He anticipated its arrival for weeks. He waited at the mailbox after school for the late delivery, hoping for the notice that his package had arrived. On the day it finally did, he practically hopped with joy as he made his way to the Post Office.
She was a duck hawk—also known as a peregrine. She arrived in a padded container the size of a hat box, with holes in the sides. When he got the top open, the chick was alive but caked in her own excrement; it took all the patience of an excited twelve-year-old to learn how to handle her, to avoid the beak and the tiny talons, as he cleaned her undersides with a cloth his mother used to polish the silver. For a mews, he used an old chicken coop in the back yard. After much thought, he decided to name her Tarheel.
His bird came with a booklet of instructions on falconry, “the sport of kings.” Jim pored over these directions with a diligence he never paid to his school texts. He learned that his bird was female, because females (it said) were more tractable. To feed her, he hunted for worms, toads, and mice, or begged his neighbors for any unwanted ducklings or chicks. When he acquired these live, he had to break their necks and cut them up into pieces.
He fashioned a leather gauntlet for her to roost upon his arm, and a tiny hood—with a tiny tassel on top—for her to wear between lessons. When the bird was fledged at last, he was thrilled to watch her flutter away, trailing on the string he had tied to her leg, and then return to his arm. When he put the hood back on, Tarheel would dutifully close her hard, gem-like black eyes.
By the end of summer Jim and his companion had made a lot of progress. The bird was healthy and growing, and didn’t fly away when Jim risked her first untethered flight. She learned to strike when he threw up the lure for her, and to return when he whistled. He envisioned a time, not long off, when she would hunt for him, bringing down pigeons or ducks, or plucking fish out of the creek for his dinner. He imagined using her to deliver messages to his future sweethearts.
Indeed, training Tarheel made him feel better about himself than anything he ever did, and ever would, for years. Jim wasn’t the richest kid in Elizabeth City, nor the smartest nor the most athletic. But he was the town’s sole bonafide practitioner of the sport of kings.
The brotherhood of falconers had its drawbacks. Jim was often seen that year with gashes on his fingers. Once, when he was foolish enough to try to feed Tarheel out of his own mouth, she nipped his lower lip. His father noticed the cut at supper that afternoon, and said, “What are you doing with that wild animal?”
“Raisin’ it.”
“Seems to me you have enough toys without endangering yourself with that thing.”
Jim made no reply, and was thankful when the old man dropped the subject. But his kid sister Annie Mae was listening.
He came home the next day to a full-fledged furor. Dr. Wood was coming out, and gave him a pitying look as they passed on the front walk. Martha Wilcox was upstairs, in Annie Mae’s room, wailing and weeping. And his father was downstairs, his heavy leather belt off his hips and stretched across his lap.
“What happened?” he asked, eying the belt.
“What happened,” said Tom Wilcox, “is that your sister has been disfigured by that thing in the chicken coop.”
“Disfiggered? How?”
“A scratch right across her cheek. The doc says it will scar for sure. Her looks are spoiled for good! And I told you I didn’t want that thing around. Now you’re gonna pay.”
“But I told her to stay away.”
“Come here, boy…”
Jim got such a thrashing it was hard for him to sit down. Worse, his father ordered him to get rid of Tarheel. He swore, “If it’s not gone by tomorrow, I’ll break its neck myself!”
Dread of this prospect almost made him forget the belt marks on his rear end. In bed that night, he imagined running away from home, a sack of his belongings over one shoulder and Tarheel perched on the other. But Jim was a practical sort, even as a boy; what kind of life he could provide for himself and his companion at such a young age? Where could he escape with his father—who was also a former sheriff—out looking for him?
When Annie Mae came down to breakfast, he got a look at the cut on her face. It was indeed hideous—a neat slice down the bridge of her nose and over her left cheek. An inch in either direction and an eye would have been put out.
“Hey stupid! Didn’t I just get done tellin’ you to stay away from my bird?”
