by Dana Donovan
A collective gasp rushed through the gallery. The magistrate struck his gavel hard on its plate and the report from it echoed around the room in a hollow bounce. “Order!” he called, “Order!” The room quickly fell silent again. “Madam, I assure you this is no joke. You stand accused of some serious crimes. How say you plea?”
I looked around the room in morbid wonder, imagining the fear in the women of early Salem who stood before such a court some three hundred years earlier and begged for mercy, knowing, ironically, that nothing short of admitting to the trumped-up charges might possibly save their lives; for denial surely meant death by hanging. I turned to the jury and said, “How do I plea? Have you all not already condemned me in your eyes?”
The magistrate dropped his gavel once more. “Miss Adams, you will address the bench with your plea and not the jury box.”
“To hell with the bench. This is a mockery. Is there not one among you that believes what happened here in 1692 was a crime against humanity, and that likewise this proceeding today is a sham?”
I watched the faces of jurors and spectators alike grow sour with distain, much, I imagined, as they had for the unfortunate accused in my ancestor’s day. I looked to old man Hilton and Mister Putnam and surmised, “Guess not.” Neither seemed amused.
“Your Honor,” said Hilton, “May I suggest we proceed with the examination?”
“Examination?” I tugged at my restraints, but the men’s grip on my upper arms tightened. “What examination?”
“Let the court record note,” said the magistrate, “that the accused will submit to a full body examination for the purpose of detecting unusual moles, marks or bites where the devil may have penetrated the body for the purpose of acquiring control over form and faculty.”
“Bullshit.” I said. “There will be no examination here tonight. If anyone so much as touches—”
“There,” said Putnam, lifting the flap on the back pocket of my jeans, exposing my tattoo. “It is the devil’s mark. See here what she bares on her buttocks.”
Again the gallery and jury box swelled in a collective gasp. “The devil’s mark!” one screamed. “Heathen!” cried another. An elderly woman stood up and pointed a crooked finger at me. “Burn the witch now!” I turned to her and gestured back similarly, only mine was vertical and not the index, ring or pinky finger.
“It’s a tattoo, you idiots.” I turned again to the magistrate. “Look. It’s the pad print of a cat’s paw. Since when is the devil’s mark associated with kittens?”
He motioned to the court reporter. “Let the record show that the examination revealed the devil’s mark on the accused disguised as a feline’s paw print, probably a jaguar or lion or some other known procurator of Satan.”
“What? No. It’s a Cat’s paw. What kind of monkey trial are you putting on here?”
“The accused will take her seat now in the witch’s box.” He pointed at a small raised platform across from the jury box, to where Putnam and Hilton escorted me. The platform, only one step up, measured about three-foot square with a wooden handrail along the front and both sides. I entered from the back closest to the gallery and took a seat there, my hands still bound tightly behind my back. The murmurs and whispers behind me started almost immediately and continued off and on for the duration of the proceeding. Again, His magistrate dropped his gavel and called the room to order.
“Your Honor,” said Pastor Hilton, approaching the magistrate to within arm’s length of the bench. “May I call the first witness for the prosecution?”
“You mean, persecution,” I hollered.
“Silence,” came the call from the bench. “Mister Hilton, call your witness.”
Hilton turned to the jury and declared, “I call to the stand, Mister James T. Putnam.”
“I object,” I said. “That man is a murderer. He’s not fit to walk the streets a free man.”
“Denied,” said the magistrate. “Pastor, continue calling your witness.”
“Mister James T. Putnam, to the stand please.”
Old J.T. took the stand and removed his hat, setting it on his lap beneath folded hands. He looked to the jury box, winking at several of the older women sitting in the back row. Down in front, a younger-looking gentleman, probably his own son, actually gave him the okay sign followed by a thumbs-up. Putnam smiled at that. On a bench seat in front of the witness stand, a kerosene lantern pitched a dull orange glow upon his face, casting unnatural-looking shadows at such angles as to make him appear stone-like. Hilton, likewise, took on that same stony stature as he entered the light’s circle for the questioning session.
