The Reservoir

  Crump makes a little laugh. “I wasn’t aware of Judge Hill having moods.”

  On Monday Judge Hill overrules the motion for a new trial, much as Crump and Evans expected, and Crump makes a motion for arrest of judgment. “Well, it buys us another day,” Crump tells Tommie. “Try to get some rest, and take care of that cold.” Tommie nods. He caught a chill the night before, even though it was not a particularly cool night, and today his head is fogged and cloudy.

  Willie has been seeing to some business back down the country, but Jane continues to visit the jail twice a day. Now that the trial is over, only Tommie’s lawyers can see him in private; all other visits are attended by an officer.

  “I wrote a letter to the judge,” Jane tells Tommie. She alternates between black and dark blue dresses; today, feeling more optimistic, she wears dark blue, and a black velvet hat with a veil. “I think he’s a fair man, and I think he’ll overturn the verdict once he reads it. I told him what a dear, dear boy you are and that you could not possibly have seduced, much less harmed, your own sweet cousin. I know in my bones it was her father that was responsible for naming you in the first place.”

  Tommie raises his eyebrows, wondering if Willie has hinted anything to her.

  “I’ve told Willie this,” she says, “and I hardly want to repeat it to you.” She glances over to the guard, who is standing just outside the dispensary with an inattentive expression. “I’ve sometimes wondered … if he didn’t engineer it all some way himself. There, I’ve said it, and God forgive me, but I might as well say as think it. It’s good to get it off my chest.”

  “You think he—?”

  “He was ashamed of her,” Jane says. “And if he found out that she was—expecting, and maybe she told them, poor thing … I just don’t know. They were so jealous and spiteful, I just don’t know what they might do. Oh, Lord, what am I saying? Of course, it was suicide. It just had to’ve been.” She pauses to blow her nose, not bothering for reassurance from Tommie.

  “And I see you have an admirer,” she says, smelling a bouquet of flowers in a vase.

  “A man from Alexandria sent them,” Tommie tells her. “I’d never heard of him. And look at all these cards and letters.”

  “Are they all nice?”

  “Mostly. There’s some that want me to roast in hell, but I’ve learned to spot them. Here’s a nice one: ‘In your time of tribulation, trust in the Lord to break the bonds that you so unjustly wear.’ And here’s one from a Pennsylvania woman. She says I was framed, and ‘I have important information for you.’ ”

  “What does she mean?” Jane has a credulous, hopeful look.

  “Probably she’s crazy, but I’ll give it to Judge Crump.”

  “Of course you must, right away. I’ll take it to him directly I leave here. Let me sort through all those, Tommie. You know I’ll do anything for you, don’t you?”

  Tommie hands her a stack of letters. “If I didn’t know that by now, there’d be something wrong with me. But this has been too much for you, Aunt Jane. And you’ve spent far more than you should’ve.”

  “I don’t care if it takes every penny I have. I’m going to get you out of here.” She averts her face and blows her nose again. “It was all going to be yours anyway. Yours and Willie’s. You’re my boys.” She seems unable to find anything more to say, so he asks her for the news of Little Plymouth. She’s all right until, without thinking, she says, “Nola Bray’s gotten engaged to a lawyer from Richmond.” She suddenly goes blank and white, her storytelling hand floating like a wounded bird back to her lap.

  Tommie pats her arm. “I’m happy for her, Aunt Jane, and I’m glad to hear about it. I know it was hard for her to have her name mixed up in this thing.” Tommie had written to her, and received no reply.

  The next morning the heat and humidity of summer have settled in like a fat, sedentary cousin from the Deep South, the effluvia of the sluggish canal filling the pores of the city and plastering shirts and blouses onto sweaty backs. Tommie attends to his toilet—shaving, putting on his suit, oiling and combing his hair—as though he were meeting with potential clients.