“James Wilcox, you…will…not…call…your…sister…stupid!” his mother said.
“But what if she is?”
“Apologize to her. Right now!”
He decided the next best thing was to give Tarheel her freedom. It was a Saturday, so he was free to spend the morning preparing her. He fed her and groomed her, tenderly explaining to her why this drastic change was necessary. Her hard gaze was constant and empty and filled him with unendurable sadness. He put the hood on her head for the last time, for the trip down to the river.
The banks of the Pasquotank seemed the best place to release her into the world. A little ways out of town there was a swivel bridge where the river met Charles Creek. From there, he would watch her disappear out over the water, toward the freedom he had yet to taste for himself.
But Jim’s errand didn’t go unnoticed. As he went down Shepard Street, a handful of the local boys saw the strange kid walking down the center of the road with a large bird on his arm. The witnesses called others, and they called more, until there was a small crowd of a dozen boys trailing behind him. So oddly processional did the scene become, with Jim bearing his tasseled bird at the head, that it took on the air of a triumphal march, with the others skipping and gamboling behind him.
He didn’t expect an entourage. But what harm could it do, he thought, for the town to give Tarheel a proper send-off? When they reached the river, Jim raised his arm, displaying his bird to the ragged throng. They cheered.
He removed the hood, and gave her a last look in the eye.
“Goodbye, loyal comrade,” he said. It was a phrase he read in a book once.
He raised his arm and let Tarheel fly. She soared out over the river, just as he imagined. The witnesses fell silent, agape at the majesty of it.
But then she wheeled, and with a few powerful flaps, glided straight back to Jim. Jim was astonished as she hovered a few feet above him, talons extended as if to perch on his arm.
“Dumb bird,” Jim said. “Get out of here!”
Tarheel flew away again, across the river. But she turned, and came in low, her wingtips almost touching the water. Then, with a graceful swoop, she was reaching for him again.
“Get out now! Shoo!”
The boys began to jeer:
“Having some trouble with your pet, Jim?”
“Is that a hawk or a chicken?”
Jim tore off some grass and threw the clump at her. She evaded it, and gave a plaintive screech.
“You’re free! Go on! Light out!”
She ascended and milled around above him, as if confused. That’s when the first rock was thrown. It was well wide, but Jim was astounded.
“Who threw that? Who threw that rock?”
“It was a piece of grass,” someone replied.
“Liar!”
Now half the boys scrambled for rocks to throw; some of them brought out slingshots. Jim screamed for them to stop, but it did no good. He turned back to Tarheel, waving her away. But the more projectiles came at her, the more frightened did she become, and the more she tried to regain her perch.
The assault went on for a few more sickening minutes, as the falcon dodged dozens of stones. Jim dared think maybe they couldn’t hit her.
“You sons of bitches! I’ll get you all for this!”
That was when young Aloysius Spencer, the eight-year-old child of German immigrants, notched a smooth stone in his sling-shot. He pulled and released. The rock hit Tarheel dead center, in the breast. She spiraled out of the air and plunged, shedding feathers, into Charles Creek.
All the boys went silent as the magnificent bird fell. Slingshots fell limp at their sides, and stones were surreptitiously dropped.
There were no words Jim could utter in the face of this. He could only stare at her, floating in the stream befouled with sewage, and littered with old cigar wrappers and oyster tins. He wasn’t aware of it, but the other boys saw him trembling with what might have been rage, or despair. Somebody pulled little Aloysius away and took him home, before something worse happened to him.
Jim used a stick to retrieve the bird from the creek. He took her home cradled in his arms, aware of the eyes watching from the houses around him. He kept his face a mask; he knew they expected him to show how he was feeling, but he refused to gratify them.
When he got home, he fetched a shovel. There was a quiet spot behind the bushes in the Wilcox’s backyard—a place where neither his parents nor his sister ever went. He buried her there, good and deep.
