The Ballad of Frankie Silver

by Sharyn McCrumb

  Frankie Silver seemed less wounded by this turn of fate than did her attorney. Perhaps she did not understand the calamity that had befallen her; perhaps she simply expected less of her fellow man, or of this witness in particular. She huddled in her black shawl and listened with the blank stare she had effected for much of the trial to block the stares of the curious onlookers, but once I saw her smile. It was a sad, terrible smile, and I knew that the memory of it would stay with me always. Such a look might Mary Queen of Scots have worn upon hearing the death sentence signed by her cousin Elizabeth I. It was the brave smile of a gambler who knows she has lost everything, not through any fault of her own but through the treachery of her companions. For an instant I found myself wishing that Miss Mary Erwin had come back to court today. She would not have borne this in silence. I did, but I had no choice. I was an officer of the court. I could not stop it.

  It was all over but the waiting. The jury had gone out to deliberate, and the rest of us awaited their pleasure, milling about inside the courthouse and out, seeking sunshine despite the chill of lingering winter. It was just past noon, but no one wanted to abandon the vigil in search of dinner. Some of us were not hungry.

  The morning had been taken up with a parade of witnesses, each of whom had shaded his testimony to reflect the guilt and malevolence of the defendant. The certainty of Frankie Silver’s conviction for murder seemed to seep into the minds of those who testified, tainting their recollections with the memory of strange looks or suspicious behavior where none had been observed before. The girl was a murderer, they reasoned: surely she must have acted like one. From one day to the next, a young woman who had spent her life in the company of these people, and married into their family, was transformed into a stock villain of melodrama. No one seemed to find it odd.

  Nicholas Woodfin had tried to undo the damage caused by the witnesses’ premature condemnation. Again and again he asked, “Did you not tell this story differently before?” And always the answer was: “Upon reflection, I remembered more clearly what took place.”

  At last the questioning was over, the witnesses were dismissed a final time, and Judge Donnell gave his instructions to the jury before sending them forth to begin their task anew. His summation was stern but fair, although he did not touch upon the matter of the altered testimony. He was careful to explain to the jurors that reasonable doubt did not mean conjuring fanciful solutions to the crime, and that although the defendant was a fair young woman, the law was no respecter of persons.

  “There is a blindfold around the eyes of the goddess of justice,” he reminded them, “so that she may not see who is rich or poor, young or old, fair or ill-favored, and thus base her judgments upon these superficialities. Gentlemen of the jury, see that you, too, are blind to the temptations of offering mercy where none is warranted.”

  I was surprised by the anxiousness that I felt in anticipation of their verdict. Usually, cases in Superior Court, even quite serious or tragic ones, leave me unmoved. I have no stake in the verdict; nothing that transpires in the courtroom reflects upon my ability as a lawyer or affects my purse. I am merely an observer, a procedural referee, if you will. Somehow, though, this time I found myself wishing with all my heart that Nicholas Woodfin would carry the day, and that little Mrs. Silver would be set free.

  I made a point of seeking out Mr. Woodfin, who was standing by himself on the courthouse lawn, seemingly oblivious to the white flowering trees around him heralding spring. It will be winter for him a good while longer, I thought, watching him. His colleague Thomas Wilson had gone home to dine, and none of the spectators had cared to approach the young attorney. The man who defends a heartless killer is not a popular fellow.

  “I feel sure that she cannot have done it,” I said to him in a low voice, for I did not wish to be overheard by anyone else.

  Nicholas Woodfin smiled at the urgency in my voice. He was tired now, and he wanted nothing more to do with hope. “Have you another theory, Mr. Gaither?”

  I shook my head. “None. I dismiss all the theatrics of today-all that wild talk of Mrs. Silver’s strange looks and malevolent behavior. That was the embellishment of people wishing to enlarge their roles in the one drama of their lives. It is yesterday’s testimony that puzzles me. The witnesses were quite firm on the point of her lying. Frankie Silver said that her husband had not come home, and yet pieces of his body were discovered in the cabin. I cannot explain that fact away.”

