Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

  Michael held onto the rail enclosing the jury box. “And wouldn’t any one of you do the same in such a situation? If someone had battered and knocked you down and finally started squeezing the life right out of you, would you just lay back and die? I think not. You would protect yourself. You would have the right to defend yourself. And that’s what María did. She wasn’t trying to kill. She was trying not to be killed.”

  Michael paused, his voice ragged with emotion. He held onto the jury box, hoping to send his certainty through the wood to the jurors. “María took her husband’s life, but there is no integrity in taking hers or in putting her in prison for life. She’s lived with injustice for so many years. Please, please, do justice by her now.”

  Several minutes before Michael finished his summation, Jenny had left the courtroom. She had seen more than she wanted. The young Mexican woman watched her husband with the eyes of a lover.

  41

  ON A NAPKIN, Cyrus Graham wiped chicken grease off his fingers and called for another count. The postman had been elected foreman after telling the others he was an Elk and Mason and knew how to run a meeting. Besides, he was the only person who wanted the job.

  When the judge first handed the jurors the case for deliberation, they held a count. Nine for guilty and three not guilty on the first-degree charge. After four hours of discussion and reviewing the evidence, they conducted another count. Now eight for guilty, four for not guilty. They had broken for a chicken dinner, which was sent into the jury room. They did agree, the more quickly they reached a verdict, the sooner they’d all go home. But the arguments again went round like a wheel.

  While eating their fried chicken meal, they talked of death.

  “She confessed, and her prints were the only ones on that knife.” Graham picked up a wing.

  “I know she did, but she was afraid her husband was going to kill her. If a big man came after me, I’d defend myself,” said Lucille Cunningham, a spindly schoolteacher who spooned out more coleslaw.

  The not-guilty holdouts included one man, Joshua Kinney, which surprised Graham.

  “That fatal wound really bothers me. Even if she had wanted to, I don’t think she could have aimed the knife right at his heart.” Kinney shyly took another chicken breast. “To me that says she had no intention of killing the man. She only lashed out trying to fend him off.”

  Roxy Barton, a young, antsy woman who worked at Pete’s, shook salt on her potatoes. “Yes, but she wanted him dead, and she stabbed him something like four or five times. That’s premedication.”

  “Premeditation,” Graham corrected her.

  “Well, she knew she wanted to kill him.” She stuffed a spoonful in her mouth.

  “But those awful beatings,” answered Georgia Fletcher, a housewife. “She lived in fear, like Mr. Shaw said.”

  “She sure was handy with that frying pan,” Graham added. “Mexicans do have tempers, and she sure bared hers.”

  “That’s hooey.” Kinney pushed his half-eaten plate aside. “All I know is this: if we send her to prison or set her free, a man is dead. No matter which way we decide, there’s nothing here but losers.”

  The jurors all chewed, digesting more than chicken.

  Slap. Slap. Slap.

  Oscar ran with the red ball so fast, his small legs were a furry blur. María threw the ball on the floor. Oscar caught it on the rebound and put it on her lap. “I missed you, my Oscar.” She threw him a bit of hot dog that Toni had brought.

  Panting madly, Oscar bounced for another chance at the ball.

  Toni leaned against the wall. The room where she and María waited on the third floor of the courthouse had no window and was stuffy, even though it was larger than the one where they usually met in the jail. While they waited, Toni talked to María about what she had planned for her when the jury set her free. First, dinner with her father, Carmen and Víctor so María could understand family meant calm evenings and laughter. She had also invited María to live with her in the small house. Toni tried to sound optimistic, but her head ached. Standing on the other side of the door was the man who would have raped her if she hadn’t bitten him. More troubling was the uncertainty over María’s fate.

  “You can have a good life with us,” Toni said.

  “We’ll see, Antonia,” María replied as if talking to a child.

  “Okay. We’ll see.”

