Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

  “I’ll be fine. That ass won’t come back tonight. Go, Michael.”

  He kissed her. On the way to his car, the brick felt heavy as a boulder. His arm hurt, as if somehow he had helped heave the thing through the window.

  Toni swept up the glass while Oscar watched from his little pillow. One of her album covers fit nicely in the window and covered the break. Satisfied with the job, she picked up the dog and went to her father’s house.

  Carmen sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee in her hand. While holding Oscar, Toni poured herself a cup and warmed up her sister’s. Toni shook a little, put Oscar down and steadied the cup. Carmen wasn’t angry or frightened. Her sister was disappointed, and that hurt Toni more than anything.

  “I’m glad Dad and Víctor were working. I don’t know what would have happened if they’d been home,” Carmen said.

  “You and me both.”

  They drank their coffee.

  Carmen reached out for her sister’s hand, which was cold. “What if you end up getting hurt, Toni?”

  “Carmen, it’s inevitable.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That it’s going to happen sooner or later.”

  By the time the sisters had finished their coffee, Deputy Herb Bell had reached his house on the south side of Borden. His duty had dictated he tell Martin Shaw about his son and the Mexican tramp. Chucking the brick into the window was all his idea.

  33

  NURSE JANE FARROW sat outside the courtroom in her nicest black suit and high heels, but she always felt more comfortable wearing her whites. At the hospital, she was just one of many people in white going about their persistent business of helping patients. She loved the calm of hospitals and especially the evening shift, when most of the moans had been subdued by pain medications and assurances. Occasional emergencies generated excitement and rush, but then all quieted again with treatment or death. Growing up a middle child, she had become used to moving unobtrusively through life. She disliked being singled out for anything. A decent and unremarkable life had brought her contentment. At the courthouse, however, people walking down the hall stared at her as if she had committed a crime.

  She picked a piece of lint off her skirt and flicked it away. The courthouse smelled of body odor and shoe leather. She had grown accustomed to the antiseptic odor of the hospital, although at times she wondered if it had ruined her sense of smell. Whenever she cooked her favorites of turkey and ham at home, the aroma sometimes carried a tinge of disinfectant.

  Jane Farrow looked at her watch and wondered when she would be called into the courtroom. Her supervisor had urged her to refuse to testify. If the defense lawyer had to subpoena her, he probably wouldn’t even summon Jane because he didn’t want a hostile witness on the stand, said the supervisor who had seen that very thing happen on an episode of Perry Mason. Besides, Jane shouldn’t get involved in “that Mexican’s troubles.” “She put up with the whippings all those years. She must like it,” the supervisor had said. “She only made more work for us.”

  Even Jane’s husband, who was as quiet as she, wondered if she should take time off to appear in court on behalf of a complete stranger. But Jane had told him and her supervisor that she had agreed to testify and wouldn’t change her mind. They both shook their heads at her decision, but they hadn’t seen that woman’s blood, so much blood it stained her best white shoes.

  Michael had found the nurse by examining the hospital emergency room records of María’s treatment. The name of nurse Jane Farrow was listed on three of those reports. That included the night of August 18—the night Ben Curry died. It didn’t take much encouragement to get her to come to court, and for that Michael was grateful. Jane Farrow was one of those plain, unassuming women who waited on people, either at restaurants or at stores or in hospitals. Someone just doing her job. But when he first talked with the nurse, he noticed her green eyes were among the kindest he had ever looked into. If she had tended to a wound or illness of his, he would have immediately felt better. He needed to feel better that day, especially after what had happened to Toni. But the trial needed all his attention, and he had to repress his anger at the bastard who had thrown the brick.

  Michael smiled and greeted the nurse after she had been sworn in. “How long have you worked as a nurse at St. John’s Hospital?”

  “Seven years.” Her voice could barely be heard above the ceiling fan’s whir.

  “Please speak up so the jury and the court reporter can hear you, Mrs. Farrow,” the judge said.

  “So you’ve worked as a nurse for seven years?” Michael restated the question.

  Jane Farrow sat up. If she was going to do this, she would do it right. “Yes, sir.” Her voice was stronger than she imagined it could be.

  “Do you recognize María Curry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “She was brought into the emergency room three times, sir.”

  Michael presented her with copies of the medical records that he would also enter into evidence. After reading them, he still had a difficult time accepting how much abuse his client had lived with. “Let’s talk about the night of February 3rd, 1957,” he said. “What were her injuries?”

  The nurse peered down past her glasses to the paper, but she would have remembered without it. She looked up. “Mrs. Curry had three cracked ribs.”

  “Did she appear to be in much discomfort?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I had to help the woman undress to get into a gown for the examination. The patient flinched and moaned every time she moved,” the nurse said. She also recalled that the arrogant intern, who was a young man on whom she had smelled whiskey more than once, didn’t even care what happened to the patient. He just treated her and left.

  “Besides the cracked ribs, was she hurt in other ways?” Michael said.

  “Yes, there appeared to be severe welt marks on her back and on her legs, and her right eye was blackened.”