  “No.”

  “Yet it was a crime involving gore and dismemberment, done in stealth rather than in the heat of passion: this argues madness. But the woman I saw in the courtroom was clearly sane. No one could fault her self-control.”

  “I wish she had a good deal less of it,” said Woodfin. “She is keeping back the truth.”

  “Surely not,” I protested. “Do you know what she is hiding?”

  He looked uneasy. “I cannot be sure.”

  “She must speak out. Her life depends on it.”

  The young attorney nodded thoughtfully. “I wonder if she knows that,” he said. “I have told her so often enough, and Mr. Wilson has impressed it upon her in the sternest manner, but I cannot be sure that she believes us. She is so young and pretty that I am sure she cannot take in the enormity of dying. Perhaps she thinks that because she is a young woman with an innocent child, the court will show her mercy.”

  “Perhaps they will,” I said, but my words rang hollow even to my own ears. We stood there in the pale sunshine and shivered, Nicholas Woodfin and I, for we knew what was to come.

  This time we had little more than an hour to wait for the return of the jury. The bailiff summoned us all back to court, and I found myself searching his face for some sign of the verdict, as if I were the rawest oaf in a crowd of drunken spectators. His face betrayed nothing; if in fact he even knew what the verdict would be, he was careful to give nothing away. In his place I would have done the same. We will all know soon enough, I thought.

  I resumed my seat at the clerk’s table and arranged my papers over and over to control my apprehension. Out of the tail of my eye I saw Mrs. Silver led in to take her place beside Mr. Woodfin. She was pale, and I thought I detected a tinge of red around her eyelids, but she was as composed as ever, walking slowly, oblivious to all. As she reached the defense table, and the bailiff let go of her arm, she looked up at her attorney and smiled, as if to reassure him that all would be well. As ifhe were the one whose life hung in the balance. He tried to smile back, then looked quickly away.

  He is but twenty-one, I thought, and he has tried fewer than a dozen cases since he was called to the bar. He will never again feel such pangs of sympathy for a client. He will never again allow himself to care. I was sure that if God were to spare Nicholas Woodfin to practice law for yet another fifty years, he would never speak or write of this incident again.

  The jury filed in, properly subdued and solemn, taking their places without meeting the eyes of anyone present.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” He said. The wordsat last hung in the air unspoken.

  “Reckon we have, sir,” said the foreman. A glare from the judge sent him scrambling to his feet as he answered, “She done it.”

  Only the solemnity of the occasion kept Judge Donnell from uttering a blistering rebuke to this stammering yokel who was so heedless of court procedure. He continued to glare at the foreman several seconds during which a shocked silence prevailed in the courtroom. A few heartbeats later the gallery burst into a clamoring babble, with even a few whoops of triumph thrown in by some callous drunkards.

  Frankie Silver seemed to sway for an instant, steadied by the arm of Nicholas Woodfin. He looked like a man who has steeled himself for a blow and has finally felt it delivered: it was as bad as expected, but at least it was over. He took a deep breath and murmured something to calm his client.

  I looked for the Stewarts among the seething crowd, half fearing violence toward them or from them in reac
tion to the verdict, but they stood still. Isaiah Stewart had bowed his head, whether in prayer or submission I could not tell. His son Jackson stood with clenched fists, red-faced and breathing hard, as if the fight were just beginning, not ending. Neither of them made any move toward the defendant, and I felt a twinge of sorrow for her. She would be alone regardless, though, I thought. In this terrible moment when she has come face-to-face with her own death, she would be alone even if ten thousand hands were reaching out to comfort her. She did not spare a glance for her father and brother. She was looking up at Nicholas Woodfin with a face so full of trust that it made me ashamed of the powerlessness of all professional men. We doctors and lawyers and preachers and judges act as if we hold the power of life and death over those who pass before us, as if nothing frightens or dismays us, but really we are so many pawns in the game. Too often Death brushes past us to claim his prize without even sparing a glance for those of us who have set ourselves up as humanity’s defenders. People trust us so much; yet we can do so little.

