The Sharecropper Prodigy (25 page)

             
Ben walked back to his table and leaned against it.

             
“Now, as to the charges that have been brought against me, I will tell you, with God as my witness, I am innocent. Am I totally blameless of any wrongdoing? No, I’m not. I and my friend that was accompanying me the night Ned Higgins was killed, accidentally
and
in self-defense, made what was obviously a foolish decision and chose to steal a truck that belonged to my dearest friend’s father and put Mr. Higgins body in it. We then drove to Cherokee County and ran the truck in the river, thinking it would never be found. That was wrong. Very wrong. Wrong most of all to his family who had no idea what had happened to him. But my friend also has a problem with his skin color. While it’s not as dark as mine, it’s still darker than most of yours. He’s a Mexican, you see, and his people also suffer discrimination, though not quite to the degree the negro does. I was fourteen years old at the time, and me and my friend were convinced that we couldn’t receive a fair trial from an all white jury. Well, I could have continued to keep my mouth shut and nobody would have ever been the wiser. There were no witnesses. For all anybody knew, Mr. Higgins simply had an accident or maybe fell asleep at the wheel. But this was the first time in my life that I had been dishonest, at least to this degree. Oh, I know I embellished a lot of stories as a child, like every child I’ve ever known has, but I’d never told an out-and-out lie. I was afraid, and that was no excuse. But there is something else I was wrong about. I was wrong to not have enough faith in the good and fair minded people of this county to do the right thing, and I want to apologize most of all for that. I know almost everybody in this courtroom, and I don’t believe for a minute any of you have ever held any ill-will towards me. I certainly never have held any against you. I know I’ve taken up far too much time, but I’d just like to say I trust all of you to make the right decision and find me not guilty for the charges that have been brought against me. Thank you all, and God bless you.”

             
As soon as Ben sat down, one of the Higgins, a younger one with greasy, shoulder length hair, yelled, “Now that he’s finally shet his mouth, let’s git on with the hangin’.”

             
Roscoe Higgins shot a piercing glare at him that looked like fireballs might come shooting out of his eyes. The dirty young man quickly sat down and hung his head.

             
I could tell Judge Hawkins was impressed with Ben’s recitation, though he tried desperately to hide it from the jury. The judge had always been a fair man, unlike the bigoted prosecutor, Randall Baxter.

             
The judge looked over at Baxter. “Mr. Baxter, are you ready to proceed with your first witness?”

             
“I am, your honor. The state calls Roscoe Higgins.”

             
Roscoe unrolled his big body off the wooden bench and lumbered up to the witness stand. The bailiff  swore him in and he squeezed into the small, half partitioned witness stand and sat down.

             
“Please state your full name for the court, Mr. Higgins,” Baxter said.

             
“Roscoe Allen Higgins,” he answered in a voice that would have carried a mile.

             
“Mr. Higgins, you are the father of Ned Higgins that’s body was recently found and the defendant is charged with murdering, is that correct?”

             
“Yeah, that’s right. Ned was my son.”

             
“I believe I can speak for the whole courtroom when I say we are very sorry for your loss, sir.”

             
“Thank ye. Me and his momma ’preciate it.”

             
“Mr. Higgins, do you remember the last time you spoke to your son?”

             
Roscoe looked up at the ceiling, rubbing his chin whiskers as if he were thinking hard, trying to remember.

             
“I believe it was ’bout a week before he was killed. He called me on the telephone”

             
“About a week, huh. And did you have a telephone in your house at that time?”

             
“Yessir. We’ve had one for about five years now,” Roscoe said proudly.

             
“Did he say anything in that last conversation that stands out in your mind?”

             
“Shore did. He said there was this Mexican that lived in town that had it in fer ’im. Sump’n about a girl, I believe.”

             
I knew immediately that was a lie. Manuel loved his wife more than anything. It almost killed him when he first came to Collinwood without her. Maria was the reason he worked so hard and lived in such miserable conditions. He wanted to raise the money to send for her as soon as he possibly could.

             
Baxter turned to the jury. “When you say you thought it was over a girl, do you mean they were tryin’ to
court
the same girl?”

             
“No, it wasn’t that. It was about the daughter of the man Ned worked for. Ned really liked her and kinda felt like he was her second poppa. He said that Mexican feller had his eye on ’er, and was always a-sayin’ things that wasn’t proper about her. Ned told ’im to leave her alone ’cause she was too young and he was a married man.”

             
Rachel grabbed my arm and almost cut the circulation off with her vice-like grip. I looked at her and saw that her face was the same color as her red hair. I thought I would see steam coming from her ears at any minute.

             
“Ned Higgins was the one who was always sayin’ inappropriate things to me,” she whispered, much too loud. The judge directed his eyes toward her with a look of admonishment on his face.

             
“So, he was tryin’ to protect Miss Winston from Mr. Cruz, is that it?” Baxter asked.

             
Ben jumped up. “Objection, your honor. The witness hasn’t named Mr. Cruz or anybody else. He simply said a Mexican fellow. There are a lot of Mexicans in the world.”

             
“Sustained. Rephrase your question, Mr. Baxter, and don’t lead the witness.”

             
“Mr. Higgins, did your son ever call the Mexican gentleman by name?”

             
“Yessir. He said his name was Manuel Cruz.”

