The Ballad of Hattie Taylor

by Susan Andersen

  No, by God, he probably would not. Every particle of his being rebelled at the idea of her setting herself up for the pain that would bring.

  Hattie longed to say she didn’t care what people said but admitted, “In my heart, I prefer nobody ever knows. But doesn’t cowering behind Opal’s testimony make me dishonest?”

  Jake snorted. “Honey, you have never cowered a day in your life. And as for honesty . . . Dammit, I’ll put you on the witness stand, if that’s what you want.” Man, you are such a liar, he thought, but aloud merely added with deceptive mildness, “But I’d really rather not.”

  He chose his words carefully. “I admire your honesty a lot, Hattie. But you can take it to extremes. We’re going to put that bastard in jail, and I hope he rots there forever. We will do that with Opal’s testimony; then we’ll see to it she has a chance to begin again somewhere no one will point a finger at her.” He caught her chin in his hand and met her eyes. “Where does it say you owe it to the people of Mattawa to also bare one of the most private and degrading moments of your life? It’s redundant, baby. Totally needless.”

  Hattie looked unconvinced, and Jake continued in a low voice, “If it was just my name blackened in the process it wouldn’t be a problem. I could maybe even learn to live with it if it only affected you and me. I’d hate it with every fiber of my being if some righteous, so-called good woman dared sweep her skirt out of your way, but together we could ride out any scandal that ensued. Sooner or later, another would come along to take the heat off us, and the people we really care about would never condemn you for something you had no way of preventing.”

  He hesitated, then pulled out the biggest gun in his arsenal. “But it won’t always be just you and me,” he said. “Someday, Big-eyes, we’re gonna have us a passel of red-haired babies. And while I don’t doubt every last one will be a scrapper like their mama, I don’t want our kids having to fight for acceptance like you did.” His words were true, but it wasn’t his immediate concern. His primary goal was to protect Hattie right here, right now.

  It turned out to be an effective argument, however. “Oh God, Jake, neither do I!” Her eyes were big with horror at the very idea. “I never thought of it like that, but no one knows better than I what it’s like to be different in this town. No child should ever have to be called upon to defend his mama’s name.”

  She thought of all the ways a child’s life could be made miserable and lifted troubled eyes to her husband. “I’d be crushed if someone hurt a child of mine for any reason. But to do so just to register disapproval of me?” Her eyes lit with militant fire. “I’d want to slaughter them. No one gets to undervalue our babies . . . not for any reason!”

  Jake grinned at her vehemence. Good. Maybe now she could accept some well-earned protection against spiteful gossip without feeling she had to sell her soul for the privilege. Much to his gut-deep satisfaction, the specter of their future children effectively cooled her desire to destroy her reputation. He couldn’t watch her pay the price again for an atrocity she shouldn’t have had to endure in the first place. Everything inside him rebelled at the thought. Why should she set herself up to be shamed all over again? It was like letting her be raped twice. He wasn’t posturing when he said if it were only his name being blackened, he could live with the consequence; he could—and count the cost cheap. But he’d most likely punch anyone who dared snub his wife. Hopefully, with her maternal instincts firmly roused, the need would never arise.

  Still feeling a heap of inner tension, Hattie lay in Jake’s arms and tried to sort through her feelings. The emotions his words produced were unexpected. She’d been shocked by the strength of protectiveness she felt at the mere idea of babies she had yet to conceive.

  Considering everything that went on before and after their marriage, it was surprising she had never spared a thought to the kids they might someday have. Other than learning soon after her marriage that their night in the stable hadn’t resulted in pregnancy, Hattie hadn’t given even the vaguest consideration to the fact that she and Jake would someday likely have children.

  She thought about them now. With Jake as their father, she knew their babies would be special. And if, God forbid, they were unfortunate enough to be born with red hair, she knew Jake’s constant praise of its color would ease the sting of any negative comments they’d receive away from home. And it would be a cold day in hell before she or Jake allowed the Murdock kids to be given a cold shoulder by this sometimes thoughtlessly cruel town.

