Morning Glory (53 page)

“I guess so.”

“Well, get him on the radio and tell him I’d appreciate it if he’d do it soon as possible.”

“Will do.” Hess turned away but stopped and flashed a crooked grin over his shoulder. “Miss Beasley can sure chew ass, can’t she?”

“Whew!” Will replied, running a hand through his hair. “Can she ever! Tell you the truth, I was glad to be safe behind these bars.”

Hess laughed, took two steps and turned back. “Everybody’s talkin’ about it. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

“Know what?”

“About your wife drivin’ that car like there was no rubber rationing, runnin’ all over drummin’ up witnesses for you, just like Miss Beasley said. You know, Elly and me went to school together and I was one of ‘em who called her crazy. But people are sayin’ now she’s outwitting the Solicitor General.
Drivin’
him
crazy, wonderin’ what she and Collins will unearth in court!”

Will’s heart began to thunder with excitement.

“Could you tell Collins I want to see him, too?”

“Could if he wasn’t out of town.”

“Out of town. Where?”

“I don’t know. That wife of yours has got him runnin’ like a fox in front of a pack of hounds, checkin’ leads. I do know one thing, though.”

“What?”

“He got your trial on the docket for the first week in February.”

“So fast?”

“Don’t underestimate that old bird, especially not when he’s got your wife workin’ with him.” Hess sauntered away, stopped and grinned back at Will. “There’s a joke goin’ around, only it’s not really a joke at all, it’s—” Hess scratched his head. “Well, you might say it’s a sprinklin’ of respect that’s about fifteen years late in comin’. Folks’re sayin’, ‘Look out, here comes Elly Parker with her honey!’” Turning away, Hess added, “Nobody’s sure if she really gave a quart of it to Judge Murdoch or not, but word’s out he’s the one who married you two and he’s also the one scheduled to preside at your trial.” With a last chuckle drifting down the corridor as he opened the far door, Hess added, “I’ll get word to your wife, Parker.” Then the far door slammed.

Elly didn’t come back again. But she sent a brand-new Calcutta cloth suit and a striped tie and white shirt with cuff links and Will’s military dress shoes all spit-polished for him to wear the day of his trial. And a note:
We’re gonna win Will. Love, Elly.

He dressed early, taking great care with his hair, wishing it were shorter above the ears, returning to the mirror time and again to run his fingertips over his shaved jaw, to tighten the knot in his tie, adjust his cuffs, unbutton and rebutton his jacket. At the thought of seeing her again a wedge of expectation tightened deep within him. He paced, cracked his knuckles, checked his reflection once more. Again he ran his knuckles over the hair above his ears, worried that it didn’t look trim enough—not for a jury, but for her.

Staring at his own eyes, he thought of hers.
Hang on, Green Eyes, don’t give up on me yet. I’m not the horse’s ass I’ve been acting like lately. After we’ve won this thing I’ll show you.

Elly, too, had taken great care dressing. Yellow. It had to be yellow, her color of affirmation. The color of sunlight and freedom. She’d made a tailored suit in gabardine as pale as whipped butter, its shoulders built up, its pocket flaps buttoned down. She, too, returned apprehensively to check her
reflection in the mirror: she’d had her hair sheared so that when she appeared in public Will would have no cause to feel ashamed. Staring at her shaped eyebrows and coral lips, she saw a woman as sleek and modish as the pictures on the coffee table at Erma’s Beauty Nook.
Just wait, Will, when this is over we’re gonna be the happiest two people on the face of the earth.

Sitting in the courtroom waiting, she kept her eyes fixed on the door by which she knew he’d enter.

When he did their eyes met and their hearts leaped. She had never seen him in a civilian suit before. He looked stunning, his hair combed with hair oil that made it appear darker than usual, his tie crisp, his dark face a sharp contrast to the white shirt collar.

