Pride v. Prejudice

by Joan Hess

Caron sat down on a stool next to the marble-topped kitchen island and studied me with what might have been genuine concern. “What’s wrong with you?”

  I told her about Wessell and the voir dire. She did her best not to snicker, but her efforts were less than successful. I was not yet ready to see the humor in my public embarrassment. I banged open the freezer door and said, “Pizza, microwave entrees, odd things in a freezer bag that may be hot dogs from your last pool party.”

  “Can I have a party this weekend, like Sunday? Everybody’s going to the lake Monday because of Labor Day. We’re going to have a humongous picnic for all the cool seniors. Joel’s uncle is going to be there with his party barge, and Kyle’s got a ski boat.”

  “As long as you clean up your room, do laundry, and replace my clothes in my closet.”

  Caron’s lower lip shot out in a classic pout. She’d begun working on it in utero and perfected it before she could toddle. By first grade, she was well on the road to high crimes and misdemeanors with her accomplice, Inez Thornton. I’d bailed them out and bawled them out to no avail. Now all I could hope was that they would leave for college free of manacles. Twelve months to go, I reminded myself as I retreated to the terrace.

  I must have dozed off because I almost fell off the chaise longue when Caron shook my shoulder and said, “Mother, you need to see this! It’s on TV! Hurry!”

  I followed her into the living room and stood in front of the TV. The local news was on, and the weather girl was gushing about an expected thunderstorm with the possibility of lightning and thunder. As opposed to what, I did not know. “You want me to watch this?” I asked Caron.

  “Wait for it,” she replied grimly.

  Waiting required us to watch several commercials urging us to buy cars, join the newest health club in Farberville, and take advantage of an amazing sale on mattresses. Finally the two newscasters, Tweedledumb and Tweedledumber, appeared on the screen, their noses powdered and their smiles radiant. The distaff member of the team sobered as she gazed into the camera and said, “Today jury selection began in the trial of Sarah Swift, accused of killing her husband in a domestic confrontation. Let’s go live to our courthouse correspondent, Thomas Pomfreet. What’s happening, Thomas?”

  Thomas seemed startled as his boyish visage filled the screen. He regained his composure and said, “It’s been quite a day here at the Stump County courthouse. Prosecutor Wessell and defense attorney Toffle took their time questioning potential jury members. By five o’clock, the jury was finally impaneled. Judge Priestly declared that the trial will not begin until Tuesday because of the three-day holiday weekend.” He gave the camera a quirky little smile. “The highlight of the day came when Prosecutor Wessell accused a potential juror of perjury for misrepresenting her legal name. It seems that Farberville’s own Miss Marple failed to change her name after marrying a prominent member of the police department. She and Prosecutor Wessell bandied words over her involvement in a large number of local homicides. The woman was excused and left the courtroom in tears.”

  I dropped onto the sofa. “That’s ridiculous! I was too furious to bother with tears. I was trying to think where to buy a weasel trap or a small bazooka.”

  “He accused you of murder?” Caron said in a squeaky voice. “Never mind about the party. Is it too late to send me to boarding school?”

  I decided not to mention that Wessell had as good as accused me of murdering her father. “Get online and find out, dear. I hear there’s a charming one in Greenland.”

  “This is Not Funny!” She stormed upstairs. I doubted she would reappear with a laundry basket anytime soon.

  Once Thomas had faded from the screen, his colleagues moved on to a bungled robbery at a convenience store. I was marginally grateful that they had not decided to produce inane banter about my humiliation. There had been no spectators in the courtroom, which meant someone had briefed the news station. I had a pretty good idea who it might have been. I went into the kitchen and was splashing water on my face when the phone rang. I had no inclination to answer it, so I let the answering machine handle it. As soon as I heard the first word, I recognized the voice of my ESL student, a Russian woman named Yelena. She assured me that she was most furious at the TV report and quite sure I hadn’t killed anybody lately. The next call came from a loyal customer, commiserating. As did the next. A professor from the drama department called to dismiss the report as sheer poppycock. It seemed every last person in Farberville had been watching the local news and was currently discussing my innocence or lack thereof.