  Toni’s hands gripped together so tightly her nails bit into flesh as she pleaded to God, This woman has suffered in a world full of suffering. Help her.

  “Mr. Shaw, you okay?” Pete leaned over the table. “You’re pale as a dry creek, man. You could use some of my biscuits.”

  “I’m waiting for a verdict. We’re talking life and death here, so I’m nervous as hell.”

  “I’ll bet. I don’t want your job.”

  “At times like these, I don’t want it either.”

  “We could use another cook.”

  Michael laughed. “If I cooked, you’d have plenty of lawsuits on your hands.”

  Mrs. Pete came out with two paper bags.

  “There you go, Mr. Shaw. Three coffees and three chicken dinners.”

  “Thanks.” He pulled out money and took the bags.

  “Good luck, Mr. Shaw,” Pete called. “Don’t forget about that cook’s job.”

  “I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

  Michael hurried to the courthouse, which had cleared for the lunch hour. He could have had the food delivered to Toni and María in the courthouse and worked on the new case on his desk back at the bank office. But he wanted to be near Toni, even if she barely spoke to him. He was most hurt by her eyes, which had darkened with contempt.

  If the jury didn’t reach a decision by the evening, Michael knew the judge would sequester them for the night in a hotel by the state highway. But the judge also hated to spend money, so he’d give the jurors every opportunity to come up with a verdict. Michael tripped on the top step to the courthouse. Once they made the decision, he’d never see Toni again.

  “Mike,” Adam called to Michael.

  Since their scuffle at the bar, Michael had avoided Adam. Their meeting, however, was unavoidable. The courthouse was a small place.

  Adam scratched his cheek. “I sat in on the trial here and there. You did a good job.”

  “We’ll see how good.” Michael held up the bags. “I’ve got food, I better be off.”

  “Right. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  “Sure.” Michael took a few steps.

  Adam’s large face softened to butter. “I’m sorry about what I said. I don’t even know why. I can be a fucking asshole sometimes.”

  “You won’t get an argument from me.”

  “You got guts, Mikey. That’s all I can say.”

  “I got nothing.” He walked off.

  As the hours continued, Michael swore he saw the rolls harden from their half-eaten dinners. María played with her scrubby dog, tossing the sticky ball to Oscar over and over. Toni glanced up from her book, but not at him. She occasionally took Oscar outside to pee. Michael sipped at lukewarm coffee and tried to read notes on another divorce case, which had become as rote as the multiplication table. His eyes couldn’t hold onto two words in a row. There was a sudden rap on the door, and he spilled his coffee.

  “Son of a bitch.” He wiped drops off his tie. He looked at his watch. Six fifteen.

  George Roy stuck his head in the door. “Mr. Shaw, the jury’s coming back.”

  Herb Bell waited at the door. María kissed the dog and gave him to Michael, who handed him off to a clerk he had paid to watch the dog that day.

  As Herb Bell led María away, he peeked back to see if Shaw and the young Mexican woman would keep their hands off each other. Although he was still angry about the bite on his hand, he grinned at their distance. Mr. Shaw gathered his papers. The woman picked up a book and her purse. Their mouths were both pinned down by unhappiness. Content he had done his duty, Bell left with María.

/>   As they were going out the door, Toni stopped, and Michael bumped into her. She turned to face him. “Michael.” Her voice was as intimate as their nights together. “No matter what happens now, you should be proud of what you did for María. Never forget that.”

  She rushed out before he could speak. Michael picked up his briefcase and slowly shut the door behind him.

  42

  THE TRIAL HAD MADE PAGE ONE for the first week, but in the proceeding days, the editor relegated the coverage to the inside pages of the local section. Reporter Kent Wyman enjoyed the prospect that any verdict would land him on page A-1 again. He sketched the face of smiling woman on one side of his pad and a woman hanging from a tree on another. Murder trials sold newspapers, like other crimes and tax hikes. This trial had started slowly but turned spicy with the defendant’s stories of beatings and all. Readers loved details of someone else’s misery so they could feel better about their own lives.

