Mr. Whitney wouldn’t have been her first choice, but Janelle trusted the advice of Judge Rick Berry, who had recommended him. The judge, an old friend of her husband’s, said Mr. Whitney had a distinguished career as a prosecutor before going into private practice. A few years back, he’d won a number of difficult cases, including the conviction of a KKK member who murdered a black teen. That case alone gave her reason to hire him. Anyone who could convince a jury in south Mississippi to convict a Klansman must be a snake charmer or indebted to the devil himself. She didn’t care which as long as her granddaughter didn’t go to prison.
He thanked Janelle for allowing him to take the case, then settled into the legalities of Cissy’s situation and the next steps before them. Juvenile proceedings moved quickly, he said. Their first challenge would be convincing the judge Cissy shouldn’t be tried as an adult.
“Mrs. Clayton, I know you have some reservations. But Cissy’s best option is to be declared mentally ill and sent to a state hospital for observation.”
“I’ve wasted your time.” Janelle rose from her chair. He’d given her no indication of his expertise, and his appearance was far from professional. She’d wasted a morning.
“Mrs. Clayton, have I offended you?”
“Everything about this place offends me, Mr. Whitney,” she shot back at him. “You don’t exactly inspire confidence.”
“Then why are you here?” His face was blank, as if untroubled by her insult.
“Judge Berry said I should trust you. That you had what it’d take to make sure Cissy didn’t go to prison.”
“Would you like to call the judge right now? Tell him about your misgivings? I’m sure he could go into more detail about my record of success in the courtroom and put your mind at ease. As for my office, it’s what I can afford, and I’m usually in court or meeting with clients elsewhere anyway.”
Janelle sat back down, surprised at the sudden confidence in his words.
“Mr. Whitney, you can imagine what a difficult time this is for me and my family. I am unsure about everything right now. Forgive me. Let’s continue.”
They spoke for more than an hour. He asked the impossible of her—whether she thought Cissy would be better off at a psychiatric hospital for evaluation or at the Columbia Training School for Girls until the district attorney decided his next step. Judge Berry had mentioned the school’s reputation for discipline included rumors of abuse and neglect. He, like Mr. Whitney, advised her to think hard whether or not Cissy could handle that environment.
The day after the shooting, Janelle had spoken with the lawyer briefly on the phone. He’d arranged for a pediatrician from Mobile to drive up immediately and examine Cissy for physical signs of abuse. The clinical details confirmed the worst. Next, she’d meet with a psychiatrist who could testify as to her state of mind the day she shot Richard. Mr. Whitney wanted to hire a psychiatrist he knew in Baton Rouge, a man he trusted but one who’d stay impartial. He’d ask him to clear his schedule and make the three-hour drive the next day.
“Is that necessary? Isn’t there another way?”
“Ma’am, she killed her own daddy. The court’s gonna have to render some judgment. She can’t just go scot-free.”
He explained that in the best-case scenario, the judge would call for Cissy to be evaluated over a specific period of time at a psychiatric facility. After that, the district attorney would decide whether to prosecute or enter a plea agreement based on the findings from the evaluation.
“She could be prosecuted for murder?” Janelle asked.
“Unlikely. No DA in his right mind would want a case like this, considering the abuse she’s suffered. And she’s the granddaughter of one of the state’s most respected judges. She could go free after her stay at the hospital if we play our cards right. Our challenge is that the girl keeps saying she knew what she was doing.”
The magnitude of Cissy’s action hadn’t escaped Janelle, but that didn’t mean she liked the recommendations before her. The physical exam had proved too much for Cissy to bear. The doctor’s report said that Cissy had to be sedated; that she thrashed about, screaming at the top of her lungs for the doctor not to touch her. How much more could that child handle without her mind breaking in two? Cissy had already been at the jail three days. Although she appeared in good spirits, Janelle worried what horrors played out in Cissy’s mind when she was completely alone.