  Her own relationship with many of the townspeople had improved dramatically since her younger years. She didn’t fool herself, however, that the strides she’d made since coming home would shield her if her rape was made public. It would be a rare friend indeed, if the brutal truth were known, who would accept her. For women were always labeled culpable in their own downfall.

  She wondered if the day would ever come when society stopped believing women were responsible for their assaults, when blame was instead placed strictly on the men who attacked them. Hattie fervently hoped so. But change tended to come slowly, if at all, and she honestly couldn’t visualize that day. God knew she would much rather keep her rape private. Yet an overwhelming sense of guilt that Opal was going to draw all the fire when Hattie too could give testimony to strengthen the case against the bastard had been a heavy weight in her stomach for the past several days.

  That guilt was gone. She had not sinned; she had been sinned against. She didn’t underestimate the ordeal lying ahead for Opal, but at the end of it the girl could move on to a place where she wasn’t known. Hattie could not. And in all honesty, why should she have to?

  Jake was right; she didn’t owe this town knowledge of her most hurtful traumas. Why provide ammunition that could be used to hurt her further? Neither did she deserve to have her future children abused socially because she hadn’t had the physical strength to stop a man from violating her in the worst way possible. The more she thought about it, in fact, the angrier it made her. No one who hadn’t suffered through an ordeal like hers had the right to sit in judgment. Then a small smile curved her lips. Why get angry when she could get even instead? Actually, there was a delicious irony to all this. Wouldn’t it be poetic justice to see Roger Lord convicted without the town having the slightest idea he’d also harmed her? He would know and it would chafe his overweening sense of superiority that he could do nothing about it without incriminating himself. The sheer beauty of it appealed strongly to her sense of justice.

  Aware of Hattie’s tension, Jake held her quietly and gave her as much time as she needed to work through things in her mind. When he felt her begin to relax, he cupped his hand over hers and started moving their combined fingers in slow circles on his stomach. He did so in part to coax her away from the rest of her tension. But mostly because it was impossible to be near her without wanting to touch her. Heal her. Love her.

  Slowly, he eased her hand down his body beneath the blankets. “Enough serious thoughts for tonight,” he whispered. “Now, how about we teach you some of the other words still lacking in your vocabulary?”

  44

  Mattawa Courthouse

  MONDAY, JULY 12, 1909

  The courtroom was packed. All available seating had been claimed moments after the doors opened. It hadn’t deterred people from crowding into every obtainable inch of the remaining space until they stood two- and three-deep against the walls. Everyone appeared willing to remain packed in like cattle for as many hours as court was in session.

  Spectators were equally divided between men and women, much to the men’s consternation. Many had mounted a strenuous campaign to discourage the good women of Mattawa from attending the trial. Owing, they claimed in righteous tones, to the scandalous subject matter, which it was rumored would be thoroughly covered during the course of the case.

  It was a battle they summarily lost. When a group of men clamored for the sheriff to d
o something about it, not only had the lawman given them a level look and said, “My wife is attending,” but nearly every woman over eighteen not dependent upon a male for their livelihood rebelled. Ignoring the mandates laid down by husbands, brothers, and fathers, they sailed from their homes in numbers, dressed in their Sunday best, to converge on the courthouse. As one woman was overheard to remark, “This is the biggest event Mattawa has ever seen. Let the men stay home if they’re too squeamish to hear testimony in mixed company.” A carnival atmosphere prevailed, an expectation of titillation as the gallery unabashedly gawked at the principal players in the drama about to unfold.

  Opal, Hattie, Nell, Doc, Mirabel, Augusta, and, to Hattie’s surprise, Aurelia, seated directly behind the prosecutor’s table, watched Jake make his final preparations as they waited for the trial to begin. Aurelia didn’t know about Hattie’s vested interest, but the rest of their small group found the air of festivity disturbing when to them the outcome was of paramount importance. They sat quietly tense and sober, an island of stillness in a sea of craning necks, pointing fingers, and whispered opinions.

