“He’ll have to stand trial.”
“But it was an accident, wasn’t it?”
Garrison knew his politics, and he understood how unlikely it was that this shooting would be called an accident. “It depends on the jury,” he said carefully. Then honesty compelled him to say, “It’s serious. He could hang for it, Leah. Have your father-in-law get the best lawyer he can. Stuart’s going to need it.”
Leah sat there with her hand on her stomach, the child inside of her moving rapidly as a wave of nausea came over her. A deadness seemed to settle on her spirit, and she could not think clearly. She was aware that Luke Garrison was watching her carefully, but she could not frame a single word.
She remembered a spiritual that Annie sang a lot, but the only words she could remember clearly were, “And the walls came tumbling down.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Verdict
Leonard Stokes stood looking out of his office window. Fall had come, and now the red, gold, and yellow leaves of the sweet gum tree were dropping to the ground, making a multicolored carpet on the dry, dead grass. Somehow autumn always brought a sense of fatalism to Stokes, for he was a man sensitive to moods and to those about him. It was a trait that had served him well as a lawyer. He was only thirty-five, but already he was the rising star in the firmament of the state judicial system. A tall, lean man with sharp gray eyes, Stokes had been the hottest defense lawyer available, and many had been shocked when he had left a lucrative practice in order to become district attorney for a rather minimal salary. What those people did not understand was that Stokes intended to move up in the world, and a record as a crusading district attorney would get him a good start on the governor’s chair. After that there was always the Senate, and beyond that, who knew where his political ambitions would lead?
Turning from the window, Stokes moved back to his desk, sat down, and stared at the elderly man who was seated across from him. “You’re not looking too well, Mordecai.”
Mordecai Frasier indeed did not look well. He was in his eighties and had been a legend for many years, both as a lawyer and finally as the chief justice of the State Supreme Court. He could have risen to greater heights but had chosen to remain in his native state of Arkansas and had served his people admirably all of his life.
“I’m doing very well for an old man.” Frasier’s voice was thin now. He had lost his trumpet voice, which had been powerful enough to fill any courtroom in the state, making many lawyers realize they had met their match. His eyes were faded, and his hands trembled, so he quickly folded them in front of him. “I think we need to do some more talking about the Winslow case.”
“I can’t see that there’s a lot to talk about, Mordecai.”
“Well, after all, it wasn’t premeditated, and there was no malice intended.”
“You can’t change one fact, I’m afraid. Carter Simms is dead and buried, robbed of his life, and Stuart pulled the trigger.”
“That’s not been proven yet.”
“It can be easily proven that Winslow was with Simms’s wife. Carter had every right to defend his home from an intruder. You know that as well as I do.”
Anger washed across the face of Mordecai Frasier, and a touch of the old fire glowed in his eyes. “You and I know that if every adulterer were shot, there wouldn’t be enough men left in the state even to elect you governor. And that’s what you’re after, isn’t it?”
Stokes suddenly grinned. He liked Mordecai Frasier and admired him greatly. He had patterned much of his own practice and tactics on this old man’s life and career, but when Stokes went into the courtroom, everything else went out—friendship, family, money—nothing meant anything except winning.
“What do you have on your mind?” Stokes asked. He already knew what the elderly man had on his mind, but it had to be said. As he watched Frasier try to put his thoughts together, he felt a sharp stab of pity. Twenty years ago he would have cut me to pieces in a courtroom. I wouldn’t have stood a chance. But now he’s a poor choice for a lawyer. He may be a good friend of Richard Winslow, but that’s not enough. His memory’s gone and he’s a sick man. Stokes well knew that Frasier had come out of retirement to take on the case as a personal favor to Richard Winslow. He also knew that it was not a wise move on Richard’s part. He should have gotten a young, tough, sharp fellow wanting to make a reputation for himself, but he didn’t.
“I’m thinking of accidental death.”
“Come on, Mordecai. You know that won’t do.”
