The scene in front of the courthouse the next day was even more outlandish than before. Word of the change-of-venue petition had sparked even more interest. Of maybe Margaret just hadn’t noticed the jugglers yesterday. There they were today, two men in clown costumes throwing bowling pins back and forth between them. There was no reason, no sign, no indication of their purpose. Margaret had heard that a carnival was appearing in Russell, and maybe the jugglers were from the show. They did give the trial a more festive atmosphere than yesterday. The Civic Improvement Association was clearly not amused, and the ladies of the club marched right past the entertainment with total disdain printed on their faces.
In addition, the crowd outside was perhaps twice as large as yesterday, with many people Margaret didn’t recognize. Buggies were lined up on both sides of Main Street, and the occasional Model A Ford with a popping engine scared the horses and caused much anxiety. Clearly, all these people couldn’t fit into the courtroom.
Judge Crier took less than one minute to dispose of the change-of-venue petition, ruling that the defendants could indeed get a fair trial in Nickerly County and that trial would start just as soon as the jury was sworn in, possibly even today. And that was that. The jury questioning was slightly limited because every prospective juror was a neighbor, they all knew both the victim and the defendants, and they all had children at one time or another in the school system, except for Indian Smith, who never had children and had never been inside a schoolhouse. Judge Crier accepted the first twelve jurors presented, all men, and swore them in by mid-afternoon.
As the last juror was sworn in, and before the judge could turn to the business of adjournment, the lawyer for Hank Simpson stood in the front row and said in a near shout, “Your Honor, my client wants to change his plea.”
Pandemonium broke out, even though most of the people in the court weren’t sure just who the lawyer’s client was. But the judge knew. He also knew that the county attorney had spent several days in intense interviews with Mr. Simpson, trying to get him to turn against the others. Perhaps the interrogations had worked.
“Your Honor,” the lawyer said in a calmer voice, “my client, Mr. Hank Simpson, of this city wants to change his plea to guilty.”
Mr. Engle leapt to his feet. “Your Honor, what kind of tomfoolery is this? We have not been notified of any change.”
Judge Crier ruled Engle down, turned to Hank Simpson’s representative, and accepted the guilty plea. The judge pushed his wire glasses up the bridge of his nose, looked squarely at the row of defendants, then addressed the room, “Although I have accepted the guilty plea, sentencing will be withheld until after the pending trial. Court is adjourned.”
Again Temple Dandridge was the first person at Mr. Engle’s side as the courtroom rose in exclamation. “What’s this mean?” Temp asked, knowing full well that it meant Hank Simpson was going to be a witness for the prosecution.
“I don’t know,” Engle snapped. “We’ll see tomorrow.”
Once again the crowd was elbowing its way out of the courthouse, eager to spread the news of another surprise. Temp joined the bulge through the door, edged his way to the side of the group, and darted into W.W. McArdle’s office. McArdle was standing behind his desk, waiting.
“Can I interview Simpson?” Temp asked, still breathing hard.
“Not right now,” McArdle said. “Come back tonight about six o’clock.”
“That’s too late,” Temp said. He recognized that the county attorney didn’t want everyone to know about his close relationship with the press, but he also wanted this story. “How about four thirty, after everyone’s gone? I have to dictate a story before six p.m.”
W.W. paused, wanting to say no, but he also wanted this story badly. He knew it would scare the pants off the defendants as well as show the prosecutor’s initial success in getting two guilty pleas. “Okay,” he said meekly.
Temp left the room without even saying goodbye and hurried down the front steps of the courthouse. He needed to collect his thoughts and make a list of questions. He wondered fleetingly if Margaret understood what a big break this was.
W.W. McArdle was as good as his word, bringing a squirming and agitated Hank Simpson to his office about five o’clock under the watchful gaze of the deputy sheriff. Temp decided he really didn’t need much from Mr. Simpson, just a confirmation that he was going to testify against his friends and a basic retelling of the tar party night, both of which Hank was willing and eager to provide.
Temp Dandridge thanked everyone and hurried back to the hotel, excited about his story for the morning paper, but more interested in what Margaret Chambers might say in her own defense. Temp was a talented reporter, the kind who thought ahead, sorting through the facts of a story and making some educated guesses about where it was going. Reporters called it “following the string.” Temp figured this trial was going to hinge on whether the defense could establish any black marks on Margaret Chambers’s character.
Temp had written a half-dozen stories about Margaret and hadn’t detected any moral fallibilities yet, but he hadn’t asked her directly. His gentle questioning was designed more to build a relationship than to elicit dramatic new information. Not only that, he found himself seeking her company because in spite of her problems, she seemed so alive, and relatively fearless for someone under attack. He remembered a conversation he once had with Tiny Tucker about Margaret, and Tiny remarked, “She’s so bold.” Temp liked Margaret’s boldness, but he realized that Tiny viewed the quality differently. Margaret’s strength made her stand out from her surroundings, like a pink building in the middle of a block.
