The stairs shook on the way up, triggering unsought memories of Joe Billy’s roost.
“Here we are.”
It wasn’t much larger than my dormer, but it was private. An eclectic array of posters and prints. Still-life by Vermeer. Bob Dylan, androgynous with cigarette. Leontyne Price. Magnificent. A bead curtain guarded the loo. A two-burner stove and sink crowded an alcove beyond. One whole side of the place was taken up with sagging bookshelves before which stretched a luxurious futon bed. Kate closed the door with the heel of her foot.
“How you like my castle?”
She dropped her ever-present pack and strolled over to a Dual turntable stacked with long playing records. Suddenly I did not know where I was supposed to look.
“Cilla, it’s all right.”
I cast around for something to inspect.
“It’s all right.” She plopped down on her Oriental mattress and pulled her sweatshirt over her head. Her hair was just as I remembered from the first time I saw her on the staircase only damper, now, not yet dried from our recent shower.
“Why don’t you get comfortable?”
She patted the bed with her hand.
“We can just spin some records, if you like.”
My mouth felt like clay. “…Is that Marvin Gaye?”
“Mmm. Smooth, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said and came to her bed and that is how that started.
First time I had sex was with Joe Billy, I’m sure I mentioned. And if I’d never shared a bed with anybody else that’s the only kind of sex I guess I’d have ever known.
Kate was the second love in my life, probably the most selfish, probably the one cared least about me. But in the course of an afternoon in a dorm room in Tallahassee I found pleasure with that girl in a way I never would have imagined possible.
It didn’t last, of course. Kate was the woman of my dreams, but I was only the diversion of a moment. She was not as faithful as Joe Billy, but she was a lot better in bed.
And I was a lot better in bed with her.
My society that first semester was literally intra-mural and proved to be great therapy. Basketball provided exercise and release, and, yes, a distraction from concerns related to Joe Billy and his coming trial. In the midst of arduous sport I could forget about truth or treachery. And standing by Kate in a pounding shower I could ignore the fact that though my ordeal appeared to be ending, Joe Billy’s had just begun. But not even the distractions of basketball and music and sex could blunt the impact of the subpoena I received at Dr. Weintraub’s hand.
My resident advisor delivered the message summoning me to Dr. Weintraub’s office in Longmire Hall. A harried man in a jacket spouted a terse rehearsal of instructions given too abruptly to be comprehended, before slapping the subpoena into my hand.
“What’s this?”
I turned to Dr. Weintraub after the functionary’s brisk departure.
“It’s a subpoena, Cilla,” she pushed her hair off her forehead. “A summons to court.”
“Oh.” I stared at the legal envelope in my hand.
“Do you have any idea what this is about?” she inquired.
It didn’t take much of a guess.
“Friend of mine killed a man,” I truncated the truth. “He used to be my boyfriend.”
“Oh, Lord.”
I opened the envelope without comment, scanned the summons. “Looks like I got to be at the Lafayette County Courthouse on the eighth of October. Says be there by nine o’clock.”
“And so you will,” Dr. Weintraub swept her straw hair off her face. “But not without a lawyer.”
Irving Statler was a professor emeritus from FSU ’s Law School, a close friend of Dr. Weintraub’s. He took me under his wing pro bono without making me feel at all as though I was charged to charity. We met in offices not far from the Music School. Lots of plaques on the wall. Lots of panelling.
“You are being called as a friendly witness for the defense, Cilla, a sympathy witness. I called Mr. Shaw yesterday to see if he’d like to interview you before the trial, but he assures me this isn’t necessary. I think you can expect some discussion of your ordeal on the river. Almost certainly there will be questions regarding your intimate relations with the accused. Even if you are embarrassed, it’s important to answer simply, forthrightly.
“The State’s attorney doesn’t even have you on his list. When I called he said the statement provided by the County Sheriff was sufficient for the record.”
“Sheriff Jackson, yes, sir,” I nodded. “He got a statement from ’bout everybody in Colored Town.”
“Don’t volunteer information, Cilla,” he corrected me gently.
“No, sir.”
“Remember our preparation this afternoon: Do not speak except in reply to a direct question. Only answer the specific question you are asked. If you don’t know something, just say you don’t.”
I hesitated.
“Is there anything else you need to tell me, Cilla? Anything at all? Because if there is, now’s the time to do it.”
I swallowed. “I don’t know anything. I wasn’t there.”
“Right,” he said after a moment. “Well, then. I’ll see you in court.”
I did not sleep the days before the trial. I did not eat. I vacillated back and forth, one moment convinced that there really was nothing to be gained, for Joe Billy or for me, by claiming responsibility for Monk Folsom’s homicide, then telling myself with the next pang of conscience that I was a coward, that I should step forward regardless of cost and simply tell the truth. Yes, I shot the man, but I was threatened, wasn’t I? I was molested.
