by Delia Owens
“And where would that course take her?”
“Right smack to that cove near the fire tower.”
Judge Sims banged his gavel at the outburst, which rumbled for a full minute.
“Could she not have been going somewhere else?”
“Well, I reckon, but there’s nothing up that way but miles of swamped-out woods. No other destination I know of ’cept the fire tower.”
Ladies’ funeral fans pumped against the warming, unsettled room. Sunday Justice, sleeping on the windowsill, flowed to the floor and walked to Kya. For the first time in the courtroom, he rubbed against her leg, then jumped onto her lap and settled. Eric stopped talking and looked at the judge, perhaps considering an objection for such an open display of partiality, but there seemed no legal precedent.
“How can you be sure it was Miss Clark?”
“Oh, we all know her boat. She’s been boatin’ around on her own fer years.”
“Were there lights on her boat?”
“No, no lights. Might’ve run her over if we hadn’t seen her.”
“But isn’t it illegal to operate a boat after dark without lights?”
“Yeah, she was s’posed to have lights. But she didn’t.”
“So on the night that Chase Andrews died at the fire tower, Miss Clark was boating in exactly that direction, just minutes before the time of his death. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, that’s what we seen.”
Eric sat down.
Tom walked toward the witness. “Good morning, Mr. Miller.”
“Good mornin’.”
“Mr. Miller, how long have you been serving as a crew member on Tim O’Neal’s shrimp boat?”
“Going on three years now.”
“And tell me, please, what time did the moon rise the night of October 29 to the 30?”
“It was waning, and didn’t rise till after we docked in Barkley. Sometime after two A.M. I reckon.”
“I see. So when you saw the small boat motoring near Barkley Cove that night, there was no moon. It must have been very dark.”
“Yeah. It was dark. There was some starlight but, yeah, pretty dark.”
“Would you please tell the court what Miss Clark was wearing as she motored past you in her boat that night.”
“Well, we weren’t near close enough to see what she was wearing.”
“Oh? You weren’t near enough to see her clothes.” Tom looked at the jury as he said this. “Well, how far away were you?”
“I reckon we was a good sixty yards away at least.”
“Sixty yards.” Tom looked at the jury again. “That’s quite a distance to identify a small boat in the dark. Tell me, Mr. Miller, what characteristics, what features of this person in this boat made you so sure it was Miss Clark?”
“Well, like I said, ’bout everybody in this town knows her boat, how it looks from close and far. We know the shape of the boat and the figure she cuts sittin’ in the stern, tall, thin like that. A very particular shape.”
“A particular shape. So anybody with this same shape, any person who was tall and thin in this type of boat would have looked like Miss Clark. Correct?”
“I guess somebody else coulda looked like her, but we get to know boats and their owners real good, you know, being out there all the time.”
“But, Mr. Miller, may I remind you, this is a murder trial. It cannot get more serious than this, and in these cases we have to be certain. We can’t go by shapes or forms that are seen from sixty yards away in the dark. So, please can you tell the court you are certain the person you saw on the night of October 29 to October 30, 1969, was Miss Clark?”
“Well, no, I can’t be completely sure. Never said I could be completely sure it was her. But I’m pretty—”
“That will be all, Mr. Miller. Thank you.”
Judge Sims asked, “Redirect, Eric?”
From his seat, Eric asked, “Hal, you testified that you’ve been seeing and recognizing Miss Clark in her boat for at least three years. Tell me, have you ever thought you saw Miss Clark in her boat from a distance and then once you got closer, you discovered that it wasn’t Miss Clark after all? Has that ever happened?”
“No, not once.”
“Not once in three years?”
“Not once in three years.”
“Your Honor, the State rests.”
52.
Three Mountains Motel
1970
Judge Sims entered the courtroom and nodded at the defense table. “Mr. Milton, are you ready to call your first witness for the defense?”
“I am, Your Honor.”
“Proceed.”