“Mister Putnam,” he began, “would you mind telling the court how long you have lived in Salem?”
“Objection.” I said, mostly just to be a pain in the ass. “The court has not established that this man is indeed James T. Putnam of Salem.”
“Sustained.”
“Really?”
“Mister Hilton, establish your witness’ full name and residence please.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Mister Putnam, will you please state your name for the court?”
Putnam responded, “You know my name.”
Hilton, “For the record, please.”
“Fine. James T. Putnam.”
“And your place of residence?”
“666 South Devilry Road, Salem.”
“Thank you. Your Honor?”
“Thank you, Councilor. Miss Adams, are you satisfied?”
“Fuck, why not?”
“Mister Putnam, will you please tell the court how long you have lived in Salem?”
“Sure, I’ve lived in Salem my entire life, and so has my family since 1684.”
“I see. So you must be an outstanding pillar of the community then?”
“Objection. This man is leading the witness.”
“Miss Adams….” The magistrate angled in to the side of his bench and said in a hush, “You really don’t get to say anything here. These proceedings are usually one way, as they have been for over three hundred years. I let you object earlier so that you might know who bears witness against you.”
“Are you kidding?” I stood and leaned out over the handrail. “I should be sitting there bearing witness against him. He killed a woman in cold blood.”
“Silence!” He ordered, striking his gavel down hard on the plate. “I will not have you make a mockery of this court.”
“Too late. It’s done.”
“Mister Hilton, continue.”
Hilton bowed gentlemanly. “Thank you, Your Honor.” Returning to Putnam he said, “Mister Putnam, will you please tell us in your own words about your encounter with Miss Adams the other day?”
Putnam nodded with confidence, though his impatience was beginning to show in the way his fidgety hands tooled along the brim of the hat upon his lap. “Well, sir, I’ll tell you. It started the other day after I traveled down to New Castle on business. I hadn’t been in town more than an hour or so when this dog approached me and told me to go to the city’s parking garage.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hilton. “You say a dog approached you?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right.”
“And he spoke to you?”
“Yes sir.”
“I see. And what kind of dog was it?”
“I don’t know; a big black one.”
“A big black dog?”
“Yes.”
“All right, continue.”
“Objection. Your Honor, pah-leeze.”
Again the gallery erupted in gasps and sighs, and once more the gavel came down hard. “Miss Adams, I will not warn you again. You are not allowed to object.”
“Then how can I defend myself? Where is my council? And why haven’t I been afforded due process under the—”
“Silence. Bailiff, gag this woman.”
“No, no. Don’t gag me. I’m cool. Look, I’ll just sit here and chill. You guys go on. Don’t mind me.”
Hilton waited
for the last of the murmurs to subside before returning to Putnam for questioning. By now Putnam had nearly fiddled the brim clean off his hat. He may have testified against countless accused witches before, but I got the feeling he never actually met up with a real one—until now.
“Mister Putnam, you stated that a big black dog approached you on the streets of New Castle and spoke to you.”
“That’s correct.”
“And tell us again what this dog said to you?”
“He told me to go to the city’s parking garage.”
“Did he say why he wanted you to go there?”
“He said he worked for the devil and that he wanted me to go there and sign the devil’s book.”
“The devil’s book you say?”
“Yes.”
“And did you go to this parking garage and sign the devil’s book?”
“No sir. That is…I went to the garage, but I did not sign the book.”
“I see. So what happened next?”
“Well, the dog got angry then. He told me he would kill me and drag me off to Hades if I didn’t obey him.”
“Did you sign the book then?”
“No. I still refused. That’s when he entered my body and killed her.”
“Killed who?”
“A woman who had just stepped out of the elevator. While in my body, he walked up to the woman and stabbed her in the belly.”
“Then what?”
“Then he exited my body. Only he was no longer a dog then, he had taken on human form.”
“You mean a man?”
“No, a woman.” Putnam stood and pointed at me. “That woman.”