When Janelle asked if the public would be allowed in the courtroom, Mr. Whitney assured her the hearing would be closed except for those presenting testimony. There’d be no jury or trial if Cissy’s case remained in juvenile court. She closed her eyes, thankful her granddaughter might be spared a circus of media and Biloxi busybodies.
“Mr. Whitney, there’s one other thing. I’d like a judge to appoint me as Cissy’s temporary guardian,” she said. The idea had just occurred to her, but once it took hold, she wasn’t about to back down. Janelle didn’t trust her own daughter, whose own pain and loss were all-consuming.
“On what grounds? Her mama’s still in the picture,” he said.
“Neglect.”
In her conversation with Judge Berry, he’d said Caroline could be found negligent for not having protected Cissy from the assaults. Janelle dug deep within herself for some compassion for Caroline. She barely recognized her daughter in the woman so ravaged with pain. When they spoke briefly on the phone the day before and Caroline admitted she wanted Cissy in a correctional facility, it was the last straw. Janelle wouldn’t let Cissy be hurt any more than she’d already been. She would protect her at any cost and from anyone, including her own mother.
Mr. Whitney hemmed and hawed through an explanation of what that would entail, that courts almost always ruled in a parent’s favor.
“Just prepare the petition, Mr. Whitney. Remember you work for me,” Janelle said, getting up from the chair. “And by the way, should you need any information, you are to call me. Do not contact Cissy without my permission. I’ll be at the jail the rest of the afternoon, then at my home.”
She left Mr. Whitney standing with his sweating hand outstretched. She hoped she’d not made the biggest mistake of her life in trusting him.
* * *
The county held Cissy in a sparse ten-by-ten-foot room that looked nothing like a jail cell. There were no metal bars or cot with creaky springs, or even a lock on the door for that matter. She had a simple twin bed with an adequate mattress, a wooden desk and chair, and a stainless-steel toilet, sink, and shower behind a cement block partition. The room served double duty: the sheriff and his deputies used the room as a place to bunk down when working late shifts, and the county met the requirement to have a detention area set aside for juvenile offenders. Cissy was the first official detainee. Most offenses were so minor—vandalism, shoplifting—that children were released into the custody of their parents until a hearing could be held.
Sheriff Roe allowed Janelle to visit Cissy as often and for as long as she liked. She brought her granddaughter an extra quilt because she forever complained about being cold. She also brought her lunch and dinner each day, sometimes prepared by Ruth and other times picked up from C.J.’s Diner near the courthouse. The diner’s fried chicken and okra were voted best in the state, and Cissy requested those dishes more than any other.
Deputy Parks, the youngest of those on the day shift, brought her a donut and glass of milk each morning. Each time he’d bring a different variety, making a game of it by asking Cissy to guess maple or plain, chocolate with sprinkles or jelly-filled. That child would eat sweets three times a day if allowed.
Janelle believed Cissy liked the young man’s company, too. Fred Parks had kind eyes and spoke of things not associated with death or hearings or lawyers, like the new hunting pup he and his father were training, or the promotion he hoped to get by year’s end. Sometimes he’d stay a few extra minutes and read to her from the paper, even though she was capable of reading the day’s news all on her own. Janelle thought
he did it to spare Cissy from reading any articles about the killing.
This morning, shards of maple glaze rimmed the edges of her lips. “Grandmother, thank you for still loving me,” she said.
“That’s what kin do, child. No need to thank me.”
“Mama doesn’t love me anymore,” Cissy said in an even voice. “That’s okay, though. I knew things had to change between us.”
“Her grief prevents her from acting like a normal mother. You needn’t worry about anything or anyone but yourself.”
“I’m not worried,” Cissy said. “I know what I’ve done. I’m ready to go to prison now.”
Janelle shook her head at her granddaughter’s naïveté. Yes, she was correct to assume her mother would be devastated by her actions, but she had no idea what it would mean to be tried as an adult, to be housed in a Mississippi prison or a youth correctional facility. Janelle shuddered.
“You’re not going to prison, Cissy. I want no more talk like that.”
