Slider’s Son

by Rebecca Fjelland Davis

  Slider looked at Grant. “How you feel about being put on the witness stand?”

  “Scared to death.”

  “Good,” Slider said. “Anything else wouldn’t be normal. Nothing to fear, though. Just tell the whole truth.”

  “But what if the truth gets Little Joe in worse trouble?”

  “Law can’t be too hard on a thirteen-year-old-boy who’s been beat black and blue regularly. And watched his ma get beat to within an inch of her life.”

  That’s when Grant had an idea.

  “Dad, when you take an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, is that just for the witness stand?”

  “Ye-es. What are you thinking, son?”

  “I mean, it’s not that you’re swearing on the Bible to tell the truth forever, every second, right? It’s just in the witness stand?”

  “I guess. Why?”

  Grant shrugged. “Not sure yet. Probably nothing.”

  When the dishes were done, Grant went out the front door and sat on the steps. For the second time in his life, he didn’t feel like playing ball. He sat and stared through the bridal wreath bushes that framed the front steps. The bush turned into a snowball of white blossoms in spring. Now, in July, it was just a green bush. Inside, under all the leaves, the branches made a tangle of twists and turns.

  What seemed a long time later, Orland came up the street, carrying his glove. “What are you—?” But he looked at Grant and didn’t finish his question. He just sat down beside him on the step.

  “I have an idea,” Grant said.

  When Orland had heard the plan, he said, “We have to go talk to everybody.”

  So Grant got his glove and went with Orland to the ball field.

  Before they warmed up, Grant and Orland called Tommy, Tim, Sammy, Bud, Sue, and the other guys into the dugout. Frank was nowhere to be seen. Little Joe’s absence was bigger and louder than when he’d run away.

  Grant explained his idea.

  The boys agreed.

  So Sammy pulled out his pocketknife, and they nicked their palms to make them bleed. With hands in a pile, they swore a blood oath they’d stick together for Grant’s plan.

  Forty

  Funeral

  We gotta bury that body, Mamie,” Slider said when he came home for supper the next day.

  Mamie turned. “Will they let Mary Thorson out for the funeral?”

  “I don’t know. I think the judge would let the family attend if they are escorted by the law. That would be me. And Will. I’ll go talk to the judge after supper.”

  “How do you mourn a man you killed, I wonder,” Mamie turned back to the stove.

  “We don’t know that, Mamie.”

  Mamie turned and looked at Slider. They studied each other over Grant’s head.

  Grant looked from one to the other. Finally, Grant said, “I don’t think even Big Joe would want a preacher saying all sorts of nice things about him in church. Remember how he laughed at Henry Olson’s funeral?”

  Slider snorted a laugh. “Sure do.”

  “Maybe we’ll just do a little graveside burial service. I’ll talk to Mrs. Thorson this evening after I see the judge.”

  The next morning, the hearse carried the remains of Big Joe, in an oversized casket, accompanied by Mrs. Thorson and Slider, Little Joe and Will, and Emma and Alice with a Lakota town cop, along with Mr. Byrne and the Lutheran preacher, to the city cemetery.

  Mamie, Grant, and all the ball-playing boys except Frank joined Grumpy, Henry Olson, Lawrence Messner, Askil Snort-land, and Ole Bjelland. It seemed like half the town showed up, too, walking behind the hearse and the escorted family.

  “I didn’t think this many people would show their respects to Big Joe,” whispered Sammy to Grant and Orland.

  “I think it’s respect for Mrs. Thorson, and maybe even for Little Joe,” Orland said. “Otherwise, it beats me.”

  The funeral was short. Mrs. Thorson’s gray dress shimmered threadbare in the sun. Everybody was sweating.

  Grumpy, Mr. Sims, Mr. Cleaver, Mr. Martin, Mr. Johnson from the livery, and Big Joe’s boss Harry Lithgow, the blacksmith, lowered the casket into the ground.

  “Dust to dust, ashes to ashes.”

  Little Joe picked up a shovel and dropped the first shovelful of dirt onto the top of the casket. It clunked and bounced around down in the hole. Then the men all took up shovels and filled in the hole. Slider helped.