  Opal clung to Hattie’s hand, crushing her fingers in her nervousness until Jake turned and beckoned the young woman forward. Reluctantly letting go, she rose to join him. She refused to look at Roger Lord as he arrogantly lounged in his chair at the other table.

  Then the gallery was adjured to rise as the judge was announced. The crowd rustled into silence as the robed judge walked from his chambers to the bench. All eyes focused on him.

  By the end of the session the myriad spectators were not as attentive. For many, the first day was disappointingly anticlimactic. Expecting high drama, they were treated to the dry process of jury selection. Men were called to the jury box and questioned extensively by both attorneys before being accepted or excused. The time-consuming process ate up the entire day.

  When the judge’s gavel finally hit the bench to adjourn the session, grumbling was audible. The general consensus was that tomorrow’s show better be more interesting than today’s had been.

  * * *

  —

  Mattawa Courthouse

  DAY TWO

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  Jake rose from his seat at the prosecutor’s table following Sheriff Jacobson’s swearing in. Jake consulted his notes, tapped the end of his pencil with a decisive rap against the pad, then abandoned both to approach the witness-box. With easygoing, professional competence, he led Sheriff Jacobson through his testimony.

  The gallery of spectators was much happier with today’s activity. The sheriff was the first witness of the day, but already the opening statements from both lawyers had promised to unfold a drama of scandalous juiciness. Postures were attentive as the assembly avidly followed every question put to the sheriff and his firmly stated replies. “No further questions,” Jake finally said and resumed his seat. The defense attorney, Arthur Cleveland, a portly man with leonine white hair and a militarily erect carriage, rose to take Jake’s place.

  He stood silently in front of the witness stand for an instant, holding his lapels and rocking gently from his heels to the balls of his feet and back. “Sheriff Jacobson,” he finally said in a quiet voice, and the gallery strained to listen. “You have testified Opal Jeffries came to your office to lodge a complaint against Roger Lord, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And she verbally described the alleged attacks?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you did not then proceed to arrest my client?”

  “No, sir, not immediately.”

  “Because you didn’t feel the word of a maid was an adequate reason to arrest a man of Roger Lord’s prominence?”

  “No, sir, I didn’t doubt her testimony. But when I asked Jacob Murdock’s professional opinion—”

  “He didn’t believe her story.”

  “He absolutely believed her story. But he did warn her a trial would be very difficult for her and the only sure conviction in a case of this nature was to catch the offender in the act. She offered herself as bait to do just that.”

  “I see.” Cleveland rocked some more. “What was your reaction?”

  “I was . . . interested.”

  “And Mr. Murdock?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Jake said. “Hearsay.”

  “I could call you for a witness, so you could testify for yourself,” Cleveland said mildly.

  The judge looked askance at Jake, who shrugged and sat down. The last thing he wanted was to be called to the stand, where, should the right questions be put to him, he could single-handedly ruin his wife’s reputation.

  “Overruled.”

  “Would you like the question repeated?”

  “No, sir. Jake was against it.”

  “Because he feared for her safety?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But she opted to go anyway.” He rocked once, twice. “So rather than being repulsed by my client’s attentions, she must have looked forward to more of the same.”

  “Objection!” Jake roared. “He’s not even asking a question. And if that was a question, then he’s simultaneously calling for a conclusion and trying to put words in the witness’s mouth.”

  “Sustained.” The judge looked at the defense attorney. “Mr. Cleveland, refrain from histrionics.”

  “My apologies, Your Honor,” he replied meekly, but he was nonetheless clearly pleased with having raised a question in the jury’s mind. “No further questions.”

  “You may step down, sir.”