They sat in silence for a while as Cissy fingered the two library books Janelle had brought—The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Gulliver’s Travels. She’d looked for books to transport Cissy’s mind to faraway lands. Happy books; books for children.
To keep her hands busy, Janelle took a brush and worked it through Cissy’s tangled mane while she read. Sitting behind her, she took the errant strands and wove them in and around each other, forming tight braids against Cissy’s scalp. She didn’t complain once.
“Grandmother, thank you for believing me,” she said.
Janelle patted her shoulders, letting her hands rest there. She was ashamed she’d not paid more attention to her granddaughters. Why had it taken a tragedy like this? Even if she’d given up on her relationship with Caroline, she could have had a role in the girls’ lives. Maybe Janelle thought she couldn’t have one without the other. Had garden parties and library boards and attending functions with Beau really mattered more than her family? Cissy had made attempts to win her affection over the years: working on her manners, wearing dresses more often, learning about art and music that Janelle liked. Her absence from Cissy’s life meant no one had been there to recognize a cry for help. They’d spoken of her daddy’s actions just once and Janelle’s heart had fractured, never to be mended. Sitting there with her granddaughter, she feared coming undone.
“Do you think Lily and Jessie could visit me?” Cissy turned and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Soon,” she lied, holding her gaze.
“Good,” Cissy said, returning to the books. “Mama doesn’t like reading aloud to them. They’ll be sad.”
Janelle changed the subject to keep from breaking down completely. She’d managed to keep her emotions in check until late in the evenings when she was home with Ruth.
“I saw Mr. Whitney,” she said. “He’s busy working on your case. He’ll take good care of us.”
“That’s good, Grandmother,” she said. “It’d be nice if I didn’t have to meet with him anymore, though. It’s not that I don’t like him. It’s that I don’t yet know if I like him. He asks too many questions.”
When the three of them met earlier in the week, Cissy had said she shot her daddy to protect her baby sisters. Janelle hadn’t understood a love so boundless until her feelings for Cissy took hold. She’d do anything for her and knew Cissy had had no other choice the day she shot Richard. Janelle knew it in her gut. Nothing Caroline could say would change her mind.
“I’m sorry about the doctor’s exam, Cissy. I really am.” Janelle failed to keep her voice steady. “You won’t have to go through anything like that again.”
“Change the subject, please.” Cissy rose and paced about the cramped room, her eyes cast downward, her lips barely moving as she counted each tile and each step.
Over the years, she’d developed strange behaviors, like making lists in spiral-bound notebooks and playing these counting games, but Janelle still couldn’t get used to it.
“Cissy, please sit down and stop that infernal counting.”
“Fine. Then, let’s make a list of all the things we notice about this room.”
She’d forgotten to bring Cissy’s notebooks and disappointment furrowed the girl’s brow. “Let’s forget the lists for a while and just talk,” Janelle suggested.
“Grandmother, I like exercising my mind. List-making is a desirable habit. One, it’s orderly, and who doesn’t need a little order in their lives. And two, I’ll never forget things that are important to remember. Maybe one day when I’m old and my mind has gone, my notebooks will be good company.”
Caroline and Richard hadn’t minded Cissy’s lists so much, but her counting games troubled them. Counting, they’d said, made their daughter look feeble and would cause people to talk. Lily and Jessie loved the games, though. Cissy would set out to determine the exact number of steps between two places, and they’d follow behind, giggling and counting along—which usually messed her up and she’d have to start from scratch.
“I try to keep the counting to myself even though saying the numbers out loud helps the most.” Cissy continued pacing.
While Cissy counted in a soft whisper, Janelle did her best to explain in simple terms that Mr. Whitney would tell the judge she was not in her right mind when she killed her daddy. She’d have to talk to a psychiatrist who could confirm that to the court.
“I can’t lie, Grandmother.”
That Cissy could count and listen to Janelle at the same time surprised her.
“Child, we’re not asking you to lie. I just want you to be prepared. Mr. Whitney thinks it’s best you stay at a state hospital for a while instead of a correctional facility.”