There was a patch of sunflowers in the garden, standing sentinel over the vegetables. They were his parents’ pride. He broke off the biggest, finest bloom with his bare hands, and laid it over Tarheel’s grave.
When he went inside for the evening, his father was reading his paper in the dining room.
“Hey there, little man. Did you get rid of that bird?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now go up and wash those hands. I don’t know what you get into, that you come in here so filthy…”
Jim never mentioned Tarheel again—until a dozen years later, when Tom Wilcox disparaged the Cropseys, saying “I don’t know how you put up with them. No pretty face is worth that.”
And Jim thought, “Maybe not.” But he knew that courting such a comely girl, having her on his arm around town and lending her company only to him, made him feel better than anything since Tarheel died. He’d be damned if a few cuts on his fingers deprived him of that.
“Do you remember the last time you told me to get rid of something?” Jim replied. “This is one falcon you’re not taking away from me.”
IV.
The Pasquotank County Court convened on Monday, March 10th, 1902. The docket of Judge George A. Jones was crowded with the usual probate and eviction actions. There was also a dispute over a parcel of land in the Fairgrounds, the contested inheritance of a farm, and award of title to a stud horse. Among the criminal cases were nine charges of larceny, five for assault, one for ‘nuisance’, and one for carrying a concealed weapon. Folks around the nation were talking about just one case, however — the prosecution of James Wilcox for the assault and murder of Ella Maud Cropsey.
The Wilcox case was widely expected to dominate the two-week session. Out-of-town reporters had taken all the rooms at the main downtown hotel—the Arlington on Water Street. They were seen together at the bar, drinking, smoking, spitting, mostly among themselves. They so monopolized the town’s lone Western Union telegrapher that regular townspeople had to wait hours to attend their messages.
The trial was not scheduled to begin until the 11th. Jones met with opposing counsel on the opening day of the session, however, and began on a jocular note.
“Don’t look now, fellows, but we’ve got a hummer of a national event this time. Terrible circumstances, of course. But they won’t be asking ‘where’s Betsy City?’ anymore!”
“I hear this is the first time the trains are regularly running more full from Norfolk than to it,” said Aydlett.
“I don’t doubt!” Jones laughed. But then, as if aware that his humor might appear callous, he turned serious:
“Ed…George…I don’t have to tell you the feelings that have been stirred up by this case. I’m going to bring down the gavel hard on either of you, if you turn my court into a medicine show.”
“You have nothing to worry about from me,” said George Ward, the county Solicitor.
“Your Honor, it’s funny you say that, because that is exactly the point of our concerns—”
“I won’t be drawn into that debate again, Ed. If you wish to make a motion in open court, that is your right. But I will not grant it. I will not tell the people of this county that they are unable to pass judgement on one of their own.”
“Your Honor, with respect, that motion would never be construed as an insult to the people of this county. Any more than the Governor posting the militia at the jail was taken as an insult.”
“What the Governor does out of an abundance of caution…”
“…might be taken in the same spirit, should you grant the change.”
“I think I’ve made my position clear on this,” said the judge as he rubbed his eyes. “If you want to argue the motion, I will give you all the rope you need. It will not change the result. Now, on to jury selection—”
Aydlett and Ward later found themselves walking together downstairs.
“I almost wish you won that argument, Ed,” said the Solicitor.
“You could have said something. What prosecutor wants to see a verdict thrown out over the issue of venue?”
“Wishing you’d carried the point and helping you make it aren’t the same.”
They paused at the door to don hats.
“That boy’s good as convicted already,” said Aydlett. Then he tipped his brim and walked out into the sunny afternoon.
Opening day of the Wilcox trial saw the largest crowd of spectators attempt to enter a courtroom in the history of the town. As if for a hot ticket at the Academy of Music, a line formed in Courthouse Square two hours before the doors opened. The ground was still torn up after the departure of the Pasquotank Rifles, and the milling about of hundreds of more feet turned it into a moonscape. Yet everyone was equal in their muddy shoes and soiled cuffs—the whites and blacks, the men and women, the old and the not-so-young.
