Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

  Varner nodded. "Sheriff Hays couldn’t find your book. It probably burned up in the fire. But the county librarian remembered you buying it. She ordered me a copy." The prosecutor walked over to the bookcase, picked out a thick book, and laid it in front of the judge. "It’s heavy."

  Judge Langford examined the book, then handed it back to his adversary. "This helps to corroborate Becky’s statement about what happened."

  "It does up to a point." Varner slipped the book into his desk drawer. "I asked Roger to conduct an experiment for me."

  "What kind of experiment?" I asked.

  "You said you picked the book up off the dash with your left hand. Because of your previous injury, your wrist gave way under the book’s weight causing you to drop it. It hit the gearshift knocking the pickup out of park and into reverse." As he talked, Cordell drew a diagram of the inside of a truck on his notepad. "The book then landed on the accelerator. The truck pitched backwards and rolled down the hill toward the cliff."

  "That’s correct," I said.

  Mr. Varner drew a circle around his drawing. "I had Roger recreate the accident with a truck similar to Frank’s. He repeated the test 58 times. Only once did he get a scenario similar to the one you claim took place on the mountain."

  "Thank you, Cordell," the judge said. "You just made my case for me."

  The county attorney rapped his knuckles against the desk. "Come on, Harland. One time out of fifty-eight tries."

  "It could be one time out of a 158 tries. If it happened once, then it’s a possibility. If it’s a possibility, then there’s reasonable doubt." The jurist leaned back in his chair. "You’re too good an attorney not to know that. What are you up to?"

  I twisted around to see my lawyer. "Mr. Varner doesn’t believe me. He wants to lock me away like Momma did. I bet he didn’t even talk to Doctor Condray."

  "Yes, I did," Varner said. "The doctor said your wrist had been severely strained. When I showed him the book, he confirmed you’d have a hard time holding anything that heavy with your left hand."

  Judge Langford pounded the desk. "I repeat, where are you going with this, Varner?"

  The two lawyers glared at one another and then Cordell said, "It’s not what Doctor Condray said, it’s what he didn’t say that got me to turning over rocks you should’ve told me about, Becky."

  I shook my head. "The doctor didn’t tell you anything more. He can’t, not without my permission."

  "That’s right, he can’t. But Roy Tate can . . . and did."

  "What’s Roy Tate have to do with this?" the judge asked. "He’s no longer sheriff."

  "No, but he is a friend of Helen’s." The county attorney opened the manila envelope and took out some photographs. "Do you want to tell Judge Langford about these pictures, Becky, or should I?"

  My lips moved, but no words came out. I scooted to the edge of the black leather chair, wrapped my arms around my waist, and started rocking. I wanted to rock myself into another place, into another universe where the knot of lies that held my twisted world together was not being untangled right in front of me.

  "Show me what you’ve got," Judge Langford said.

  The county attorney placed six photographs on the desk. "Roy took these at Doctor Condray’s office a few days after Frank Wooten’s funeral."

  The photos were of a bruised and battered me. I felt nauseous.

  The judge studied each picture. "My word, Becky, you really had a fall, didn’t you?"

  "She didn’t fall down the stairs," Varner said. "Donald Wooten beat her."

  Judge Langford’s head jerked back. He reviewed the photos again before turning to me.

  "Is this true, young lady? Did Wooten do this to you?"

  Both men stared at me. "Mr. Tate had no right to give you those pictures. Momma is going to be so mad at him."

  "What’s Helen got to do with this?" the judge asked.

  "Roy said Helen called him and asked for his help in getting Becky to the doctor’s."

  The prosecutor rested his elbows on the desk. "Apparently, Helen had come home and found Donald in her daughter’s bedroom. He’d beaten Becky senseless and was about to rape her again when Helen interrupted him."

  "Rape her again?" the jurist asked. "What do you mean by that?"

  Varner’s eyes sought mine. "This might sound better coming from you."

  I turned to the judge. How could I discuss Donald’s vile act with a man I respected so much? I covered my face with my hands.

  "Cordell, I need some time alone with my client."

  He stood. "Of course, Judge Langford. I’ll wait in the outer office."

