Bryson City Tales (12 page)

Mitch chimed in from across the nurses' station. “Tell you what, son, when we get an afternoon free, I'm gonna teach you all about cattle. Why, I'll even teach you how to conceive those things!” Before I could ask him to explain what he was talking about, he had left the station and was heading down the hall.

The next day Helen asked me if I had a minute to speak to a patient in the lobby. Mitch's nurse had a devilish smile on her face.

“What's going on, Helen?”

The smile quickly left as she perceived me to be questioning her authority. “Just come with me to the waiting room, young man.
Now!
” I didn't argue.

As I entered the lobby, it took me a minute to recognize Clem. He was cleaned up—but then so was I. He had his left arm around a homely woman, seemingly dressed in her Sunday best. He walked over with an ear-to-ear smile, missing a few teeth, and began to enthusiastically pump my hand.

“Doc, just came by to say thanks once again for what you done the other night for me and my family. This here's my wife, Doris.” I was to learn that they had no children. Indeed, Clem's herd and his wife
were
his family.

“Well, it's good to see you again, Mr. Monteith, and it's good to meet you, Mrs. Monteith.”

“Clem and Doris will work just fine for us.” Clem smiled and then dropped his head for a moment, seemingly gathering his words. (I was to learn that this is a common behavior in the area. It gives the speaker time to think and builds the drama of the moment.)

“Doc, we're just here to say that we know you're new in these parts and we know you haven't done lots of animal work, but we think you done real good and we want you to know we appreciate it.”

“You're more than welcome,” I stammered, more embarrassed than thankful.

“Doc,” he said falteringly, “we don't have any way to pay you back for your service just yet. But we'll pay you when we can.”

“That's OK,” I replied. After all, I hadn't even considered charging for my services. No one had ever taught me how to provide medical services to cows, much less how to charge for those services.

He paused for just a moment. I wasn't quite sure what to do—or what to say.

“Go ahead,” Doris spoke up. “Go ahead and tell him, honey.”

“Well, Doc, we want you to know that we named the calf after you.”

Wow
, I thought.
Possibly a prize-winning hybrid white-faced
heifer. And furthermore, named “Dr. Walt Larimore” or “Professor
Larimore” or just “The Doc.” Man-o-man!
I was beginning to feel a bit of pride welling up, only to be overcome by curiosity. “What did you name her?” I asked.

“We named her ‘Walter.'”

I could hear Helen trying to swallow her laughter.

Clem and Doris were beaming as they left the office.

I went back to work—after all, there were patients waiting to be seen.

As far as I know, my first full-term delivery is still alive. She's delivered a bunch of her own calves over the last two decades.
But I bet she's never experienced a birth like her own. And even though I've delivered over 1,500 newborns in my career, few of those deliveries are as memorable as the birth of Walter.

chapter ten

THE “EXPERT”

A
few weeks passed. I was starting to feel like I just
might
fit in here, alongside townspeople and patients and doctors whose ways were clearly different from where I'd cut my medical teeth. Then I received a call from Marcellus “Buck” Buchanan. Mr. Buchanan had been the Superior Court solicitor (the district attorney) over the seven counties of western North Carolina since 1967—after serving three terms as a state representative in the North Carolina legislature in the 1950s. His offices were in Sylva.

“Sorry to have to call you, son. I'd love to come over there and meet you in person. But duty calls.”

For some reason I can't explain, I just didn't like his tone. So I kept our exchange professional. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Well, son, I just got your coroner's report.”

Time seemed to stop. My mind raced back to the night just a few weeks before when I had been called to my first murder case. The scene of the house flooded with police car lights and the memory of the headless body and the brain-covered walls washed over me from head to toe. Moreover, the feelings of inadequacy on the evening of the murder and the uncertainty of whether moving to Bryson City had been wise or not—coupled with Mitch's subsequent and frequent questioning of my competence (“Are you stupid?”)—left me suddenly feeling shaken and unsure.

The DA continued, “Son, your report looks good—real good—and it sure enough agrees with the autopsy.”

I felt a bit of pride rising in my chest—after all, I had been well trained in both England and in a world-class medical center in the latest science and techniques. But even though I had been well trained in the science of medicine, I was feeling less prepared for the
practice
of medicine—at least in Bryson City. Yet when it came to the murder investigation, I thought,
It really isn't brain
surgery.
I mean, after all, the man had his head blown off. What else could the cause of death be? I relaxed and decided to stay cool. “Thank you, sir.”

He then asked several questions about the crime scene investigation report. Finally he concluded again, “You did a terrific job, son. Just terrific.”

I wasn't sure where this was going. I had pronounced a man dead and determined that his head was missing and splattered all across the wall of a small bedroom. This was not a major forensic coup.

He went on, “You just did a superlative job, son, exceptional.” The syrup was getting a bit too sweet and was being poured on a little too thickly. “In fact,” he said, lowering his voice to a near whisper, “your report is a whole lot better than most. I'm used to receiving documents with far less quality and completeness from your neck of the woods—if you know what I mean.”

Again I felt proud. I should have known better. Only a moment later he smashed my good feelings with his next pronouncement. “Son, we're going for murder one for this insect. I would like to see him fry—to a crisp. Squishing an insect like this is too quick, too painless. I want him to fry.” To me this was a
most
unpleasant thought. The Wild West philosophy and practice of inflicting torment on the already condemned seemed to be alive and well—at least in Sylva.