He lifted his eyes as he entered and his collar felt suddenly tight. He knew she’d wear yellow. He knew it! As if to point it out, the nine
A.M.
sun had seen fit to slash through a high window and fall directly across her. God, how he loved her, wanted to be free for her, with her. As he moved across the varnished floor their gazes remained locked. Her hair, what had she done to her hair? She’d had most of it cut off! It was sheared up high on the neck and above the ears, with a side part and a fluffy top. It brought her cheekbones into prominence in a wholly attractive way. He wanted to go to her, tell her how pretty she looked, thank her for the suit and the note and tell her he loved her, too. But Jimmy Ray Hess was at his side, so he could only walk and gawk. She smiled and discreetly waggled two fingers. The sun seemed to turn its warming rays on him. He felt a great rush much like that he’d experienced in the Augusta train station when he’d seen her approaching through the crowd. He smiled in reply.

The woman to Elly’s left nudged her and leaned over to say something. For the first time he noticed it was Lydia Marsh. And on Elly’s right sat Miss Beasley, stern-faced and sober as ever. Her eyes caught Will’s and he nodded, his heart in his throat.

She gave a barely perceptible nod and a tight moue, releasing him to breathe again.

Friends. True friends. Gratitude swamped him but again he
had no way to convey it but to nod to Lydia, too, and cast a last lingering gaze over Elly as he reached the defense table and turned his back on them.

Collins was already there, dressed like a dotty museum curator in crinkled puce wool, smelly yellowed cotton, and a silk tie decorated with... pink flamingos! When the handcuffs were removed, Collins rose and shook Will’s hand.

“Things are looking good. I see you’ve got a cheering section.”

“I don’t want my wife on the stand, Collins, remember that.”

“Only if necessary, I told you.”

“No! They’ll tear her apart. They’ll dredge up all that stuff about her being crazy. You can put me on but not her.”

“That
won’t
be necessary. You’ll see.”

“Where were you yesterday? I sent word I wanted to see you.”

“Pipe down and have a chair, Parker. I’ve been out saving your hide, chasing down witnesses your wife dug up.”

“You mean it’s true? She’s been—”

“All rise, please,” the bailiff called dryly. “The Gordon County Court is now in session, the honorable Aldon P. Murdoch presiding.”

Will gaped as Murdoch entered, garbed in black, but he resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder to see Elly’s reaction. Murdoch’s eyes scanned the courtroom, paused on Will and moved on. Though his expression was inscrutable, Will had one thought: by whatever miracle, he’d been delivered into the hands of a fair man. The conviction stemmed from the picture of two little boys in a swivel chair sharing a cigar box of jelly beans.

“All be seated, please,” ordered Murdoch.

Seating himself, Will leaned toward Collins and whispered, “She didn’t really bribe him, did she?”

A pair of half-glasses hung on Collins’ porous nose. He peered over them at the papers he was withdrawing from a scuffed briefcase. “Are you kidding? He’s unimpressible. He’d’ve had charges brought against her so fast it would’ve spun her honey.”

The trial began.

Opening statements were given by both attorneys. Collins’ was delivered in a slow drawl that gave the impression he hadn’t had enough sleep the previous night.

Solicitor General Edward Slocum’s was delivered with fire and flourish.

He was half Collins’ age and nearly twice his height. In a neat blue serge suit, freshly laundered shirt and crisp tie, he made Bob Collins look dowdy by comparison. With his ringing baritone voice and upright stature, he made Collins look ready for the boneyard. Slocum’s eyes were black, intense, direct, and the wave standing along the top of his dark head gave the appearance of a cocky rooster who dared anyone in his roost to cluck without his approval. Vocally eloquent and physically imposing, Slocum promised, through undisputable evidence, to show the jury beyond a glimmer of a doubt that Will Parker had cold-bloodedly, and with malice aforethought, murdered Lula Peak.

Listening to the two men, Will couldn’t help but think that if he were a member of the jury, he’d believe anything Slocum said and would wonder if the attorney for the defense was as senile as he appeared.

“The prosecution calls Sheriff Reece Goodloe.”

While questioning his witness, Slocum stood foursquare to him, often with his feet widespread, knees locked. He knew how to use his eyes, to pierce the witness as if each answer were a fulcrum on which the outcome of the trial hinged, then to pass them over the jury at the appropriate moment to inculcate upon them the most incriminating portions of the testimony.

From Sheriff Goodloe the jury learned of Will’s criminal record, the existence of the torn dustcloth and a note bearing the accused’s initials, and his own admission that he often read the
Atlanta Constitution.

