Hard Twisted

by C. Joseph Greaves

  A deputy leaned on the fender. He folded his newspaper and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Then he opened the rear door and eased her inside with a hand pressed to the crown of her head.

  Where we goin? she asked as the engine started, but the man did not answer.

  They drove past planted fields and running creeks and trees that dappled the windscreen. The day was sunny and warm and farmers were in the fields and trucks and other cars on the road. At a crossroads in Commerce, the deputy honked and waved to a filling-station attendant, who raised a hand in reply.

  The ride took almost an hour, and the driver never spoke.

  The Hunt County courthouse filled an entire city block. On the sidewalk, heads turned to watch as the handcuffed girl in the blanket and slippers clap-clapped her way up the wide concrete steps. Once inside, Lottie was taken to an office where sheriff’s deputies in green uniforms were waiting, and where the driver removed her handcuffs, and where another deputy replaced them with handcuffs of his own.

  Watch she don’t slip through them bars, the driver said as he left.

  They sat her in a chair by the door. A deputy spoke on the telephone and a typist glanced at her and smiled. Soon a uniformed matron appeared, and documents were exchanged, and together the matron and the girl rode the elevator up to the fifth floor where the women’s cells were located.

  It was the first time Lottie had ever been inside an elevator.

  The cell doors in Greenville were open bars, and she could see the other prisoners in their street clothes pacing or sitting or lying on their cots. The corridor smelled of cigarette smoke and shit and perfume, and when they passed the cell of Helen Smith, the redhead sprang to her feet.

  Lucile! Hey, it’s me! Hey!

  The girl continued shouting, but her voice was drowned by a chorus of other voices that told her to shut up or said Fuck you and Stupid white whore.

  Lottie’s cell was at the end of the row, and through her window bars she could see the street below, and the rooftops of the brick buildings opposite, and the green expanse of trees and fields that stretched for miles beyond the city limit. After nightfall, when the outer dark was absolute, the lights went off in the cellblock and the women called to one another and called to her by name, saying, Lucile! Oh, Lu-ceel! but she did not answer them.

  The day after Lottie’s arrival in Greenville the matron brought to her cell her old boots and her old clothes newly laundered and folded and stayed to watch her dress. She was then led without handcuffs down the corridor and through an iron gate to a stairwell, and from there down a wide hallway to a conference room on the third floor where she sat alone listening to the sounds of people milling in the hallway. Some of them laughing. A child crying. And then, after almost an hour of waiting, the door finally opened and two men entered.

  One was a lawman in a crisp green uniform with stars on his collar and a gun holstered low on his hip. The other was a lawyer in a vested suit and rimless wire spectacles. They each carried cups of heavy ceramic, and the man in the suit had an extra cup for her.

  Miss Garrett? How do you do. I’m Henry Pharr, and this is Sheriff Newton. I hope you take it black.

  They sat on either side of where she stood at the head of the table. The sheriff removed his hat and set it on the table and blew into his coffee. Your show, he said to the lawyer as Lottie sank into her seat. The lawyer showed his teeth.

  Miss Garrett, I don’t know how much you’ve been told, so let me take a moment to bring you up to speed. Our trial is scheduled to start on Tuesday. That’s April the ninth. Mr. Palmer’s lawyers have filed a motion for a continuance and a motion to quash the indictment, but I expect those to be denied. That means with any luck we should have you on the witness stand by Thursday afternoon. Friday morning at the latest. How does that sound to you?

  Lottie blinked.

  I’ve read your witness statements and I’ve spoken with Bill Fannin at some length, and I want you to know right up front that we understand the predicament you were in, and that nobody here blames you for what happened to your father or for any of that business up in Utah. As far as we’re concerned, you were just as much a victim of Mr. Palmer as any of them. You believe me, don’t you?

  Yes, sir. She nodded. Thank you.

  Excellent. Now Mr. Palmer has already confessed to the two murders he committed up in Utah, but none of that matters here in Texas. If we’re to win a conviction here, we’ll need your full and complete cooperation. You understand that, don’t you?

