“You don’t have any choice, Kate. You’ve got to go to court. It’s your one chance to prove you’re innocent.”
“I know. I’m just furious that I have to do this. Give me a hug.”
Shenandoah took Kate in her arms, gave her a bear hug, and kissed her on the cheek. Kate looked at Shenandoah with tears welling up in her eyes and said, “Thanks, Shenandoah. I’ll never forget your friendship.”
Then her eyes widened and she said, “I almost forgot. I have a present for you.”
She lifted a small package off the table and handed it to Shenandoah. It was attractively wrapped in red paper with a white bow. “Nurse Little brought me the paper and bow.”
Shenandoah untied the bow and ripped the paper off the box. Opening it, she found Kate’s silver flask. Shenandoah smiled. “I wondered if you remembered our deal.”
“I never want to see that one or any one like it for as long as I live,” Kate said.
“Good for you. I knew you could do it.”
“Who did you talk to yesterday?”
“Bobby and I took Wally to the lake. You’re right—he’s a handful. We had a great time, and then we went to see Jacob. You really think that wart will go away?”
Kate laughed and winked at Shenandoah. “There are some things science can’t explain. How is Jacob?”
“Okay. Seemed a little confused, but if he’s over a hundred, that’s not unusual.”
“I love that old man. When he was still in his eighties, his memory was good. He told me all kinds of stories. He really could remember the Civil War.”
Oscar Masterson knocked on the door and said, “I’m sorry, Dr. Kate, but I’ve got to take you to the courtroom.”
Quickly wiping tears from her eyes, she said, “I’m ready, Oscar. Come on in.”
Shenandoah watched as the deputy led Kate from the room and felt a terrible emptiness in her stomach as she followed them out of the jail. She walked down the stairs to the first floor like a woman headed to the gallows. I hope Kate will be acquitted. I’m not sure Kate could survive a term in prison. Jake has to get her off.
Oscar and Kate went into the courtroom, and Shenandoah decided to go look for Jimmy Joe Short’s office. She found it in the basement. Jake was right. It was extremely small. She knocked on the door frame and walked in. The trooper sat at a large desk that took up most of the room. When he saw Shenandoah, he stood and said, “Morning, ma’am. How may I help you?”
“My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. I’m a reporter with the Memphis Express newspaper. I have a problem I need to talk to you about. Do you have a moment?”
“Sure. Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a ladderback chair across from the desk.
“Someone in a Dodge pickup has been harassing me—slashed the tires on my car and ran me off the road. I can’t for the life of me understand why.”
The trooper pulled out a pack of Chesterfields and tapped a cigarette out. Slipping it into his mouth, he said, “You need to talk to the sheriff. That’s not in my job description.”
Shenandoah sighed. “Jasper and I have a history. I can’t go to him.”
Jimmy Joe lit the cigarette and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Your name is Coleman?”
“Yes. I’m originally from Beulah Land.”
“That means you’re related to Junior.”
“My uncle.”
The trooper laughed and shook his head. “You don’t look like any Coleman I’ve ever seen, lady. That being the case, any number of people could be after you. Pissed off anybody lately?”
“I’m an investigative reporter. I piss people off all the time.”
“So, what do you want from me?”
Shenandoah shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. I guess I want you to catch the guy.”
“Could be a woman.”
“Doesn’t drive like a woman. More like Bobby Johnson.”
“You know Bobby?”
“Yes.”
“Best stay away from him. Army too. I’m eventually going to bust them.”
“Look. I just want this person off my case. Surely you can do something.”
“What color is the truck?”
“Gray. But it’s been so covered with limestone dust I can’t be a hundred percent sure. License plate too.”
“All I can do is keep an eye out for it. Get me a license number and I’ll track it down. Other than that, there’s not much I can do.”
“I guess that’s better than nothing. Anything you can do, I’ll appreciate.”
Shenandoah swung her purse over her shoulder and stood. Nodding to the trooper, she stepped out of the room.