  It was clearly time to return to the terrace. Hawks circled in the sky, ever vigilant for something tasty for dinner. Grasshoppers whirred in the meadow, and butterflies landed on the lush flowers in the beds surrounding the pool. A mockingbird in the orchard ran through its repertoire. Inside the house, the telephone continued ringing with what I suspected were more condolence calls. The only sympathy I wanted was from my handsome husband, who would gaze at me with his molasses-colored eyes and promise to have Wessell’s car impounded.

  An hour later I was still brooding when said husband came out to the terrace with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He fussed over me for a lovely moment, then sat down and poured the wine.

  “Did you see the local news?” I asked.

  “I heard about it.”

  “What is wrong with that dreadful man? You’d think I vandalized his house and stole his law diploma. I can’t remember ever having met him, much less offended him.” I blinked to hold back tears. “If I did, I hope I drew blood.”

  Peter leaned forward to kiss me. “I’m the cause of his animosity. He aspires to be a judge and came by the PD to ask for support. The captain locked himself in his office. I told Wessell that I was obligated to take a nonpartisan position but would not have supported him in any case. The guy’s a jerk. He has a reputation for going after women and minorities, prosecuting on minimal evidence and demanding harsh sentences. He charged a battered woman with attempted murder after she threw a skillet at her abusive husband. He’s sent a large number of black teenagers to prison for possession of pot or alcohol. Rich people are charged with misdemeanors, if charged at all, while the poor are slapped with felonies for the same offense.”

  “You could have warned me,” I said sulkily.

  “I didn’t realize he’s so damn vindictive.” Peter held up his hand. “No, I am not going to have him arrested for a parking violation. When jurisdiction is fuzzy, we have to work with the sheriff’s department and Wessell.”

  “What about jaywalking?”

  “No, and I don’t want you locked up for assault—or stealing his battery. You’re going to have to get over it.”

  “Over his squished body.” I leaned back and took a sip of wine. An idea had come to mind while Peter was talking. A very fine idea. Wessell had humiliated me. Now it was time for me to humiliate him. Peter was gazing at me with a squinty, suspicious look, so I smiled and said, “You’re right, dear. I need to get over it. Shall I stick a pizza in the oven?”

  2

  As soon as Peter left for his office the next morning, I took a cup of coffee into the library and settled down in front of the computer to do more research about Sarah Swift’s case. Her lawyer, Evan Toffle, had been appointed by the presiding judge minutes before the arraignment. She pled not guilty. Prosecutor Wessell requested that she be remanded because of the heinous nature of her crime. Toffle pointed out that his client owned a farm with livestock that required daily attention. The judge set bail at five thousand dollars and warned her not to leave the jurisdiction. She made bail that day.

  I wrote down her address and located it on an online map. I went into my bedroom to dress for the occasion. After a few minutes of indecision, I put on slacks and a T-shirt. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, and then replaced the T-shirt with a sensible blouse. I took off the slacks and put on a skirt. I reminded myself I wasn’t an attorney and switched back to slacks and the T-shirt. I then took of
f the slacks, put on shorts, and grabbed my purse.

  County 107 was lined by pastures, shabby houses, and carcasses of rusted trucks and tractors. I watched for numbers on mailboxes and eventually turned onto an unpaved road, and soon after into her driveway. The house was large, but hardly a showpiece. It might have been impressive fifty years ago, but decades had weathered the white wood siding and peeled shingles off the roof. One of the upstairs windowpanes was patched with silver tape. Efforts had been made, though. The porch had wicker furniture with cheerful print cushions and hanging baskets with bright petunias. The downstairs windows were covered with white sheers that wafted in the faint breeze.

  Beyond the house was the reddish-gray barn where John Cunningham had bled to death. Next to it was what I cleverly deduced was a chicken coop, in that the dozen or so chickens seemed to be cooped up inside it. A white pickup truck was parked beneath a large tree. Behind the barn was a field of bushes in neat rows. I was unfamiliar with the fine art of blueberry horticulture, but the bushes appeared to be healthy.

