found it charming that a man of law would refer to the Sheriff, his father, a man nicknamed “Mule,” this way.

  “Oh, thank you so much.” Toni Jo made sure to over-react. She reached down and lifted the heavy metal appliance, then broke into coquettish laughter.

  “What now?” Deer said.

  “Do I have to turn the blades myself?” Deer didn’t understand. “No outlet,” she said.

  Deer wasn’t amused. He felt thwarted in his good Samaritan role.

  That afternoon, he returned with a fixture to screw into the light socket on the ceiling of Toni Jo’s cell. After installing the gadget, Deer stepped down from the chair, worked the fan’s plug into its female companion, and turned the lever on the base of the stand. The motor made a struggling hum, but the blades did not move. Refusing to believe his bad luck, he advanced the lever to “High” and gave the blades an encouraging spin. The black petals of the metal flower slowly rotated until the motor gained full speed.

  Deer swabbed his face with a handkerchief and, for a few moments, blocked the breeze with his body.