  “Your Honor, counsel for the defense wishes to move for a rule upon the state for a new trial!” Nicholas Woodfin was shouting to make himself heard above the crowd.

  Judge Donnell nodded. He had expected some objection. “On what grounds, Mr. Woodfin?”

  “That the witnesses were not sequestered.”

  “Rule granted.” Judge Donnell turned to me, indicating that I should take down his words. I took up my pen and began to make notes.

  William Alexander was on his feet, erupting in protest. “A new trial! Your Honor, we have wasted too much time already on this patently guilty prisoner. The witnesses testified under oath. Twice. There is no need to prolong their inconvenience further so that this woman may be convicted yet again.”

  “She deserves a fair trial,” said Woodfin.

  “She had one.”

  “The testimony changed.”

  “It was lengthened, but not substantially altered. Frankie Silver lied about her husband’s disappearance, and all the witnesses have said so from the very beginning.”

  “That will do, gentlemen.”

  “The state objects to the waste of time and public money that would be incurred in a new trial. The evidence for the defendant’s guilt is overwhelming. Counsel for the defense is quibbling over details.”

  “Objection sustained,” said Judge Donnell, seeing the inarguable point. “Mr. Woodfin, rule for a new trial is denied.”

  “Prayer for judgment, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor, before his opponent could object further.

  “The prisoner will rise.”

  Nicholas Woodfin helped Mrs. Silver to her feet and kept a protective hand at her elbow as they faced the bench.

  The judge intoned the sentence in the sonorous voice of a benediction, with nothing in his tone to suggest any emotion on his part toward the defendant or her fate. “Frances Silver,” he said, “you have been found guilty of the crime of murder by a jury of your peers. Sentence of the court is that the prisoner, Frances Silver, be taken back to the prison from whence she came and thereby to remain until the Fayday of the July court next of Burke County, and then to be taken from thence to the place of execution and then and there hung by the neck until she is dead. This sentence to be carried into execution by the sheriff of Burke County.”

  The pronouncement of death was a familiar formula, never varied, and my hand flew across the page as I noted it down. When I looked up again, Frankie Silver was being led out of the court by Mr. Presnell, with two other constables flanking him as guards in case of trouble. Her cheeks glistened with tears, but she never made a sound.

  Woodfin motioned for the officers to stop. “Your Honor,” he said, “the prisoner wishes to appeal the judgment of this court to the Supreme Court of North Carolina.”

  Judge Donnell frowned, and I fancied I knew the cause of his annoyance. It cost money to make an appeal to a higher court, and the defendant did not impress that worthy jurist as a person of means. “And whom does the prisoner give as security for the bond?” he asked.

  I think that Nicholas Woodfin would have paid the costs out of his own pocket, for I saw a glint in his eye that spoke of foolhardiness to come, but before he could encumber himself with that reckless pledge, Isaiah Stewart’s voice rang out from behind him.

  “I’ll stand her bond, Judge. Her brother Jackson and I will answer for it.”

  “Who are you, sir?”

  “I’m her daddy,” said the grizzled old hunter, looking at his daughter, not at His Honor. I knew that the words had been directed at her.

  “Very well, then,” said the judge. “If you will guarantee the bond, the verdict shall be appealed.” He turned to me. “Mr. Gaither, you will have the goodness to write a summary of the trial to be sent on to the Supreme Court in Raleigh, and have it ready for my inspection before the departure time of tomorrow’s stagecoach.”