  "Wait, Mr. Varner," I said. "Is it necessary to go into all of this? It happened so long ago. What does it matter now?"

  Judge Langford reached for my hand. "I need to know about anything that might have influenced your relationship with your stepbrother. I can’t adequately defend you if you don’t trust me enough to tell me the truth, all of it."

  "I trust you. I just can’t say the words. I’m too ashamed."

  "You have nothing to be ashamed of," Varner said. "You were a child, unable to defend yourself. It wasn’t your fault." He sank back down into his chair. "Would you prefer I tell Harland what happened the day of President Kennedy’s funeral?"

  I nodded, folded my hands in my lap, and stared at them while Papa’s boyhood pal described Donald’s assault against me to my grandfather’s best friend. If only I could disappear, fade into the blackness of the leather chair, or melt into the worn fibers of the mottled gray carpet.

  Judge Langford took off his glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, then put them back on. "Thirteen-years-old. My God, Cordell. Eli would’ve shot the bastard, and I would not have blamed him."

  "I’d feel the same if someone hurt one of my girls." The county attorney took a white plastic bag from the folder, opened it, and laid its round contents in front of me.

  "Momma and I told Mr. Tate things in confidence. She’ll kill him for betraying us."

  "Roy wanted to help you," Varner said.

  Anger flashed through me. "He’s never did anything to help me. He brought Johnny and me back from Tennessee and let his deputies hurt Johnny. He’s Momma’s friend, not mine."

  "I know Roy had his own way of doing things when he was sheriff. He and I went round and round about his roughshod methods." Varner rubbed his lower lip. "But in the thirty years I’ve known him, there has been one thing he couldn’t abide. And that’s a man hurting a woman or a child."

  Judge Langford picked up the medallion and examined it. "What’s this?"

  "As you know, the fire that destroyed Cooper’s warehouse was deliberately set." Varner locked his hands behind his head and leaned back. "Sheriff Hay’s investigation turned up one viable suspect. Neil Abbott, the manager of the Cooper’s Kirbyville store, informed my office that Frank had almost come to blows with a fellow a few days before the fire. When the sheriff interviewed the suspect, he gave a bogus alibi."

  "Did you arrest him?" the judge asked.

  "No, sir. Although Sheriff Hays and I were convinced we had the right suspect, we had no concrete evidence against him at the time." The prosecutor unlocked his hands. "There was another factor that caused us to proceed with caution."

  "What was that, Cordell?"

  "The man was Frank Wooten’s son."

  The judge leaned forward. "You suspect Donald Wooten committed arson against his own father?"

  "Not anymore. Now, I’m certain he started the fire." Varner picked up the medallion.

  "Ben Welch was Donald Wooten’s father-in-law and employer. Every month, Welch gives one of these to the salesman who sold the most vehicles the previous month. As you can see, it’s engraved with the salesman’s name and the date." Varner turned the medallion over in his hand and read the inscription. "Donald Wooten. October, 1970."

  "What does this have to do with my client?" the elder attorney asked.

  Mr. Varner focused on me. "Roy said you
gave him this medallion, Becky. He said you found it in the grass near the warehouse the night it burned down, but you never told anyone about it. Is this true?"

  "Don’t answer that." Judge Langford stood. "Are we looking at an obstruction of justice or a tampering with evidence indictment here?"

  Varner shook his head. "No, sir. Please sit down, Harland."

  "I’ll sit down when you convince me the office I devoted twelve years of my life to has not sunk so low as to heap more pain upon this young woman. She’s been through enough because of Donald Wooten."

  "I can’t prosecute a dead man, and I have neither the time nor the budget to bring charges against anyone in a case that’ll never be filed." Mr. Varner loosened his tie some more. "I’m not trying to hurt Becky. I’m just trying to get at the truth."

  Judge Langford sat down. "I’ll hold you to that, Cordell."

  He nodded. "I did wonder why she would elect to protect Donald."

  I remained quiet.

  "If you would’ve turned Wooten in to the sheriff, then he would’ve been in jail instead of free to hurt you, Becky."

  "Do I have to answer that, Judge Langford?"