When Bob Collins shuffled to his feet, half the people in the courtroom suppressed a grunt of help. He spent so much time pondering each question that the jury shifted restlessly. When he finally drew it forth, their shoulders seemed to sag with relief. His eyes avoided everything in the room except
the floor and the toes of his scuffed brown oxfords. His mouth wore a half-smile, as if he knew an amusing secret which he would, in his own good time, share with them.

His cross-examination of Sheriff Goodloe revealed that Will Parker had served his time in prison, been a model prisoner and been released with a full parole. It also revealed that Sheriff Goodloe himself read the
Atlanta Constitution
daily.

From a gaunt, bespectacled woman named Barbara Murphy, who identified herself as a typesetter for the
Atlanta Constitution,
came unassailable verification that the note was cut from a copy or copies of that newspaper. Upon cross-examination Miss Murphy revealed that the circulation of the newspaper was 143,261 and that it was conceivable that since Calhoun was one of 158 counties in the state, roughly nine hundred copies of the
Atlanta Constitution
flooded into it daily.

From a tired-looking elderly county coroner named Elliot Mobridge the jury learned the time and cause of death and that Lula Peak was carrying a four-month-old fetus when she died. Cross-examination established that there was no way to determine who had sired a four-month-old fetus of a dead woman.

From a brusque female medical examiner who identified herself as Leslie McCooms came the fact that remnants of dust and lemon oil matching those on the torn dustcloth had been found on Lula Peak’s neck, along with bruises caused by human hands—probably a man’s.

Defense counsel released the witness without questions, reserving the right to cross-examine her later.

From Gladys Beasley, long-standing lioness of estimable repute, came the concession that the dustcloth and lemon oil (exhibit A) could possibly have come from the Carnegie Municipal Library of Whitney, where Will Parker was employed and on duty the night of Lula Peak’s murder. Miss Beasley admitted, too, that the library did indeed carry two subscriptions to the
Atlanta Constitution
and she had given Will Parker permission to take home one of the two copies when it was three days old or more.

It was all testimony that Will had expected, yet he felt
shaken at how incriminating it sounded when stated by witnesses under oath, from a hard wooden chair on a raised platform beside the judge’s dais.

But the tide subtly turned when Robert Collins cross-examined Miss Beasley.

“Did Lula Peak ever visit the library when Will Parker was there?”

“She most certainly did.”

“And did she speak to Mr. Parker?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I could hear their conversation plainly from the checkout desk. The library is U-shaped, with the desk situated in the crossbar so that I can see and often hear everything that’s going on. The ceilings are high and everything echoes.”

“When did you hear the first such conversation between Peak and Parker?”

“On September second, 1941.”

“How can you be sure of that date?”

“Because Mr. Parker asked for a borrower’s card and I began to fill one out before realizing he had not established residency in Whitney. The card was filled out in ink, thus I couldn’t erase and reuse it for another patron. Abiding by the motto,
Waste not, want not,
I filed Mr. Parker’s card in a separate place to reuse when he came back in with proof of residency, as I was sure he would. He still uses that original card, with the date of September second crossed off.”

Miss Beasley presented Will’s borrower’s card, which was entered as exhibit B.

“So,” Collins went on, “on the day of September second, you overheard a conversation between Lula Peak and William Parker. Would you repeat that conversation, to the best of your recollection?”

Miss Beasley, prim and well-packed and indubitably accurate, repeated verbatim what she had overheard that first day when Lula sat down across from Will and stuck her foot between his thighs, when she trapped him between the shelves and attempted to seduce him, when she vindictively accused his wife of being crazy from the time Elly was a child, a time
when Miss Beasley herself remembered Eleanor See as a bright, inquisitive student with a talent for drawing. She told of Will’s polite but hasty exit on that day and others when Lula followed him into the library under the pretext of “bettering herself” with books which she never bothered to check out.

Listening to her testimony, Will sat tense. After the dressing down she’d given him he’d feared her antipathy on the witness stand. He should have known better. He had no better friend than Gladys Beasley. When she was excused she marched past his chair with her typical drill sergeant bearing, without a glance in his direction, but he knew beyond a doubt that her faith in him was unassailable.