She climbed the stairs to the first floor and decided that she needed a breath of fresh air. As she stepped into the sunlight, she saw a 1952 Fleetwood Cadillac pull up to the curb with a young colored man at the wheel in a chauffeur’s uniform and cap. The crowd stopped talking and gawked at the big black automobile.
The chauffeur stepped out of the car and walked around to open the back door. Thelonious P. Flatt looked to be in his mid-fifties, and he wore a white linen suit with a vest. A gold watch chain stretched between its two pockets, and on his head, he wore a black homburg. His shoes were black-and-white wingtips, and he carried an ebony walking stick with a silver handle. Shenandoah shook her head. To the best of her knowledge, the courtroom was not air-conditioned.
In the courtroom, the heat settled like a damp blanket over Shenandoah. The spectators’ seats filled quickly. Deputy Masterson stood at the door eyeing everyone who entered. Shenandoah saw Jake Watson, Kate, and her sister, Rebecca, sitting at the defense table. A court reporter sat in front of the judge’s bench, arranging her desk, preparing to record the whole trial in shorthand. Thelonious P. Flatt shuffled through some papers at the prosecutor’s table. His homburg rested on the far side of the table, but his coat and vest were still in place. Baxter Hargrove, wearing a blue-and-white-striped seersucker suit, took a seat next to Mr. Flatt.
Jake Watson had on a white short-sleeved shirt and a bow tie. Dr. Kate was in a simple black dress, but Rebecca was dressed in a navy blue tailored suit and matching linen pumps. She was strikingly pretty and bore a slight resemblance to Kate.
Shenandoah walked down to the railing and took a seat on the front row behind the defendant’s table, where there were reserved seats for the press. She noticed one other person as she slipped onto the bench: a dowdy, matronly woman in her sixties who, Shenandoah later learned, was covering the trial for the Cookeville newspaper. Jake nodded to Shenandoah as she sat down, but Kate was talking to her sister and didn’t turn around.
Glancing back at the now full room, Shenandoah saw Hattie Mae sitting three rows back, with Mr. Applebee presumably at her feet. Mr. Bradshaw, the pharmacist, was in the back row. Dorothy slipped into a pew just as the bailiff called, “Hear ye, hear ye, all rise and give your attention! This court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Martin Grant presiding. May God save the United States, the state of Tennessee, and this honorable court.”
A middle-aged man with long sandy hair that rode over the back of his black robe strode quickly to the bench. As Hattie Mae had predicted, the judge had a stern look on his face.
Judge Grant raised his gavel and hit a wooden block on his desk one sharp blow. “The circuit court of Parsons County is now in session,” he said in a booming voice that rose to the high ceiling of the courtroom and hung there like a rain cloud.
The judge proceeded to set the rules of his court. There would be no talking, clapping, or other spontaneous outbreaks, no gum or tobacco chewing, and certainly no smoking. Anyone disobeying his instructions would spend the night in the Parsons County Jail.
The prosecutor pushed his chair back and stood. He held several papers in his hand. “Your Honor,” he said, “the prosecution would like to make a motion for a change of venue.” His voice, deep and rich like an actor’s, carried to the far corners of the room, even though he spoke in a normal conversational tone.
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br /> Judge Grant glared down on Thelonious P. Flatt. “Mr. Flatt, as you know, this court has addressed that issue on five previous occasions with Mr. Neal. Do not broach the subject again.”
“Very well, Your Honor, the prosecution is ready to proceed.”
The judge glanced in the direction of the defendant’s table and said, “Mr. Watson?”
Jake slid his chair back and stood. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Bailiff, bring the first prospective juror in,” the judge said.
The bailiff opened a door at the back of the courtroom, and a small woman entered. Her face was a mass of wrinkles and her hair had a bluish tint. Shenandoah recalled how Ned Baker had labeled these little old ladies the Blue Rinse Mafia.
As the woman took her seat, the bailiff said, “State your name, please.”
“You know my name as well as I do, Otis,” she said with a crooked smile.
“State your name, Gladys.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Gladys Alexander.”
Thelonious P. Flatt walked to the witness chair. “Do you know a woman by the name of Katherine Marlow?”