  I went up the steps to the front door. A note taped on the glass panel warned me that I was trespassing and should leave the premises immediately. Hoping the note was intended for the media, I knocked and then stepped back, doing my best not to look like a Casual Friday version of Tweedledumber. After a minute, I knocked again. On the cop shows, people are always home and ready to greet detectives at the door. Sarah must have been a PBS viewer.

  I went back down the steps and around the corner of the house. A goat looked up without interest. The chickens failed to squawk. I walked through ankle-high grass to the back of the house, hoping Sarah might be hanging laundry or picking okra or whatever storybook farmwives did when they weren’t disfiguring mice. A scattering of plants in the vegetable garden had survived the summer heat and were producing produce. There were four aluminum chairs situated around a small redwood table. Dried leaves and twigs on the chair seats and a toppled barbecue grill indicated Sarah had not been hosting garden parties over the summer.

  I’d turned to leave when the back door opened and Sarah came out onto the small porch. “What do you want?” she demanded.

  Since she was holding a dish towel, as opposed to a shotgun, I smiled and said, “I’d like to talk to you, but if you tell me to leave, I will. You may not remember me.”

  “Juror number ten, right? That was quite a show yesterday. Whatever did you do to earn Wessell’s animosity?”

  “He and my husband had an unpleasant exchange.”

  “Your husband being the deputy chief of the Farberville Police Department.”

  Her expression suggested that she wasn’t fond of the profession, but I didn’t blame her. “Yes,” I said, “but your case is out of his jurisdiction. He’s actually a very nice person who helps little old ladies cross the street and never litters. He loathes Wessell.”

  “All admirable qualities,” she said, relaxing into a grin. “I don’t understand why you’re here, but you might as well tell me over coffee. Come on in.”

  The kitchen was large and sunny, although lacking in modern necessities such as a dishwasher or a microwave. The worn linoleum floor was clean. I sat down at a round table while she took a cup out of a cabinet and filled it with coffee from a pot on the stove. I fiddled with milk and sugar while I tried to decide how to begin. Asking her if she was guilty seemed overly blunt, but the idea of making small talk was ludicrous. “Awkward” was too mild to describe the situation. “How are you doing?” I finally asked, hoping I didn’t sound like a social worker.

  “Well, I’ve been accused of murdering my husband, which is kind of a bummer, and will face the jury in four days. I had to bring in the blueberry crop by myself. My friends are all too embarrassed to call or come by, so I’ve taken to talking to squirrels in the evening. I was waiting tables at a diner in town, but the manager fired me after the arraignment. I had to sell the car, all but one goat, and most of the chickens. I’ve been living on our savings. In another month, I’m going to have to decide between electricity and gas for the truck. On a brighter note, I have enough blueberries in the freezer to keep me alive through the trial. If I’m found guilty, I won’t have to worry about delinquent utility bills.”

  “Oh,” I said cleverly.

  “And you want to know if I’m guilty.”

  I managed not to blurt out the obvious response, but I did nod. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I’d like to know, but I’m not going to ask you. I came to see if I could help you, whether or not you’re guilty. If you are, I can try to help your attorney present a decent defense. If you aren’t, I will do everything I can to vindicate you and humiliate that weasel.”

  Sarah gazed at me. “So it doesn’t matter if I aimed a shotgun at my husband and pulled the trigger? You’re that pissed at Wessell?”

  “Yes,” I answered with a grimace. “He has a long record of bullying women and minorities. Someone has to push him off his flimsy cardboard pedestal. I consider it my civic duty.”

  “I see,” she murmured. “Your civic duty. Wish I had the wherewithal to be concerned with such lofty principles. The problem is that I’m pushing sixty-four. My math skills are limited, but I figure I’ll be at least ninety before I come up for parole.” She managed a wry smile. “Will I still qualify for Social Security and Medicare?”

  I was beginning to feel profoundly arrogant. I’d fancied myself in a white hat, charging in to seek vengeance because I’d been insulted by Wessell’s petty attack. Sarah was facing prison. I glanced at the back door, contemplating a muddled apology and a hasty retreat. In three minutes I would be in my car, and in fifteen minutes I would pull into the parking lot next to the Book Depot in hopes the clerk might be pleased to see me (he wouldn’t, but that wasn’t the point). I would then do something useful, such as dusting the racks of paperbacks.