Shrieks of horror gushed from gallery and jury box alike. One woman fainted; another fell back into the arms of the man behind her. The magistrate called for order, his gavel jack-hammering the plate so hard it broke at the handle. Putnam raked the room with his eyes, perhaps expecting some in attendance to call him out on such preposterous testimony. But no one did; indeed all seemed to accept his wild claim as fantastic and undisputable. From across the room I saw Hilton look at me and smile wickedly, all the while fondling that ridiculously large crucifix around his neck. His Honor the magistrate, with gavel head cupped in hand, continued rapping on the plate and calling for order until the outburst had settled completely. Once everyone had reclaimed a seat, the absurd testimony of James T. Putnam continued.
He went on to explain the rush he felt when the devil entered his body; the horror he experienced seeing the woman die at his own hands and the guilt he harbored for his unwitting complicity in her death.
“So even though the devil was controlling your actions,” said Hilton, “you could still see what was going on?”
“Yes,” Putnam replied. “It was terrible. I could do nothing to stop her.”
“I see, and how do you know that that woman,” Hilton turned and gestured toward me with a nod, “Miss Adams, how do you know that she made you kill that poor lady?”
“Because I saw her there after she left my body. She stepped out from behind a concrete column into the light and made the sign of the devil.” He demonstrated the sign by holding his hands to his mouth and splaying his fingers in random forms.
“That’s a lie,” I said. “I gasped and covered my mouth when I saw what he had done. It was no devil thing.”
“Ah-ha!” said Hilton. He turned and walked back to me. “So you admit you were there?”
“Yes. I told you that already. I told you I saw him kill that woman.”
“There, you see?” He strolled over to the jury box and addressed the members. “She admits to being there and taking over Mister Putnam’s body so that he could bid the work of the devil.”
“I said no such thing.”
“Silence,” ordered the magistrate. “I will have no more outbursts from the witch’s box.”
“Your Honor, he’s twisting my words.”
“Mister Hilton, will you please continue?”
Hilton returned to Putnam’s side. “Mister Putnam, did you have any further contact with the accused after the garage incident?”
I stood abruptly. “Incident?” Two bailiffs palmed my shoulders and pushed me back into my seat.
Putnam replied, “I spoke to the accused over the phone just today.”
“And?”
“And that’s when she told me that she intended to kill me.”
Again, scattered gasps spilled from both the gallery and jury box. “She said she wanted to kill you, Mister Putnam?”
“Yes. Her exact words were: ‘let this serve as fair warning; I am going to the station’—by that she meant the train station—‘where I will find you and kill you with my own bare hands.”
“Taken out of context,” I said. “Tell them what you told me, how you wanted to annihilate me and my kind. Go on and tell them how you killed another woman on the boardwalk. Don’t forget that you little twerp.”
“Is that true?” Hilton asked. “Did you kill another woman on the boardwalk?”
“Yes, most certainly, but only after Miss Adams came to me as an apparition and made me kill her. She took over my body. She wanted me to sign the devil’s book. When I told her I would not, that I serve only God, she became angry and she killed that woman on the boardwalk.”
“That’s a lie.”
“That’ll be all,” said Hilton.
The magistrate said, “Witness dismissed. Call your next witness.”
Hilton rolled his gaze toward the barn door and announced, “I call to the stand, Abigail Mary Walcott.”
All heads turned to meet Abigail, the child whose balloons I helped get down from the tree. “That’s my neighbor,” I said. “You kidnapped a child? Now you’ve really gone too far.”
“Miss Abigail.” Hilton held a hand out and the young girl took it. “Don’t be afraid, darlin`. The bad witch cannot hurt you now.”
“The bad witch? Listen, if you lay one finger on that child, I’ll hunt you down like the dog you are and destroy you. You hear me?”
“Your Honor, I would like the court records to reflect that the accused threatened me with bodily harm in the presence of a minor and of all in attendance.”
“The record shall show it. Miss Adams, you will hold your comments for the hanging; at such time you shall be afforded ample platform for rebuttal. Is that understood?”