  Again a crowd has formed along Tenth and in the alley behind City Hall, just to catch a glimpse, to gape openly as he emerges from the carriage, as though he were an exotic animal or mythical creature. There are black people as well as white people, young and old, and they are mostly quiet, content just to stare, and he is content to look as ordinary as he can for them, an unassuming young man whom they might see anywhere—in the haberdasher’s, in church, on their own street—and think nothing of.

  The burning question of the day is whether he’ll confess, and what he’ll say if he does. Won’t he give them some word of explanation? Surely he can explain his relationship to the girl. A few words and they can go home, at peace in their hearts. Won’t he at least give them that? And so they have gathered to see if now he’ll open his mouth and say something. Anything—even the sound of his voice could be a clue. He catches a glimpse of his old friend Tyler Bagby, explaining something to a young lady wearing a blue shade hat, and for a moment he can picture himself in Tyler’s place, standing there telling what he knows about Tyler and how sad it was that he got caught up in such a mess and how you never can tell about people. Tommie now tries to avoid looking at faces, fearing he’ll see someone else he knows.

  The little courtroom is overflowing, people wedged into the jury box, around the bar and the clerk’s desk, the incessant rattle of hats and fans louder than the voices outside. Some people who have gotten in now try unsuccessfully to get back out; a few of the more supple bodies climb out the window and drop eight feet to the sidewalk into another mass of humanity.

  Back in the sergeant’s office, Tommie meets with Crump and Evans. “You know, Hill ruling for an arrest of judgment is the longest of long shots,” Evans warns. Tommie nods. “Just so you’re prepared.”

  “How are the bills of exception coming?” Tommie wants to know.

  “Don’t ask,” Crump tells him. “Beverly’s chained himself to his desk. There’s seven bills, probably over five hundred pages. Wouldn’t have delayed the sentencing anyway, I don’t think. But I’ll see if we can stall.”

  In the courtroom, then, the first thing Crump does is bring up the issue of the bills. He asks the judge, “Since it will take a full day to read them, could not the court adjourn until the day after tomorrow?”

  And now Meredith says, “Your Honor, the defense is the best judge of that, and I would be in favor of it if it could possibly benefit the prisoner in any way. But tomorrow is the last day of term and suppose Your Honor were taken sick?”

  Hill then says he can just as well read and sign the bills after the sentencing as before. “Mr. Crump,” he says, “do you have anything to say about the motion for the arrest of judgment?”

  “I have no further evidence at this point,” Crump says. “But clearly there was insufficient evidence to convict, as one of our bills explains at length. On that alone, an arrest of judgment could, I believe, be made.”

  Hill nods politely, then says, “I overrule the motion in arrest of judgment.”

  “Thomas J. Cluverius,” the clerk says, “stand up.” Tommie stands, his hand going immediately to the bar. He just wants it over with.

  “Do you have anything to say why the sentence of the court should not now be pronounced?” Hill asks.

  The courtroom has gone so dead quiet Tommie can hear his watch ticking in his pocket. He wets his lips and says, in clear, ringing tones, “I would only say, sir, that you are pronouncing sentence upon an innocent man.” He had not planned to say more, but now he wonders if he should continue, saying that his side was not adequately heard, that there were mitigating factors to be taken into account. But what would be the point of arguing with the judge in this way? The spectators would love to hear him argue, but he won’t oblige.

  “Anything more?” Judge Hill says.

  “No, sir.”

  Hill
glances down at a sheet of paper, then up. “Thomas J. Cluverius, you have been indicted for the willful, deliberate, premeditated murder of Fannie Lillian Madison, your companion and cousin, whom you had, betraying her confidence, treacherously seduced. Twelve of your fellow men, selected for their intelligence and impartiality, have patiently and attentively listened to the evidence in this cause. Witness after witness has been examined, and day after day consumed in an endeavor to arrive at the truth. Exceedingly able counsel have done all that learning, eloquence, skill, and experience could accomplish on your behalf. You have had a fair trial, and the jury, in the faithful discharge of their duty, have pronounced you guilty, and that verdict has been approved by the court. I shall not harrow your feelings by referring at length to the enormity of your crime, every step in the perpetration of which must be deeply engraved upon your memory. To a man of your intelligence, no good could be accomplished by so doing. I commend you to the suggestions of your own better thoughts. I do not deem it my duty, therefore, to do more than pronounce upon you the sentence which the law affixes to the crime of murder in the first degree, upon which you stand convicted.