  The sheriff leaned sideways. The man asked you a question.

  What do you want me to do?

  The lawyer smiled again. It’s very simple, Lucile. Just tell the jurors exactly what you’ve already sworn to in your statements.

  Can’t you just read ’em the statements?

  I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You see, your statements are what we call hearsay evidence. They can only be used for impeachment purposes.

  Sir?

  Impeachment. So for example, if you were to lie or to change your testimony, then I could use your statement to show that you lied. But that would be foolish, because lying to the court is a crime. In fact, it’s just about the stupidest crime a witness can commit. You understand that, don’t you?

  Yes, sir.

  All right then.

  Will Clint be there at the trial?

  Yes, he will. He’ll be seated at the defense table with his lawyers. But don’t worry, you don’t have to look at him. In fact, I’d prefer that you don’t.

  So what do you want me to say?

  Let’s don’t worry about that just now. We’ll have a chance to go over all of this again before you actually testify. But there’s one thing we need you to do for us first. And by that I mean today. Right now in fact.

  What is it?

  The lawyer glanced at the sheriff as he sipped from his cup.

  Without getting overly complicated, it will be the state’s burden to prove that Mr. Palmer was the killer. But before we can even get to that, it’s also the state’s burden to show that your father, Dillard Garrett, was the victim. We expect the defense to challenge that fact by arguing that the skeleton that was found up in Peerless wasn’t your father’s at all. Or at least that we can’t prove it was your father’s beyond a reasonable doubt. They may try to claim that your father is still alive, for example, and that the skeleton belongs to somebody else altogether. Do you understand what I’m getting at?

  I guess.

  Good. Very good. Now, what we’d like to do today is to take you downstairs and show you the skeleton. I know that may be difficult for you, but I’m afraid we have no alternative. We’ve got a doctor from Baylor College who’s an expert in these things, but all he can say for sure is that the skeleton belongs to a male of a certain age and height, and that the head was decapitated while the victim was still alive.

  The girl blanched. The men shared another glance.

  I’m sorry, Lucile. I thought they told you.

  They waited, both watching the girl.

  Are you okay?

  I guess I never thought about it is all. How he done it.

  That’s all right. The lawyer checked his watch. You just take your time. But if you’re up to it, we’d like to go downstairs right now. Is that all right with you?

  The matron was waiting outside the door. The two men flanked Lottie as they walked, with the matron following behind them. Heads turned in the hallway and on the staircase. An attendant rose from his stool as they reached the basement landing, and a windowless door was opened with a key on a chain. The matron and the attendant waited outside.

  The sheriff threw the lights. The room was a kind of storeroom, with a low, raftered ceiling and shelving on the walls and in stacks that ran in long and ordered rows. It smelled of dust, and mildew, and old cardboard.

  They threaded their way toward the back, to where a table lay covered in a thin white sheet, the caged bulb overhead imparting a topographic grid ont
o the contours of what lay beneath it.

  The men did not speak as they flanked the table, each taking a corner. Then the lawyer nodded and they lifted the shroud and walked it to where the girl stood waiting at the foot of the table.

  What she’d expected to see was a Halloween skeleton of clean white bones and hollow eyes and clenched and grinning teeth. What she saw instead beneath the shroud was the kind of jumbled game skeleton she might have found in the spring woods of her childhood, the kind with clumps of hair and naked tendons and brown and shrunken hide that clung yet to the twisted bones like something melted in a fire.

  She vomited onto her boots. Her knees sagged, and the lawyer’s arm was around her and helping her to a chair, where she sat with her head lowered and where the smell of her own sickness caused her to heave and vomit once again.

  Christ almighty, she heard the sheriff say.

  The lawyer eased her upward from the chair. They walked together, to the open doorway where the matron stood frowning, and where the sheriff soon returned with a thin Negro woman, and behind them both the attendant bearing a mop and heavy pail.

  We’ll wait out here, the sheriff told them.

