One of the guards opened the door, and people filed in. They filled the jury box, and the last one in sat at the table between the lawyers’ tables and the judge’s bench. Then the guard said, “All rise. The Honorable Judge Josiah Stanwick presiding.”
Everybody stood, and the noise of their shuffling seemed as loud as thunder to Willie’s ears. The judge rounded the corner, his black robe flaring behind him, and stepped up behind the tall desk. He sat, and the guard said, still all solemn, “You may be seated.”
The shuffles came again, just as loud, and Willie slid the Bible from the table and pressed it against his stomach. The judge called on Mr. Brownley, the lawyer from the other table, to talk first. Willie wanted to hide when the man told the jurors Willie had taken money from hardworking employees. But then Mr. Scott stood and told them Willie was a hardworking employee himself who would never steal. Willie looked at the jury members’ faces. He couldn’t tell which of the lawyers they believed, but he kept praying they’d believe Mr. Scott.
Then it was time for witnesses. Mr. Brownley called Mr. Felton to the witness box. The person from the table in between Willie and the judge asked Mr. Felton to put his hand on a Bible and vow to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Mr. Felton sat, and Mr. Brownley asked him to tell in his own words the events that led to Willie’s arrest.
“Well, Miss Warner—”
“Who is Miss Warner?”
Mr. Felton pointed to the pews. “The one sitting there, wearing the black hat with feathers. She runs the Silk Room.”
Mr. Brownley nodded. “Very well. Proceed.”
“Miss Warner came into my office an’ said—”
“When was this, sir?”
Mr. Felton scratched his head. “Uh…Tuesday, October fifteenth.”
“Thank you. Continue.”
Mr. Felton took a deep breath. “Miss Warner, who runs the Silk Room, came to my office on Tuesday the fifteenth an’ said pay envelopes had come up missin’ from her desk. There’s only three people with keys to the Silk Room—me, Miss Warner, an’ Officer Sharp.”
“And who all knew the envelopes were in Miss Warner’s desk?”
Mr. Scott leaped to his feet. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Rephrase, Mr. Brownley.”
Mr. Brownley paced back and forth briefly, pinching his chin. Then he stopped and shook his head. “No more questions.”
Judge Stanwick peered through his spectacles at Mr. Scott. “Your turn.”
Mr. Scott rounded the table, adjusting his suit lapels as he went. Willie followed him with his gaze, somehow nervous sitting at the table all by himself. Mr. Scott rested his elbow on the edge of the judge’s high table and smiled at Mr. Felton. “Mr. Felton, at the time of his arrest, how many days had Willie Sharp been under your supervision?”
The man rolled his eyes upward. His lips moved silently. He blurted, “ ’Bout thirty in all. Mondays through Saturdays from September sixteenth to October nineteenth.”
“During that time, what opinion did you form about Mr. Sharp’s work ethic?”
Mr. Brownley waved his hand. “Objection. One man’s opinion has little bearing on the evidence.”
The judge scowled for a moment. “I’ll allow it. You may answer, Mr. Felton.”
Mr. Felton fidgeted on the chair. “I thought he was a good worker. Always showed up on time, took his duties real serious. Tried real hard to figure out who made a big mess in the Silk Room. I’d say he had a good work ethic.”
Mr. Scott nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Felton. You may step down.”
Mr. Felton shot out of the box and past Willie’s table without looking at him.
Mr. Scott returned to the table, and the judge said, “Your next witness, Mr. Brownley.”
“I call Miss Felicia Hill to the stand.”
Willie gulped. Was that why she’d come—to be a witness for the prosecution? Would Miss Millard and Miss Warner have to go up and talk against him, too?
Miss Hill gave the same vow as Mr. Felton, then sat. She seemed as nervous as a canary in a room full of cats. Willie understood the feeling.
“Miss Hill, on Monday, October fourteenth, were you in the presence of Willie Sharp?”
Miss Hill hunched her shoulders. “Yes, sir. In the Silk Room.”