  Traditionally the presiding judge wrote a précis of the trial for the appellate court, but in practice they often delegated this task to underlings-that is, to me. Lowly clerks of Superior Court often found themselves wielding the pen and burning the midnight oil to complete the task of summarizing the case for the appeal. “I will do it gladly, sir,” I said with careful politeness, but my heart was heavy as I thought of the evening of drudgery that lay before me, when I had hoped to forget about the cares of my office at one of the Erwins’ dinner parties.

  I lingered over my papers, for I wanted to make sure that I had all the information that I would need to write the trial summary. A few feet away from my table, Nicholas Woodfin was taking his leave of the condemned prisoner.

  “We have appealed the conviction,” he told her. “Do you know what that means?”

  She shook her head. She looked like a poleaxed calf, I thought, for she stood quite pale and still beside him, staring numbly at the ground as if she could envision it rushing up to meet her dangling feet. I put the thought from my mind. It would not come to pass. Nicholas Woodfin is her champion, and he is not without connections.

  “An appeal is a request for a higher court to review the trial procedure.” He stopped, trying to find simpler words. “We must get the court in Raleigh to say that they cannot hang you.”

  She nodded wearily, and I thought that she held out no hope, but that she had no strength left to argue about it. Will Butler told me once that after a trial is over, the prisoner sleeps soundly for the first time in weeks, for even if the worst has befallen him, at least the uncertainty is over. Frankie Silver was finished with us now. She had gone to some other place, where we could not follow.

  “I haven’t given up on you, Frankie,” said Nicholas Woodfin. His voice was tinged with urgency, and I was gratified to know that honor as well as skill had comprised the defense of this poor young woman. “We will get you a new trial, and then we will carry the day!”

  She nodded once more, and when the bailiff took hold of her arm to lead her away, she went willingly, and with downcast eyes. She did not look back, though Nicholas Woodfin stood and watched until the oak doors of the courtroom swung shut behind her.

  She never saw him again.

  Chapter Five

  DEPUTY SPENCER ARROWOOD was spending another late night working at his desk when the call came in. The hamburger, seeping grease through its waxed-paper covering and onto the paperwork beneath it, was supposed to be his dinner, but it had long since congealed into a sodden lump, and he could not bring himself to touch it, even to throw it away.

  When the phone rang, he was so groggy from lack of sleep that he picked it up to reinstate the silence rather than to talk to anyone.

  “Uh-Wake County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Mr. Miller?”

  “No. This is his deputy.”

  “Oh. Spencer. It’s Harmon here, out to the truck stop and all. How you been?”

  “Fine, Harmon. What can I do for you?” They had been in high school together, nodding acquaintances now, not much more than
that then.

  “Well, Spencer, the radio station was talking about those murders out on the trail. Terrible thing. I hated to hear that-a pretty young girl and all. And, you know, they said that you wanted people to report anything suspicious.”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s been a kid down here at the truck stop. Probably nothing, but I thought I’d better call you.”

  “A child? How old?”

  “Not a child. Akid. Well, seventeen or so. Not somebody you’d sell a beer to without having a mighty long look at his driver’s license.”

  Spencer tried to keep the impatience out of his voice. He didn’t have time for liquor-law violations. “So what about him?”

  “He’s been going around trying to sell jewelry to one or two of the truck drivers in here.”

  “What kind of jewelry?”

  “A gold chain, a woman’s watch with a band of gold and silver intertwined, and a ring.”

  “Wedding ring?”

  “Looked like a high school class ring to me. Big silver-colored one with a blue stone, and some carving on the side. I didn’t get much of a look at it. He shoved it in his pocket when he saw me coming down to that end of the counter.”

  It was probably nothing, Spencer thought. At best, it would turn out to be evidence of an unreported burglary. Some vacationing couple would call soon to report their hotel room robbed, or their home burgled. Still, he had to check it out. There weren’t any other leads to follow.

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yeah, he’s playing pool with a couple of the truckers. I think he’s betting on the game. He’s putting up the jewelry, and the truckers are betting cash. You’d better get here before he loses it all, and your evidence rolls out of here six ways from Sunday.”