The Trial of Dr. Kate

by Michael E. Glasscock III

  Deputy Masterson motioned for Shenandoah to follow him, and the two of them left the sheriff’s office, passed through the reception area, and crossed the hallway to enter the jail. The deputy unlocked a steel door, led Shenandoah to a second locked door, and opened it. Ushering her into a small room, he said, “Push that button on the wall when you’re ready to leave.”

  A metal table with four mismatched chairs sat in the middle of the room. One harsh overhead fluorescent light fixture gave the bare, dark green walls an orange cast.

  Settling into one of the chairs, Shenandoah tapped the top of the table with her thumb and tried to ignore the burning in the pit of her stomach. Will Kate remember me? Will she still be attractive?

  That last thought evaporated the moment the door opened and Dr. Katherine Marlow entered the stark room. Taller than Shenandoah remembered, Dr. Kate moved with the grace of a ballerina. Even though she wore a county-supplied dress of gray cotton and brown penny loafers, she seemed regal, as one might imagine a young Queen Bess. She wore no cosmetics, not even lipstick on her full and sensual lips. Short-cropped hair the color of corn silk framed her face like waves on a golden beach. Her eyes were a deep royal blue. Her hands were delicate with long fingers, and her nails were unpolished and trimmed short.

  Dr. Kate stared at Shenandoah as the reporter scrambled out of her chair. Then a smile caused her smooth cheeks to form the soft dimples Shenandoah remembered so well, and she said, “Shenandoah Coleman? I haven’t heard from you in ages.”

  “Wasn’t sure you’d remember what I look like.”

  “What’re you doing here? My God, I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.”

  “I came to cover the trial for the Memphis Express.”

  “I forgot you’re a reporter. I haven’t seen you since graduation, and I don’t think I’ve even had a Christmas card in three or four years. How are you?”

  “I’m more interested in how you are.”

  “Mad as hell that I’m in this lousy jail. I’m so frustrated I could scream.”

  They sat facing each other across the steel table. Kate’s hands were crossed and rested one on the other in front of her. Shenandoah thought for a moment that she detected a fine tremor in those slender hands.

  “Why aren’t you free on bail?”

  “I’m accused of a capital crime. The prosecutor and judge think I’m a risk. Which is ridiculous. I’m not going to skip town. I’m going to fight this thing and clear my name. I don’t run away from battles.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since the first of April.”

  “Can’t your attorney do anything?”

  “He’s tried. Jake’s a good country lawyer and a family friend, but I’m not sure he’s up to this.”

  “Why don’t you hire a hotshot out of Nashville?”

  “Are you kidding? I don’t have that kind of money.”

  “You’re a doctor. Surely you can afford a good attorney.”

  Kate shook her head. “I’m a country doctor in one of the poorest counties in the state. These people don’t have any money. I still get paid with eggs and hams, for God’s sake. If the tobacco crop’s good, maybe they’ll come up with some cash in the fall.”

  “I’ll lend you the money,” Shenandoah said.

  “Don’t be silly. You’re a reporter. You can’t have that much money. Besides, I couldn’t impose on you. This is my problem and I’ll deal with it.”

  “Who’s the prosecutor?”

  “Baxter Hargrove is the assistant attorney general. And he’s lower than a snake’s belly. The attorney general is in Carthage. I don’t know his name.”

  “Why do they think you were guilty of this murder?”

  “Mrs. Lillian Johnson died of an overdose of a barbiturate. The syringe they found belonged to me and had my fingerprints on it.”

  Shenandoah thought Kate’s normally pale, transparent skin looked ghostlike.

  “Seems awfully circumstantial. That all they’ve got?”

  Diverting her gaze, Kate said, “I can’t even remember being there. I woke up sometime that afternoon in my car on the side of the road. I was up north near Static. My nurse told me later that I’d made a house call to Lillie’s that morning.”

  “Were you sick—the flu or something?”

  “I have these spells now and then.”

  “Do you pass out often?”

  “Occasionally. I guess you know that your uncle Junior is in jail.”

