by Joe Derkacht
In the meanwhile, Stella Jo declared from the witness stand how she believed God had answered her prayers on the night in question, and then proceeded to hold forth on such subjects as the sovereignty of God, divine forgiveness, and God’s omnipotence in bringing the boy home after an absence of thirteen years--all in spite of the boy’s drunken, drugged state. Saint Paul would have been proud of her. Both defense and prosecution squirmed like someone had slipped itching powder into their underwear.
“Your Honor!”
Hizzoner looked up from doodling. This time it was Onyers who made the objection, his strident tone cutting through the judge’s trancelike state. Jerked back to reality, to hot robes and a stuffy room, where cruel fate had forced him to spend most of his past thirty summers with scoundrels who cared only about manipulating the law to their own ends, he scowled balefully.
Onyers shrank visibly, and sat down.
“Your objection is noted, Mr. Onyers,” he rasped.
Perhaps to spite his opponents, he turned a kindly face upon Stella. While out bass fishing and enjoying a drink, he had nonetheless tuned a bit of his intelligence to the woman’s communication. It was not unlike the millions of radio frequencies scanned nightly by the SETI Project, in which it is hoped something might be found on even one of them, indicating intelligent life elsewhere in the universe.
“We have to draw this to a close, Miz McIlhenny,” he said. Judges are sometimes predisposed toward witnesses and defendants more than anyone would like to admit, just as juries are, and for the moment he felt a sudden rush of affection toward Stella. He wouldn’t have confessed it, but she reminded him of his favorite aunt, a childless woman now long-deceased. How many summers had she rescued him from the poverty of his own family, taking him on vacations with her and her husband? As the memories came flooding back, it was difficult to brush aside the images of fried chicken and watermelon, and hand-churned vanilla ice cream and fudge brownies made from scratch, and long days at the beach with wieners and marshmallows charred over an open fire.
“What happened to your boy?” He asked, dismissing his childhood daydream. “Did you adopt him out, ma’am?”
“No,” she said, tears brimming at her eyes.
Someone in the courtroom cleared his throat, just who, it would have been difficult to say, considering the room’s poor acoustics. Judge Stanglhoefer glared warningly over the top of his glasses at both defense and prosecution for good measure, before turning back to Stella.
“My son was kidnapped,” she said, weeping openly.
After a couple of moments and the first shock wave had passed, every woman in the courtroom, including the eight women of the jury, wept along with her. Judge Stanglhoefer saw men surreptitiously reaching for their handkerchiefs. Though he had a well-deserved reputation as a curmudgeon, especially summers, tears choked his own throat. The long-buried memory of the six-year-old McIlhenny boy’s kidnapping came rushing back to him--the newspaper headlines, the citywide hysteria, and suspicions between blacks and whites that nearly erupted into violence.
The judge waited. While most observers would have thought he was giving Stella time to compose herself, he was actually stalling until he could be sure his own voice wouldn’t break in concert with the tide of emotions cresting over his court. To maintain control, he cast another threatening glance at Gravely and Onyers, who sat fuming in spite of the moment.
“What makes you think the defendant is your son, ma’am?” He finally asked, after clearing his throat. He assumed Davies was not her son, that she was merely a grief-stricken woman unbalanced by the tragic events of the kidnapping.
“She’s crazy, Judge--” Mark John muttered, before falling victim to a furious glance from the bench.
“Ma’am?”
There was a stirring in the spectator seats. “He looks jus’ like her boy Angel!” Ioletta blurted, no longer able to contain herself. “They was twins!”
“Silence!” Judge Stanglhoefer said, pounding the gavel once. “There’ll be no further outbursts in my court!
“Now,” he said to Stella, “is that true?”
She nodded, still unable to speak.