Indeed, it was merely an opening gambit for Frasier. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Well, manslaughter, then.”
The conversation did not last long, and finally Frasier got up and nodded. “Think about it, Leonard. This is a young man we’re talking about. Stuart Winslow has great potential.”
Stokes did not respond to this. “Take care of yourself, Mordecai. This case may be too much for you.” He ventured to hint at something that he would not have bothered with if it had been any other man. “Why don’t you take on a young assistant and let him do the hard work and the hollering in court?”
The suggestion offended Frasier. His pride was still there, and he said, “I think I can handle myself in court, Leonard.”
As soon as Frasier left, Jim Johnson came into the room. He was only twenty-five, but Stokes had picked him to work with because he was just the type of aggressive attorney he wanted.
“What did you give him?” Johnson asked.
“What did I give him? Nothing.”
Slumping back in his chair, Leonard Stokes had a prophetic moment. He saw himself as a tired old man, still struggling, as he knew he would be someday. “I gave him sympathy.” Underneath his competitive bravado, Stokes could at times be compassionate, especially at moments like this when he saw his own human frailty. It was a trait he kept well hidden, however, for in the eyes of many, it would not do for the district attorney to be perceived as kind. Now he looked at Johnson and said, “Richard Winslow made a bad mistake retaining Mordecai.”
“Yes, he did. What are you going to do? Go for the jugular with first degree?”
Stokes’s gray eyes grew hard, and he murmured, “I always do, don’t I? That’s what I get paid for.”
****
Frasier had long since given up his office, so he met with Richard and Diane and Leah Winslow in a bare, unadorned room in the courthouse. There were pictures on the wall of Washington and Lincoln and a calendar advertising Lydia Pinkham’s tonic for women. The only furniture was a table and five chairs, dented and marred from years of wear. One window opened up to the outside world and admitted a yellow shaft of sunlight that struck Mordecai Frasier’s face, accentuating his pallid complexion. He was obviously troubled as he looked over at the couple, then shifted his glance to Leah Winslow.
They’re all looking at me to help them. They think the law is some kind of a magic act—that I can pull a rabbit out of a hat and everything will be well. He was disturbed by the notion, and the light of expectancy in all of their eyes troubled him even more.
“I don’t have very good news,” he said finally. “I talked with the district attorney.”
“What did he say?” Richard Winslow demanded. The two months since the killing of Simms had aged him considerably. He had lost weight, and the muscles of his face had begun to sag. He had always been a strong man, but this blow to the family had brought him very low indeed.
“I’ve tried to get Stokes to go for second degree, but I don’t think he will. I wish we could get him to agree to a trial for manslaughter.”
“What’s the difference between manslaughter and murder?”
Frasier leaned forward and began to speak. He knew there were two times in a person’s life when fear was liable to get out of hand. One was when facing a doctor who had bad news. The other was at a moment like this when someone’s freedom or even his life was in danger. He had been through this many times and knew that for most people the complexity of the law was li
ke a dark forest in which one could stay lost continually. He had seen the hopelessness in so many faces, and he hated to see the same look of despair in this family, for he had been a good friend to Richard and Diane Winslow for many years. Directing his gaze at Leah, he said, “Basically speaking, Mrs. Winslow, manslaughter is the unlawful killing of another human being without malice, either expressed or implied.” He fell into the pattern of speech that had been his habit throughout his years on the bench and as a teacher of law. “It implies a killing without deliberation in the sudden heat of passion.”
“But what is murder, then?” Leah asked as she twisted her hands.
“The distinction between manslaughter and murder rests on one thing. That is malice. In manslaughter, though the act that occasioned the death was unlawful, no malice is involved. But malice is the very essence of murder.”
“You mean if someone is angry and bitter and expresses it and says so and then kills someone, that becomes murder?”
“Yes, although we call it homicide in the court. There are three kinds of homicides—justifiable, excusable, or felonious.”
