Valentine

by Elizabeth Wetmore

  No, Mary Rose, I cannot make her testify.

  Well, how come? How are we going to get justice?

  We? Keith laughs. You got a mouse in your pocket? He stands still for so long that several horseflies as big as peanuts land on his shirt. His hands are large and lightly freckled, and when he swats at the flies, hot air moves gently between us.

  You know what I hate most about my job?

  Losing a case?

  Huh! You would think so, but no ma’am. He smiles and nods again at the two men who have started walking toward the courthouse doors. What I hate most, Mary Rose, is when somebody squirts hot sauce up my ass and tries to tell me it’s cool water. Pardon my French.

  Keith takes a drink of his coffee and frowns—this is terrible—then he takes another. The cleaning crew that Mrs. Ramírez worked with? They’ve been cleaning office buildings in this town for years without anybody wanting to see their social security cards. Hell, they mopped floors and emptied trash cans at the courthouse for three years before the city council caught wind of it and got their undies in a wad. And five weeks after her daughter knocks on your front door, immigration is waiting for Mrs. Ramírez at the front gate when she finishes her shift at the plant? Bullshit, he says. Pardon my French.

  He drinks the rest of his coffee in one long gulp and tosses the paper cup on the ground. We have the sheriff’s report, he says, and the hospital report, and we have you. That will have to be enough.

  I give him a look and walk over to pick up the cup, making a show of putting it in a trash can that is hardly more than an arm’s length from where we stand. I wonder, not for the first time, if I ought to tell him about the ugly phone calls I’ve been getting all these months—You sure love wetbacks, don’t you Mrs. Whitehead? Know what happens to race traitors, Mary Rose? Maybe I’ll drive over there and rape you myself, you bitch.

  I know they aren’t serious, just a bunch of bigots and drunks, and Keith would likely remind me that this is a free country, people can say anything they want. And I don’t want to ask for help, not from Keith or anybody else. What I want is to be left alone with Aimee Jo and the baby. And I want to be ready, if somebody shows up at my front door.

  I’m ready, I tell Keith.

  Good. Let’s get inside and stand under the air-conditioning for a minute or two. He gently presses one hand against the small of my back and we cross the parking lot. Christ almighty, he says, it’s hot. Hello, Scooter, he says when the defense attorney passes us on the stairs.

  Keith warned me about Strickland’s lawyer last week when we were practicing my testimony. He sat in the dining room and called questions through the swinging door while I nursed the baby in the kitchen.

  He’s a pushy little son of a bitch, Keith said after I had put the baby down and fixed us both a glass of iced tea. Pardon my French— He winked at Aimee, who had walked in behind me, a popsicle hanging out of her mouth. She stared at him like she was already planning their wedding. I’m going to be a lawyer, she said, like you. Smart girl, he said. Go to UT and study business law. Criminal law will break your heart.

  When he reached over to steal her nose, Aimee batted his hand away and rolled her eyes. I’m too old for that, Mr. Taylor.

  I guess you are. Anyway, he said, Scooter Clemens hails from Dallas. Highland Park. He wears a Stetson so clean you could eat a sandwich off the brim. All hat, no cattle. Keith leaned forward and looked me right in the eye. Family’s been in Texas since forever. Probably got a whole cedar chest full of white hoods in the attic.

  How come? Aimee asked, and Keith stumbled around for a bit before telling her, Well, for Halloween, of course.

  Aimee, that popsicle is melting all over the carpet, I said. Go eat it in the backyard.

  She sighed and pursed her lips together, and I could tell she was thinking about arguing, but when Keith offered her a silver dollar if she gave us a minute to talk, she couldn’t get out of the dining room fast enough. We listened as the kitchen door slammed shut behind her.

  Scooter Clemens is a stone-cold killer, Keith said. He’s been getting boys out of trouble for thirty years. Keep your answers short. Don’t let him rile you up, and whatever you do, don’t look at Dale Strickland when they bring him into the courtroom.

  * * *

  Judge Rice is a thick-necked old Aggie with heavy white eyebrows and shoulders like a linebacker. He reminds me of the bulldog that used to chase my brother and me home from school. When he’s not in court he runs cattle on family land that runs from Plainview, Texas, to Ada, Oklahoma.