“Let it be noted the witness has nodded affirmatively,” he ordered the court reporter. For himself, he had failed to recall that particular detail of the McIlhenny kidnapping, but now that he did remember it and there was the curious coincidence of Davies looking like the woman’s remaining son, he questioned what he should do with the information. In spite of her earlier rambling disquisition on the sovereignty of God and such, it was eminently unlikely that the defendant was her long-lost son. The world was full of people who looked like one another.
It was at that moment Onyers scraped back his chair and rose to his feet.
“Your Honor,” he said, refusing to blench under the judge’s glare.
“Yes?” He said, restraining himself from a querulous, What?
“The defense rests its case.”
Judge Stanglhoefer was not the only one thunderstruck by Onyers’ surprise move. A moment later, it seemed everyone in the room babbled, jury included. In the midst of the clamor, Davies leaped to his feet and screamed curses at his attorney, at Stella, at the judge, the prosecutor, everyone in the room.
“Order in the court!” J. Higby shouted over the din, banging the gavel repeatedly. To the bailiff, he shouted, “Get him out of here!”
It took more than one officer to subdue him. As they dragged the defendant from the room, Gravely rose and glanced at Onyers with a smirk.
“Does the prosecution also wish to rest its case, Mr. Gravely?” Stanglhoefer asked.
“We do, Judge.”
“Does anyone wish to find out if the defendant really is the witness’s son?” Stanglhoefer asked without glancing at Stella Jo. Obviously shaken, she wiped tears from her eyes with a hanky.
“Well, I do,” he said, not waiting for an answer from either man, who in any case were not all that interested. Onyers had rested his case because he felt the emotional moment was perfect, not because he really believed his client was the woman’s son. Proof that Davies was not her son would only serve to prejudice the jury against his client. For similar reasons, Gravely was not interested in proof, either, considering that proof he was her son would unquestionably drum up sympathy for the accused.
“The Court hereby directs the District Attorney’s office to determine, if at all possible, whether the defendant and the kidnapped McIlhenny boy are one and the same. Court will reconvene Monday for jury deliberation. Until that time, the jury is directed not to discuss the case with anyone.”
As the judge prepared to bring the gavel down, Chance rose to his feet.
“Your Honor?” He called out. “If I may approach--?”
Judge Stanglhoefer frowned irritably and laid his gavel down.
“You may, Captain Odoms,” he said, also gesturing for counsel to approach the bench. “This had better be short, Chance. I would hate to find out you were more involved in this case than you’ve let on.”
Chance took a large manila envelope he’d been holding behind his back, and placed it on the judge’s desk. The judge, shaking his head, opened the envelope and scanned its contents. Both Gravely and Onyers fidgeted, glancing between Judge Stanglhoefer and Chance.
“Your Honor, I hope this is not information that’s been withheld from the defense by the D.A.’s office,” Onyers said.
“Chance?” Hizzoner said, resealing the envelope and laying it down.
“I’ve acted only as a friend and neighbor of the McIlhennys, Judge.”
“Mr. Gravely?”
“Don’t look at me, Judge,” he said, throwing Chance a pained scowl. “I don’t have any more idea about what’s in that envelope than Mr. Onyers.”
“Captain Odoms has already done the legwork for your office, Mr. Gravely. The defendant’s fingerprints match those of the kidnapped McIlhenny boy.”
Picking up his ga
vel, he banged it down and proclaimed the court adjourned.
“But the rest--” Chance protested, as the judge rose from his chair.
“Irrelevant, Chance,” he said. “A crime is a crime. Now get out of my courtroom.”
****
Chapter 16
It was 8 o’clock in the evening before Chance made it to Stella’s house. He held the screen door aside and tapped softly on one of the front door’s frosted window panes, not wishing to disturb her and her son in case they had retired early. After what had happened in the courtroom that day, he would not be surprised if she was in bed, exhausted and overwrought by her testimony on the witness stand.
He tapped again, and was ready to turn away, when he felt the deck shake beneath his feet. He knew, before the door opened, it would be Ioletta Brown.