“Did you, on that day, in Mr. Sharp’s presence, mention that your supervisor had not distributed pay envelopes at the end of the day?”
Her face glowed bright pink. She nodded.
Willie wanted to groan. How had Mr. Brownley found out about their conversation?
Mr. Brownley headed for his desk. “No more questions.”
Mr. Scott stood. “Miss Hill, when you mentioned that your supervisor had not distributed the pay envelopes, did you also mention where they were kept?”
“No, sir, ’cause I didn’t know where they were kept.”
Mr. Scott smiled. “Thank you, Miss Hill. No more questions.”
The policeman sitting with Mr. Felton took the stand next and explained how the empty envelopes were found all crunched up in the back of Willie’s cubby. Mr. Scott asked if anyone could testify they’d seen Willie with the envelopes, and the officer said not to his knowledge. He got to step down.
Willie held on to the Bible, his heart beating with hope. Things were sounding good. In his favor. Maybe Mr. Scott was right and he’d get to go home when this was done.
“Mr. Brownley, call your next witness, please,” the judge said.
“I call Miss Eloise Warner.”
Miss Warner swept past Willie’s table and placed her hand on the Bible. She recited the vow in a loud, clear voice, then seated herself and placed her hands in her lap. With her chin angled high, she reminded Willie of a queen on a throne.
Mr. Brownley linked his hands behind his back and approached the witness box. “Miss Warner, what capacity did Willie Sharp serve in the Silk Room?”
“He served as our security guard, and he did a very fine job.”
The judge cleared his voice. “Miss Warner, please answer the questions and refrain from expounding.”
Miss Warner gave him a tart look. “I swore to tell the whole truth, and that’s exactly what I’ll do.”
The Silk Room girls tittered, and Willie bit back a smile.
The judge waved his hand. “Proceed.”
Mr. Brownley unlinked his hands and slid them into his pockets. “Describe Mr. Sharp’s duties.”
“His first was helping me clean up the horrendous mess some troublemakers made. After that, he stood guard at the door, assuring none bent on mischief would enter the room. He kept careful watch over visitors and observed our daily happenings.”
“Hmm…” Mr. Brownley paced a few steps and aimed his gaze at the jury. “He was attentive to all the happenings in the room?”
“Yes.” Miss Warner smiled at Willie. “He is a very diligent worker and takes his responsibilities quite seriously.”
“Then he would have most likely noticed you putting the pay envelopes into the desk drawer.”
Miss Warner quivered, the feathers on her cap fluttering like butterfly wings. “He most certainly did not.”
“How can you be sure? You said he”—he peeked over the shoulder of the person at the desk in the middle of the courtroom—“ ‘observed our daily happenings.’ ” He faced Miss Warner. “So isn’t it possible he observed where you placed the pay envelopes?”
She pulled in a breath. “It is possible, but—”
Mr. Brownley jammed his hand into the air. “No more questions.”
Mr. Scott stood. “Miss Warner, please finish your sentence.”
She blew out the air with a loud huff. “It is possible, but even if he did, he would not have helped himself to the envelopes. He has proven himself trustworthy through his every word and dee
d from the first minutes of our acquaintanceship. I do not believe that he is capable of thievery.”
Mr. Brownley rose. “Objection. This is all opinion and can’t be substantiated with facts.”
“Oh, I believe it can, Your Honor.” Mr. Scott gestured to the gallery. “I have several character witnesses ready to testify to Mr. Sharp’s stellar reputation and trustworthiness.”
The judge scowled into the gallery. “Who’s here as a character witness?”
Mr. Rochester, Preacher Hines, and Miss Millard stood. Then Quincy bounced to his feet. He hardly looked like himself, his eyes shiny and head high, seeming so sure of himself. His suit was mighty nice, too—black with little blue dots and a vest to match.
“And you would stand behind Miss Warner’s statements?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Rochester boomed, and the preacher, Quincy, and Miss Millard nodded.