  When the bailiffs bring Strickland in, I hear them walk him over to his chair, but I keep my eyes on my lap. Scooter asks if they can take the handcuffs off—he ain’t going anywhere, he says, in his best country voice—and I feel a little of the air go out of my chest. But Judge Rice tells him absolutely not, this man is in custody until somebody declares him innocent or guilty. I breathe out through my nose. Try not to look at him.

  After we all say the pledge and the prayer, Judge Rice pulls a pistol out from under his robe and sets it on his desk. West Texas gavel, he tells all of us. Welcome to my courtroom. I look up at him, but the judge is looking over all our heads. Y’all play nice, he says, and points his gavel toward the back of the room.

  I stand up and swear the oath, all while staring at Keith’s face. Look at me, he said again and again as we practiced. Look at me, he says now. Tell me what you saw. I tell my story, and then we all take a fifteen-minute break. Other than the jury, there are a handful of people in the courtroom, all of them men of various ages, heights, and shapes. Keith points to a young man sitting alone on the last row. He wears a white dress shirt and a plain black tie, and his arms are folded across his broad chest. His mustache is neatly trimmed and his hair’s so short I can see patches of his skull underneath. Keith leans over. That’s the girl’s uncle, he whispers, and I long to jump from my seat, rush to him, and ask how she’s doing, where she is, why she isn’t here.

  I am not back on the stand for more than a minute before I recall that conversation at our house, and the last thing Keith said to me before he packed up his briefcase and admired the baby, who was awake again, and crying and rooting. Do not look at Strickland, Mary Rose. Look at anybody else in the room, but not him.

  So I stare at Mrs. Henderson until she looks up and winks at me. The pantyhose have a vise grip on my belly, but instead of clawing at my skirt I fold my hands in my lap and try sending a smile the judge’s way.

  How are you doing today, Mrs. Whitehead? Scooter Clemens looks down at his legal pad as if he’s studying it carefully.

  Well, I’m just fine, I say. Thank you for asking.

  I hear you’ve been having a hard time of things. You feeling okay?

  Yes, I am. I say, But I’m wondering what the hell he’s heard.

  How are things out at the ranch? Y’all losing many cows to these heel flies?

  Blowflies, I correct him.

  Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whitehead. Blowflies.

  My husband has lost nearly his entire stock.

  Whew! Clemens pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at his forehead. I’m so sorry to hear that. Please give Robert my regards. It’s a nasty business, these bugs—he folds the handkerchief and slides it into his jacket and then turns his smile on me—I’ll bet you and the children are a real comfort to him out there. Bet he loves coming home at night and seeing your beautiful face. Clemens slaps his forehead and glances in the general direction of the jury. I look at them too and realize with a start that there are only two women in the room—Mrs. Henderson and me. We don’t belong here, I think. This room isn’t for us.

  Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Whitehead, Clemens says. I plumb forgot that you and the children are living in town now.

  Yes, I say. We moved to town in April. We only came to town because of him, I tell the court. I explain that seeing Dale Strickland, and what he did to Gloria Ramírez, made me want to take my daughter and leave. Then I mention Gin
ny Pierce, who might be gone for good. I talk about Raylene McKnight, who took half the family savings, two suitcases, and her ten-year-old son, and flew from Midland to Dallas to Atlanta to London to Melbourne, Australia. Imagine all those layovers, I tell the court before Judge Rice asks me to please, please, please get on with my story. Young lady, he says, I don’t like complicated tales, and what does this have to do with today’s task? The answer is nothing—this has nothing to do with Gloria Ramiréz. Still, I feel my face grow warm, and I think, This is my story, you old rooster. Y’all can sit and listen for a few minutes. Instead I say, yes sir, and tug at my waistband.

  Well, it’s a shame to let this little bit of trouble run you out of your own house, Scooter says. When this matter is settled, I hope you feel like you can go back out there and be with your husband, where you belong.

  Mr. Clemens, I don’t think that’s really any of your—

  Keith shakes his head very slightly, and I imagine what he’d say if he were standing next to me. Don’t let him get your goat, Mary Rose.

  How’s that new son of yours?

  He’s fine. Thank you.

