Bones of a Witch (15 page)

Hilton and Putnam escorted me from the limo to
the barn, where a gallery of spectators awaited in silent
congregation. Off to my right in a step-stair balcony I counted
twelve jurors, men and women in traditional Puritan garb seated
like eggs in a Styrofoam box, eagerly anticipating my arrival. A
sun-like glow warmed the entire barn, illuminated exclusively with
candles and lanterns hanging from beams, support posts and
makeshift candelabras. A murmured hush swept through the ranks as
the two men ushered me forward and presented me to the
magistrate.

“Your Honor,” said Hilton, standing stiff
before the bench. “I present the accused: Lilith Adams of New
Castle village in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.”

The magistrate, a serious-looking
old coot in a powdered wig, his face long and withered with hooded
eyes like dull pearls mired in sunken sockets; leaned over the
bench, the top of which stood a full six feet up off the floor.
“Ladies and gentleman of the court,” he cawed. I thought he needed
to clear his throat of some clinging phlegm, but he let it ride.
“T
he jurors for our sovereign village of
Salem, in the county of Essex, do on this twelfth day of October in
the year of our Lord 2008, present that Lilith Adams of New Castle
hath on days and times exercised certain detestable acts of
witchcraft and sorcery, wickedly and feloniously afflicting torment
of unspeakable nature and other most grievous sundry atrocities
against our citizenry.
Additionally, Miss
Adams stands accused of bidding the devil’s work with willful and
wanton disregard for the sanctity of God’s holy virtues and the
casting of spells upon innocent bodies for the purpose of
harvesting their souls while recruiting signatures in the devil’s
book.” He peered down upon me as if contemplating squashing a bug.
“How say you plea, Miss Adams?”

I looked up at him in dismay. “Are you kidding?
Are you out of your friggin` mind?”

A collective gasp rushed through the gallery.
The magistrate struck his gavel hard on its plate and the report
from it echoed around the room in a hollow bounce. “Order!” he
called, “Order!” The room quickly fell silent again. “Madam, I
assure you this is no joke. You stand accused of some serious
crimes. How say you plea?”

I looked around the room in morbid wonder,
imagining the fear in the women of early Salem who stood before
such a court some three hundred years earlier and begged for mercy,
knowing, ironically, that nothing short of admitting to the
trumped-up charges might possibly save their lives; for denial
surely meant death by hanging. I turned to the jury and said, “How
do I plea? Have you all not already condemned me in your
eyes?”

The magistrate dropped his gavel once more.
“Miss Adams, you will address the bench with your plea and not the
jury box.”

“To hell with the bench. This is a mockery. Is
there not one among you that believes what happened here in 1692
was a crime against humanity, and that likewise this proceeding
today is a sham?”

I watched the faces of jurors and spectators
alike grow sour with distain, much, I imagined, as they had for the
unfortunate accused in my ancestor’s day. I looked to old man
Hilton and Mister Putnam and surmised, “Guess not.” Neither seemed
amused.

“Your Honor,” said Hilton, “May I suggest we
proceed with the examination?”

“Examination?” I tugged at my restraints, but
the men’s grip on my upper arms tightened. “What
examination?”

“Let the court record note,” said the
magistrate, “that the accused will submit to a full body
examination for the purpose of detecting unusual moles, marks or
bites where the devil may have penetrated the body for the purpose
of acquiring control over form and faculty.”

“Bullshit.” I said. “There will be no
examination here tonight. If anyone so much as touches—”

“There,” said Putnam, lifting the flap on the
back pocket of my jeans, exposing my tattoo. “It is the devil’s
mark. See here what she bares on her buttocks.”

Again the gallery and jury box
swelled in a collective gasp. “
The devil’s
mark
!” one screamed. “
Heathen
!” cried another. An elderly
woman stood up and pointed a crooked finger at me.
“
Burn the witch now
!” I turned to her and gestured back similarly, only
mine
was vertical and
not the index, ring or pinky finger.

“It’s a tattoo, you idiots.” I turned again to
the magistrate. “Look. It’s the pad print of a cat’s paw. Since
when is the devil’s mark associated with kittens?”

He motioned to the court reporter. “Let the
record show that the examination revealed the devil’s mark on the
accused disguised as a feline’s paw print, probably a jaguar or
lion or some other known procurator of Satan.”

“What? No. It’s a Cat’s paw. What kind of
monkey trial are you putting on here?”

“The accused will take her seat now in the
witch’s box.” He pointed at a small raised platform across from the
jury box, to where Putnam and Hilton escorted me. The platform,
only one step up, measured about three-foot square with a wooden
handrail along the front and both sides. I entered from the back
closest to the gallery and took a seat there, my hands still bound
tightly behind my back. The murmurs and whispers behind me started
almost immediately and continued off and on for the duration of the
proceeding. Again, His magistrate dropped his gavel and called the
room to order.

“Your Honor,” said Pastor Hilton, approaching
the magistrate to within arm’s length of the bench. “May I call the
first witness for the prosecution?”

“You mean, persecution,” I hollered.

“Silence,” came the call from the bench.
“Mister Hilton, call your witness.”

Hilton turned to the jury and declared, “I call
to the stand, Mister James T. Putnam.”

“I object,” I said. “That man is a murderer.
He’s not fit to walk the streets a free man.”

“Denied,” said the magistrate. “Pastor,
continue calling your witness.”

“Mister James T. Putnam, to the stand
please.”