“I knew exactly what I was doing.”
“Yes, that’s well and good. I’m trying to protect you, Cissy. The hospital is the best thing. They even have a ward for young women.”
Janelle explained the different alternatives the judge might recommend. She didn’t explain what could happen if the courts decided to try her as an adult.
“You need the judge to think I’m crazy so I can go to a hospital for people sick in the mind. Last time I was at the library, I saw a book about that kind of place. Called One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Mama said it was a book for adults only.”
Janelle grabbed Cissy’s hand to stop her from pacing and asked her to sit on the bed. They held hands for a few moments without speaking. Janelle’s apple-red manicured nails looked garish next to Cissy’s healthy pink unpolished ones, so she curled them into her palms.
After a while, Cissy brought her hand up to Janelle’s cheek and let it rest there. “Shooting Daddy wasn’t crazy, Grandmother.”
Janelle took Cissy’s hand and kissed her palm, remembering sixteen years ago when Caroline first brought home that skinny, long baby with the bright red tuft of hair. They’d all laughed that she’d be the spitting image of her father.
“I know, sweet child. I know.”
* * *
Back at home, Janelle was in the kitchen with Ruth, arguing over whether Ruth should bake Cissy a coconut cream or peach pie when they heard Caroline knocking on the screen door, shouting obscenities that echoed through the foyer. They almost collided in their foot race to reach the door. Janelle suspected Ruth wanted to spare her the verbal assault by reaching Caroline first.
“What in the goddamn hell do you think you’re doing?” Caroline shouted through the locked screen. “Open the door now!”
Her words shot through the wire mesh as she pulled at the handle. Janelle refused to unfasten the latch.
“I won’t talk to you at all, child, if you continue to use language like that around me and Ruth.”
Caroline paced to and fro. Her splotchy face bore no makeup, normally a cardinal sin for her daughter. When Janelle still refused to open the door, Caroline pulled out a pack of Salem Lights from her purse and lit one, blowing the smoke through the screen into her mother’s face.
“I’m ashamed of you, girl
,” Ruth called out from behind Janelle. “Your mama and daddy raised you better. I raised you better!”
Janelle held up her hand, signaling Ruth to be quiet. She told Caroline if she was going to smoke, then they’d sit outside on the porch. To exit, she had to push the screen door out, forcing Caroline to step backward. Agitated, Caroline took a long draw on her cigarette and rocked on her heels.
“How dare you try to gain custody of Cissy!” she howled.
“Please sit and we can talk.” Janelle motioned to the wicker rockers.
A stinging slap across Janelle’s face electrified her limbs. She wanted to knock the cigarette from Caroline’s angry mouth. Instead, they stood staring at each other in silence. Neither of them cried; perhaps there’d already been too many tears over things more painful than a slap.
“I’m willing to forgive a lot because you’re going through a horrific time, but if you ever strike me again, we will not speak from that day forward,” Janelle said, ignoring her own hypocrisy in striking her daughter the day of the shooting.
Caroline’s chest heaved. She dropped to her knees, arms outstretched feeling her way to the steps. Janelle knelt beside her daughter, pressing Caroline’s face to her chest. Her quaking body became slack in Janelle’s arms and she rocked her, telling her everything would be fine even though she knew no such thing. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d comforted her daughter.
Caroline’s sandy blond hair, slicked back in a tight ponytail, made her look fifteen years younger. Her small frame, clothed in clam diggers and a plain white tee, added to the illusion Janelle held a girl, not a woman.
“I’m not a bad mother.” She pressed her face into Janelle’s chest, and hot tears soaked the thin cotton blouse.
“No, you’re not. And Cissy’s not a bad girl.” Her words made Caroline cry harder.
“Then why are you trying to take her away from me?”
“It isn’t like that,” Janelle said. “You’re going through a lot of turmoil. Your feelings are rightly conflicted. Your husband is dead. Your daughter killed him. It makes things easier for an impartial party to make medical and legal decisions for the girl right now.”
Forgiveness Road Page 3