  While they shoveled, Little Joe stood by his mom and sisters, staring into the hole and at the growing mound of dirt. Deputy Will and the cop from Lakota stood close behind them, uncomfortable guards.

  When it was done, Little Joe asked Will if he could talk to Grant, and Will said yes, but it was illegal to talk about the murder case. They’d be in contempt of court if they did that.

  So Little Joe and Grant stepped off in the ditch by the cemetery.

  “Never smack me up again, I guess,” Little Joe said. “I’m glad of that, but Grant, I can hardly believe how sad I am, too. Now there’s no chance for him to change and be nice like I was always hoping.” He took a swipe at one eye with the back of his hand. “Like how he was every now and then when he worked all the time for the railroad. But now he can’t ever change. Can’t ever be nice to us. That’s the worst part.”

  Will said, “Sorry, boys, but I gotta get Little Joe back to Lakota.”

  They nodded. Grant shook Little Joe’s hand. “See you Tuesday, in court.”

  “You’re comin’? Mamie will let you?”

  “You bet I’m comin’. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Forty-One

  On Trial before a Jury of Her Peers

  Trying to pick a jury on Monday, the judge had gotten to the point that he ran out of people from town who weren’t involved somehow, so most of the jury members picked were farmers from out of town whose names Grant didn’t know, except for Orland’s mom. She had never met Big Joe, she said. Mrs. Bjelland was the Lutheran church organist, and she believed in following every rule ever written because God himself established what was right and wrong.

  Grant didn’t know if Mrs. Bjelland’s attitude about right and wrong was good or bad for Little Joe and for Mrs. Thorson. It was certainly wrong to kill. But it was also wrong to beat up your family. And he knew Orland’s mom thought it was wicked to drink alcohol and disapproved whole-heartedly of her husband’s nightly beer at Grumpy’s. So there was no telling how that all evened out for her being on the jury.

  It took five days to find enough jurors. At supper Friday night after the jury was picked, Grant asked, “What if the jury decides Little Joe is guilty? That he did it? Will he go to prison or get executed if he and his mom are guilty?”

  Slider leaned back in his chair. “Grant, I told you. Little Joe isn’t on trial. You can’t try a child for a crime like this. Mary Thorson’s on trial. But it’s circumstantial evidence. That means it’s not a sure thing.”

  “But Little Joe’s not really a child.”

  “He’s thirteen. That’s a child in the eyes of the court. If need be, the judge might send him to a juvenile hall. But he’s not on trial for murder. Only Mary is on trial.”

  Grant sighed. “But if Mrs. Thorson is innocent, they have to put somebody else on trial then, don’t they? Or what if she is guilty and she goes to prison, what will happen to Little Joe and Emma and Alice?”

  “We’ll cross those bridges when we come to them, son.”

  “Can I go to the trial?” Shirley asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Mamie said. “A murder trial is no place for a young lady.”

  “I don’t want to be a young lady.”

  “No arguments,” Mamie said. She put her hands in her lap. “It’s a sham, you know.”

  “What’s a sham?” Slider asked.

  “What’s a sham mean?” asked Harley.

  They ignored Harley.

  “A jury of your peers. A jury of Mary Thorson’s peers would be twelve Indian women married to
big, dumb, white drunks who beat them up.”

  Slider burst out laughing. He picked up his hat and kissed Mamie on the cheek before he left, still chuckling, for the evening.

  Shirley kicked Grant softly under the table and whispered, “She can say dumb but I can’t?”

  Grant sat stunned. He couldn’t remember when he’d seen his dad kiss his mom. And he didn’t think what she said was so funny. It was just downright true.

  Forty-Two

  “Order in the Court!”

  In the courthouse, dressed in his Sunday best, Grant rubbed his palms on his thighs. The sweat wouldn’t stop, and his petrified wood stomach hadn’t unclenched for days.

  Orland’s mom sat in the jury box, wearing her Sunday organ-playing dress. She glanced at Grant, and looked away.

  District Judge Chesterman opened the morning with a little speech. “We are not here to play God. We are here to find the just solution to a bad situation.”