  Lottie breathed the courthouse air that smelled of floor wax and polished brass. She leaned over double with her hands on her knees. Papers lifted from a bulletin board as a door opened somewhere down the hall. The fresh air helped to revive her.

  I’m sorry, she finally said.

  That’s all right. We should have warned you.

  When the two inside at last emerged, the Negro woman stopped and bent and swiped at Lottie’s boots with a rag.

  There you go, chile, she said. You all better now.

  When they reentered the storeroom, the dust and cardboard smell had been supplanted by the ketone scent of disinfectant, and at the long table in back, the light shone brightly on the newly wetted floor. They stopped and waited a moment, and then when Lottie had breathed and nodded, they stepped forward and assumed their places as before.

  I’m afraid the clothes are missing, the lawyer said. Burned, we suspect.

  She nodded.

  Did your father have any distinguishing features that might still be evident? A tattoo, maybe? Or a broken bone?

  His finger. Lottie pointed. His pinkie finger was all broke and crooked.

  Both men leaned closer to inspect the ivory pegs of metacarpal and phalanx that formed the skeletal hand. They raised their faces in unison.

  Bingo, said the sheriff.

  She attended the prison chapel service on the Sunday morning next, held in what appeared to be a cafeteria, a dozen or more folding chairs arrayed in rows with women on the left and men on the right and guards between them in the center aisle. The minister facing them all on a low wooden riser. He paired his hands and spoke to the prisoners of hope and redemption, and he read to them from Psalm 130:

  I trust in the Lord;

  my soul trusts in his Word.

  My soul waits for the Lord

  more than sentinels wait for the dawn.

  On Monday afternoon she was escorted to the visitors’ area, where she sat in a hard chair at a scarred wooden table and faced across a framed wire screen her uncle Mack, who rose at her entrance and who sat again and set his hat on his knee.

  Look at you, he said. All growed up and haired over.

  Tears ran hot on her cheek. She looked away, down the long table to where a young Negro man, the day’s other visitor, held an infant child aloft for its mother’s inspection.

  I knew I should of never let you go with him, her uncle said, fingering his hat. He was never cut out to be no father.

  It weren’t your fault.

  Hell.

  I’m the one’s to blame. I’m the one took up with that no-account—

  Hush. You just hush your pretty mouth.

  They watched together as the baby wriggled and drooled, the mother leaning forward with black and shining eyes.

  I’m goin to hell. I know that much at least.

  You are no such thing.

  I am. I know I am.

  Lucile, you listen to me. Your grandpa Garrett never had a day of school in his life, but I reckon he was just about the smartest man I ever knew. And he used to say that folks would do a lot more prayin could they find a soft spot for their knees.

  She wiped at her face with a sleeve.

  Have they said how long they’re gonna keep you here?

  She shrugged. I never did ask Mr. Pharr.

  Mr. Pharr. Her uncle shook his head. I don’t know about you, but Mr. Pharr strikes me as the kind of lawyer whose most important case is the next one.

  Sir?

  Never mind. I’ll talk to him myself. The way I see it, he’ll owe us both before this thing is over.

  Yes, sir. Thank you.

  Again they watched the baby.

  It don’t really matter, Lucile. You understand that, right?

  Sir?

  Even if that little bastard walks, they’ll just hang him up in Utah. Helpin to convict him here is the best thing you can do for yourself. And maybe for him too.

  She nodded.

  Right?

  They say I got to face him in the courtroom.

  Hell, that ain’t nothin. I’m guessin you’ve faced worse than that. A lot worse than that, thanks to him.

  She nodded.

  Come on, Lucile. Don’t you go weak north of the ears.

  She smiled. No, sir, I won’t.

  All right then. Meanwhile, is there anythin you need? Women’s things? They’s a drugstore just down the street.

  No, sir. They give me all of that for free.

  All right then. What’s still botherin you?