  “Thomas J. Cluverius, you shall be taken hence to the city jail, and there kept securely until the sixteenth day of October next, on which day, between the hours of nine in the morning and six in the evening, you shall be removed to some convenient place of execution, and, in the presence of such officers of the law as may be necessary to see this sentence carried out, be there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may God in his infinite goodness have mercy upon your soul.”

  A fly lights on Tommie’s brow; he brushes it away. It is as though he has just awakened from a dream of startling clarity. So this is what his life was about. All along—it was to be this.

  At the door of his cell he stands a moment uncertain what they are asking of him. “Mr. Cluverius, you have to step back, please, so we can close the door.” But once the door is closed, he won’t be able to leave. He is to be locked in his cell now for the duration of his time here, and all visits will have to be in this nine-by-ten-foot chamber. And as he stands on the threshold facing outward he cannot take that one more step backward. Malachi Folger is calling out something from his cell. “Don’t you give a care, Tommie,” he says, “I’ll come round and see you every day.”

  Then the barred door is closed and bolted, and his world is now his cell and the dingy gray hallway with the few other cells he can see.

  That evening Willie is late with Tommie’s supper, and Tommie is hanging on the bars waiting and hungry when his brother comes storming in. Willie sets the box of food down and says, “There’s stories going around at home, Tommie.” He has a wild look in his eyes.

  “Stories about what?” Tommie says, eyeing the box. He wants to eat, but Willie seems impatient to talk.

  “About Madison. How he intimidated witnesses. He told that Gateweed if he didn’t smear you he was going to regret it, and the same with Joel. And there’s others. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve been hearing. The two counties are ready to fight each other. We’ve got a real case for a mistrial, Tommie, if we can get those people to come back in and tell the truth. I’ve a mind to go find them and threaten them myself.”

  “They’ll read it for a bluff, Willie. They know you’re a Godfearing Christian.”

  “They know I’ll by God back up my words,” he says, balling a fist.

  “Do what you have to, Willie, but don’t let your business suffer.”

  “I’m not doing this for nothing,” Willie tells him. “I aim to collect from you soon as you’re out.” He punches his brother in the shoulder.

  “I believe it,” Tommie says, managing a smile. He opens the box and begins greedily eating the eggs and ham, yet he finds that he is quickly full. “You brought too much,” he explains.

  “No, you don’t eat enough.”

  “Whose leg are you trying to pull? I’ve been getting soft and fat in here. Would you give the leftovers to Malachi in number nine? He’ll hand around what he doesn’t want.”

  Willie nods, boxing up the remaining food. “Everybody back home wants you to know they’re pulling for you,” he says. He takes a letter out of his jacket, signed with good wishes by every willing person he could find in Little Plymouth. “And Aunt Jane wants to do something for you. She told me about a singer named Frank Cunningham. He’s supposed to be good, and he hires out.”

  “I heard him sing once, in church,” Tommie says. “Well, if we don’t like him, Malachi can throw him out.”

  Willie sits there wiggling his foot, trying to think of something comforting, but he feels the constraint of the solitary confinement. If he had to stay in here even for a day, he would go half mad, but to be locked in with no chance of walking again in the woods, hearing birdsong on a bright morning, feeling the sun on his face as he hefts his ax … And yet he knows if he could he would change places with his brother.

  He stands and paces, until Tommie tells him to sit back down. The guard is at the end of the hall, and Willie leans into Tommie’s ear and whispers, “It’s not too late to get you out of here. It’ll be harder, but I’ll figure it out someway. You could take sick, and they’d drive you to the hospital—I’d meet you there.”