After the witness was sworn and seated, Tom said, “Please state your name and what you do in Barkley Cove.” Kya raised her head enough to see the short, elderly woman with the purplish-white hair and tight perm who years ago asked her why she always came alone to the grocery. Perhaps she was shorter and her curls tighter, but she looked remarkably the same. Mrs. Singletary had seemed nosey and bossy, but she had given Kya the net Christmas stocking with the blue whistle inside the winter after Ma left. It was all the Christmas Kya had.
“I’m Sarah Singletary, and I clerk at the Piggly Wiggly market in Barkley Cove.”
“Sarah, is it correct that from your cash register within the Piggly Wiggly, you can see the Trailways bus stop?”
“Yes, I can see it clearly.”
“On October 28 of last year, did you see the defendant, Miss Catherine Clark, waiting at the bus stop at 2:30 P.M.?”
“Yes, I saw Miss Clark standing there.” At this, Sarah glanced at Kya and remembered the little girl coming barefoot into the market for so many years. No one would ever know, but before Kya could count, Sarah had given the child extra change—money she had to take from her own purse to balance the register. Of course, Kya was dealing with small sums to start with, so Sarah contributed only nickels and dimes, but it must have helped.
“How long did she wait? And did you actually see her step onto the 2:30 P.M. bus?”
“She waited about ten minutes, I think. We all saw her buy her ticket from the driver, give him her suitcase, and step onto the bus. It drove away, and she was most definitely inside.”
“And I believe you also saw her return two days later on October 30 on the 1:16 P.M. bus. Is that correct?”
“Yes, two days later, a little after 1:15 in the afternoon, I looked up as the bus stopped, and there was Miss Clark stepping off it. I pointed her out to the other checkout ladies.”
“Then what did she do?”
“She walked to the wharf, got in her boat, and headed south.”
“Thank you, Sarah. That will be all.”
Judge Sims asked, “Any questions, Eric?”
“No, Your Honor, I have no questions. In fact, I see from the witness list that the defense intends to call several townspeople to testify that Miss Clark got on and off the Trailways bus on the dates and times Mrs. Singletary has stated. The prosecution does not refute this testimony. Indeed, it is consistent with our case that Miss Clark traveled on those buses at those times and, if it please the court, it is not necessary to hear from other witnesses on this matter.”
“All right. Mrs. Singletary, you can step down. What about you, Mr. Milton? If the prosecution accepts the fact that Miss Clark got on the 2:30 bus on October 28, 1969, and returned at about 1:16 on October 30, 1969, do you need to call other witnesses to this effect?”
“No, Your Honor.” His face appeared calm, but Tom swore inside. Kya’s alibi of being out of town at the time of Chase’s death was one of the strongest points for the defense. But Eric had successfully diluted the alibi simply by accepting it, even stating that he didn’t need to hear testimony that Kya traveled to and from Greenville during the day. It didn’t matter to the prosecution’s
case because they claimed Kya had returned to Barkley at night and committed the murder. Tom had foreseen the risk but thought it crucial that the jury hear testimony, to visualize Kya leaving town in daylight and not returning until after the incident. Now, they’d think her alibi wasn’t important enough even to be confirmed.
“Noted. Please proceed with your next witness.”
Bald and fubsy, his coat buttoned tight against a round belly, Mr. Lang Furlough testified that he owned and operated the Three Mountains Motel in Greenville and that Miss Clark had stayed at the motel from October 28 until October 30, 1969.
Kya detested listening to this oily-haired man, who she never thought she’d see again, and here he was talking about her as though she weren’t present. He explained how he had shown her to her motel room but failed to mention he had lingered too long. Kept thinking of reasons to stay in her room until she opened the door, hinting for him to leave. When Tom asked how he could be sure of Miss Clark’s comings and goings from the motel, he chuckled and said she was the kind of woman men notice. He added how strange she was, not knowing how to use the telephone, walking from the bus station with a cardboard suitcase, and bringing her own bagged dinner.
