Morning Glory (55 page)

From the gallery came a chorus of shocked female
ohhs.

“Just for clarification, Mr. MacReady, when you say they were in the act, you mean in the act of copulation?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Collins took an inordinate amount of time extracting a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket, blowing his nose, letting the last bit of testimony sink into every brain that mattered and many that didn’t. Finally he pocketed his hanky and approached the witness again.

“Now, let’s go back again, if we may, to your very important job as a member of the Civilian Patrol. When you’ve
been on patrol at night during recent months and weeks, is it true that you’ve repeatedly seen one particular car parked behind Lula Peak’s house?”

“Yessir.”

“Do you know whose car it is?”

“Yessir, it’s Harley Overmire’s. Black Ford licence number PV628. He parks it behind the juniper bushes in the alley. I’ve seen it there a lot, couple nights a week anyway, during the past year. Also seen Harley goin’ to Lula Peak’s house sometimes in the middle of the day when she ain’t workin’. Parks his car on the square, goes in the restaurant as if he’s havin’ lunch and hits out the back door and takes the alley to her house, which is just around the corner.”

“And you’ve seen Lula Peak with someone else lately.”

“Yessir, I have, and truth to tell, I hate to say it in public. Nobody wants to hurt a boy that age, but he’s probably too young to realize—”

“Just tell us what you’ve seen, Mr. MacReady,” Collins interrupted.

“Harley’s young son, Ned.”

“That’s Harley Overmire’s son, Ned Overmire?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell us how old you’d guess Ned Overmire is.”

“Oh, I’d say fourteen or so. Not over fifteen, that’s for sure. He’s in the ninth grade anyway, I know that cause my niece, Delwyn Jean Potts, is his teacher this year.”

“And have you seen Lula Peak with Ned Overmire?”

“Yessir. Right in front of Vickery’s. She was sweepin’ again—she always sweeps when she wants to... well... you know... latch herself a man, you might say. Anyhow, young Ned comes along the sidewalk one day a couple weeks ago and she stops him like I’ve seen her stop dozens of others, stickin’ that long fingernail of hers into his shirtfront and tickling his chest. She said it was hot, he should come on inside and she’d give him some free ice cream. I could hear it plain as day—heck, I think she wanted me to hear it. She always sort of taunted me, too, after that time I found her with that railroad man. Ice cream—humph!”

“And did the boy follow her inside?”

“He did. Thank heavens he came out again in just a couple minutes with a strawberry ice cream cone and Lula follows him to the door and calls after him, ‘Come back now, hear?’ “

“And did he?”

“Not that I saw, no.”

“Well, thank the lord for that,” muttered Collins, drawing a rap from the gavel but the approval of the jury for his reaction.

“But you’re sure about Lula having sexual encounters with these others you’ve named.”

“Yessir.”

“And to the best of your knowledge, did Lula Peak ever succeed in drawing the attention of Will Parker?”

“No, sir, she never did, not that I knew about, no.”

“Your witness.”

Slocum’s attempt to discredit Nat MacReady as senile, hard of hearing or short of sight proved futile. MacReady had an intimidating memory, and embellished his recollections with anecdotes that were so obviously real that his cross-examination proved more advantageous for the defense than for the prosecution.

When Nat stepped down from the witness stand, Collins stood to announce, “Defense calls Norris MacReady.”

Norris stepped up, wearing, like his brother, his scratchy World War I uniform with the collar fitting loosely around his wrinkled throat. His high forehead shone from a recent scrubbing, setting off the liver spots like brown polka dots. Slocum squeezed his lips and cursed beneath his hand, then ran a hand through his hair, wrecking his rooster comb.

“State your name.”

“Norris MacReady.”

“Occupation?”

“I retired from the icehouse the same year as Nat.”

There followed a series of questions regarding the establishment of the Whitney Civilian Town Guard and its function before Collins got down to the meatier inquiries.

“On the night of August 17, 1943, while making a curfew check, did you overhear a conversation at the back door of the Carnegie Municipal Library of Whitney?”

“I did.”

“Would you tell us about it, please.”

Norris’s eyes widened and he glanced from the attorney to the judge. “Do you think I ought to repeat it just like Lula said it?”

The judge answered, “Exactly as you heard it, yes.”