  “All rise,” the bailiff’s voice boomed.

  Judge Hower took five large steps into the room and ascended to the bench. “We’re back in session in the case of the State of Arizona versus María Curry. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

  Foreman Cyrus Graham stood. “We have.”

  Holding out his hand, Judge Hower waited for George Roy to retrieve the written verdict from Graham. The judge read the paper and handed it back to the bailiff.

  Each action tapped along Toni’s spine.

  “The defendant will please rise and face the jury,” the judge said.

  Toni whispered to María, who stood straight. They held hands. Michael rose. His knees had the consistency of apple butter.

  Graham had memorized his speech. “We, the jury, find María Curry guilty of first-degree murder.”

  María didn’t need a translation. A tear slid down Toni’s cheek as María gripped her hand more tightly. Michael’s mouth warped with disbelief. He put his hand on the table to steady himself.

  Judge Hower tapped his gavel to hush up the people in the gallery, whose murmurs were split between agreement and disagreement. He peeked over his glasses at the defense table.

  “María Curry, you are judged guilty of murder in the first degree. Do you have anything to say before sentence is pronounced?”

  “I am sorry for what I did. I have made peace with God and asked forgiveness for my sin.” Although María spoke true, Toni translated in a shaking voice.

  “Very well. I don’t believe hanging is warranted. You have no prior criminal convictions and were the victim of many crimes committed against you. In the end, however, you became the criminal by killing Ben Curry, and in a most brutal way. Therefore, I sentence you to life behind bars. You shall be transported immediately to the women’s state correctional institution.”

  María watched the judge’s eyes, which were lifeless as the wood in the room. She didn’t react as Toni translated in a quivering voice.

  Judge Hower turned to the jury. “You are dismissed with the thanks of the court.”

  “All rise,” the bailiff shouted.

  The courtroom cleared. Wyman readied his pencil and paper to catch a printable quote. Emotions were hottest right after a verdict. “Mr. Shaw, any comment?”

  “No.”

  “Plan to appeal?”

  “Get out of my face. And you can fucking quote me.”

  Wyman quit writing. With a shrug, he switched his attention to Brennan.

  “The jury and judge served justice today.” Brennan used his best voice. “The verdict confirms the fact no one is above the law. Murder is murder, no matter the motive.”

  At the verdict, the county attorney had maintained a professional face and promised to save his smile for a more private time, along with a cocktail. Joe Brennan had finally bested the great Michael Shaw, who appeared ready to topple over. Not one person congratulated the county attorney as he gathered his files and walked out of the courtroom, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind at all.

  Deputy Herb Bell did not conceal his pleasure when the verdict was read and grinned so hard his mouth muscles protested. He put on his deputy’s somber face when he fetched the murderer. “She’s got to go, Mr. Shaw.”

  Michael motioned for him to stay back.

  María kissed Toni’s cheek. “Antonia, you keep Oscar. He likes you, and I’ll be happy knowing he’s with you.”

  “I’ll come see you. I promise, María.”

  Michael put his hand on María’s shoulder. Underneath her fragility was the stamina of a survivor. Hell, she had lived all those years with Ben Curry. “Toni, please tell her we’ll appeal this to a higher court. We can beat this sentence and probably get her a new trial. I know I can win it for her.”

  Michael added, “María, they only convicted you because Ben was white and you’re Mexican.”

  As Toni interpreted his words, María shook her head and said something in Spanish.

  “María says not to bother. Nothing will change. It’s all she can expect from life.”

  María took Michael’s hand in both of hers. “Thank you, Mr. Shaw, for your kindness to me. God bless you.” Her English was as halting as it was endearing.

  The deputy took María away. Toni watched her friend go. Nothing will change, María had said. The veracity of it spread in her. She left without a word to Michael.

  After Toni had gone, Michael sat in María’s chair and prepared to serve his own sentence.