“Mr. Furlough, on the next night, that being October 29, 1969, the night Chase Andrews died, you worked at the reception desk all night. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“After Miss Clark returned to her room at ten P.M. after dinner with her editor, did you see her leave again? At any time during the night of October 29 or the early-morning hours of October 30, did you see her leave or return to her room?”
“No. I was there all night and I never saw her leave her room. Like I said, her room was directly across from the reception counter, so I would have seen her leave.”
“Thank you, Mr. Furlough, that’s all. Your witness.”
After several minutes of cross-examination, Eric continued. “Okay, Mr. Furlough, so far we have you leaving the reception area altogether to walk to your apartment twice, use the restroom, and return; the pizza boy bringing pizza; you paying him, et cetera; four guests checking in, two checking out; and in between all that, you completed your receipts account. Now I’d submit, Mr. Furlough, that during all that commotion, there were plenty of times that Miss Clark could have quietly walked out of her room, quickly crossed the street, and you would never have seen her. Isn’t that entirely possible?”
“Well, I guess it’s possible. But I never saw a thing. I didn’t see her leave her room that night—is what I’m saying.”
“I understand that, Mr. Furlough. And what I’m saying is that it’s very possible that Miss Clark left her room, walked to the bus station, bused to Barkley Cove, murdered Chase Andrews, and returned to her room, and you never saw her because you were very busy doing your job. No more questions.”
* * *
• • •
AFTER THE LUNCH RECESS, just as everyone was settled and the judge had taken his seat, Scupper stepped inside the courtroom. Tate turned to see his father, still in his overalls and yellow marine boots, walking down the aisle. Scupper had not attended the trial because of his work, he’d said, but mostly because his son’s long attachment to Miss Clark confounded him. It seemed Tate had never had feelings for any other girl, and even as a grown, professional man, he still loved this strange, mysterious woman. A woman now accused of murder.
Then, that noon, standing on his boat, nets pooled around his boots, Scupper breathed out heavily. His face blazed with shame as he realized that he—like some of the ignorant villagers—had been prejudiced against Kya because she had grown up in the marsh. He remembered Tate proudly showing him Kya’s first book on shells and how Scupper himself was taken aback by her scientific and artistic prowess. He had bought himself a copy of each of her books but hadn’t mentioned that to Tate. What bullshit.
He was so proud of his son, how he had always known what he wanted and how to achieve it. Well, Kya had done the same against much bigger odds.
How could he not be there for Tate? Nothing mattered except supporting his son. He dropped the net at his feet, left the boat wallowing against the pier, and walked directly to the courthouse.
When he reached the first row, Jodie, Jumpin’, and Mabel stood to allow him to squeeze by and sit next to Tate. Father and son nodded at each other, and tears swelled in Tate’s eyes.
Tom Milton waited for Scupper to sit, the silence in the room complete, then said, “Your Honor, the defense calls Robert Foster.” Dressed in a tweed jacket, tie, and khaki pants, Mr. Foster was trim, of medium height, and had a neat beard and kind eyes. Tom asked his name and occupation.
“My name is Robert Foster, and I’m a senior editor for Harrison Morris Publishing Company in Boston, Massachusetts.” Kya, hand to her forehead, stared at the floor. Her editor was the only person she knew who didn’t think of her as the Marsh Girl, who had respected her, even seemed awed at her knowledge and talent. Now he was in court seeing her at the defendant’s table, charged with murder.
“Are you the editor for Miss Catherine Clark’s books?”
“Yes, I am. She is a very talented naturalist, artist, and writer. One of our favorite authors.”
“Can you confirm that you traveled to Greenville, North Carolina, on October 28, 1969, and that you had meetings with Miss Clark on both the twenty-ninth and the thirtieth?”
“That is correct. I was attending a small conference there, and knew I would have some extra time while in town but wouldn’t have enough time to travel to her place, so I invited Miss Clark to Greenville so we could meet.”
“Can you tell us the exact time that you drove her back to her motel on the night of October 29, last year?”