“Well, all right, judge... but the ladies in the courtroom ain’t gonna like it.”

“You’re under oath, Mr. MacReady.”

“Very well...” As a gentleman of the old order, Norris hesitated. Then he asked another question, “You think it’d be okay if I read it instead?”

Slocum leaped to his feet, spouting objections.

“Allow me, your honor, to establish the allowability of the reading material,” Collins interjected quickly.

“Objection overruled, but establish it with a single question, is that understood, Mr. Collins?”

“It is.” Collins turned to Norris. “From what would you like to read?”

“Why, from our log. Nat and me, we keep a log faithfully, don’t we, Nat?”

“We sure do,” answered Nat from the gallery.

Nobody raised an objection this time. The place was as still as outer space.

“You keep a log while you’re on patrol?” Collins prompted.

“Oh, we got to. The government says. Got to record every plane sighting and every person who breaks curfew. This war is different than the Great War. In that one we never had to worry about spies in our own backyard like we have to this time, that’s why we got to keep such close records.”

“You may read your entry for August seventeenth, Mr. MacReady.”

From an inside pocket of his uniform Norris withdrew a green-covered book with worn edges. He settled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles over his nose, taking long moments to hook the springy bows behind his ears. Then he tipped back his head, licked a finger and turned pages so slowly that titters began in the room before he finally found the correct spot.

“’August 17, 1943,’” he began in a crackly voice, then cleared his throat. “’Nat and me went on patrol at nine. All quiet except for Carl and Julie Draith returning from bridge game at the Nelsons’ house next door. Ten o’clock—coming up along Comfort Street heard someone entering back door of library. I stayed at the edge of the building while Norris reconnoitered behind the hedge to see who it was. Norris signaled me over and we waited. Less than 5 minutes later the door flew open and a high-heeled shoe came flying out and hit Nat on the shoulder causing a purple lump to form later. Big fight going on between Will Parker and Lula Peak. Parker pushes her out the back door of library and yells, “If you’re in heat Lula go yowl beneath somebody else’s window.” He slams the door in her face and she bangs it with her fist a few times and calls him a goddamn peckerhead and an asshole and a toad-sucking Marine. Then she screams (loud enough to wake the dead) “Your dick probably wouldn’t fill my left ear anyway.” Such language for a woman.’ “

Norris blushed. Nat blushed. Will blushed. Elly blushed. Collins politely took the MacReadys’ logbook and entered it as exhibit C before turning his witness over for cross-examination.

This time Slocum used his head and excused Norris without further questions. Throughout the courtroom a restlessness had begun. Murmurs sounded continuously from the gallery and spectators edged forward on their seats as Collins called his next witness.

“Defense calls Dr. Justin Kendall.”

Kendall strode down the center aisle, an imposing man of well over six feet, wearing a sharply tailored suit of brown serge, his receding hairline framing a polished forehead that looked as if he’d just scrubbed it with a surgical brush, and his frameless glasses giving him the appearance of a scholar. His fingers were long and clean as they pointed toward heaven while he repeated the oath. Collins was already firing questions as Kendall tugged at his trouser creases and took the witness chair.

“State your name and occupation, please.”

“Justin Ferris Kendall, medical doctor.”

“You practice medicine here in Calhoun, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“And did you recently examine the deceased, Lula Peak?”

“Yessir, on October twentieth last year.”

“And did you at the time confirm that she was approximately two months pregnant?”

“I did.”

“Two months after Will Parker was heard telling her that if she was in heat she should go yowl beneath somebody else’s window, you diagnosed her as two months pregnant?”

“Yessir.”

“And do you employ a registered nurse named Miriam Gaultier who also acts as your receptionist?”

“I do.”

“Thank you. Your witness.”

Slocum obviously couldn’t divine a reason for this line of questioning and glanced around, confused by the abrupt turnover of the defense’s witness.

He half-rose from his chair and replied, “No questions, your honor.”

“Defense calls Miriam Gaultier to the stand.”

Heads turned as a thin gray wisp of a woman passed through the spindled gate, smiling hello to Dr. Kendall, who held it open for her.

“State your name and occupation, please.”

“Miriam Gaultier. I’m a nurse and receptionist for Dr. Justin Kendall.”