Willie sniffed hard. He couldn’t cry in front of all these people. Even if the jury found him guilty, he’d carry away happiness. They believed in him.
The judge drummed his fingers for a moment. He slapped the desk. “Well, then, let Miss Warner’s record stand, and for the sake of expediency, we’ll allow her testimony to serve for all five character witnesses. Miss Warner, you may step down. Mr. Brownley, call your next witness.”
Miss Warner returned to the pew, and Mr. Brownley stood. “This is my final witness, Your Honor. I call Mr. Benjamin Mealer.”
The man Willie didn’t recognize ambled to the front and promised his truthfulness. He slid into the seat and rested his elbows on his knees.
Mr. Brownley sat on the edge of his table. “Mr. Mealer, for the record, please state your occupation.”
“I’m a resident aide at the Atlanta Hospital for Convalescents.”
Mr. Scott leaned close to Willie. “Do you have any idea why he’s here?”
Willie shrugged. “Maybe ’cause he helps my pa?”
The lawyer nodded and turned his attention to the witness.
“Were you working on the night of”—Mr. Brownley looked over his shoulder at his notes—“Saturday, October nineteenth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did anything out of the ordinary occur that evening?”
The man chuckled and rubbed the side of his nose with his finger. “I guess you could say so.”
“What was that event?”
“A fellow came in after hours an’ left an envelope.”
“What was in this envelope?”
“Ninety dollars.”
A whisper went through the room. Willie’s lawyer slid his arm across the back of Willie’s chair and sat forward, tense.
Mr. Brownley folded his arms and crossed his ankles. The casual, cocky pose made the hair on the back of Willie’s neck prickle. “Was there any kind of communication left with the ninety dollars?”
Mr. Mealer nodded. “Yes, sir. Right on the outside of the envelope, somebody’d written, ‘For my pa, from Willie Sharp.’ ”
Laurel
Laurel sat forward and looked at Officer Sharp. His mouth hung open, making him appear as stunned as she felt. It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake.
His lawyer stood. “Objection. Hearsay.”
The judge leaned toward the witness. “Young man, can you produce this envelope?”
Mr. Scott stepped to the side of his table. “Even if he can, there’s no way to prove Willie Sharp wrote the note or that he sent the money.”
The prosecuting attorney snorted. “Your Honor, who else would put money against an account for Mr. Sharp’s father?”
The judge pointed at Officer Sharp. “Mr. Mealer, is this the person who came in and left the envelope?”
Mr. Mealer rubbed the side of his nose. “Well, sir, I don’t know. The fellow who brought it in gave it to a janitor. Then the janitor gave it to me. I locked it up in the accountant’s office.”
“What is the janitor’s name?”
“Ray Welch.”
“Where would I find him?”
Mr. Mealer shrugged. “I reckon at the hospital. He works most every day.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mealer. You may step down.” The judge turned to the guards. “Send someone to the convalescent hospital and bring Mr. Welch here.” He picked up his gavel. “Court is in recess until the witness appears.” He banged the gavel on his desk and left the room.
The remaining guard escorted the jury members out, and the prosecuting attorney left with the hospital aide and the other three witnesses for the prosecution. Langdon and his father rose and filed out also.
Laurel watched them, waiting for Langdon to acknowledge her, but he strode past with his gaze straight ahead. She sighed. She and Mama had talked well past bedtime the night before President Cleveland visited the exposition, and they’d prayed together. Laurel was certain God had forgiven her for failing to seek His will, but it might be a while before she forgave herself.
Officer Sharp’s attorney whispered something to him, and Office Sharp got up and stepped inside the gallery. He went straight to the slight gray-haired man sitting in front of Laurel and wrapped him in a hug. He pulled back, smiled into the man’s face, then hugged him again.
The man tugged at him, and Officer Sharp slid onto the pew. The older man lifted his hand and curled it behind Officer Sharp’s neck. “Wiii-eee, ah luuu you.”