“What?”
“Mister Hilton, whenever you’re ready.”
Abigail finished settling in and Hilton began. “Abigail, have you ever seen that woman over there?” He pointed at the witch’s box, and as soon as the little actress laid eyes on me, she began twisting and convulsing in fits like a fish out of water. Immediately, the room broke into hysterics. Men and women on both sides of the bench recoiled in shock and horror.
“She’s possessed!” a woman shouted.
“The devil has her!” another cried.
“It’s the witch,” said one bailiff, pointing at me. “Hide her from the witch.”
With that, the other bailiff wheeled over a box frame with a heavy curtain stretched across two uprights. The moment the screen crossed the line of sight between me and the girl, she responded miraculously by sitting up in her chair as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Hilton approached the jury and took the hand of the distraught woman who had proclaimed the girl possessed and patted it gently. “She’s all right now,” he cooed. “We won’t let that witch hurt her again.”
That seemed to calm the woman greatly, though the evil eye she kept giving me after that told me she wouldn’t soon forget about it.
“Can we proceed?” the magistrate asked.
Hilton smiled obligingly. “Of course.” He returned to the girl. “Abigail, I’m sorry for having to point out that mean witch to you, but—”
“Objection! Your Honor, he’s concluding for the witness that I am a witch.”
“Overruled. Continue.”
“Abigail, that woman on the other side of the cur
tain; where have you seen her before?”
Her timid voice returned, “In New Castle.”
“Where in New Castle?”
“In front of my auntie’s apartment building.”
“I see, and when you last saw the woman, did she perform any witchcraft before you?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about that.”
“The first time was when she got my balloons down from the tree. The nice man said he would climb the tree to get them for me, but the witch told him no. She said he should use witchcraft to get them down.”
“What nice man is that?”
“I don’t know. She said he was a witch, too, but he told her he didn’t want to use magic.”
“All right, so what happened next?”
“She went like this and the balloons came to her.”
“Like this?” Hilton stepped around the curtain so that those seated behind me could see him demonstrate a reaching motion with fingers wiggling. After the gallery got a convincing show of that he came back to the girl. “What happened after that? Did you see her again later that night?”
“Yes. I saw her later from my bedroom window. She was flying around on her broom in the mist.”
“Was she alone?”
“No, she was with a bunch of other witches. They were all flying around in the mist. But then she saw me watching her and she came to my window, only then she was a bird.”
“OBJECTION! This child has clearly been coached.”
“Denied.”
Hilton continued. “What kind of bird?”
“A yellow bird.”
“What did the bird do?”
“She pinched me on the arm and on the bum.”
“The bird pinched you?”
“Yes.”
“How did she do that?”
“I don’t know, but I felt it. It hurt.”
“Of course it did. Now after it pinched you, did she say anything?”
“Yes. She said she wanted me to hurt my sister.”
“How, by pushing her out the window?”
“Objection; leading the witness.”
“Denied.”
“Your Honor,” I stood up and pleaded my case with utmost sincerity. “Isn’t it customary for the accused to face her accuser? I don’t believe little snot-nose here would make these accusations if she were forced to look at me. As a great American once said: Tear down this wall, Mister President.” I figured that last part was probably a bit over the top for the old coot, but one should never underestimate the sense of patriotic virtue among witch hunters. I watched him crowd his brows in serious contemplation over the issue before ordering the curtain removed. The strange thing was not so much that Abigail failed to respond adversely upon first seeing me, but that she flew into uncontrollable fits only after Hilton cleared his throat to get her attention and then nodded in my direction. Her performance then was a real showstopper. Once again, members from both sides of the barn clutched heart and soul onto one another, cried for the injustice of a suffering child and wept openly as if the Rapture were upon them. Old blood and guts gavel boy called for order in a hoarse shout, barking out commands for folks to remain seated and for the bailiff to escort young Abigail from the premises. As the dust settled, Emanuel Hilton came up to me and whispered, “Confess and we will spare you.”