  You enjoying your new house here in town—he looks down at his legal pad—on Larkspur Lane?

  At the mention of my street, I glance sharply at the defense table. Strickland keeps his eyes turned toward the table in front of him, but there is a slight smile on his face. If he ever gets the chance, he will drive straight to my house. He will park his truck in my driveway, and this time he won’t even have time to take his hand off the steering wheel before I shoot him in the face.

  Larkspur Lane, Clemens says. Ain’t that where Corrine Shepard lives?

  For a man that doesn’t live here in Odessa, I tell him, you seem to know everybody and everything.

  He chuckles, and I want to knock his teeth in.

  Corrine keeping busy?

  I guess so.

  I hear she’s a hoot, always cutting people off in traffic, getting the ladies in an uproar at church, but I guess her family’s been here since Odessa was just a pee stop on the Texas & Pacific, so y’all get to keep her. He looks over at the jury. Several men smile and shake their heads.

  How have you been getting along with your new neighbors, Mrs. Whitehead?

  At that, Keith Taylor sighs loudly and gets to his feet. Judge, is there some point to this line of questioning?

  Judge Rice has been sitting with his head leaned against one hand and his eyes closed. Now he sits up straight in his chair and looks at me. I heard you gave Grace Cowden what-for at church not too long ago, he says.

  Keith’s shoulders are all the way up around his neck, and he is frowning at the notepad in front of him.

  My wife is still talking about it. The judge laughs. You gals! Y’all look for trouble coming and trouble going. And speaking of my wife, Mr. Clemens, come one o’clock, I’m meeting Mrs. Rice for lunch at the Country Club. You have some pertinent questions for Mrs. Whitehead?

  Scooter Clemens nods solemnly. Yes sir, thank you. Mrs. Whitehead, can you tell us how far your house is from Farm to Market, Number 182?

  The old ranch road? I ask him.

  Ranch road, he says. No, ma’am, I mean FM182.

  Okay, I shrug. Everybody out here calls it the ranch road.

  Well, Judge Rice doesn’t. And neither do I. He looks at the jury like they have just shared an inside joke, and my pantyhose suddenly feel real tight against my belly, still loose from my pregnancy. I think about Aimee Jo and my new son, barely four months old, both of them at home with Mrs. Shepard so I can come do my civic duty, talk about this awfulness. I didn’t ask for this trouble. It came to me. I didn’t go looking for it. Then my breasts begin to itch and burn because I haven’t fed the baby in nearly four hours, and I start to worry that I might be shamed in front of these men if my milk should leak through the Kleenex I tucked into my bra. So I tell Scooter that Farm to Market wasn’t what I meant to say at all. Everybody knows you call it the ranch road, unless you’re from someplace else, which I guess he is, since his boots don’t look like they’ve ever stepped in a single cow patty. The jury starts laughing, and I remind them all that I was the first to see Gloria Ramírez alive that Sunday morning.

  Ranch road, Clemens says. Okay. Mrs. Whitehead, on the morning this little Mexican gal—he looks at his legal pad—Gloria Ramírez, knocked on your front door, what did she say?

  Say?

  Yes, ma’am. What did she say to you?

  Well, she didn’t say anything, I tell him.

  Not even one word? Mr. Clemens glances again toward the jury, and I do the same. I recognize three of the twelve men from around town. They look kindly and bemused, as if they feel sorry for me.

  She asked for a glass of water, I tell him, and she said she wanted her mama.

  Had she been drinking the night before? Was she hung over?

  I doubt it, Mr. Clemens. She is a child.

  Well, she’s fourteen—

  Yes, I interrupt him, and that makes her a child.

  Clemens smiles. Well, one girl’s fourteen is another girl’s seventeen, least that’s what my old daddy always said.

  I want to leap off the stand, grab a chair, and break it across his face. But I sit and listen and twist my hands into complicated knots.

  Did she tell you she had been molested?

  Excuse me?

  I’m trying to be delicate, Mrs. Whitehead. Did Gloria Ramírez say she had been raped?

  I saw her. I saw what he did to her.

  But did the young lady tell you she’d been raped, Mrs. Whitehead? Did she use that word?

  That child did not even have her shoes. She walked three miles in her bare feet, just to get away from him. Jesus Christ, he hit her so hard he ruptured her spleen.