  “Yes. Don’t change the subject. Were you and Lillie on good terms?”

  “We were always best friends, but she was upset with me.”

  “How’s that? You were her doctor.”

  “I’m the only—was the only doctor here.”

  “What was wrong with her? Can you talk about it?”

  “It’s common knowledge. She suffered from MS, and a few months ago she developed terminal colon cancer. She was very sick and in constant pain. It drove poor Army crazy.”

  Shenandoah had forgotten that Army and Lillian had married right after they had all graduated from high school. Both had been classmates of Dr. Kate’s. Shenandoah took Kate’s hand in hers and said, “I’d like to help, Kate.”

  Squeezing Shenandoah’s hand, Kate said, “I’d like to have someone on my side besides Jake and my sister.”

  Shenandoah asked, “How is Rebecca?”

  “She’s an attorney now in Knoxville. She’s going to help Jake with my defense.”

  “Remember when we met that first day of school?” Shenandoah asked.

  “Like it was yesterday. You and the other kids from Beulah Land looked so poor and unkempt that I couldn’t believe it. I think your dress was made from a Martha White flour sack. Your face was smudged with dirt and your fingernails ragged. I felt so sorry for you—but look at you now. My God, girl, you look like a New York fashion model.”

  Shenandoah laughed. “Jasper said I looked like a big-city whore. I remember how you looked that first day, Kate. You were a skinny waif of a girl with scrawny legs and healing scabs on your knees. But you were in a nice, freshly ironed dress and wore shoes, and we were all barefoot.”

  Kate smiled and said, “I remember the first recess when you and Jasper Kingman faced off. He was in the third grade and towered over you. I ran over there and heard him yell something about the Coleman folks being poor white trash. You were ready to hit him, so I grabbed your hand and pulled you away. I said Miss Rutherford had sent me to get you.”

  “Most people shunned the Coleman clan. Looking back, we were our own worst enemy,” Shenandoah said.

  “Can’t help what you’re born into. At least you broke free. Most of your people didn’t get past the sixth grade. I never understood why you were so different.”

  “When my father wasn’t working at the sawmill, he did odd jobs. He helped a man named Persifor Washington pull pumps and pipe out of the ground. The man’s wife, Frances, introduced me to books. Is your father still with us, by the way?” Shenandoah asked.

  “Dad passed away right before I graduated from medical school,” Kate said. She looked away for a moment and then turned back to Shenandoah. “Why haven’t you come home? You still have relatives here.”

  “None I’m particularly proud of or have any fondness for.”

  “That’s too bad. All I have is Rebecca.”

  “Okay if I visit you? I want to help,” Shenandoah said.

  “That’s sweet of you, Shenandoah. Come every day.”

  “You were my best friend all the way through school. When you’re poor white trash and people treat you like dirt on their shoes, it has an effect on you. You treated me just like your other friends. It meant a lot to me.”

  “I always liked you. I didn’t care that you were a Coleman.”

  “You’d have to be a Coleman to know what it’s like. Just having you treat me nice made up for all the bad things the other kids said about me. Now it seems as if things are reversed. I’m worried about
you.”

  “I feel like the whole county’s against me.” A look of surprise crossed her face. “I can’t believe I said that—it sounds so paranoid.”

  “You’re not paranoid. You’re in a tight spot, and I want to help,” Shenandoah said. “What can I do?”

  “If I’m going to win an acquittal, it’s going to come down to who they believe more—me or my accusers.”

  “Tell me what to do,” Shenandoah said.

  “You’re a reporter. Try to find some good character witnesses. See what they think about this silliness. Do people really think I could harm my best friend?”

  “I’ll do my best. I want to talk to Jake Watson about your situation. Is that okay with you?

  “Of course. Tell him I said it’s okay. He’ll trust you.”

  “I don’t know Mr. Watson. None of my kin ever needed a lawyer because they were always guilty as sin.”

  Kate laughed. “Jake and my father were roommates at Vanderbilt. His office is next to the City Café.”