“You mean Dr. Kate?”
“I am referring to the defendant in this case, the woman sitting in that chair,” he said, pointing to Kate.
“Everyone knows Dr. Kate.”
“Do you know the charge against her?”
“They say she killed Army Johnson’s wife.”
“Do you have a preconceived notion as to her guilt or innocence?”
“A what?”
“Do you think she killed Lillian Johnson?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Mr. Flatt turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the prosecution cannot accept this individual as a juror.”
The judge nodded. “Agreed. You may step down, Mrs. Alexander. You’re dismissed.”
Gladys Alexander, her lower lip trembling, walked up the center aisle and exited the courtroom through the back door.
As the door closed, a second individual entered and took the witness chair.
“State your name,” said the bailiff.
“Mark Stone.”
Once again, the prosecutor asked his leading question, to which Mr. Stone answered, “I don’t know.” Mr. Flatt asked several other questions that produced what he considered satisfactory answers. After about ten minutes of this exchange, Thelonious P. Flatt said, “This individual is acceptable to the prosecution.”
The judge looked at Jake. “Mr. Watson?”
Jake walked to the man and said, “Mr. Stone, could you explain your relationship to Lillian Johnson?”
The man glanced at the judge, then at Mr. Flatt, and finally at Jake Watson. In a voice not nearly as loud as his response to Mr. Flatt, he said, “My niece.”
Jake walked back to the defense table. “This individual is not acceptable to the defense,” he said to the judge.
This give-and-take proceeded throughout the morning session. By the time the judge called for the lunch break, neither side had been able to agree on a single juror. Jake Watson had told Shenandoah earlier that it would be a long and difficult process.
As the crowd exited the courtroom, Shenandoah leaned over the railing to say hello to Jake and the two women.
“Morning, Shenandoah,” Jake said. “Do you know Rebecca?”
“Not really. I do remember you from when I was a child, but you’re a few years older than Kate and me.”
Rebecca extended her hand and shook Shenandoah’s with a firm and steady grip. “I’m pleased to meet you, Shenandoah. Jake and Kate have told me a lot about you.”
“All good, I hope.”
“Oh, definitely,” she said with a smile, dimples like her sister’s forming in her cheeks. Shenandoah glanced to her right to see Deputy Masterson waiting to take Kate back to her cell. She grimaced as she turned to leave.
Jake and Rebecca exited in front of Shenandoah while Mr. Flatt was stuffing papers into an expensive leather briefcase. The judge, bailiff, and court reporter had already left the room. Thelonious P. Flatt had on his coat and vest and still hadn’t produced so much as a thimble of sweat.
The City Café bustled with customers, so Shenandoah decided to walk over to the Esso station where they kept homemade sandwiches. She bought a ham and cheese sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a Coke, then carried them to a picnic table out back.
As Shenandoah finished eating, she glanced across the street and saw Mr. Flatt’s chauffeur polishing the front chrome bumper of the Cadillac. The man had shed his cap and coat, and he wore a white cotton T-shirt with its tail sticking over his pants. The car sat off the street under a massive maple tree.
Shenandoah wandered across the street. “That’s a beautiful car. How does it drive?”
The man looked at Shenandoah and smiled. “Like a dream. Great highway car.”
Shenandoah extended her hand. “My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. I’m a reporter for the Memphis Express.”
“Austin Davis. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Didn’t know the Memphis Express was interested in this case. I don’t think the Nashville Tennessean had anything about it.”
“I’m a friend of Dr. Kate Marlow, and I also wanted to interview Buford Frampton for a book I’m writing on the E. H. Crump political machine. How long have you driven for Mr. Flatt?”
“I’m pinch-hitting for the summer. His regular driver broke his leg last month.”
“What’s your usual job?”
“I’ll be a senior at Fisk this fall. Next year I’m going to Howard University Law School.”
Shenandoah said, “I’ve heard of Howard. Isn’t it mostly a colored school?”
“Yeah, it’s been around since 1869. Graduated a lot of heavyweights.”