“Here's what I'm planning,” the DA continued. “I want to call you as my first witness in the trial. I suspect it will be one of the bigger trials in our area this year. I'm expecting plenty of media coverage and interviews. I'm expecting that young attorneys from all over the western part of the state will come to see this trial. And, son, I don't want to let them down—and I don't want
you
to let me down.”

Oh, great! A puffed-up, egotistical, self-centered media hog.
Just what Ineed.
I couldn't believe it. All I could say was, “Yes, sir.”

He kept on talking, in his slow southern drawl. “But don't worry, son. Don't worry. My boys will come over there and work with you a bit. We'll get you shaped up in no time at all. There's one thing I can promise you: I'll make you look really good, son.” He paused. Must have been for drama. Maybe he was just practicing. “Any questions?”

Yeah, where can I go throw up?
I thought. But I continued to keep my cool, “No, sir, none at all.”

“Well then, you have a good day, you hear?” He hung up and I felt hung out.
Testify in court? I had never been in court.
What would I do? What would I be asked? How would I prepare?
I was in a bit of a panic—until I thought of Fred Moody, the good-natured attorney and chairman of the hospital board, whom I'd met during my interview over Eloise Newman's delicious and welcoming lunch. I picked up the phone to call Fred.

He had heard about the case. “In fact, Walt, I'll be representing the accused. Judge Leatherwood wanted the best!” he said as he chuckled. I enjoyed Fred's humor—dry and to the point, disarming and endearing. Fred always enjoyed working to help the underdog—a fact that attracted business from the entire region to his small downtown office next to Bennett's Drug Store. “Why don't you drop by the office today after work, and we'll chat.”

When I arrived at his office—its walls covered with bookshelves crammed with law books and diplomas—he immediately put me at ease. “Walt, your part will be the easiest part of the entire trial. First, the district attorney will qualify you as an expert. Walt, by now everyone in town knows about your training and expertise. Even I won't be able to fight that motion.”

He smiled, then continued. “Once the judge certifies you as an expert, then the DA will question you about your investigation—what you saw and what you concluded. The main fact to which he'll want you to attest is the cause of death. Since both you and the pathologist who did the autopsy have certified that the cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head, that should be easy.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, then I'll get a chance to cross-examine you, Walt.”

I felt my eyes narrow. “What will that be like?”

“Well, I expect I'll be brutal. The questions will be tough and medically demanding. I'll put you to the test, for sure.” He paused—his face serious but his eyes smiling.

“Are you kidding?”

Then he broke into a smile. “Yeah.”

He became serious again. “Actually, I'll have a lot of
other
work ahead of me before and during this trial. I can't imagine that I'll have
any
cross-examination of you at all.” He smiled again. My mistake was assuming it was the smile of someone who was actually on my side.

“Now, some of my predecessors, they would have grilled you. No doubt about it.”

“Who are you talking about, Fred?”

“Walt, I'm just the tail end of a line of simple attorneys here in Swain County. But I tell you, there have been some mighty good ones. The older folks around the courthouse all talk about Fred Fisher. He tutored a fellow named A. J. Franklin, who was licensed to practice law in 1899. R. L. Leatherwood and A. M. Frye, who built the Fryemont Inn, had excellent reputations. Another fellow who tutored here in town before obtaining his law license was S. W. Black, who was educated by T. K. Bryson himself—who was kin to Colonel Thaddeus Dillard Bryson, the namesake of our fair village.”

I was impressed by Fred's command of local history.

“So, Walt, I'm just carrying on the proud tradition of country lawyers. We don't know a whole lot, but we try to do a whole lot of good.” He laughed. I liked Fred.

Several
weeks before the trial, two young attorneys from the district attorney's office called. They wanted to visit me to prepare me for trial. They covered the basics of being a witness for the state. They covered what I should wear to the trial—professional suit, not showy or gaudy or loud. They covered how I should address the jury—as a teacher and as an expert, never defensive or aloof. They instructed me in how to answer questions and how to swear in—they actually taught me how to stand and place my right hand on the Bible and how to hold my left hand and how to look the jurors in the eye as I say, “I do.” My goodness, I didn't get this much preparation for marriage or for performing surgery.

They spent nearly two hours rehearsing questions and answers, examination and cross-examination. They reviewed every trick question in the book, except one—one they and I should have expected but did not.

For what seemed like an eternity, they covered detail after detail. Then, to cap off the day, they spent time reviewing the many mistakes made by other doctors in my position. Toward the end of the meeting, something came to the forefront that turned my stomach.

“Doctor,” intoned one of the DA's staff, “are you aware that the DA is planning to run for the state senate?”

“No, I didn't know that.”

“Well, he is considering it. And, Doctor, we're planning this trial to be one of his showpieces for the year. It's real important to the DA that he look good. Real good. We want to help you help him. Understand?”

I nodded my head affirmatively, although not really sure what I might do or say in a small-town murder trial that could have anything at all to do with a race for the senate. Silly me, I thought this trial might be about justice and truth—about proving the facts. After all, one man was dead and another was on trial for his life.

Then I found myself getting angry. Finally I lost my cool. “Gentlemen, I don't really give a hoot about your boss's political career. I don't really care how he looks at this trial. I will testify honestly and forthrightly that it is my personal and professional opinion that this was a crime of passion, but not premeditated murder—certainly not worthy of the death penalty. I'll testify about the little bit of investigation I did and I'll testify as to the cause of death. But my role ends there. That you would even begin to think that my testimony might swing the senate race seems grandiose at best—or ludicrous at the very least. I find it highly insulting.”