Old J.T. took the stand and removed his hat,
setting it on his lap beneath folded hands. He looked to the jury
box, winking at several of the older women sitting in the back row.
Down in front, a younger-looking gentleman, probably his own son,
actually gave him the okay sign followed by a thumbs-up. Putnam
smiled at that. On a bench seat in front of the witness stand, a
kerosene lantern pitched a dull orange glow upon his face, casting
unnatural-looking shadows at such angles as to make him appear
stone-like. Hilton, likewise, took on that same stony stature as he
entered the light’s circle for the questioning session.

“Mister Putnam,” he began, “would you mind
telling the court how long you have lived in Salem?”

“Objection.” I said, mostly just to be a pain
in the ass. “The court has not established that this man is indeed
James T. Putnam of Salem.”

“Sustained.”

“Really?”

“Mister Hilton, establish your witness’ full
name and residence please.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mister Putnam, will you
please state your name for the court?”

Putnam responded, “You know my
name.”

Hilton, “For the record, please.”

“Fine. James T. Putnam.”

“And your place of residence?”

“666 South Devilry Road, Salem.”

“Thank you. Your Honor?”

“Thank you, Councilor. Miss Adams, are you
satisfied?”

“Fuck, why not?”

“Mister Putnam, will you please tell the court
how long you have lived in Salem?”

“Sure, I’ve lived in Salem my entire life, and
so has my family since 1684.”

“I see. So you must be an outstanding pillar of
the community then?”

“Objection. This man is leading the
witness.”

“Miss Adams….” The magistrate angled in to the
side of his bench and said in a hush, “You really don’t get to say
anything here. These proceedings are usually one way, as they have
been for over three hundred years. I let you object earlier so that
you might know who bears witness against you.”

“Are you kidding?” I stood and leaned out over
the handrail. “I should be sitting there bearing witness against
him. He killed a woman in cold blood.”

“Silence!” He ordered, striking his gavel down
hard on the plate. “I will not have you make a mockery of this
court.”

“Too late. It’s done.”

“Mister Hilton, continue.”

Hilton bowed gentlemanly. “Thank you, Your
Honor.” Returning to Putnam he said, “Mister Putnam, will you
please tell us in your own words about your encounter with Miss
Adams the other day?”

Putnam nodded with confidence, though his
impatience was beginning to show in the way his fidgety hands
tooled along the brim of the hat upon his lap. “Well, sir, I’ll
tell you. It started the other day after I traveled down to New
Castle on business. I hadn’t been in town more than an hour or so
when this dog approached me and told me to go to the city’s parking
garage.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hilton. “You say a dog
approached you?”

“Yes, sir, that’s right.”

“And he spoke to you?”

“Yes sir.”

“I see. And what kind of dog was
it?”

“I don’t know; a big black one.”

“A big black dog?”

“Yes.”

“All right, continue.”

“Objection. Your Honor, pah-leeze.”

Again the gallery erupted in gasps and sighs,
and once more the gavel came down hard. “Miss Adams, I will not
warn you again. You are not allowed to object.”

“Then how can I defend myself?
Where is
my
council? And why haven’t I been afforded due process under
the—”

“Silence. Bailiff, gag this woman.”

“No, no. Don’t gag me. I’m cool. Look, I’ll
just sit here and chill. You guys go on. Don’t mind me.”

Hilton waited for the last of the murmurs to
subside before returning to Putnam for questioning. By now Putnam
had nearly fiddled the brim clean off his hat. He may have
testified against countless accused witches before, but I got the
feeling he never actually met up with a real one—until
now.

“Mister Putnam, you stated that a big black dog
approached you on the streets of New Castle and spoke to
you.”

“That’s correct.”

“And tell us again what this dog said to
you?”

“He told me to go to the city’s parking
garage.”

“Did he say why he wanted you to go
there?”

“He said he worked for the devil and that he
wanted me to go there and sign the devil’s book.”

“The devil’s book you say?”

“Yes.”

“And did you go to this parking garage and sign
the devil’s book?”

“No sir. That is…I went to the garage, but I
did not sign the book.”

“I see. So what happened next?”

“Well, the dog got angry then. He told me he
would kill me and drag me off to Hades if I didn’t obey
him.”

“Did you sign the book then?”

“No. I still refused. That’s when he entered my
body and killed her.”

“Killed who?”

“A woman who had just stepped out of the
elevator. While in my body, he walked up to the woman and stabbed
her in the belly.”

“Then what?”

“Then he exited my body. Only he was no longer
a dog then, he had taken on human form.”

“You mean a man?”

“No, a woman.” Putnam stood and pointed at me.
“That woman.”

Shrieks of horror gushed from gallery and jury
box alike. One woman fainted; another fell back into the arms of
the man behind her. The magistrate called for order, his gavel
jack-hammering the plate so hard it broke at the handle. Putnam
raked the room with his eyes, perhaps expecting some in attendance
to call him out on such preposterous testimony. But no one did;
indeed all seemed to accept his wild claim as fantastic and
undisputable. From across the room I saw Hilton look at me and
smile wickedly, all the while fondling that ridiculously large
crucifix around his neck. His Honor the magistrate, with gavel head
cupped in hand, continued rapping on the plate and calling for
order until the outburst had settled completely. Once everyone had
reclaimed a seat, the absurd testimony of James T. Putnam
continued.

He went on to explain the rush he felt when the
devil entered his body; the horror he experienced seeing the woman
die at his own hands and the guilt he harbored for his unwitting
complicity in her death.

“So even though the devil was controlling your
actions,” said Hilton, “you could still see what was going
on?”

“Yes,” Putnam replied. “It was terrible. I
could do nothing to stop her.”

“I see, and how do you know that that woman,”
Hilton turned and gestured toward me with a nod, “Miss Adams, how
do you know that she made you kill that poor lady?”