From the hall Earl could see Jorie using his mother’s necklace like a rosary. With each bead he said, “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at our hour of death.”
Earl stepped inside the cell. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Jorie put the beads in his pocket.
Earl picked up the spoon and stirred the contents in the untouched bowl. “Can’t say as I blame you — some sort of gruel out of ‘Hansel and Gretel’. He tried to break Jorie’s solemnity. “Who mixed up your poison today?”
“Yes.” Jorie stated.
“Yes, what?”
Jorie swallowed. “Haven’t you been trying to get me to say it? Don’t you want to know?”
Not now. Earl wanted time to freeze. But he could not stop the words coming from Jorie Radcliff’s mouth.
“I killed her. I took her to the forest to die.”
The long-awaited confession came with such sudden ease it was as though Earl had leaned hard against a door he didn’t expect to give, only to have it open easily causing him to lose his balance.
He let out a low moan. “You’re just imagining it, Jorie. You’re upset over all that’s happened, and you feel responsible.”
“I killed her.”
“You took her out on a day when there was going to be a blizzard. Bad judgment perhaps, but not murder.”
“On purpose.”
Earl was starting to sweat. He had to have time to think. Something that hadn’t fully registered when he first came in, took front and center now. He looked around the room. What was it?
“Where’s your bedsheet?”
Jorie didn’t answer.
“Come on — where is it?” Earl pushed Jorie aside, pulled the blankets back, discovered strips of cloth tied together, made into a noose.
He glanced at the steam pipes above. “What did you plan to do with this?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“What the hell for?” the sheriff yelled. “The sentence can’t be any more than Life!”
“That’s just it.”
“What in tarnation is that supposed to mean?”
“I committed murder. I can’t live with that.”
“Well, for now, you’ll have to.” Earl dug at his hand. “Listen, everything depends on the hearing this morning. If you stick to this story, they’re going to try you for sure, and if that happens you won’t have the chance of a fly in that spider’s web.”
The only response was a slight nod from Jorie.
Earl took a deep breath. The hearing was about to start. Maybe he could talk George into holding it without Jorie.
He bundled up the makeshift noose and stuffed it inside his coat. He was about to wake the jail keeper when he thought better of it; the less anybody knew about this, the better.
He locked the cell and ran up the stairs two at a time.
George McKinney was not in the building. Earl sat on the bench in the hall and looked at the big clock on the wall. Eight-thirty, too early. He waited several minutes, tried to calm himself. Suddenly he remembered the wad of cloth under his coat. What to do with it? He ran next door to his office, and stuffed the rags in his filing cabinet. Lockheed was there.
“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be over at the court for the hearing.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now, dammit.”
“Sorry, sir, I thought — “
“Never mind. Go.”
Incompetence, all around him. He missed old Flint, the best deputy he’d had. But Flint had gotten the French pox, necessitating early retirement.
By the time he got back to the court it was eight-forty-five. Would the judge never come? The itching was out of control. He blotted the blood on his hand from the scratching. He’d like to go outside and get some more snow, but he might miss the judge.
He wondered if there was anything else in the cell that Jorie could use to do himself in. Mentally, he made an inventory. No, he didn’t think so.
He heard footsteps on the stairs and waited anxiously. Buck Boyce approached him— the last person he wanted to see right now.
“Morning,” the prosecuting attorney said, seating himself beside Earl.
“Morning, Buck.” He hoped Boyce couldn’t see how anxious he was.
“Nice to see the sun, finally. Beautiful day.”
Was it? Earl hadn’t noticed.
Boyce was in a good mood. “Interesting little drama we have here. Yup, this case is shaping up nicely.”
“Depends on how things go today.”
“Not much question, it’ll go to trial.”
Earl was reminded of a passage from “Julius Caesar” he’d had to memorize in school. It seemed to apply here: ‘Yon Cassius hath a lean and hungry look.’
“Guess you’d like to see that happen.”
“Hey, you’re the one that started this. You going soft on me?”
“I don’t have a lot to go on, Buck. Do you?”
Buck stared at Earl in amazement. “Well, what the hell did you drag me into this for? I was counting on you—”
George McKinney strode down the hall and entered his private chambers.
Earl rose. “Always count your own chickens, Buck. Not somebody else’s.” He excused himself and tapped on the judge’s door.
“Come in, come in.”
The judge was lighting up his first cigar of the day. “No poker game, tonight, Foster. Got company.”