  She shrugged. I don’t know. Daddy’s Bible, I guess. I had it in the car when we got arrested. It was wrapped up in my bedroll. I’ll bet if you was to ask Mr. Pharr, he could get it for me.

  The baby had begun to squall. They watched as the matron came to shush it and the man jerked his arm and words were exchanged. Moments later, a guard stepped from the door behind the man, tapping a truncheon in his palm.

  Her uncle rose from his chair.

  Put not your trust in princes, he told her, donning and leveling his hat. I think you’ll find that writ somewheres in old Dillard’s Bible.

  She knew that the trial had begun by the hubbub in the street. Cars arrived and parked and then others double-parked. Horns honked. Pedestrians streamed from the train station and crowded the courthouse entrance and queued up in a line along the sidewalk. She saw the flash-pop of photography and heard the milling of the crowd. And in the afternoon, she watched the entire process play out again in reverse.

  The matron brought her a newspaper the next afternoon, the Greenville Morning Herald. The headline read 11 JURORS SECURED IN ‘SKELETON’ MURDER IN HOPKINS. She said it was from Mr. Pharr.

  Lottie sat on her cot and read. The article stated that the defense motions had all been denied, and that eleven of the twelve jurors had already been selected. It said that

  questions propounded by District Attorney Henry Pharr indicated that the State would demand the death penalty. The defense, on the other hand, will challenge the attempted identity of the skeleton found in an isolated spot last December as that of Dillard Garrett.

  The matron appeared again on Thursday morning, this time with an oblong box under her arm. She set it on the cot. Lottie opened the string and folded back the paper and held to her chin a long, blue dress with a ruffled collar.

  It’s from Mr. Pharr, the woman said. Wish he’d send one to me.

  She was led down the corridor to catcalls and wolf whistles from the cells of the other women. A crowd was waiting for her on the other side of the gate, and newsmen called to her by name in the stairwell amid jostling and shouting and a frenzied crush of bodies.

  She walked a narrow gauntlet in the third-floor hallway. A man lifted a child onto his shoulders. A woman reached a hand to touch the hem of Lottie’s dress.

>   Four men were waiting for her in the conference room. Henry Pharr rose from the head of the table as the door closed and the noise of the hallway died out behind her.

  Lucile. He crossed the room to take her hand. These are my colleagues Mr. Lowrie and Mr. Norwood. And you already know Mr. Fannin.

  The men all nodded as he led her to an empty chair. Pharr consulted his watch as he returned to the head of the table.

  We’ve only got a few minutes, so please listen carefully. When we leave here, you’ll go with Mr. Norwood. On his signal, you’ll walk into the courtroom from a side door and you’ll go straight to the witness stand. That’s the chair between the jury box and the judge’s bench. Remain standing to be sworn, and then sit down. I’ll take over from there. I’ll take you through your sworn statement, and all you have to do is answer my questions fully and truthfully. You think you can do that?

  She looked at the other faces.

  If you have any questions, now’s the time to ask them.

  Is it true Clint’s gonna hang?

  The lawyer chuckled. No, he won’t hang. That I can guarantee. If the jury returns a prison term, he’ll go to Huntsville. If the jury returns a death sentence, and if the verdict is upheld on appeal, then he’ll go to the electric chair. That’s a perfectly humane and painless way to die, I can assure you.

  She did not respond.

  What’s the matter?

  Nothin.

  Don’t be shy. Say what’s on your mind.

  It’s just that I was learned that only God says who should live and who should die.

  Pharr shifted in his seat. He glanced at the others. Well. If only Mr. Palmer had been so enlightened. Then we wouldn’t be here, would we?

  Wedding, said the man named Lowrie.

  Oh, yes. There will be a motion made by the defense to bar your testimony on the ground that you are the common-law wife of the defendant. In the state of Texas, a wife can’t give evidence against her husband. The judge will deny the motion, subject to what we call an offer of proof. So once you’re on the stand, I’ll ask you straight out whether you and Mr. Palmer were ever married. The answer is no, I hope.

  There were more chuckles around the table.