  "No, you don’t." My attorney eyed the prosecutor. "Where do we go from here?"

  The county attorney scratched the back of his head. "As I see it, there are three possible scenarios as to what could’ve happened that day on Starview Mountain. It’s possible Wooten’s death was an accident as Becky claims. Possible, but not probable."

  "If we go to trial, possible is all I need for an acquittal," the judge said.

  "What are the other two scenarios?" I asked.

  Varner rubbed his chin against the back of his hand. "I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t at least consider the beating, the arson, and the rape as motives for murder."

  "And I can use those same three points as grounds for self defense." The judge yanked off his glasses and shook them at Varner. "All I’d have to do is show those pictures and that medallion to a jury and tell them what kind of man Donald Wooten was. A man who’d destroy his father’s business and beat a young woman half to death. The kind of man who’d rape a child. No jury in this county would convict Becky." The judge pushed a lock of gray hair back into place. "You’re a damn good lawyer, Cordell, but I’m better."

  "I don’t dispute that fact for one minute, sir. But you’ve sat in this chair, and you know regardless of how I feel personally, my job is to uncover the truth."

  I jumped to my feet. "The truth? You don’t want to hear the truth. No one wants to hear the truth."

  "Sit down, Becky," the judge said.

  "No, sir. Mr. Varner wants to know the truth, and I’m going to tell him."

  Judge Langford stood. "As your attorney, I’m advising you to keep quiet."

  "I used to think the truth was important too, Mr. Varner. But then I realized—"

  "Don’t say another word," the judge said. "Just calm down."

  "Dammit, don’t say that," I yelled. "All my life, people have told me to calm down. I’m tired of it. I’ve been waiting for years to find someone who really wanted to hear the truth."

  The judge stepped back, his eyes wide with surprise. He sighed, ran his hands through his hair, then slumped into to his chair.

  "Neil Abbott told the truth about Donald and Frank almost fighting. They were arguing over me." I stopped, pushed my hair behind my ears. "Donald asked his daddy for the manager’s job at our Kirbyville store. Frank refused. He didn’t want me around Donald that much."

  "Did Frank think his son would hurt you?" the prosecutor asked.

  "Yes. In the past three years, I’ve only seen Donald a few times, and Frank was always there. The day of the argument, Donald insisted his daddy choose between him and me. Frank chose me." I eased down into my chair. "You’re both fathers, so you should be able to appreciate the pain such a decision caused him."

  Both men nodded.

  "Did Frank and Helen know about the rape?" the judge asked.

  "I told them about the rape the day it happened, but they didn’t believe me. Frank believed his son, which was natural since we hardly knew each other then. When he realized I’d told the truth, Frank was heartbroken."

  "I bet." The county attorney leaned forward. "Why didn’t Helen believe you?"

  "She and Frank had been married for only three weeks. It wasn’t convenient for her to believe me. Like I said, nobody wants to hear the truth, especially if it’s inconvenient."

  Judge Langford tugged at his earlobe. "Unfortunately, that’s often the case."

  I nodded. "Frank always tried to protect me. When I found the medallion the night of the fire, I saw my chance to protect him. He loved Donald and hoped his son would change. Hope was all Frank had left. I would’ve taken a dozen beatings before killing that hope."

  Mr. Varner rubbed his temple. "I understand your desire to hide the truth from Frank. But then Donald never had to face the consequences of his crime. We’re all responsible for our actions, regardless of what our intentions are."

  "Does that include you, Mr. Varner?" I asked.

  "Of course, Becky."

  "You came up with the idea of making Johnny choose between joining the military and going to jail, didn’t you?"

  "I wanted to give the boy a second chance."

  "I thought your job was to find the truth," I said.

  "It is."

  "You never found the truth in Johnny’s case. If you’d talked to me or to Frank, we’d have told you that I begged Johnny to run away with me." I looked at Judge Langford. "Frank wouldn’t have had to worry about me if I got married and moved to Texas. He could’ve left Sugardale and made a good life for himself someplace." I gripped the desk. "You have no idea the disastrous events your decision set in motion, Mr. Varner."

  "Like I said, Helen had a right to bring charges against Santo. You were a minor."