  Opal’s face was white. There was an omnivorous quality to the gallery’s collective regard, and she clenched her fists in her lap, hoping she looked more composed than she felt. Beneath the table, Jake patted her clasped hands reassuringly.

  “Call your next witness, Mr. Murdock.”

  Jake looked up from his legal pad. “The prosecution would like to call Mrs. Mabel Crockett.”

  Roger stiffened and he stared down his nose at the plump woman who stepped into the stand and took the oath.

  Jake approached. “Mrs. Crockett,” he said, “you have stated you are currently unemployed. Have you ever held a job?”

  “Oh, aye, sor,” she replied in a lilting Irish accent. “’Tis a cook I am. Up until ’bout a week ago, sor, I worked for Mr. Lord. I was in his employ for nigh on eighteen months.”

  “Are you a good cook, ma’am?”

  “Oh, aye, sor, that I be!” she said fervently, making the gallery laugh.

  “On the evening Roger Lord was arrested, were you in the house?”

  “Aye, I was. You saw me yourself, sor, when the sheriff and you came through the kitchen door. Much to me shame, I was sittin’ at the kitchen table with me hands over me ears.”

  “Why were you covering your ears, Mrs. Crockett?”

  “To stifle the sound of Opal’s screams.”

  “Was that the first time you plugged your ears to keep from hearing her cry out?”

  “No, sor,” she whispered, and her chins trembled. “Nor was she the first girl whose screams I heard.”

  Shocked murmurs ran through the gallery. Hattie clenched her fists in her lap and felt a resurgence of the nausea she’d awakened with this morning. She swallowed hard. How many girls had Roger Lord defiled over the years—and how many Mrs. Crocketts had sat with their hands over their ears to block out the sounds of the victims’ distress? Dear God above, let this be the end to Roger’s monstrous viciousness.

  “Mrs. Crockett,” Jake asked, “did you ever protest Mr. Lord’s treatment of those girls?”

  “Just once, sor,” she replied with a shudder. “He told me in no uncertain terms that it was not me place to be questionin’ me betters, and sure and he would be seein’ to it I’d be out on the stree
t, findin’ meself unemployable elsewhere, should I speak out of turn again.”

  “And you believed his threats?”

  “Oh, aye, sor, that I did. He’s a powerful man.”

  “Were you in the kitchen when Opal Jeffries came back from town on the day of Roger Lord’s arrest?”

  “Aye.”

  “The defense has suggested Miss Jeffries was anxious for Lord’s attention. Did she demonstrate an eagerness or even a willingness to attract his eye during the time between her return from town and his arrest?”

  “No, sor. She gave me the items I’d sent her to pick up and then went straight to her room. She didn’t even see Mr. Lord.”

  Over the next two days, Jake built a solid case against the defendant. He’d contacted every ex-employee willing to testify against Lord and put each one on the stand. The picture that emerged was of a man who viewed the working class as unworthy of basic human considerations.

  Jake called Doc to the stand to testify to Opal’s condition on the night of Lord’s arrest. Her ripped dress and the photographs Doc had taken both of her and of the shattered bedroom door were presented as physical evidence that she in no way had encouraged Lord’s attention.

  During Doc’s testimony Hattie noticed something was amiss with Moses. He wasn’t a regular attendee of the trial as so many were, but he slipped in now and again as his schedule permitted, conspicuous by his size and the well-worn leather apron he rarely bothered to remove.

  Caught up in the trial, Hattie didn’t immediately notice Nell’s tension whenever he entered the courtroom. Then it began to register that Moses spent more time staring broodingly at Nell than he did attending to the trial. She saw Nell simultaneously light up and grow tense at his appearance, noticed too the way she smiled at him when their eyes met—and how he didn’t smile back. Hattie also registered the manner in which her own smile of greeting met with a blank stare the one and only time she caught Moses’ eye. Concluding she was somehow involved in Moses’ baffling behavior toward Nell, she determined to get to the bottom of it.