  He talked some more, and then he addressed the jury. “Mary Thorson is on trial for murder in the first degree. That means this woman is innocent until proven guilty. To find her guilty, you must find beyond a reasonable doubt that she indeed killed her husband, and that she acted with malice aforethought—that is, you must have no reasonable doubt that Mary Thorson was responsible and acted with deliberate and premeditated malice with an intent to kill, motivated by ill will. If you are to find her guilty, you must do so beyond the shadow of reasonable doubt.”

  * * *

  Deputy Will sat on the witness stand, his hat clamped in his hands. Drops of sweat gathered on Will’s clean-shaven upper lip until Will swiped them away with the back of his hand. Every time he moved his hand on the hat brim, his fingers left a damp impression.

  Four neighbors had already testified, as had five of the boys playing ball with Grant that morning they found the body, including Orland, Tom, and Sammy.

  Prosecuting attorney Jay Milford leaned toward Will. “And tell me again,” the lawyer said, “how it is you came to think of pulling up the linoleum in the kitchen. What would possess you to pull up a new kitchen floor?”

  Will twisted his hat in his hands. He glanced at Slider and Grant, sitting side-by-side in the bench two rows from the front.

  Will said, “Well, Grant come runnin’ to get me.”

  “Excuse me,” Mr. Milford said. “Grant? Can you clarify please?”

  Grant felt his ears go pink. And hot.

  Will nodded in his direction. “Grant O’Grady. Sheriff Slider O’Grady’s son, there.”

  The lawyer and every other head in the courtroom turned to look at Grant. He felt like slinking down in the seat, but he didn’t. He forced himself to stay sitting up straight, like his dad.

  His ears burning, Grant stared at the highly polished wood judge’s bench. Judge Chesterman leaned forward slightly, resting on his elbows on the desk before him, his thinning hair in perfect order, and his eyes intelligent, sharp and attentive, flitting directly to Grant and then back to Will in the witness stand.

  “So Grant come runnin’ to get me,” Will said. “Said his dad—Sheriff O’Grady, that is—told him to come get me because they needed to investigate the stink in the Thorson house and he wanted another officer present.”

  “And? When you got there? What did you find?”

  “I give Grant a ride in my car, to the Thorson house. Slider was standin’ outside, waitin’ for us. The stench was so bad you could hardly breathe. And that was outside. We put bandanas over our noses so we could breathe. When we went inside, it was bad enough to make you vomit.” He glanced at the judge. “Sorry, your honor. But it was.”

  Judge Chesterman waved the comment away.

  Will continued, “That’s how we knew it was comin’ from inside, ’cause it was so much worse inside, and so by that time we knew we were prob’ly lookin’ for a body—”

  “A body?” Mr. Milford said. “You knew you were looking for a body? What made you assume you were looking for a body?”

  “Nothin’ like it. Ain’t nothin’ that smells like somethin’ dead, and a human dead body is the worst of all.”

  “Have you smelled many dead human bodies, Mr. Duff?” Mr. Milford asked.

  Will narrowed his eyes at Mr. Milford. “Excuse me?” Will said. “I beg your pardon, sir, but you ever smell a dead body?”

  “That’s irrelevant. Answer the question.”

  Will leaned back in the witness chair and stared at the lawyer. “Sir, I was in the battle of the Argonne Forest, and I seen so many dead men, you can’t even imagine. More dead men than you’d ever want to see. The answer is yes. Enough to know the smell sure as shootin’.”

  “So, go on, tell us how it is you came to pull up the kitchen floor looking for dead Joe Thorson.”

  “We didn’t know it was Joe. First, we just knew we were lookin’ for whatever stunk, after the kids playin’ ball and the neighbors were complainin’ and whatnot. That’s why Slider started lookin’ in the first place. And we could tell it must be somethin’ dead, and it was worse in the house. And when we got in the house, I knew it was dead human. I didn’t say that out loud at the time ’cause of the boy, but I knew.”

  “Go on.”

  “So it was worst in the kitchen,” Will said.

  “So why,” Mr. Milford said, “why on earth would you think of pulling up the linoleum?”