After dictating his story by telephone to the Star, Temp decided to take an evening stroll, perhaps out past the Chambers place. Early November puts Kansas on the cusp of changing seasons. The air is cold at night but rises to the sixties in the daytime, burning off the dew and lending a crystal vibrancy to the air, which seems to almost sparkle like a freshly washed glass. The fields were plowed and black, still free of the winter weeds that would have to be disked again in the spring. And it was dark, especially where the rich loam soil met the line of the sky. Walking toward the distance made it seem endless, but Temp knew he would reach the Chambers place well before the night chill penetrated his jacket. He could see their house already, or at least a light where the window should be.
Temp hadn’t been out for a long walk after dark in Nickerly before, and it gave him a sense of stillness that was different from the day, as if one set of life had gone to bed and another got up. It was like the day shift of his newspaper going home just as the night shift came on duty, or like a factory gate where smudge-faced steelworkers filter in and out. Temp wondered if the raccoons felt that way, emerging in the night to rummage among the refuse of somebody else’s day in the fields, or the seagulls that searched the clods turned up by the plowshares during the day. These were just idle rambling thoughts, of course, but they made him realize the urban nature of his perspective. Could he, a city boy, really understand this town? He allowed himself a brief moment of hesitation—was he seeing Margaret Chambers with the wrong eyes? But he was not a man given to self-doubt, and having ruminated, he walked on.
Temp found Margaret and Ileen sitting on their porch swing, wearing bulky sweaters over their dresses, letting the freshness of the evening cleanse away the day’s events. If not for their rhythmic movement, and a slight squeak in the swing, he might have been startled by their sudden presence. But he saw them in time and called out, “Margaret, it’s me, Temp, just out for a walk. Can I come in?”
“Oh, Ileen, it’s Temp,” she answered. “Come in.” Margaret’s hand was lying near Ileen’s in the fold of her dress, and as she welcomed Temp she also moved her fingers just enough to press against Ileen’s, silently telling her sister to stay.
Temp walked to the porch and sat down on the top step. “Good evening, Ileen,” he said. “How is your sister holding up?”
“I’m just fine,
thank you,” Margaret said, picking the conversation out of the air as it travelled past. “Ileen and I were just enjoying the evening, wondering why bad things happen to good people in such a peaceful place.”
“I thought you wanted the hubbub of the city, to travel the world,” Temp teased.
“I do,” Margaret responded. “But I’ll always want to come back to Kansas. Even with all these terrible things that have happened, I’ll always want to see Ileen, to catch the fireflies, and to feel the freedom of the long sky.”
“Well, Margaret,” Ileen said, “if you’re going to get poetic, I’m going in the house.”
“Would you tell Mom and Dad that Temp is here?” Margaret asked.
Temp moved up to the porch swing and sat beside Margaret. His leg touched hers as the swing gave a sudden move backward under his weight. She did not move. He realized they had never been this close before, or this alone before, and he had a strong urge to take her hand, but he didn’t. He had to keep his senses, and he wanted to talk about the trial.
“Were you surprised by Hank Simpson today?” Temp asked.
“No,” she said. “He’s a weak person. I’m glad he pled guilty because it will make the trial go faster.”
“Tomorrow, you will have to testify,” Temp ventured. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she said. “I want to tell my side.” Margaret looked down at the narrow interlocking slats of the porch floor, worn from years of stomping and footsteps by friends and neighbors. She remembered playing with her sister on the steps, talking to their dolls and pretending to be adults. She remembered watching her grandmother sit on the porch swing, dying of some terrible internal disease, and withering away with each passing day. She marveled at Grandma’s determination to stay involved, to always ask the children about their day in school, and to ask Margaret what she thought of things—like the cost of linen, or how windmills worked, or why houses should face the south.
Temp said nothing, letting Margaret’s contemplation play out, knowing from many interview experiences that these kinds of reflective moments might lead to other, more revealing flashes. Good reporters needed the patience to wait.
“Temp,” Margaret began, turning her head in the swing to look him squarely in the eye, “will you not repeat something if I tell you?”
“Yes,” he said cautiously.
“I mean really not tell,” she said.
“I promise,” Temp said, knowing the many ways of getting around promises without actually reneging on his words.
“I have to stand up to these men,” she began. “I can’t live my life in silence. I can’t live a lifetime of knowing that people are talking about me; that they think I’m the kind of teacher who would seduce a student. These boys don’t know what that means. Maybe Tiny Tucker and Mrs. Wilson know how gossip hurts, but I doubt it.”
Once more there was silence.
Temp Dandridge had come to believe in Margaret Chambers, that she was a headstrong young woman, unafraid to break the fashion but sincere and sensitive as well.
“One other thing, Temp,” she said looking out into the dark. “I’ve never admitted this before. But I know my mother and father have lived under a cloud of gossip for years and years, since before I was born, and it has changed them, driven them into a life of artificial walls. Their fear of what people will say has defined how they live, their friends, their church, their attitude toward others. I couldn’t stand it if that happened to me.”
Temp wanted desperately to ask what had happened to Margaret’s parents but decided to wait and see if she would tell the story. He also figured that if he could keep this little secret, she would tell the rest later.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I think you’ll do just fine tomorrow.”