“So how come you’re just a chauffeur? Seems like you should be a law clerk.”
“I applied for a clerkship, but Mr. Flatt doesn’t hire coloreds for office work. Said if I wanted a job, it was chauffeur or nothing.”
“So you didn’t have a choice.”
“Not if I wanted a summer job.”
“You get lunch?”
He nodded. “I brought my lunch. No place up here where I could eat.”
“Esso station over there has homemade sandwiches. They’ll sell to you, particularly if you buy some gas.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. How’s the trial going?”
“They’re arguing over jurors now. The way it’s going, it’ll be a while before they get down to business. Tell me about Mr. Flatt.”
“What you want to know?”
Shenandoah laughed. “Doesn’t he sweat like the rest of us?”
Austin Davis shook his head. “No, and I’ve never seen the man wrinkle that white suit either.”
“What’s he like to work for?”
“Treats me like any other Negro. Like most of the people in Nashville. I’m from Chicago, and this Jim Crow crap pisses me off.”
“Is he a good lawyer?”
Austin Davis placed the rag on the hood of the car and leaned against the fender. He looked Shenandoah dead in the eye. “Old Thelonious is a peacock, but the man is smart as a whip and thorough. I can tell you this—I’d hate like hell to have him after me.”
Shenandoah said, “I’ve got to get back to court. Nice talking to you.”
* * *
Judge Grant opened court precisely at one o’clock. For the next three hours, Thelonious and Jake continued to interview prospective jurors without agreeing on a single one. Judge Grant remained patient throughout the process, but the spectators were becoming bored. Almost all of them were fanning themselves with paper fans supplied by Walton’s Funeral Home. At one point Mr. Applebee began to snore, and the judge looked up, trying to see who was disturbing his court. Hattie Mae must have nudged Mr. Applebee with her foot, for the noise stopped as quickly as it started. Jake Watson looked bemused. Kate sat stone-faced throughout the jury selection, but Rebecca took notes, and from time to time she would whisper something int
o Jake’s ear.
For her part, Shenandoah simply sat back and watched Thelonious P. Flatt. The man had yet to sweat in the sweltering courtroom, and as Austin Davis had said, his suit remained unwrinkled. To top it off, every time he picked up a piece of paper to read, he slipped on a pair of pince-nez. He looked like every picture of FDR that Shenandoah had seen during the war. Baxter Hargrove stared into space throughout the whole process and never once looked in Kate’s direction.
From what Austin Davis had told Shenandoah, Mr. Flatt was a very interesting man. For all his flamboyance, the man appeared methodical and deadly serious. His questions were to the point, simple, and direct. He did not grandstand, and his voice remained calm, yet forceful. Jake kept his questions short and to the point as well. It looked as if there would be no theatrics when the trial started.
Judge Grant slammed down his gavel exactly at four o’clock. Jake, Kate, and Rebecca remained at the defense table for a few minutes, talking softly, but Thelonious P. Flatt and Baxter Hargrove headed up the aisle ahead of Shenandoah. She followed them out of the courthouse and watched Austin Davis, once again in uniform, hold open the back door of the big Cadillac for his boss.
Since it was still early, Shenandoah decided to go to the garage. As usual, the radio was playing a country song at a deafening level, a Hank Williams tune called “I’m Walking the Floor Over You.” She found Bobby on a creeper under a ‘46 Ford pickup. He rolled out from under the car, sat up, and wiped a strand of hair from his face, leaving a streak of grease across his cheek. “How’s the trial going?” he asked.
“Not much action today. They’re still trying to pick the jury.”
“I think that’s going to be hard, don’t you?”
“Definitely. I think that’s Jake’s plan—or part of it, anyway.”
Bobby stood and walked to the workbench. He turned down the radio and leaned his back against the bench so that he could face Shenandoah. “Momma said you could come to supper tonight. I suspect she wants to check you out.”
“That’d be great. I just have to tell Hattie Mae. What time?”
“About six. That’ll give me time to clean up. We’re just eating out of the garden. See you later, alligator.”
The Trial of Dr. Kate Page 18