I was acting in self defense!
Dr. Weintraub would believe me, wouldn’t she? The sheriff believed me. But would a jury believe me? Would a white jury in Lafayette County believe a mauled nigger girl, and even if they did, would they exonerate Joe Billy King?
Catch a nigger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go…
But would they let their nigger go?
At the time of my courthouse experience I had experienced a month of college life. One month of clean sheets and hot showers. A month of good food and air conditioning and a host of unexpected pleasures. Sports. Sex. I was filled with music, a hunger for knowledge that was daily rewarded. And never, not once, did I have to haul water.
Was I really willing to give that up?
Was I even willing to risk it?
Professor Statler drove me to Laureate on the day of my participation in Joe Billy’s trial. Dr. Weintraub wanted to come, too, but I steadfastly refused. I did not want my newest mentor present if the moment came forcing me to choose between the truth and a lie. It would be hard enough with Joe Billy there.
The lawn outside the courthouse looked like a churchyard after a tent revival. Looked like half the town of Laureate had come to see Joe Billy in the dock, a fair number from Colored Town, too. Not to mention the reporters, the cameras. It took a while, in that morass, to locate my high school teacher.
“Miss Chandler,” I called out weakly.
“Come here college girl!”
To my absolute amazement Miss Chandler practically ran to meet me, bowling through that pack of hangers-on, wrapping me up in generous arms to that full bosom.
“My, don’t you look somethin?”
I tried to meet her eye, uncertain how to behave.
“Now you stand tall,” there was the sudden voice of authority. “That’s better. We’re going to walk in that courthouse and show these people some class.”
That was the hardest moment for me, to climb those terraced steps exposed, to enter the court beside its sweeping stairway in full view of the courtiers and the curious and then following the balustrade to ascend on my attorney’s arm like a debutante, returning home in a heroine’s guise to betray my lover and friend.
So this was class, I thought. A bitter irony, there. Bitter as bad tea.
Chapter twenty-two
“King Boy Tried for M
urder”
— The Clarion
I was one of four witnesses scheduled to testify that morning. J.T. Hewitt was familiar to me, tall and dark and hostile in the company of the family’s expensively dressed attorney. He had donned one of those string ties, like a country-western star, but had replaced his signature belt with a cowhide substitute. I had no idea what use the court would have for J.T.’s witness.
“Don’t worry about his testimony,” Professor Statler murmured. “Just stick to yours.”
There waited another witness in the room, a woman with whom I was not familiar. She was dressed like somebody going to Mardi Gras, all bright colors and cleavage. Lots of trinkets, cheap jewelry. A skirt way too short for a woman pushing fifty. I had never met Joe Billy’s mother, but Miss Chandler apparently had made some contact.
“Mrs. King? Fanny King?”
“I know you?”
“I’m Joe Billy’s teacher. I sent you a letter, few weeks back?”
“Letter? Oh, yes, I remember.”
She replied to Miss Chandler, but was staring at me.
“Whatchu lookin’ girl?”
“Ma’am?”
“This is Priscilla Handsom, Mrs. King. Cilla.”
“So thass you,” Fanny clutched her purse. “What they wont you for?”
“I don’t know,” I was happy to give an honest reply.
“Mr. Shaw says Cilla can help Joe Billy,” Miss Chandler amended.
Fanny produced a cylinder of lipstick. “Seem like that girl done help Joe Billy enough.”
My heart froze. Did Fanny know? How much had Joe Billy told her?!
“Worst thang ever happen to my boy.” She crossed her legs, that skirt hiking up. “Worse thing ever happen to Joe Billy by far is that girl over there!”
J.T. Hewitt snorted like a horse.
“Whatchu laughin’?” Fanny turned on Cody’s brother. “Whatchu laughin’ at me, hah?! I know who you are, you think I don’ know? Think you gonna set there and laugh at me ?!”
I saw the Hewitts’ attorney press his hand onto J.T.’s froghopping knee.
“Everyone’s a little nervous,” the lawyer intervened smoothly. “No offense intended, I’m sure.”
“Fine for you to say,” Fanny dabbed lipstick off with a napkin. “Fine for you!”
That pretty much killed conversation. There were four witnesses in the room, the attorney, Miss Chandler, three magazines, a pitcher of water and a stack of Dixie cups. It was an hour before the first witness, a deputy, was called. A medical examiner was called next. Then J.T. was taken out with his lawyer.
“Don’t think we’ll make the noon cut,” Miss Chandler remarked, but within minutes the bailiff was returned.
“Priscilla Handsom.”