             
“Thank you,” Baxter said, as he looked toward Ben with a smug grin.

             
“So, let me repeat, Mr. Higgins. Your son was tryin’ to protect Miss Winston from the Mexican he called Manuel Cruz?”

             
“Yessir. He thought a lot of that girl.”

             
“And did he tell you what Mr. Cruz’s response was when he asked him not to bother her or say inappropriate things?”

             
“He said if he didn’t stay out of it, he’d wind up wishin’ he had,” Roscoe answered, still trying to get his behemoth body comfortable in the small chair.

             
“So Mr. Cruz threatened your son, then?”

             
“Yessir, he shore did.”

             
“Did your son, Ned Higgins, ever say anything to you about the defendant, Ben Evans?”

             
“Ned said there was a little nig….uh, black boy that was always a-hangin’ around the Cruz feller. Said the black boy had eyes fer that Winston girl, too.”

             
“I see. So both Mr. Cruz and Ben Evans, the defendant, were infatuated with Miss Winston. Thank you, Mr. Evans. That’s all the questions I have for you at this time.”

             
Roscoe started to get up, but the judge stopped him. “Wait a minute, Mr. Evans. The defendant may have questions,” the judge said.

             
Baxter looked at Ben as if he were a dog he was about to run off his front porch. “You’re witness, Mr. Evans,” he hissed.   

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

             
Ben got up, taking his notepad with him, and walked directly over to Roscoe, stopping just a foot or so from the stand. If he was at all intimidated by the giant man, he didn’t show it.

             
“Mr. Evans, first of all I’d like to extend my condolences to you and your family for the loss of your son….”

             
“Hell, you’re the one that killed ‘im boy!” Roscoe burst out, and I believe immediately wished he hadn’t.

             
“Your out of order, Mr. Higgins,” Judge Hawkins said, trying to be as gentle as possible, given the circumstances. “Just answer the questions, please.”

             
“Mr. Higgins,” Ben began, “how often did you talk to your son on the telephone?”

             
“Ever once in a while,” Roscoe answered curtly.

             
“Well, would you say on average, once a week or maybe once a month.”

             
“Couple of times a month.”

             
“And did he tell you where he was callin’ from?”

             
“Uh…I, I don’t remember.”

             
“Was it from the Winston house, maybe? Or maybe Joe Burt’s store? I’ll bet that’s where he called from. Most everybody around here that doesn’t have a phone goes to Mr. Burt’s store to use his.”

             
“That was it,” Roscoe answered. “He told me he always called from the store.”

             
“Probably hard to hear him sometimes with Mr. Burt’s store always so busy. There’s usually several people always hangin’ out there talkin’ politics and farmin’ and such. Those men talk loud sometimes, too. Did you ever have trouble hearin’ over all the background noise, Mr. Higgins?”

             
“Nope. Always heard him just fine.”

             
“You couldn’t hear all those men talkin’ and the cash register ringin’ or anything?”

             
Roscoe paused a minute, looking unsure of himself and what to say.

             
“Please answer the question, Mr. Higgins,” Judge Hawkins said, still trying to be gentle.

             
“Ah…yeah, I could hear them fellers a-talkin’ and other noise, but I didn’t ever have no trouble understandin’ what Ned was a-sayin’.”

             
“Thank you, Mr. Higgins. I have no further questions.”

             
I knew what Ben had just done and I couldn’t help but smile. I noticed Rachel smiling, too.

             
Baxter called Bertha Higgins, Ned’s mother to the stand for a few questions, and then one of Ned’s brothers. Ben didn’t question either of them, knowing nothing they had to say would help him. After their testimony was over, the judge told everybody we would break for lunch. A lot of people had brought their lunches in brown paper sacks, or decided not to eat at all to keep from losing their seats. Ben had to go back to his cell for lunch, so Rachel had a note sent to him telling him how proud she was of him and what a good job he was doing. Rachel had fixed sandwiches for her, Mr. Winston and me and had brought a gallon jug of sweet tea.

             
I noticed a couple of people had left and it appeared nobody was trying to save their seats for them. I talked Gerald Harper and his wife to swapping places so Abby could sit next to us. Rachel asked her if she wanted a sandwich, but she said she had brought a small bag of cheese and crackers and had already eaten them. She hugged Rachel and me and took the seat beside us. Mr. Winston shook hands with her and told her how glad he was she came. He reminded me of a school boy talking to her. He acted like I had just a few months earlier when I was around Rachel. Tongue thick, knees watery.

             
“Ben looked and sounded like he had been practicing law for years,” Abby said. “That young man never ceases to amaze me with his endless talents.”

             
“He’s doin’ a wonderful job,” Rachel agreed. “I just hope at least some of the jurors are not prejudiced. There are three of them I don’t know. Of the nine I do know, at least four of them I’m pretty sure are not lovers of colored people.”

             
After we had chatted for a while and took turns going to the restroom, so we wouldn’t lose our seats, the jury began to slowly file back in. Ben was brought back in and sat down and his table, reading some book that I assumed was a law book. Then Baxter came in, walking around the room and shaking hands. He was always campaigning. As much as he enjoyed the power of elected office, it always surprised me that he never ran for judge. Of course he’d never have beaten Judge Hawkins.

             
The bailiff ordered everyone to rise as the judge came through his back door and made his way back to the seat at his bench.