  Michael approached the witness. “I understand you speak Spanish. Did you ask her what happened?”

  “She said she had fallen.”

  “Those welts, did it appear she had been struck with an object?”

  “Objection,” Brennan said. “He’s asking this witness to speculate.”

  Michael shot back, “Your Honor, Jane Farrow is an experienced nurse in an emergency room who has seen many kinds of injuries. She knows her business.”

  Judge Hower tapped a finger against his jaw. “I’m going to allow it.”

  Michael nodded. “Mrs. Farrow, once again, did it appear as if María Curry had been struck with an object.”

  “Yes.” The nurse was pleased she could speak out.

  “Now, let’s go to the day after Thanksgiving, 1958. Did you again help treat María Curry at the hospital?” Michael said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you describe her injuries?”

  Jane Farrow glanced at the records from that visit, but again remembered the woman.

  “She came in with a broken left arm.”

  “Any unusual bruising, Mrs. Farrow?”

  “Yes, there appeared to be handprint-shaped bruises above and below the break.”

  “Did María Curry say how her arm had been broken?”

  “She told me it was an accident. That she had slipped down some stairs.”

  “On those two occasions when you treated her, did you believe María when she said she had fallen?”

  “No, sir. It looked like she had been beaten, and badly.”

  Michael surveyed the faces of the female jurors and was gratified to see doubt pass across them.

  “Objection. Conjecture,” Brennan said.

  “Overruled,” the judge pronounced.

  Michael went on. “Lastly, Mrs. Farrow, let’s discuss the night of August 18th, when María Curry was again treated at the hospital. Please describe her wounds.”

  In a town where most victims’ injuries were from car cras
hes, industrial accidents and sometimes knife fights, Jane Farrow had been stunned by all the blood covering María Curry. When the police brought her in, she didn’t even recognize her as the same person she had previously treated. Only when Jane began cleaning off the blood did she realize this was the same woman.

  “Mrs. Curry suffered a four-inch cut on the left side of the head, and her nose had been bloodied. She also had blackened eyes and bruises to her torso. There were also bruises around her neck, as if she had been choked.”

  “Objection, speculation.” Brennan said.

  “Overruled,” Hower said.

  Michael removed two photos from under his notes. “I would like to enter these as evidence, marked Defense Exhibits Nos. 16 and 17.” He displayed ten-by-twelve-inch black and-white blowups of the front and side mug shots taken by the Borden police on the night María was arrested. After all the testimony about how María had been hurt by Ben, the panel hadn’t really seen a clear image of the damage to her. In the photo, both of María’s eyes were blacked and puffy. The wound on her head was stitched and angry looking, and clear handprints appeared on both sides of her neck. Her dress was ripped and black with blood. Since Brennan’s photos of the deceased Ben Curry had been allowed, Michael didn’t expect an objection from the county attorney, and he was right. Brennan remained silent.

  Michael handed one of the prints to the bailiff for the jury. The other one, he gave to the nurse. “Mrs. Farrow, was this what María Curry looked like on August 18th?”

  “No, sir.”

  Michael stiffened with doubt. “What?”

  “When I saw her, Mr. Shaw, she was covered in blood, literally from head to foot.”

  “Thank you, that’s all,” said Michael, who wanted to kiss Jane Farrow.

  “Mr. Brennan,” the judge said, but the prosecutor already was walking toward the witness stand.

  “Didn’t you also treat Ben Curry for an injury?” He handed her another record.

  The paper work prompted the nurse’s memory. She recalled a belligerent man who smelled like an old brewery and swore at her and the doctors as they were trying to help him.

  “Yes, sir. He had a three-inch gash near the middle of his scalp and required several stitches.”

  “Did he say how he got that wound?” Brennan said.

  “He said his wife smacked him with a frying pan.”

  “You said you speak Spanish. The night of August 18th, did you ask María Curry what happened?”

  Jane Farrow bowed her head slightly. “Yes, sir.”

  “What did the defendant say?”

  “She said her husband was going to kill her, but she killed him first.”

  “No more questions,” Brennan said.

  “Redirect?” Judge Hower asked Michael.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied and stood up. “When María told you she had killed her husband, was she happy about it?”

  “No, sir. She was crying and hysterical.”

  “Mrs. Farrow, why did you come today to testify for the defense?”

  The nurse appeared a bit bewildered at the question. “You asked me to, sir?”

  Michael smiled. “So I did. But I didn’t have to threaten you with a subpoena, did I?”

  “No.”

  “Then why? Surely you are a busy woman.”

  “It was my duty to tell what happened to the patient.”

  “What do you mean, ‘duty’?” Michael said as those green eyes widened.

  “I’m not sure how to explain it, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Just try your best.”

  “Well, if I didn’t come here to tell you what I had seen, then it would be like María Curry had never been hurt. And she was.” Jane Farrow had never been so sure of anything.

  34

  MICHAEL TOOK IN A MOUTHFUL OF AIR. He wasn’t quite sure how his request was going to go over. He already had been held in contempt and didn’t want to chance another citation. “Your Honor, before the jury returns, the defense has a request that may sound unusual, but we believe it will help these proceedings.”