  Judge Rice leans forward and speaks quietly to me. Ma’am, please do not take the name of the Lord in vain in my courtroom.

  Are you shitting me? I want to ask him. Are you shitting me right now? But I look down and try not to tug at my pantyhose. Yes sir, I say.

  It says right here—Scooter consults his goddamn legal pad again—that Miss Ramírez had puncture wounds and abrasions on her hands and feet that were consistent with falling. Could she have damaged her spleen when she fell?

  Instead of waiting for my answer, he reminds me that I have sworn to tell the truth, the whole truth, etcetera, and because he wants to make sure we’re all clear on this, he speaks slowly, as if I’m a child. Mrs. Whitehead, I am asking you a simple yes or no question. Did she say he raped her?

  Yes, I say. She said that.

  She used that word?

  Yes, she did.

  Keith Taylor grabs his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger and starts pulling at it. He looks like he’s about to cry. I look to the back of the courtroom where Mr. Ramírez is sitting, but he is looking down at his lap.

  Well, pardon me, Mary Rose, Clemens says, but that’s not what you said in any interview up until this minute. You telling us a little story now?

  No, I say. I forgot until just this minute.

  I see.

  At this point, Keith stands up and asks to speak with me privately. Judge Rice denies the request—it’s getting late and he needs to go to the little boys’ room—but he says Keith can come up to the stand if he wants to. Keith crosses the room in about four long strides and stands in front of me. Mary Rose, he whispers, you have to tell the truth.

  She did not use those exact words, I tell the court. But she didn’t have to. It was obvious to anybody with two eyes to see.

  Clemens smiles like he’s just won the office football pool. So you did tell us a little story. How about this gentleman sitting over here? Mr. Strickland. Did you see him that morning?

  Yes, he came to my front door, too.

  What did he want?

  He was looking for her.

  He was worried about his girlfriend?

  She was not his girlfriend. She is a child and he is a grown man.

/>   Hmm, Scooter says. I don’t think Miss Ramírez ever told him her age. He stretches her last name out, all while looking at the jury, making sure everybody hears it.

  So he was looking for this young lady who had gone out with him the night before?

  She was scared to death when she turned up at my door. He would have killed her.

  How do you know? Did she tell you these things?

  She didn’t have to. I saw her.

  Did Mr. Strickland threaten you? Clemens asks.

  He yelled at me to go inside and get her. He called me a bitch.

  Mrs. Whitehead, Judge Rice says, please don’t use that language in here.

  So he was hung over—Clemens looks again at the jury, like every one of them is a fraternity brother—as I imagine quite a few of us were, the morning after Valentine’s. And he was a little short-tempered because they had a squabble and his girlfriend wandered off?

  Objection, Keith Taylor says, and Judge Rice says, Naw, Keith. Come on, now, you know better than that.

  Objection, Judge! He’s trying to create a different story.

  That’s your objection, Keith? Clemens’s smile doesn’t even come close to reaching his eyes. He’s a snake. If you turned the air conditioner up high enough, his heart rate would plummet.

  Is this not what we do? he says. Do we not consider whether there’s enough evidence to make a decision beyond reasonable doubt before we ruin a young man’s life?

  But I have had enough. I say, She is a child, you piece of shit.

  Clemens walks over, sits down at his table, and puts his head in his hands. Judge Rice knocks his desk with the butt of his pistol and speaks so quietly that everyone in the room has to lean forward. Mrs. Whitehead, it’s clear to me how hard this has been on you and your family, but I promise you, if you cuss in my courtroom one more time, you will spend tonight in a jail cell. Do you understand me?

  Yes.

  Yes, what? Beneath those white eyebrows, Judge Rice has turned red as a beet.

  Yes, I say.

  Yes, what?

  I know what he’s looking for. When I was a girl just a few years older than Aimee is now, there was a time when I got into some pretty good squabbles with my daddy, mostly because I wouldn’t stop arguing with him about every little thing. There came a day when we both had had enough and we stood across from each other in the driveway, him asking questions and me looking him right in the eye. I was still about half tickled that I was tall enough to do it, look him in the eye, and I folded my arms across my chest when he asked a question.