  43

  WHILE JIM, THE COOK, dished out stuffing, Josita put another sprig of parsley alongside the huge turkey she had prepared to serve to the Shaw family.

  “This bird could serve ten people with enough left over for turkey enchiladas. And Mr. Martin hates leftovers,” she said.

  “White people waste everything. Food, money, their lives. They must think they get more when they die.” Pablo leaned against a broom.

  Jim laughed. “You said a mouthful, boy.”

  “Besides, what’ve they got to be thankful for? They got it all.”

  “You sound jealous, Pablo,” Michelle said as she cut the pumpkin pie.

  “Not me. I’m thankful for what I can get. I’d be thankful for a date, Michelle.”

  “Then you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Josita, when are you celebrating Thanksgiving?” Jim asked.

  “Tomorrow. My daughter and her husband and children came in from San Antonio. They can’t be here for Christmas, so this will be our big celebration.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, me and the wife will go out to eat.”

  Josita lifted the platter. “No, you aren’t. You and your wife are coming to my house. We have plenty. No one should be without family.”

  The cook blinked. “I’d like that.”

  “I better get this turkey in there, or we’ll all be looking for another job.”

  “That’s something to be thankful for,” Jim said.

  Martin bowed his head over the turkey and glanced up at Michael. “You say the prayer, son.” The request was really a command.

  “Dear Lord, thank you for all the bounty before us and our family. Amen.” The hypocrisy tasted like burnt yams in his mouth.

  “How eloquent,” Melody scoffed.

  Michael unfolded his napkin. “You know us Shaw men. We have a way with words.”

  Through the first and second courses, Jenny chatted about their new house. Melody suggested a decorator. Martin talked about the pride of ownership, while Michael asked Josita for an aspirin. Jenny was driving him insane. He had told her he’d never step foot in the house until she had all that pink painted over. She pouted for a full week but finally relented. She was so pleased with the house, she hadn’t protested when he asked for a separate bedroom.

  “Going through the motions,” Michael said out loud.

  “What?” Jenny’s fork was poised with turkey.

  “I said, ‘Gravy for the turkey.’”r />
  The chat stayed small through the pumpkin pie, until Martin shoved away his dish. He stirred cream into his coffee with his spoon, tapping the side as if calling court to order. “Michael, Elias Smith is retiring from the state senate after this session.”

  “I heard,” Michael answered flatly.

  “The boys at the central committee mentioned you. They said, ‘Michael Shaw will be a great candidate.’ They could see your name on the ballot.”

  “That’s better than on a wanted poster.”

  “A legislative stint is only a hop away from the governorship. This is even a better opportunity than a judicial post.”

  As much as she would hate to leave her new house, Jenny smiled at the image of herself in the governor’s mansion. “Martin, why didn’t you ever run for public office? I’m sure lots of people must have wanted you to.”

  Michael perked up at last. “That’s a very good question.”

  Annoyance floated briefly across Martin’s face. “My talents were more valuable behind the scenes.”

  “Like giving candidates money and direction?” Michael said.

  “I meant strategies. Sometimes, politicians get lost in all that power and need to be reminded of why they were elected. Consider the possibility, Michael.”

  “If I must.”

  After dinner, Jenny and Melody went to the dayroom to discuss curtains and carpets for the new house. Martin went to his study. Michael sat alone at the table, staring at his half-eaten pie. Suddenly, Josita stood beside him. He hadn’t heard her enter the room.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Michael, can we start to clean up now?”

  “What? Sure.”

  Michael watched her gather the dishes and place them on a large tray. He started to help.

  Confusion slowed Josita. “Mr. Michael, I can handle this.”

  Michael laughed. “I know you can. You’ve handled everything else in this house for years.”

  Her gold tooth shone in her smile. “Yes, sir, I have.”

  “Josita, you have five children, right?”

  “You remembered. They’re all grown up now.”