“I don’t understand any of that,” Richard muttered.
“Justifiable homicide is the taking of a human life with justification, such as self-defense. Excusable homicide, well, that’s the killing of someone by misadventure, such as when you accidentally strike them with a moving vehicle. Felonious homicide is the wrongful killing of a human being without justification.”
“What’s the difference between first degree and second degree?”
Mordecai shook his head. “That’s not even clear to many lawyers and judges, but basically first-degree homicide is the thing you want to stay away from. When a jury gives any judge that verdict, he will always hand down the stiffest sentence at his command.”
Leah listened for some time as Frasier continued to explain the labyrinthine ways of the law. Finally she said, “What if he’s found guilty?”
For a moment Frasier hesitated, then he said, “Judges have a great deal of latitude. For murder in the first degree it could be the maximum sentence.”
“You mean he could be hanged?” Leah whispered.
“We’ll hope for better things than that. If it comes to a prison sentence, it’s all in the hands of the judge. Judges have been known to give a sentence and then suspend it upon condition of good behavior. That’s what I’m hoping for in Stuart’s case.”
“What about the judge? Who’ll be conducting the trial?” Diane Winslow asked.
All three of the Winslows saw the expression that crossed the face of the old man, and they all knew that something was wrong.
“What is it, Mr. Frasier?” Leah whispered.
“Well, the judge will be Marcus Broz.” He hesitated for a second and then shook his head. “His nickname is the ‘Killer Judge.’ ” He passed his hand over his face, and the hand trembled visibly as he whispered, “He’s the worst man we could have had.”
****
Leah lowered herself into the chair carefully. She was uncomfortable and knew that all of the strain of this ordeal had affected her pregnancy. All the ease was gone now, and she had not slept a full night since Stuart had been arrested. She sat in the small room with the worn furniture and listened until she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. The door slowly opened and a guard entered. He stepped aside to admit Stuart, who was wearing leg-irons and handcuffs.
“Just knock on the door when you’re through,” the guard said.
Leah watched him as he waited for a moment before leaving them alone. He was a small, burly man with a callous face. This was just a day’s work to him, and Leah wondered what a man could be like who so constantly observed the fear of men that he had become immune to it.
“How are you?” she asked as Stuart lowered himself into a chair.
He ignored the question, put his hands on the desk, and stared at the steel handcuffs. His face was thinner and he had lost weight. There was a twitch in his lips that had not been there before, and finally he said, “All right. How’s Raimey?”
“He’s . . . all right.”
“What does he say about having a father on trial for murder?”
“He doesn’t talk about it.”
Stuart’s head came up. “He must talk about it. What does he say?”
Leah had not wanted to talk about Raimey, but she saw that it was necessary. “He’s afraid, Stuart. He’s heard talk from other children, and he’s so quick to catch on to what’s happening. I’ve tried to keep the truth from him, but it’s been on the front page of the newspaper for days. Even your picture. I found him looking at it the other night.”
“Does he say anything?” Stuart’s voice was forced, and there was agony in his eyes as he waited on her answer.
“He won’t say anything. I think he’s put it out of his mind. It’s like he thinks if he just ignores it, it’ll go away.”
Stuart suddenly laughed hoarsely. “That sounds like something I’d do.”
Leah could not think of anything to say except, “I’m sorry. I wish I could do something.”
The silence grew between them, and finally he said, “I read a book once about trapping beavers out west. It said that sometimes a beaver will get his foot caught in a trap, and then he’ll gnaw it off himself just to get away. I wish I could do that . . . whatever it cost just to get away.”
Leah sat in silence, and the awkward gulf between them deepened with each passing second. It was as if she had been in a coma ever since her world had collapsed. She had tried to pray but could not. Everything seemed dark and bleak. It was not that she doubted God, but she did not know how to handle such a problem. She knew all of the Scriptures and read them over and over, trying to go on with some ray of hope. She had dutifully sat and listened to the pastor and to her mother-in-law and to Annie whenever they tried to comfort her, but it was as if she were locked inside her own prison and could not get out.