“That’s fine with me.” Earl didn’t waste any time. “Does the accused have to be present for the hearing, George?”
“You know he does.”
“Aren’t there any exceptions?”
“Not in my court. Why?”
Did he dare tell the judge?
Earl watched the ash grow on the judge’s cigar. He swallowed hard. No, he couldn’t tell anyone about the confession, or the diaries. If it was known what was in them, Jorie’s motive would be clear; he’d be tried for sure, and the outcome would serve no one.
“The kid’s real upset. He’s been throwing up.”
“Bring his chamber pot.”
Earl shook his head.
“Come on, Earl, you gotta do better than that.”
Earl asked again, “Does Jorie have to be present?”
“Yes, dammit.” The ash dropped on his desk. The judge swept it off with his hand. “Look, I don’t like this thing any better than you do. What have you got up your sleeve?”
“You don’t have to ask him anything, do you?”
Judge McKinney let out an exasperated sigh and spun in his swivel chair. His eyes narrowed, and by the look of him, Earl thought maybe he’d guessed the truth. The pigment Earl thought was permanently imbedded in George’s face had vanished.
“We have to do this by the book, Earl. I can’t make a mockery of the courts of Michigan.”
“Of course not.”’
Finally, he said quietly, “At least his name. I have to ask him to identify himself.”
The sheriff wanted to thank his friend but knew that would not set well. It might suggest the judge had done something irregular.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Foster.”
Earl hoped so, too. He sincerely did.
Suddenly George stood up. “Get the prisoner.”
Chapter 36
Earl descended the stairs one more time. The jail keeper was still asleep. He found Jorie lying on his back, his hands beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. Or maybe it was the steam pipes that still held his interest.
“You’re going to have to come with me to the courtroom now. I don’t want you to say anything in there.”
Jorie continued to stare at the ceiling.
“The judge won’t ask you anything, and you won’t say anything but your name. You got that? Let’s go.”
The hall outside the second floor courtroom was the same shade of green as the cells below, but had not endured the abuse, and had, in fact, been given a fresh coat of paint two y
ears ago.
On this morning it was crowded with people who had something to say about Jorie or Catherine Radcliff, and hoped Judge McKinney would call them in to speak their piece. Under sheriff Sam Lockheed, stood sentry at the door.
“I gotta get in there. I’m a witness, see?”
Earl recognized the voice.
“They’ll want to know what I have to say. She was my step-mother.”
“Have you been summoned?”
“No, but what I’ve got to say’s important.”
Lockheed stood his ground. “No one’s allowed in unless they were summoned by the court.”
Earl heard Walter’s expletives, as Jorie’s half-brother was turned away.
The corridor also contained a number of others with nothing better to do. Gawkers, Earl called them. But only a handful of people were allowed in the courtroom. He was glad to see that Mrs. O’Laerty was one of them.
Earl took a seat beside the prisoner. Pray God they could get this over with quickly and Jorie would hold his tongue.
George McKinney brought the gavel down hard and all were quiet.
“This court will come to order. As this is a hearing, and not a trial, the proceedings will be handled somewhat informally. Let me remind all present that our sole objective here is to determine whether there is sufficient evidence of foul play to bind the prisoner over for trial.”
Earl caught the word ‘evidence.’ He was sure Boyce wouldn’t like that. Ordinarily, the burden of proof was pretty low to go to trial. Earl recalled other times when George would say sufficient ‘reason to suspect.’
“The prisoner will please state his name for the record.”
Earl nudged him, and Jorie stood.
“Jordan Radcliff.”
“The court will now entertain the arguments.”
Earl pulled on Jorie’s sleeve and the boy sat down.
When asked to give his report for the record, Earl stated that although originally he’d thought there might be some foul play involved, upon further investigation, he didn’t believe there was.
“And what caused you to do such a turn-about?” the judge inquired.
Earl swallowed hard. He’d have to eat humble pie if he expected George to accept this reversal.
“Well, your honor, initially, due to the unusual circumstances of the deceased’s death, I thought a hearing was in order. I guess I jumped the gun—there just isn’t enough to go on. I lay it to my own concern over the deceased that I started on that course, which I now regret. I had known Mrs. Radcliff since our school days, and erroneously thought I was representing her best interests in requesting a hearing.”
Earl rubbed his sweaty hands together and picked at a sore. He hated to grovel, especially before George McKinney. And he knew what he’d said sounded lame.