  Standing, they stared at each other for a moment, and then Kate put her arms around Shenandoah, gave her a bear hug, and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for coming, Shenandoah. You’ll never know how much this means to me.”

  Shenandoah pushed the button on the wall, and within seconds the deputy materialized. Motioning Shenandoah out, Masterson said, “I’ll come back for you in a minute, Doc.”

  A feeling of despair settled over Shenandoah as she descended the stairs. Why didn’t I keep in better touch with Kate? Kate has always been an incredible woman, my best friend and supporter. We sent Christmas cards back and forth for a few years after graduation, and then I just stopped. No wonder I felt ashamed when I read that Teletype.

  Shenandoah crossed the street to the attorney’s office. She opened the massive oak door and entered a large, sparsely furnished room that contained two overstuffed chairs, a low coffee table, and an old-fashioned rolltop desk. A faded diploma stated that Mr. Watson had graduated from Vanderbilt University Law School in 1912.

  Sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, Shenandoah picked up a June 1950 issue of National Geographic and engrossed herself in an article about pygmies in equatorial Africa. Ten minutes later, the door swung open and Mr. Watson walked in. He appeared to be in his early to mid-sixties and wore a white short-sleeved shirt and tie. A big straw fedora topped his head, and he held a load of books in one hand and a Dixie cup full of black coffee in the other. He kicked the door closed with a thud and then set the books and coffee on the desk. Placing the hat on a coat rack, he turned to Shenandoah. “What can I do for you, young lady?”

  Standing, Shenandoah said, “Hope you don’t mind that I dropped in on you. I tried to call before I left Memphis, but I couldn’t get your number.”

  “Don’t have a phone—useless piece of equipment. Never needed one of the damn things.”

  “Don’t you have to talk to other lawyers and judges from time to time?”

  Jake Watson took a sip of coffee and said, “Have you ever considered how annoying phones are? I could be talking to President Truman, and if the damn thing rang, I’d have to answer it. Could be my housekeeper, for God’s sake. When someone calls me, Dorothy at the café comes and gets me.”

  “If I wanted to talk to you, I’d call the café?”

  “That’s how you’d do it,” Jake said. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

  “My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. I’m a longtime friend of Kate Marlow, classmates all through school. I’m a reporter now with the Memphis Express, and I’ve come to cover Kate’s trial. I just left her at the jail. She said it would be okay for you to talk to me about her case. She said you’d trust me.”

  Jake Watson laughed. “Yes, I’ll trust you. I know who you are.”

  “It’s a damn shame the woman can’t get bail,” Shenandoah said.

  “She’s accused of a capital offense, and the judge wouldn’t allow bail.”

  “Couldn’t you convince them that she would stay here to clear her name? Besides, I’m sure her patients need her.”

  “I tried everything. The prosecutor was more persuasive. Who’s your father?”

  “Archibald Coleman.”

  “I knew him, and of course I know his brothers. Junior’s in jail as we speak.”

  “That’s what I heard. But I’m more interested in Kate. What happened?”

  Jake took another sip of coffee and studied Shenandoah’s face. “So, what do you know?”

  “Kate told me Lillian Johnson died of an overdose of a barbiturate. Kate was supposed to make a house call to Lillian’s, but she can’t remember her activities that day—says she passed out. Kate’s fingerprints were on the syringe. That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

  “That’s basically all anyone knows.”

  “Why would Kate pass out and have no recollection of her activities that day? Had she been ill?”

  Jake shrugged.

  “I’m no lawyer, but all of this seems circumstantial to me. It’s hardly enough to charge someone with murder, let alone deny her bail. Why did the grand jury indict her?”

  “District attorneys can browbeat a grand jury into coming back with a true bill. In this case, it was our local prosecutor.”

  “I don’t know anything about Baxter Hargrove.”

  “He must have been in your class. Sure you don’t remember him?”

  “I guess I’ve forgotten him. But why did he push for an indictment?”