Tears rolled down the young man’s cheeks. “I love you, too, Pa. It’s sure good to see you. All of you. Quince…” The friends clasped hands—black and white, folded together—and smiled at each other for a long time. He swiped his face with his jacket sleeve. “Thanks for bein’ here, for supportin’ me.”
He swept his smile across the man sitting with his pa, Miss Warner, Berta, and Felicia. When his gaze met hers, he seemed to pause for an additional second, and she took advantage of the moment to give him her biggest, brightest, most encouraging smile. He gave a quick nod in reply.
Felicia tapped his arm. “I’m sorry, Officer Sharp, about havin’ to testify. That lawyer said I had to or I’d be in contempt.”
Officer Sharp shrugged. “It’s all right. You have to tell the truth. I don’t hold that against you. An’ by the way…” His grin turned sheepish. “Y’all should probably stop callin’ me Officer Sharp. No matter how things end up here today, I likely won’t have a job at the exposition anymore. So from now on, I’m just Willie.”
Willie…A solid, simple, honest name. It seemed to float on a tune heard only in the center of her heart. Laurel nodded. It was just right.
Langdon
Langdon braced his hand on the window frame and stared out at the city. Father sat on a bench nearby, ankle on knee, bouncing his foot. For the third time, Langdon said, “Are you sure you don’t want to leave? You aren’t going to testify. The judge said so.” If only Father would agree to go.
Father gave him the same impatient look he’d given the previous times he’d asked. “I will stay until the end. I’ve stood behind that young man, staunchly supported him. This latest piece of evidence presents a tiny flicker of doubt. I need to see it snuffed out.”
Langdon pushed off the window and stomped to the bench. “Then may I leave? I don’t really care about the outcome.” He didn’t dare be in the courtroom when Welch arrived.
Father pointed to the empty spot on the bench. “Sit. We’ll leave together when the trial is done.”
Langdon slumped onto the bench. Why had he thought his plan would make Father see Sharp—see his son—differently? For someone supposedly intelligent, he felt every bit a fool.
The courtroom door creaked open a few inches, and Sharp’s minister peeked out. “The jury is coming in. The judge should be here soon.”
Father grabbed Langdon’s arm and they entered the courtroom. Father headed for the front pew again, but Langdon slipped into the rear one. Father sent him a frown but didn’t insist he mo
ve. Everyone stood when the judge stepped into the courtroom. As soon as he sat, Langdon slid low on his pew, propped his elbow on the curved wooden back, and rested his forehead in his hand. He observed the proceedings from the corners of his eyes.
The clerk swore in the janitor from the convalescent hospital, and the man perched on the witness chair with an air of importance. The prosecuting attorney took the floor.
“Mr. Welch, I understand you were at work on the evening of October nineteenth when you had an encounter with a visitor to the hospital.”
“Yup.” The man nearly chirped, as cheerful as a spring robin. “I shore did, sonny.”
A couple of the jury members snickered. Judge Stanwick shot them a glower. Things quieted quickly, but hope stirred in Langdon’s chest. The man seemed as absentminded as a squirrel that couldn’t remember where it had buried its acorns. He probably wouldn’t remember Langdon, either.
The lawyer linked his hands and rested them on the railing in front of the witness box. “Would you please tell the court what this visitor did?”
“He come in, handed me a fat envelope with some writin’ on it, an’ tol’ me to give it over to whoever kept the books.” He scratched his head, making his remaining wisps of white hair stand up. “Then he tol’ me to make sure an’ say he’d brung it sooner. He said”—he scratched some more—“he didn’t want the one who give it to him to get upset ’cause he was late.”
“Did he say who’d given it to him?”
“No, but he didn’t hafta. It was writ right there on the envelope—Willie Sharp.”
Mr. Scott put his hand in the air. “Objection, Judge. This is all hearsay and has little bearing on the case.”
The janitor looked up at the judge. “What’s ’at mean—hearsay?”
“Hearsay is information received from a secondary source that cannot be substantiated.”
“Am I the seckuntdary source?”
A Silken Thread Page 33