“I will,” she said. “And I’m not wearing that pretty little bonnet and light dress either. From now on I’m wearing my best suit with a felt hat. It’s winter, for heaven’s sake. And I’m also wearing a black boa that hangs around my neck and down the full length of my coat. When I walk past those old ladies, I might even twirl it.”
“I would recommend against that,” Temp said.
“I won’t, silly,” Margaret laughed.
“It’s getting late,” Temp said reluctantly. “I better get back to the hotel.”
The next day’s Kansas City Star led with Temp’s story, upper right-hand corner with a large typeface. The headline read, “Tar Party Member Pleads Guilty.”
The text read:
NICKERLY, KANSAS, Nov. 5, 1911—What the attorneys for the state regard as a major victory in the Nickerly County “tar party” case came this morning when Hank Simpson, the town baker, entered a surprise plea of guilty. Sentencing was suspended until after the trial of thirteen others accused of carrying out the “tar party” affair.
Chapter Sixteen
County Attorney W.W. McArdle was resplendent in a black pinstriped suit with lines that seemed to run from the top of his head to his toes, where the crease of his trousers hit squarely in the middle of the tongue of his highly polished shoes. And even when he walked, the pants hung steady, like a compass that never changes course. He stood directly in front of the jury and came right to the point.
“It becomes the duty of the prosecution at this time to impress you with a clear statement of the facts in this case, together with the evidence upon which the State of Kansas hopes you will find these thirteen defendants guilty of the crimes as outlined.
“The state will show, first, that a plot, scheme, and plan was entered into by the defendants in this case for the purpose of assaulting one Margaret Chambers.
“Second, that it was carried into effect. On the afternoon of the seventh of August, last, one Edward Tucker, now deceased, drove up to the Garvey Mill with a load of corn to sell to Edward Garvey, the miller at that place.
“When he arrived at the mill he sold the corn to Edward Garvey and engaged in conversation with several other men, including six of the defendants. One of them said to Edward Tucker, known as Easy, ‘Have you heard about Margaret Chambers,’ mentioning gossip which had been set on foot in the town concerning her. Finally they said to another of the men at the mill, John Buckhorn, ‘Won’t you take Margaret down to the river tonight, where we can take her out and singe her?’ Buckhorn answered, ‘No, fellows, Margaret never did me any harm.’
“Jay Langston, also at the mill, then went to put up his horses in the livery stable and returned the same afternoon to Nickerly. In Nickerly, he came across his friend Herbert Forchet, sitting in front of the barbershop where he worked.
“‘Gee, I wish I had a date tonight,’ Forchet said.
“‘I know where you can get a date and have some fun,’ Langston replied. And he told Forchet how the men at Garvey’s Mill were waiting to waylay Miss Chambers that night but could not find anyone to take her out.
“‘Well, I’m game,’ Forchet said. ‘I’ll take her out,’ and he made an engagement over the telephone with the girl to take her to a fictitious dance at a barn above Nickerly.”
McArdle’s voice was rising in strength and tone. “The evidence will show,” he said, “how Forchet went in his buggy that night and drove Miss Chambers out to the appointed ambush. But to return to the conspirators: Jay Langston had ridden back to Garvey’s Mill on his bicycle. He saw Ed Garvey and said, ‘Herbie Forchet is going to take your girl out for you.’
“‘That’s good,’ Garvey said. ‘Better go and tell Piney Woods and Easy Tucker.’
“In the meantime, some of the young fellows of Nickerly, the ‘dirty dozen’ of the town, had got wind of the plan and decided they wanted to see some of the fun, too. They all gathered at Garvey’s Mill early that evening and completed their plans for the crime.
“The evidence will show that although only two men put the tar on Miss Chambers’ naked body, all thirteen defendants were conspirators in the crime.
“The evidence will show that Miss Chambers was frightened when she saw the motorc
ycles at the top of the hill where she was waylaid. She was frightened and asked Forchet what that was, and that Forchet declared he did not see anything.
“We will show that one man, Herbert Forchet, has already pled guilty; that it was the defendants who originally paid his bond; and that these same defendants conspired, participated, or tried to participate in the assault on Margaret Chambers. They are all guilty. And furthermore, Mr. Hank Simpson will corroborate their guilt.
“Finally, Your Honor, we will show that the conspiracy to harm Margaret Chambers had its seeds in the community, fanned by the flames of gossip and jealousy, justified by a righteousness that was totally misplaced. No greater sign of this conspiracy could exist than Esther Ennis’ pillow, a bag of feathers contributed at the last minute by a widow who readily joined her Nickerly sisters in community malice.”
McArdle’s sparse and sharpened words had left their mark. The courtroom audience had never heard the word “naked” uttered by a public official, and couldn’t imagine their friends and neighbors standing in the middle of a road watching, indeed leering, as a girl’s clothes were torn off. McArdle turned to move behind his table when he caught the eye of Margaret Chambers’ mother, one of only two women in the entire courtroom. She was burning with anger. It was an anger of many years.
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