  “’Cause we wanted to check the cellar, and young Grant there,” and Will nodded in Grant’s direction, “Grant O’Grady, that is, went to show us where the cellar door was, and there was new linoleum covering it up. Grant said he’d been in the kitchen with Little Joe and Mrs. Thorson, and that the new linoleum hadn’t been there then.”

  “So . . . whose idea was it to pull up the linoleum?”

  “Slider—er, Sheriff O’Grady’s, sir. In fact, he’d decided that’s what we better do before Grant even came to get me, but he didn’t want to do it without another officer present.”

  Mr. Milford asked Will to describe for the court exactly what he saw when they pulled up the cellar floor. At that point, Judge Chesterman tapped his gavel and said that any women or children present who were faint of heart might want to excuse themselves for the description. Nobody moved.

  “Well, first we had to pull the nails and then we pried up the linoleum, and that’s when we saw the cellar door. Right where Grant said it would be.”

  “Go on.”

  “And the stink was way worse than ever, so we made sure we had those bandanas over our noses and pulled it up.”

  The courtroom was silent. The judge didn’t look like he was even breathing. The women, who had been fanning themselves with cardboard pictures of Jesus stapled to flat sticks, provided by Byrne’s Funeral Home, held their fans still. Not a hair moved.

  “And there was Big Joe, at the bottom of the stairs, crumpled up in a pile like he’d been dumped there, and already starting to turn—”

  The judge rapped his gavel. “No need for description at this juncture.”

  Will nodded. “Sorry, your honor.”

  Both lawyers asked Will some more questions before he was excused. The fans picked up their rhythm again, like the faint whir of a swarm of insects.

  The bailiff called, “Sheriff Alfred O’Grady.”

  Slider lightly touched Grant’s knee, and then he rose to his full six-foot-four inches in his neatly pressed sheriff’s uniform, straightened his back, and walked to the witness stand.

  His hand on the Bible, Slider answered that he would indeed, “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” so help him God.

  Grant swallowed hard, but Slider didn’t look nervous.

  Both lawyers asked him questions about why he was suspicious, but everything he said lined up with what Will said.

  Grant was called to the stand. He felt sweat run down his ribcage and lodge inside his belt.

  After swearing in, he sat on the hard wooden chair. He looked at Little Joe and Mary Thorson. Little
Joe nodded at him, ever so slightly.

  The lawyers asked him questions about finding the body, and he answered them easily.

  Then Mr. Milford said, “Okay, young Grant O’Grady. You’re friends with Joe Thorson, Junior, are you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you good friends? I mean, would you consider Joe Thorson a close personal friend?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s my catcher.”

  “Your catcher?”

  “I’m a baseball pitcher, sir. Joe is my catcher.”

  “So that means that yes, you are good friends?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, then, good friends tend to talk to each other, am I correct?

  Grant nodded.

  “Speak up, son. The court can’t hear you nod.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you tell the court if you ever, ever, to your recollection, heard young Joe Thorson threaten to kill his father, or say he wished he were dead?”

  Grant looked at his knees. He knew this was coming, but his stomach still did flip-flops. He looked up at his dad. His dad didn’t look perturbed, just gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He looked at Little Joe. Little Joe held his gaze, as if he trusted Grant completely.

  Grant swallowed. Hard. “Yes, sir. I did hear him say that.”

  Mr. Milford raised an eyebrow. “Go on.”

  “Once the day Big Joe chucked a hammer at me and hit me in the elbow. That day, he said it.”

  “Big Joe Thorson threw a hammer at you?”

  So Grant had to tell the story, and the lawyer made him keep backing up to explain about the Christmas lights, and being on the church roof, and his elbow and the hospital.

  “So, Little Joe said he wished his dad was dead, huh?”

  “Yes, sir, he did, but he said that he hated him for beating the heck out of him and his mom.”

  “Any other occasions?”

  “Well, yeah, but, I heard a lot of people say they could kill Big Joe. Not just Little Joe.”

  The lawyer held Grant’s gaze for a long time. “We’ll get to that.”

  So Grant told how Little Joe had said he’d kill his dad if he knew he could get away with it after Big Joe started up the water tower ladder and said he was going to kill the lot of them. And how he’d run away in May because he was afraid he’d kill his dad if he stayed.