  “I’m not much of a caped crusader,” I said ruefully. “I’ve been known to meddle in police investigations when I’m convinced a suspect is innocent.” I did not ask the question that was palpable in the sudden stillness.

  “I didn’t do it,” Sarah said at last, “and, yes, I’d be grateful for any help you can give me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m real sure I don’t want to spend the next twenty-five years in an orange jumpsuit or whatever it is that inmates wear. Wessell is a son of a bitch. I’d love to watch you send him down in flames. I don’t know how you can do it, though. Evan seems to think the case against me is daunting. Then again, I imagine Evan lives in his parents’ basement and has yet to lose his virginity. He’s a sweet guy, the kind you’d let your daughter date. He’s been practicing law for less than two years, and I do mean practicing.”

  “You can’t afford a more experienced lawyer?”

  “Organic farming isn’t exactly lucrative, and neither is waitressing. We were barely getting by as it was. Tuck used to make a little money repairing furniture. I sold vegetables at the farmers’ market until the indictment came in and I was told I wasn’t welcome. Want to buy some carrots?”

  “I’d rather prove that you’re innocent,” I said. “Tell me what happened that night, but before you do, who’s Tuck?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “Sorry, that was what I called my so-called victim. An old nickname, going back to our college days. His name was John Cunningham.” Flustered, she picked up my coffee cup and took it to the counter to refill it. When she returned, her eyes were wary and her lips tight.

  “Okay, we can call him Tuck. You two were together in college? Where did you go?”

  “A liberal arts school on the West Coast. We met there and became close. We got married almost forty years ago, on a hillside. I wore a garland of daisies.” She pushed a few stray hairs back into her bun. “Forty years is a helluva long time.”

  The only thing I’d done for forty years was breathe, but that did not merit a comment. “How did you end up here?”

  “Tuck had a friend who’d inherited the property f
rom his grandfather. The friend preferred life in the big city, so he sold it to us for a pittance in the midseventies. It’s not what I’d dreamed of, but Tuck was gung ho to go back to the land and all that crap. He was a romantic, not a pragmatist. He had this great vision of how we could do without electricity and plumbing and raise all our own food. He even insisted that I make soap. When I threatened to walk out on him, he relented on the major issues. I should have left anyway, but I stuck it out for forty miserable years. I probably deserve to go to prison for the crime of stupidity. If it’s not a felony, it ought to be.”

  An unhappy marriage would not sit well with the jury, I thought with an inward wince. “There are plenty of people in prison for being stupid,” I said. “That’s why they got caught. A couple of months ago a guy held up a local bank, but he forgot where he left his getaway car. He was still wearing a ski mask when the police found him in a parking lot. But let’s talk about your case. I read articles in the newspaper. You were at your book club?”

  She nodded. “There were a dozen women in it, but only six of us that evening. I can’t remember what we were supposed to have read, some thick, depressing book about the woes of a war orphan in a refugee camp. Nobody wanted to talk about it, so we settled back with wine and cheese to complain, whine, and bitch about the men in our lives. I don’t know why we pretended to be a book club. We were a support group. I couldn’t have survived without my monthly catharsis.”

  “So you shared your discontent with these women?” I envisioned the jury’s beady-eyed disapproval as this came out in testimony.

  “I do remember I was really pissed off at Tuck that evening,” Sarah said. “I’d asked him to do something for me that day, but he blew it off. Instead, he left a long, detailed list of chores for me to do while he was gone, mostly things he should have done himself.”

  “Do you still have the list?”

  She made a vague gesture. “I think I put it in a drawer so I could stuff it down his throat when he got home. At his best, he was difficult to live with. He was self-righteous and condescending. If I screwed up, he’d lecture me in a patient but slightly frustrated voice, like I was a teenager who’d been caught cutting class. There were times that I had to restrain myself from stabbing him in the back with a kitchen knife.” She took a swallow of coffee. “Remember I said when he was at his best. At his worst, he would sulk for days, refusing to speak and totally ignoring me.”