  "So the truth can be discarded if the person is under eighteen?" I asked.

  The prosecutor pulled his chair closer to the desk "That’s not what I’m saying. But Helen insisted on filing charges. In a way, my hands were tied."

  I shook my head. "No, my hands were the ones that were tied, Mr. Varner. Tied to a hospital bed after Doctor Nixon killed mine and Johnny’s baby and almost killed me."

  Cordell Varner’s chin dropped. He sat there, silent, his mouth open.

  Judge Langford cleared his throat. "Nixon. Isn’t he that Brockton dentist who went to prison last year for performing illegal abortions?"

  "Yes," Varner said softly. "He did one on a fourteen-year-old from Lumpkin County. The girl died."

  "Dr. Nixon put me to sleep to supposedly pull a bad tooth. I woke up in the Brockton hospital. I still had my tooth, but not my baby." I wiped the sweat off my top lip. "The doctors believed I’d killed my baby and had tried to kill myself. Frank told them the truth, that Dr. Nixon had done it. But as I explained before, no one really wants to hear the truth." My throat went dry. I picked up the pitcher of water, but my hand shook so I set it back down.

  "Let me help you, Becky." The judge filled a cup and handed it to me.

  "Thank you, sir." I gulped down the drink, wiped my mouth with a napkin, and returned the cup to the tray. "The doctors refused to acknowledge the ugly truth. Because of that, I spent sixteen months locked up in Hell and a young girl died. So you see, Mr. Varner, it’s hard for me to believe you’re only after the truth."

  Varner stared at me for a time. Then he got up and walked to the window. He stood, hands in his pockets, staring out the window. "I didn’t know you were pregnant."

  "Would it have made any difference?" I asked.

  He looked over his shoulder at me. "I don’t know, Becky. I honestly don’t know."

  Judge Langford poured me another glass of water and one for himself too. Cordell Varner stood gazing out the window. For a time, no one spoke.

  "None of us are perfect, Becky," the judge said. "We all make mistakes. We make bad decisions regardless of h
ow well informed or well intentioned we happened to be. But that doesn’t mean we should stop striving to discover the truth."

  I shrugged. "In your business, Judge Langford, you must assume that telling the truth is always the best thing."

  "I’ve found that’s usually the case."

  "Where’s the line, sir?"

  "What line?" the jurist asked.

  "The line that divides the good truths from the bad ones. I’ve been looking for it all of my life. I’ve never found it."

  Mr. Varner walked back to his desk. "There are no bad truths, Becky."

  "Really? Are you sure?"

  He nodded, pulled out his chair, and sat back down.

  "Johnny got wounded in Vietnam and ended up in a Honolulu hospital. He married a girl, and they had a little boy. Last year, the baby died. His death almost killed Johnny. It did kill his marriage." I rolled my chair up to the edge of the desk. "Johnny doesn’t know anything about my being in Havenwood or about our baby. Should he be told the truth?"

  The county attorney offered no reply.

  "Johnny’s right downstairs in the sheriff’s office. Shall we call him and tell him to come here?" I picked up the receiver of the phone and held it out to the prosecutor. "In the name of truth, Mr. Varner, shall we tell Johnny that he’s lost not one child, but two?"

  At first, the county attorney didn’t move. Then finally, he took the receiver from me and returned it to its cradle.

  Judge Langford rested his hand on my shoulder. "No one can make that decision, Becky, except you."

  "But I’m not very good at making decisions. I never was." I turned to face the judge. "Do you remember Grandpa Eli bringing me with him sometimes when he visited you?"

  "Yes, I remember."

  "You always played a game with me. You’d show me both fists and tell me if I picked the correct hand, I’d get a piece of candy or a nickel. Remember?"

  The judge nodded.

  "I always . . . always picked the wrong hand. You’d give me the candy anyway, but it doesn’t work like that in real life. All my life, I’ve picked the wrong hand. I’ve always chosen the wrong people and the wrong truths to believe in." I stopped, took another sip of water. "Grandpa Eli told me if I’d listen to my heart, it’d tell me the right thing to do. But that’s not true. The heart lies. It plays tricks on you."