For some reason I had expected Fanny to be called before me.
“Cilla. It’s time.”
My legs were numb. Professor Statler helped me up.
“Follow me,” a bailiff ordered.
Miss Chandler followed as I leaned on my attorney’s arm. The corridor now seemed to stretch interminably. I felt as though I were walking and walking and going nowhere. But doors passed by. A water cooler. Then a hard turn and there, dead ahead, was the courtroom. A deputy nodding to the bailiff’s unspoken command opened those heavy double doors. Beams of light caught motes of dust spinning capriciously before tall, tall windows.
Heads turned as I entered. A buzz of comment, like bees in a barn. Judge Blackmond dropped his gavel.
“Order in the court.”
I took in the room through the filter of a hundred fears, anxieties and distractions. Rows and rows of benches ranged on either side, like pews in a church. So many faces, some friendly, some hostile, nearly all familiar. I saw Garner Hewitt, the mark of Cain below that eye. Cody perched alongside, a countenance without blemish. Mr. Raymond was there too, all creased and cuffed, but up in the balcony where Negroes still segregated themselves.
“Think about your friends.” Professor Statler gave my hand a squeeze and I walked the last yards to the stand on my own.
On my right hand was a long table accommodating a trio of prosecutors. In Florida, I should mention, we don’t like to call our inquisitors prosecutors, which is what they are, so we call them the State’s attorneys; I felt no threat from that quarter. What gave me dread lay at the hardwood table on my left hand. Joe Billy sat to my left, sandwiched between Thurman and some other attorney.
Joe Billy had been moved back from Live Oak to the local jail for the duration of his trial. I would not be expected to visit my old boyfriend under lock and key, but I certainly could not ignore him in court. Certainly I could not appear ashamed of my old friend, or fearful of him. I owed him a nod, at least.
I paused on my way to the stand, and turned. Joe Billy was dressed as I had never seen him, in a white shirt, button down, a narrow black tie, badly knotted, a gray suit. The sleeves were too short; they pulled up past his wrists to display hands clasped together as in prayer, or in handcuffs. Those large eyes, like a deer’s, narrowly placed, sought mine. He looked pale. He looked scared to death. Still, he offered a wan smile.
I was ashamed that I could not meet his eyes squarely with my own.
“Over here, please.”
I turned to see a white man holding a black Bible.
“Raise your right hand.”
It seemed to go up on its own.
“Do you swear to tell the truth…”
It was too fast. It was as though I were present, but a second or two behind.
“…so help you God?”“
Just like that. So fast.
“Miss Handsom?”
I turned to the judge’s voice.
“Yes, sir?”
“You may take the stand.”
I didn’t even know I had responded to the oath.
I climbed to that place where you are called to witness. A hard-backed chair waited. I lowered myself onto the seat’s firm cushion, trying to find someplace to look that wasn’t the floor.
The State’s attorney strolled up.
“Miss Handsom, you know the accused?”
“Yes, sir.”
Once things got rolling I was almost able to relax. It was simple, really. A piece of cake. I had been agonizing over how I would answer questions directed at my culpability for Monk’s killing, but nothing like those kind of question were asked by the State’s attorney. The Inquisitor seemed to take my innocence for granted. He was most interested in Fort McKoon, doing exactly what Professor Statler had predicted he would do, reminding the jury of the horror of that afternoon. Feigning sympathy for me while actually establishing for Joe Billy a motive sufficient to murder.
“And did you at any time hear Joe Billy express anger over what happened that day? Was he angry that he had been castrated?”
“More like depressed,” I said.
“Then you never heard the accused express anger over what happened to him?”
“Well, certainly, but—”
“It’s a yes or no question, Miss Handsom.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So the accused did express anger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did he express pain or anguish or frustration over the loss of his manhood?”
Loss of his manhood? How quaint.
“Miss Handsom?”
“He did expreth…express pain and anguish, yes.”
“Thank you, that will be all.”
The State’s attorney turned to Thurman Shaw, then, and I remembered what Collard Jackson told me in his office.
Keep it simple.
“Miss Handsom.”
As if roused from dosing I looked up to see Thurman before me.
“You need some water? A little time?”
“No, thank you.”
“All right, then, let’s start by calling the court’s attention to State’s evidence, Item Number 43 Baker.”
I hadn’t the faintest notion what he was talking
about, but I didn’t like the puzzled expressions on the faces stacking the State’s bench.
“This is an application to Florida State University, Your Honor. This application was submitted by and notarized for Priscilla Handsom. Right at the top you’ll see that Miss Handsom’s birthday is given. That would be October the 31st, 1945. Born on Halloween, if memory serves.”
The King of Colored Town Page 33