“After our meetings, we dined at the hotel and then I drove Kya back to her motel at 9:55 P.M.”
Kya recalled standing on the threshold of the dining room, filled with candlelit tables under soft chandeliers. Tall wineglasses on white tablecloths. Stylishly dressed diners conversed in quiet voices, while she wore the plain skirt and blouse. She and Robert dined on almond-crusted North Carolina trout, wild rice, creamed spinach, and yeast rolls. Kya felt comfortable as he kept the conversation going with easy grace, sticking to subjects about nature familiar to her.
Remembering it now, she was astonished how she had carried it off. But in fact, the restaurant, with all its glitter, wasn’t nearly as grand as her favorite picnic. When she was fifteen, Tate had boated to her shack one dawn, and, after he’d wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, they cruised inland through a maze of waterways to a forest she’d never seen. They hiked a mile to the edge of a waterlogged meadow where fresh grass sprouted through mud, and there he laid the blanket under ferns as large as umbrellas.
“Now we wait,” he’d said, as he poured hot tea from a thermos and offered her “coon balls,” a baked mixture of biscuit dough, hot sausage, and sharp cheddar cheese he had cooked for the occasion. Even now in this cold courtroom setting, she remembered the warmth of his shoulders touching hers under the blanket, as they nibbled and sipped the breakfast picnic.
They didn’t have to wait long. Moments later, a ruckus as loud as cannons sounded from the north. “Here they come,” Tate had said.
A thin, black cloud appeared on the horizon and, as it moved toward them, it soared skyward. The shrieking rose in intensity and volume as the cloud rapidly filled the sky until not one spot of blue remained. Hundreds of thousands of snow geese, flapping, honking, and gliding, covered the world. Swirling masses wheeled and banked for landing. Perhaps a half million white wings flared in unison, as pink-orange feet dangled down, and a blizzard of birds came in to land. A true whiteout as everything on Earth, near and far, disappeared. One at a time, then ten at a time, then hundreds of geese landed only yards from where Kya and Tate had sat under the ferns. The sky emptied as the wet meadow filled until it was covered in downy snow.
“You saw Miss Clark go into her room?”
“Of course. I opened her door and saw her safely inside before I drove away.”
“Did you see Miss Clark the next day?”
“We had arranged to meet for breakfast, so I picked her up at 7:30 A.M. We ate at the Stack ’Em High pancake place. I took her back to her motel at 9:00. And that was the last I saw of her until today.” He glanced at Kya, but she looked down at the table.
“Thank you, Mr. Foster. I have no further questions.”
Eric stood and asked, “Mr. Foster, I was wondering why you stayed at the Piedmont Hotel, which is the best hotel in the area, while your publishing company only paid for Miss Clark—such a talented author, one of the favorites, as you put it—to stay in a very basic motel, the Three Mountains?”
“Well, of course, we offered, even recommended that Miss Clark stay at the Piedmont, but she insisted on staying at the motel.”
“Is that so? Did she know the motel’s name? Did she specifically request to stay at the Three Mountains?”
“Yes, she wrote a note saying she preferred to stay at the Three Mountains.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, I don’t know why.”
“Well, I have an idea. Here’s a tourist map of Greenville.” Eric waved the map around as he approached the witness stand. “You can see here, Mr. Foster, that the Piedmont Hotel—the four-star hotel that you offered to Miss Clark—is located in the downtown area. The Three Mountains Motel, on the other hand, is on Highway 258, near the Trailways bus station. In fact, if you study the map as I have, you will see that the Three Mountains is the closest motel to the bus station . . .”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom called out. “Mr. Foster is not an authority on the layout of Greenville.”
“No, but the map is. I see where you’re going, Eric, and I’ll allow it. Proceed.”
“Mr. Foster, if someone were planning a quick trip to the bus station in the middle of the night, it is logical that they would choose the Three Mountains over the Piedmont. Especially if they planned to walk. All I need from you is the confirmation that Miss Clark asked specifically to stay at the Three Mountains and not the Piedmont.”