“You’ve just heard Dr. Kendall testify that he was visited by the deceased, Lula Peak, on October twentieth last year. Were you working at the doctor’s office that day?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And did you talk with Lula Peak?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what was the gist of that conversation?”

“I asked Miss Peak for her mailing address for billing purposes.”

“Did she give it to you?”

“No, sir, she didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because she advised me to send the bill to Harley Overmire, of Whitney, Georgia.”

Nobody heard Collins turn the witness over to Solicitor General Slocum, but they could hear the sweat ooze from Harley Overmire’s pores as the prosecution cross-examined Miriam Gaultier in the silent room.

“Was Miss Peak’s bill ever paid, Mrs. Gaultier?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Can you, beyond a shadow of a doubt, state that it was not paid by Miss Peak herself?”

“Well...”

“Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Mrs. Gaultier,” Slocum reiterated, skewering her with his dark eyes.

“It was paid in cash.”

“In person?”

“No, it was mailed in.”

“Thank you, you may step down.”

“But it was sent in an envelope from—”

“You may step down, Mrs. Gaultier!”

“—the electric company, as if whoever sent it—”

Clakk! Clakk!
Murdoch rapped his gavel. “That will be all, Mrs. Gaultier!”

Things were going even better than Collins had hoped for. He hurriedly called his next witness while the tide was rolling in the right direction.

“Defense recalls Leslie McCooms.”

The medical examiner was reminded that she was still under oath and Collins made his point without histrionics.

“When you examined the body of Lula Peak you found that her death had not been caused by the dustrag as first believed, but by human hands, probably a man’s, is this true?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Miss McCooms, how many fingerprints were found on Lula Peak’s neck?”

“Nine.”

“And which fingerprint was missing?”

“The one from the index finger of the right hand.”

“Thank you—your witness.”

Will felt hope swell his chest, climb his arms and infuse
his head. With one hand balled around the other, he pressed his thumb knuckles to his lips and warned himself, it’s not through yet. But he couldn’t resist turning to glimpse Elly over his shoulder. Her face was pink with excitement. She made a fist and thumped it against her heart, causing his own to bang with intensified hope.

Slocum took his turn, overtly agitated.

“Is it true, Miss McCooms, that it’s possible for a victim to be strangled by someone with ten good fingers, leaving less than ten fingerprints?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Thank you. You’re excused.”

Will’s brief hope extinguished but he had little time to grow despondent. The surprising Collins kept a brisk pace, recognizing the value of concentrated shock.

“Defense calls Harley Overmire.”

Overmire, looking like a scared, hairy ape, puffed up the center aisle, stuffed into a light blue suit with sleeves six inches too long for his stubby arms, sleeves that nearly concealed his hands.

The bailiff held out his Bible and ordered, “Raise your right hand, please.”

Harley’s face was pale as a full moon. Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip and two discs of dampness darkened the armpits of his suit.

“Raise your right hand, please,” the bailiff repeated.

Harley had no choice but to do as ordered. Haltingly he lifted his arm, and as he did so his sleeve slipped down. Every eye in the room fixed upon that meaty hand, silhouetted against the white plastered wall of the courtroom, with its index finger missing.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Harley’s voice sounded like the squeak of a mouse when the trap trips.

“I do.”

The bailiff droned his questions while Collins scanned the eyes of the jurors, finding every one fixed upon Overmire’s trembling, four-fingered hand.

“State your name and occupation, please.”

“Harley Overmire, superintendent at the Whitney Sawmill.”

“You may be seated.”

Collins pretended to read over his notes for a full thirty seconds while Harley quickly sat and hid his right hand at his side. The air felt electric, charged with opinion. Collins let the voltage build while glancing pointedly over the tops of his half-glasses at Harley’s hidden hand, the infamous hand that had already gained him a countywide reputation as a military shirker. Collins removed his glasses, stretched to his feet as if his rheumatism was acting up and approached the witness stand. Putting a finger to his chin, he paused thoughtfully, then turned back toward his table as if he’d forgotten something. Halfway there, he did an about-face and stood silently studying Overmire. The courtroom was so silent a spider could have been heard spinning its web. Collins scanned every face in the jury before resting his gaze on its chairman. In a voice rich with innuendo, he said, “No questions.”