  “He hates Kate because he suppressed evidence in a murder trial, and she exposed him. A young colored man was accused of murdering a white girl he’d been seen with in public. I think they were just friends, but you know how people think in this part of the country. The girl’s body ended up in a wooded area by the lake. She’d been raped and murdered. The autopsy showed dried blood under her fingernails. The coroner typed the blood as AB negative, the rarest type. Kate knew the boy’s blood was O positive. Kate disclosed the information on the stand, and Baxter lost the case. Later, a transient farm worker from Lebanon, Tennessee admitted the crime. Baxter kept his job but lost his chance for the state senate.”

  “Where was Army Johnson when Lillian died?” Shenandoah asked.

  “At his garage.”

  “He’s a mechanic?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Kate told me she has no recollection of being at Lillian’s house. Has anyone been able to place her there?”

  “A neighbor saw her car there that morning.”

  “None of this sounds good.”

  “These situations are never straightforward. There’re always extenuating circumstances. It’s my job to convince the jury that Kate’s innocent.”

  “Hope you can.”

  “It’s never over until the fat lady sings.”

  “You an opera buff?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then we have something in common, Mr. Watson. I’m always pleased to meet an opera fanatic. And we’re all fanatics.”

  “Yes, we are.” Jake began sorting through a pile of papers. “Anything else I can do for you, Shenandoah? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Anyplace I can get a room?”

  “Hattie Mae Hooper takes in boarders.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “High Street—big two story with a porch. White, I think.”

  They shook hands, and Shenandoah said, “Thanks, Mr. Watson. If there’s anything I can do to help Kate, please let me know.”

  Chapter 2

  The man who named High Street knew his topography, because the hill that Shenandoah’s new Bel Air had to climb strained its powerful V8. The street was lined with stately maple and elm trees, some towering seventy-five feet above the sidewalks. The yards in front of the houses contained drought-yellowed grass. Hattie Mae’s two-story dwelling had once been white, but the sparse, peeling paint revealed patches of bare gray spots like an untreated skin disease. A wide, covered porch sported a swing hang
ing from rusty chains. Flowerbeds filled with petunias, daisies, and rose bushes adorned either side of the walkway.

  When Shenandoah knocked on the screen door, she heard a dog barking in the back of the house. A tuft of cotton safety pinned to the screen caught her eye just as a huge brown-and-white English bulldog came charging down the hallway straight toward her. Shenandoah braced herself for an attack. At the last moment, the dog stuck his front paws straight out in front of him and slid across the hardwood floor, slamming his head into the doorframe.

  “Mr. Applebee, behave yourself! You’ll give the poor lady a heart attack. I’ll be there directly. Jest hold on.”

  A woman came slowly out of the shadows of the hallway. Bending over the prostrate body of Mr. Applebee, she poked him with her index finger. The dog jumped to his feet and spun around two times before lifting his right leg and passing a flatus of foul-smelling methane.

  “Stop that, Mr. Applebee. That’s enough of your nonsense. Go get in your box.”

  The dog looked up at his mistress with bloodshot, baggy eyes and waddled off down the hall.

  “Come in, lady,” the woman said, pushing open the screen door. “Mr. Applebee ain’t dangerous, jest stupid. Not the sharpest tack in the box.”

  As Shenandoah passed through the door, the woman stared at her, studying her face with an unnerving intensity. Portly, with heavy jowls not unlike Mr. Applebee’s, she had dirty gray hair that stood straight out from her head as if she had just stuck her finger into an electric outlet. Her cotton dress hung loosely from her ample frame, and she wore black high-top tennis shoes with nylon stockings rolled over the tops.

  “You’re Mrs. Hooper?” Shenandoah asked.

  “Hattie Mae to my friends, and I ain’t got no enemies.”

  “My name is Shenandoah Coleman, and I need a room for about ten days. Mr. Watson told me you take in boarders.”

  “That’s a fact, and I’ve got an empty room. Come in the living room and we can talk it out.”

  A musty smell hung over the dark room like a shroud. The furnishings looked to be from the 1920s, and lace doilies adorned the arms of all the chairs. In one corner, an ancient GE oscillating fan on a floor stand droned as it swept hot air back and forth across the room.