  Tommie smiles at the picture, then shakes his head. “No,” he says, “I really think I’ll get another trial on appeal. Plenty of folks are saying I will. Right now, Judge Hill is probably sitting up reading these bills of exception. I’ve only skimmed them so far, but I know Crump and Crump are the best legal minds in Virginia. Look here.” He flips through the pages of a preliminary copy for his brother’s benefit, and Willie watches Tommie’s face to see if he’s trying to humor him.

  “Look,” Tommie says, “it’s not just folderol—most of it. The trial was full of technical errors. We could have brought up any number of them.”

  When Tommie has finished explaining the legal processes for his brother, who is sitting there chewing his lip and jiggling his foot with a dazed, half-credulous look, he says, “One more thing you might do.” And Willie immediately comes to attention. “You could find out if Reverend Hatcher at the college could come around and visit me sometime.” He lowers his voice. “It’s not as though I need any more spiritual guidance than before, or unction, or salvation, or any such thing. I won’t be able to attend chapel services now, you see—”

  “Of course,” Willie interrupts.

  “No, wait, just let me tell you. They want me to break down, but I won’t do it for them. They expect me to confess, and I won’t do that either. I have nothing to confess. I only want to talk with Hatcher about private matters, and listen to what he has to say.”

  “Who are you talking about? Who wants you to break down?”

  “Just the people out there who can’t wait to see me—”

  “You don’t have to explain,” Willie says. “I’ll get Hatcher and anybody else you want. “You want John Jasper, I’ll get him in here to preach a stem-winder of a sermon. I’ll get Henry Ward Beecher himself in the flesh right here. Knock me over with a feather if I don’t.” He gets a little chuckle from his brother, the creases around Tommie’s mouth and eyes evident when he breaks into a smile, as if he has aged a decade in the past three months.

  “When people find out what really happened,” Willie says, growing quieter and more serious, “they’ll be lining up to apologize.”

  “It’s all a lie anyway,” Tommie says. He stands and puts his hands in his pockets. “None of it happened like that, you know. The fact is, I hit her on the head with a blackjack that I stole from the closet at Lizzie Banks’s.” Tommie’s voice has become flat and matter-of-fact—the way it will, Willie knows, before he goes into a crazy outburst. “I threw it in the river along with Lillie’s bag. It sank. If I had put it in the bag like I almost did this would’ve been over weeks ago. I probably would’ve confessed, knowing I didn’t have a chance.”

  “I don’t believe you, Tommie.”

 
“It’s true, I picked her up and carried her to the gate in the picket fence and I laid her down there and opened the gate—it wasn’t locked. I would’ve thrown her over anyway.” He is talking faster, his eyes focused on something far off.

  “That’s a lie, Tommie. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because I want you to know. I got her to go out there with me, telling her a coach was meeting us at the end of the streetcar line to take us to Hanover to get married. And we went up to the top of the reservoir to have a look around before it got there, and then I hit her.”

  “All right, when did you conceive such an idea?”

  “I had it all along,” Tommie says, talking faster, “way back in January when we wrote that fake letter together—yes, I met her here and we wrote that together. I was working on the idea even before that, but I didn’t have it fully formed in my mind until just before I came here in March.”

  “Stop it! You did no such thing.” Willie feels his heart thumping wildly in his chest. He wants to get up and beat his brother until he can no longer speak any words. A guard walks past the cell and glances in, then disappears down the hall.

  “You’re right, Willie, I did no such thing. But do you really believe everything I told you the other night? Because sometimes I don’t myself and I have to tell it to myself in the dark to know what’s real and what isn’t.”

  “Of course I believe it, Tommie. I can tell when you’re fibbing. I know you.”

  “Do you? Do you really? Give me your hand.” Tommie takes his brother’s hand and puts it to his chest. “Do you feel that? It’s a heart, and it beats just like yours. But it’s different, different from everybody’s. You don’t know what’s in my heart any more than I know what’s in yours. Sometimes I don’t even know my own heart from one day to the next. Do you?”

  “I think I do,” Willie says. “I know that I forgive you for what you did and I want to try to help you out of this.” Yet he is not at all sure if he really forgives his brother.