  Judge Hower’s eyes compressed to slots. “I can hardly wait to hear it.”

  “Mrs. Curry is a very frightened woman, and she needs a little help getting through her testimony today. So we request she be allowed to testify with her little dog sitting on the floor beside her.”

  Judge Hower shifted his jaw. “You did say a dog?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “That’s what I thought you said.”

  “The jurors will never know the animal is there. The dog is well behaved and will put my client at ease so she can concentrate on her testimony. If she becomes too emotional or overwrought, we may be forced to stop and start the hearing.”

  Judge Hower leaned over the bench. “Mr. Shaw, we’ve heard almost everything in this courtroom, but this certainly takes the cake. This in fact may go down in the annals of Mitchell County jurisprudence.”

  “I certainly hope so, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Brennan, your comments.”

  Brennan took a spot beside Michael in front of the bench. “We object vigorously. Mr. Shaw is hoping to tug at the heart strings of the jurors. He’ll be asking for violins next. Worse, allowing a dog will insult the dignity of your courtroom.”

  “The dog is very small, and we’re talking about extending my client every right to which she is entitled, although it may not include a dog to help calm her. María Curry faces long-term incarceration or even a death sentence. We must allow her every opportunity to tell her side of the story.”

  Judge Hower leaned back in his chair. For most of the proceedings the defendant had been apprehensive and edging near hysterics. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Shaw, I will allow the dog in this courtroom, but if I hear so much as a whimper or yap, or if the animal so much as scratches his ear, you know very well who’ll be in the doghouse.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  “We’ll take a fifteen-minute break. When we come back in session, have your client and the interpreter take the stand, bring in the dog, and then we’ll bring in the jury.” The judge rose and exited the courtroom, mumbling, “A goddamn dog. What’d you know?”

  Toni hugged María but still prayed for all of them to get through this day. Ever since the brick had smashed through her window, her stomach burned and the whole world felt off-balance. Maintaining the vandalism lie to her father dismayed her. One more lie on top of so many others, and she feared the weight of them toppling her over.

  Toni poured water from the pitcher and drank.

  María’s eyes followed her friend. “How are you today?”

  “I’m fine. Are you ready?”

  “I’m not sure I can go up there. I’m so frightened. My heart is banging in my chest. Can you see it?”

  “Don’t worry, Oscar and I will be right beside you.”

  Michael walked in the door and smiled at them. He placed his large hand on María’s shoulder. “It’s time.”

  Nodding at Toni’s translation, María wanted to escape through the doors. No matter if the deputies took aim at her back with their big guns. Maybe today was going to be her real punishment—confessing, not to a priest, but to strangers with darkness in their eyes.

  Bailiff George Roy carried Oscar in. When the dog spotted María, he jumped out of George’s arms and ran around the witness stand trying to reach her. Finding no other way, the dog bounced onto the lap of hefty female court reporter, who cried out as Oscar bounded from there into María’s arms. María kissed the dog, placed Oscar on the floor beside her and told him to lie down. Toni moved a chair next to María.

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Michael said.

  Judge Hower only rolled his eyes at the scene. “Bring in the jury.”

  The bailiff opened the door to the jury room and shouted, “All rise,” as the panel shuffled in.

  “Swear in the interpreter, then the witness,” Judge Hower directed.

  George Roy took a worn Bible over to
Toni. “Do you solemnly swear to accurately interpret the testimony you hear today, so help you God?”

  “I do.”

  George held out the Bible to María. “Do you solemnly swear the testimony you give here today will be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  María bent her head a little to listen to Toni’s translation.

  “Sí. Yes,” she said.

  Oscar placed his head on her right shoe and closed his eyes. María sighed.

  “María, tell us about your life with Ben Curry. Were you and he happy?” Michael began his questioning.

  “For many days we were, Mr. Shaw.” Toni translated for María. “When Ben had a job, he was a contented man. I used to travel around with him to his construction jobs.”

  “When did you settle in Borden?”

  “Eight years ago.”

  “Did your husband get drunk over the years you were married?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “Every weekend. He said he liked the taste of beer better than anything in the world.”

  Judge Hower’s glare quelled a flicker of laughter from a few people watching the trial.

  Michael cleared his throat and then continued. “Did he drink more after his injury at the construction site?”

  María nodded. “Yes, sir. But he told me he had to get drunk because his back hurt him. He was in much pain.”

  Despite how Ben had treated her through the last years, she often was sorry for him. How he would double up and moan or lay flat on the floor because any movement caused him agony. When she saw that, her own injuries felt small. Beer made him feel better, but it also drew out the meaner version of her husband. At times, she’d watch him as if he had become a stranger who lived with her.

  “After your husband was fired from the construction job by Clarence Whitfield, did he find another steady job?”

  “No, Mr. Shaw. He worked a lot of jobs.”

  “Like what?”

  “He was a night watchman and a mechanic and a janitor at a few places. He always wanted to work, Mr. Shaw. He was a proud man.”

  “Did he keep those jobs for long?”