“Captain Odoms,” Ioletta stared up at him and nodded in recognition.
“Is she still awake?” He asked.
She stepped aside and motioned him in. “We’re all out at the kitchen. I’m sure she’ll be glad to see ya.”
He followed her through the living room, past the coffee table littered with miniature wooden angels, wood shavings, and carving tools, down a dark hallway, from which he could glance into a bathroom with its flickering candle, and finally into the kitchen, cooled by a breeze from two screened windows and illumined by a solitary bulb under the bronze-finished exhaust hood over the gas stove.
“Very nice kitchen,” he remarked, in greeting Stella and Angel. Both were seated at the table, where a gallon jar of iced tea was set out, along with glass tumblers, lemon slices, an open sugar bowl, long-handled spoons, and pink paper napkins.
“Why, Brother Odoms, we’re so glad you could drop by,” Stella exclaimed quietly. “But I don’t suppose you came by to inspect Ioletta’s kitchen.”
He glanced between the two women as he took a seat, momentarily taken aback at Brother Odoms. It was the rare Sunday anyone from Flowers Baptist called him anything but Captain Odoms or Mr. Odoms. Even Rev. Johnny never called him Brother.
“Ioletta’s kitchen?” He asked, recovering himself.
“Iced tea?” Stella asked.
He nodded, a smile at the corner of his lips, contemplating whether he should call her Sister. Uh-uh. Too familiar. Too Catholic.
“I’ll fetch a glass,” Ioletta volunteered, still on her feet.
There were no cupboards above the floor cabinets with their white, formica counters, just open shelves, like in a restaurant or bar, with stacked dishes and glasses within easy reach.
“It’s really Lamarr’s kitchen,” Ioletta added.
“Ioletta’s--Lamarr’s--I thought I was at the McIlhenny domicile,” he said, drawing a laugh from the women. Angel looked in his direction and hummed softly. They sat across the table from one another, but Chance doubted he could really see him.
“I was over here so often Sundays--” Ioletta said.
“And other days,” Stella chimed in.
“Don’t be interruptin’ me,” Ioletta said, as she poured the tea. “You needed help.”
“She finally couldn’t bear the disorganization,” Stella explained.
“I’ll say,” she agreed, taking a seat. “I was sick and tired of the mess, trying to work in here and see things done a Sunday.”
“Lamarr was only in high school at the time, but he came right over and made suggestions. The next thing I knew,” Stella said cheerily, “he had taken measurements and brought his tools--that’s why Ioletta calls it Lamarr’s kitchen.
“Do you like the eggshell white with avocado trim?” She abruptly asked. “I painted it myself.”
He glanced around the room. “Very handsome,” he said. God knew, the open shelving arrangement made sense, considering the traffic this kitchen saw, especially Sundays. To Ioletta he remarked, “You have a good son--one to be proud of.”
“He’s the son God knew I needed.”
“And Angel’s the son the Lord knew I needed,” Stella said, with a fond pat on his arm.
“How’s your son doing in Korea?” Chance asked Ioletta, momentarily skirting the real issue behind his visit.
“Oh, the boy, he’s doin’ all right, I guess--he ain’t written lately, so I s’pose there ain’t nothin’ wrong with hisself, ’cept maybe a broken hand.”
“Ioletta, you didn’t tell me he broke his hand!” Stella exclaimed.
“Oh, go on with ya!” She retorted. “You know I always say that about his not writin’ me.”
Enjoying their easy cameraderie, Chance stared at the women. It was difficult to reconcile the emotional turmoil he’d seen in court that day with what he saw now. It made him hate to mention why he had come. But the women fell silent and gave him questioning glances.
“I suppose you know I’m not here on a social call.”
“Yes,” Stella agreed, her eyes brimming with tears.
“It’s about the boy, isn’t it?” Ioletta asked.
“I’ve seen his so-called parents,” he said. “I thought you would want to know more about them.”
A fat tear escaped down Stella’s cheek.