An elderly Negro sold roasted pecans for two cents a bag. For throats made dry by this, another man offered a single ladle of clear water for the sum of one cent. A boy—conspicuously not in school that Tuesday morning—sold copies of the Weekly Economist, which his patrons eagerly scanned for fresh news of the investigation. There was nothing about Nell or Jim in the March 7th edition, but much sympathy was raised by an unrelated item: the noted Ohio millionaire and philanthropist who was found dead nine days before. The body was discovered hanging in his office by a family member who went to call him to dinner. “Illness and the suicide of a favorite son, a Yale graduate, a year ago, made Mr. Perkins temporarily insane,” the story read.
“Poor man,” a woman cried.
“Mercy on that poor soul who found him!”
“How hard on that poor family!”
“Hey, there’s the bastard!” someone shouted.
Jim Wilcox was being escorted to the front door. He was well dressed for his indictment, with short black coat, shirt pressed and starched, bow tie and shoes polished so high they gleamed. Jim had done the polishing himself, and believed he’d never worn a finer set of clogs. As he mounted the few steps to the door, he nodded amiably to the crowd.
“He looks guilty as John Wilkes Booth,” a man said.
The main courtroom was grand but entirely typical: wide-plank floor, soaring strip-ceiling with chandelier, railing of carved finials. From the back wall, Abraham Lincoln and George Washington gazed over the judge’s shoulders. The first row was taken by the fashionable women of the town, who had been escorted forward as a courtesy. The lack of ventilation forced many to fan themselves furiously. Despite the stuffiness, the women wore fancy hats that blocked the views of the men behind them. Because asking a lady to remove her hat was not a done thing, the men had to stretch to peer around the ostrich plumes.
Every inch of standing room was likewise taken. The white spectators jammed the front, spilling into the areas usually reserved for the clerks and witnesses. A hundred black faces crowded the back. To spur the civic education of the youngsters of the town, Judge Jones invited every boy who fit to squat at the foot of his bench. Next to the judge himself, these boys had the best se
ats in the house.
The buzz in the room faded as Wilcox was led in. All eyes were on him as he took his place at the defendant’s table—except for two of the boys, who took turns whispering in each other’s ears. Once Jim was settled next to Aydlett, Jones gaveled the court to order. Solicitor Ward rose.
“If it pleases the Court, we will arraign the prisoner in cell 19.”
“Proceed.”
“James Wilcox, please stand. Hold up your right hand.”
Jim stood and raised his arm. To him, the entire tableau seemed like a dream; when he looked to his right, the hand there seemed like it belonged to someone else. He repeated the oath mechanically. His awareness of what Ward was saying faded, until he perceived his name being spoke, and heard “…the jurors of the State, upon their oaths, present that James Wilcox, of the county of Pasquotank, State of North Carolina, on the 20th day of November, 1901, with force of arms, at and in the county aforesaid, feloniously, willfully and of his malice aforethought, did kill and murder Ella Maud Cropsey against the form of the statute, in such case made, and provided, and against the peace and dignity of the State.”
“How does the defendant plead?”
Aydlett rose. “My client pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”
A hiss went through the crowd. Jones paused for it to subside, fingers lingering on the handle of his gavel.
“How will you be tried?”
“By God and by country!”
“When does the prosecution think it will be ready to go to trial?”
“Thursday, the 13th.”
“What does the defendant say?”
“Well, Your Honor, we don’t know,” said Aydlett, feigning haplessness. “We will try and be ready by Thursday, but cannot say. I think it very probable that we will be ready to go by Thursday noon.”
“Your Honor, the defense has had no less time to prepare for this proceeding as the State.”
“There are witnesses for the defense that are not yet ready to testify, Your Honor, due to the intensity of the bias against my client in the community…”
Sensing that Aydlett was about to bring up the matter of venue in open court, Jones almost rose from his chair—
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