Stuart studied her face, and finally he said, “Can we ever get over this, Leah? I mean if I don’t have to go to prison, can we start over?”
It was a question Leah had asked herself many times, and now she merely shook her head mutely.
“Is it all over?” Stuart said. “Have I ruined it all?”
When she still did not answer, Stuart slumped. “It’s all gone, then? We can’t start over.”
Still something inside Leah urged her to reach out to offer comfort and love and assurance, but it was no use. The years of loneliness and betrayal had left deep wounds in her soul. She merely shook her head and whispered, “I don’t think so.” She felt bound by a coldness in her heart that tightened its grip. And struggle as she might, she could no longer summon love from a broken heart. And so the two of them sat there until finally Stuart rose and knocked on the door. He disappeared, escorted by the guard, and Leah sat there quietly unable to move, unable to think, unable to pray.
****
“Come on! You can ride better than that, Raimey!” Merle had strapped a saddle on an ancient sorrel mare and lifted Raimey up into the saddle. Usually the young boy enjoyed riding, but there was no happiness in him today. He held the reins obediently and went around but had not a word to say.
Finally, after half an hour, Merle said, “I reckon that’s about enough.” He pulled the boy down, unsaddled the mare, and then removed the bridle.
When he returned from putting the mare into the pasture, he saw Raimey standing there. The forlorn look on the boy’s face wrenched the black man’s heart.
“Mr. Merle, what’s gonna happen to my dad?”
“Why, he’s gonna be all right, Raimey.” Merle put his huge hand on the boy’s head and brushed his black hair back. “You just gotta trust the good Lord.”
Merle wanted to say more to try to comfort the boy, but he could think of nothing. He took Raimey back to the house, then turned and walked slowly to his own house. When he entered the kitchen, he found Annie peeling apples.
“That’s g
ood,” she said, “giving Raimey a ride.”
“He didn’t take no joy out of it. He’s all worried about his daddy.”
Annie looked up, her eyes filled with grief. “That boy’s gonna be a mess if his daddy goes to jail.”
“Well, maybe he ain’t goin’.”
“Don’t talk foolish. He’s goin’ all right. Mr. Ace say he ain’t got a chance.”
“When you talkin’ to Mr. Ace?”
“Everybody knows it. That judge, they call him the ‘Killer Judge.’ Mr. Ace said he ain’t never let a man off, and he always give ’em the most years he can think of.”
She looked up suddenly and squinted. “There comes Miss Ellie. Maybe she can cheer Miss Leah up.”
****
“Come in, Ellie,” Leah said. “My, that girl’s growing every day!”
Mattie, Ellie and Ace’s two-year-old blond daughter, began to clamor to be put down. Ellie set her down just as Raimey came into the room. Ellie saw the forlorn look on his face and quickly said, “I left some candy out in the wagon. Raimey, why don’t you go get it and share it with Mattie? Don’t make yourself sick, now.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The two women watched as the two children went outside, and Ellie said, “I could stand a cup of coffee.”
“It’s on the stove.” Leah moved slowly and carefully, following Ellie to the kitchen.
“You sit down,” Ellie said. “I’ll fix the coffee.” She poured two mugs of coffee, laced her own with sugar, then sat down and said, “Are you all right?”
“Yes. This baby’s no trouble. I just wish it were here.”
The conversation went on aimlessly for a while, although both women were aware that they were dodging the subject. Finally Ellie said, “How’s Stuart?”
“Ellie, I don’t know. When I go to see him, we don’t have anything to say.” Leah’s face was tense and her lips trembled. “I know I ought to encourage him, but it’s like I’m all . . . well, I’m all frozen inside! I can’t pray. I can’t even think.” Tears suddenly began to roll down her face.
“I know it’s hard, honey. I know it is.”
The Glorious Prodigal Page 9