“I’m sorry, if this is too painful--?”
“It’s better to know,” she said. She dabbed her eyes with a napkin.
He nodded, acknowledging to himself that he couldn’t possibly fathom the depths of what she must be feeling or had gone through in the years since her son’s disappearance. He could only guess what he himself might have done, if one of his three daughters had vanished as though snatched from the face of the earth.
“Are you sure?” He asked. “You at least know he’s alive, now, and maybe it would be like picking at an old scab.”
“Scars, Brother Odoms,” she corrected him. “Scars as ripped and torn as they’ll ever be. The questions you have, the haunting, ceaseless questions, are the worst, knowing you should have been there to protect your child!”
He looked to Ioletta for help, as Stella broke into heart-rending sobs. Ioletta shook her head and smiled pityingly, as she reached out and touched Stella on the arm.
“He wouldn’t come home with Angel and me!”
Chance knew the story all too well. She was school secretary for Jefferson Davis Elementary School when it happened. Duane refused to come home with Angel and his mother that afternoon, begging instead to be allowed to stay and play ball with his friends. It was only six blocks from home, but he never showed up for supper that night.
“It killed my Leonard. He didn’t die right away, but it still killed him.”
Chance nodded. He had known Stella’s husband as well as anyone he’d ever known on Flowers Avenue, which perhaps wasn’t to say well at all. Leonard McIlhenny had changed virtually overnight. It hadn’t helped that Chance was a policeman, either, especially a detective, since Leonard wanted answers that nobody could give. Thinking about it now, he realized the kidnapping had affected him personally far more than he had ever admitted. While never much of a mixer with people outside of the police department, afterwards he had been far less willing to rub shoulders with his neighbors. Emotional attachment too easily clouded one’s judgment.
He waited until Stella regained a semblance of her composure.
“Every day, all across the country, children make it home from school by themselves,” he said, hoping the words would give her comfort.
She dabbed her eyes again. “I know. Not that it helps to know that.”
“I could come back tomorrow?” He offered.
“No. You can tell me--us, I mean, now.”
“There’s not really a lot to tell, at this point,” he said. “But the couple who took your son have been in the custody of the Federal Bureau of Prisons for the past four years.”
“Where they belong, if anybody ever did,” Ioletta muttered.
“Why?” Stella asked. “Has anybody ever asked them why they kidnapped my son?”
“You want the long and short of it?”
He asked. At her nod, he said, “I met them several weeks ago. That’s where I was headed out of town when I talked to you at your office.”
“Did they tell you anything?”
Ioletta snorted derisively. “What they gonna tell him, Stella Jo? ‘We done kidnapped the boy, please keep us in jail a whole lot longer?’”
“As dumb as that sounds, I’ve heard dumber,” Chance said. He took a long drink of iced tea, before gently adding, “Especially when one of ’em is dying.”
“Dying?” Stella Jo said, glancing at Ioletta, whose eyes seemed to grow larger and rounder.
“The woman’s dying of cancer,” Chance said. “I doubt she’ll live out the year.”
“Cancer,” Stella repeated, obviously stunned.
“God is good, isn’ He?” Ioletta interjected. “He’s slow, sometimes, but--”
“Ioletta Brown!” Stella exclaimed, shooting a reproving glance at her. “Do you really think God goes around killin’ people with cancer?”
“Not sayin’ He do, not sayin’ He don’t,” she said. “You don’t think she deserves it, her and her no-good man besides?”
“Jesus said to forgive your enemies and to pray for those who spitefully use you.”
“Jus’ the same, it don’t make you feel good to know they’re gettin’ what’s comin’ to ’em?”
Stella opened her mouth, and closed it, at a loss for words. More tears spilled down her cheeks.
“It doesn’t make me feel good at all,” she finally said, picking up her glass of tea and refusing to look Ioletta in the eye.
“It doesn’t?” She asked. “An’ you expect me to believe that?”