“Have you anything to say as a character witness for the defendant, Mr. Foster?”
“I’ve known Jorie a long time. He worked for me one summer. I found him to be honest, agreeable and hard-working.”
“You liked him.”
“Yes, I liked him.”
“What about the hostility between mother and son?”
“Your honor, in my opinion—” Buck spoke out.
“I was addressing the sheriff.” McKinney turned back to Earl. “There was, as I recall, some incident of violence in the prisoner’s past.”
George wasn’t making it easy. Earl tried to recall if he’d ever told George anything about Catherine’s coming to him with tales of violence. Well, he might have, before her death. He hesitated, refrained from wiping the sweat he could feel running down his neck.
“I do not believe the accused ever hurt his mother.” He glanced at Jorie, who seemed not to be present at all. “If kicking the door in when he found out his dreams of going back to college were going up in smoke — yes, he was violent on that occasion— with the door.”
“Mr. Foster, do you have any evidence that the accused might have been involved in the demise of his mother?”
The rubber band snapped once too often, broke.
Evidence? He turned the word over in his mind. He had no actual proof. “No, your honor, I do not.”
The judge turned to the prosecuting attorney.
“Mr. Boyce, you submitted the petition for a hearing. Could you state your reasons, please?”
Buck Boyce gave Earl a withering look. “It was on the insistence of our esteemed sheriff, your honor,” he said sarcastically, “who beseeched me to do so.”
“Please tell the court, Mr. Boyce, what purpose, if any, you have for proceeding with this case.”
Earl could almost see the anger rise up Buck’s neck and color his face. Buck Boyce was stymied. He looked at Earl as though he’d been deceived.
“Mr. Foster stated he preferred to keep the exact reasons for calling this hearing to himself.”
“I asked if you have any objective in pursuing the matter?”
Buck straightened his collar. “It seems evident, your honor, that anyone with even a modicum of common sense wouldn’t take their mother on a pleasure outing with a blizzard on the way. That is, unless, he had planned some dastardly deed.” He paused to let this sink in.
“Go on,” urged the judge.
“That fact in itself, sir, would appear to be sufficient cause to bind the prisoner over for trial.”
“Do you have anything else?”
Earl watched Buck swallow, move his lips, and stammer, “Not at this time, your honor.”
The sheriff let out a long, slow breath.
George McKinney questioned the examining physician.
“Dr. Johnson, how did you find the prisoner’s state of mind?”
Arthur cleared his throat. “I found him cooperative, if somewhat bewildered. His distress at the death of his mother was apparent in his manner, his general state and his heartfelt tears. If the accused has a precarious mental state, it is temporary, having been brought on by the demise of his mother.”
“Then you see no reason to appoint a lunacy commission?”
“No, your honor.
“In your considered judgment, Doctor, would you say the prisoner capable of comprehending the proceedings of this court?”
“Yes, sir.”
Well, Earl thought, if they couldn’t plead insanity, his only chance was to get the case thrown out altogether.
“And capable of assisting in his own defense, should this case go to trial?”
“Yes, sir.”
“As the family physician, do you have anything to add regarding Jordan Radcliff’s character?”
Doctor Johnson cleared his throat again. “I have known the defendant since he was a young boy. I have always found him an eager student and a tender lad who wouldn’t harm a butterfly.”
Jorie took the beads out of his pocket, and fingered them under the table. Somehow their smooth, round orbs were comforting. He had little interest in the machinations of the law; it was his internal judge he had to answer to, and in this public place he could not hold court.
He turned his attention to the ocean where the oysters came from, the flaw—the grain of sand that made the beautiful tumescence inside, the fisherman, the buyers, the jewelry makers.
“For the record then, Doctor, you judge him ‘sane’.”
“I do,” replied the doctor.
Jorie caught the last, wondered if it were true.
He’d thought about what he’d say all the way to the courtroom and during the proceedings. He knew he could speak up whether the judge called on him or not. He also knew if he confessed in court he’d be sent to prison, and they probably wouldn’t give him any more bed sheets. If I want to die, there are a hundred ways to do it on the outside, probably none on the inside.
He turned his head to the window, where the sun had disappeared and another Lake Superior storm was sending tiny pebbles of sleet against the panes. Little pebbles were hitting against the solid wall of his resolve, too. Trying to put a chink in it.
Mother Lode Page 37