Morning Glory

  “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.

  Miss Beasley was the prosecution’s last witness. Then it was Collins’ turn.

  He spent thirty seconds boosting himself from his chair, sixty gazing out over the gallery and fifteen removing his glasses. He chuckled, nodded at his toes and called, “Defense calls Mrs. Lydia Marsh.”

  Lydia Marsh, looking pretty as a madonna with her coal black hair and pale blue dress
spoke her oath and stated that she was a housewife and mother of two whose husband was fighting “somewhere in Italy.” A careful observer might have seen the almost imperceptible approval in the softening of the jurors’ mouths and the relaxing of their hands over their stomachs. Certainly Robert Collins saw and set out to capitalize on the sense of patriotism running rife through every American in that jurors’ box.

  “How long have you known Will Parker, Mrs. Marsh?”

  The questions were routine until Collins asked Lydia to relate a story about what happened the day Will Parker left for Parris Island to be inducted into the United States Marines.

  “He came by the house,” Lydia recalled, “and called from down by the gate. He acted slightly nervous and maybe a little embarrassed—”

  “Objection, your honor. Witness is drawing a conclusion.”

  “Sustained.”

  When Lydia Marsh continued it was with the avid determination to paint things accurately. “Mr. Parker refused to meet my eyes at first, and he wiped his hands nervously on his thighs. When I went down to wish him goodbye, he gave me a green towel and a fruit jar full of honey. He told me he’d stolen them from me nearly a year and a half before, when he was down and out and had no money. At the time he stole the fruit jar it had been filled with buttermilk—he’d taken it from our well. And the green towel he’d taken from the clothesline along with a set of my husband’s clothes, which had, of course, been worn out long before that day. He apologized and said it had bothered him all that time, stealing from us, and before he went off to war, he wanted to make it right. So he was bringing me the honey, which was all he had to repay us with.”

  “Because he thought he might not get the chance again? He feared he might die in the war?”

  “He didn’t say that—no. He wasn’t that kind. He was the kind who knew he had to fight and went to do it without complaint, just like my own husband did.”

  “And more recently, Mrs. Marsh, since William Parker’s return from the Pacific, have you been aware of any marital discord between him and his wife?”

  “Quite the opposite. They’re extremely happy. I believe I would have known if he’d had any reason to seek the company of a woman like Lula Peak.”

  “And what makes you believe he didn’t?”

  Lydia’s eyes swerved to Elly’s and took on a glow. “Because Elly—Mrs. Parker, that is—recently confided in me that she’s expecting their first baby.”

  The shock hit Will as if he’d been poleaxed. He twisted around in his chair and his eyes collided with Elly’s. He half-rose, but his attorney pressed him down gently. A rush of joy warmed his face as his glance swept down to his wife’s stomach, then lifted once more to her blushing cheeks. Is it true, Elly? The words went unsaid but everyone in the courtroom sensed them with their hearts instead of their ears. And every person present saw Elly’s answering smile and the merest nod of her head. They watched Will’s dazzling, jubilant hosanna of a smile. And twelve out of twelve in the jury who were mothers and fathers felt their heartstrings tugged.

  A murmur spread through the gallery and was silenced only when Collins excused the witness and announced the reading by the bailiff of Will Parker’s military record into evidence. The bailiff, a small, effeminate man with a high voice, read from a file with eyebrows raised in approval. The records of the United States Marine Corps characterized William L. Parker as a tough recruit who knew how to follow orders and command men, thus earning him the honor of being named squad leader in basic training and in combat, and promotion to the rank of corporal before his medical discharge in May of 1943. Also on record was a citation from Colonel Merritt A. Edson, Commander of the First Marine Raiders, commending Will’s bravery in battle and delineating the courageous acts that had won him the Purple Heart in what by now the war correspondents had dubbed “the bloodiest battle of the Coral Sea, the Battle of Bloody Ridge.”

  The courtroom was respectfully silent when the bailiff closed his file. Collins had the jury in his hand and he knew it. He’d gotten them with respectability, honesty and military valor. Now he’d get them with a bit of levity.

  “Defense calls Nat MacReady to the stand.”

  Nat left his place beside Norris and hustled forward. Though his shoulders were stooped, he walked with amazing agility for one of his age. Nat looked spiffy, dressed in the woolen blouse of his World War I army uniform with its tarnished gold stars and lieutenant’s stripes. It was obvious at a glance that Nat was proud to be called upon to help justice prevail. When asked if he would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, he replied, “You bet your boots, sonny.”

  Judge Murdoch scowled but allowed the chuckles from the gallery as Nat, eager-eyed, seated himself on the edge of his chair.

  “State your name.”

  “Nathaniel MacReady.”

  “And your occupation.”

  “I’m a retired businessman. Ran the icehouse out south of town since I was twenty-six, along with my brother, Norris.”

  “What town is that?”

  “Why, Whitney, of course.”

  “You’ve lived there all your life, have you?”

  “I most certainly have. All except for them fourteen months back in ‘17 and ‘18 when Uncle Sam give me a free trip to Europe.”

  Titters of appreciation sounded. Collins stood back and let the uniform speak for itself; not a soul in the place could mistake Nat’s pride in wearing it again.

  “So you’ve been retired now for how many years?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years...” Collins scratched his head and studied the floor. “You must get a little bored after fifteen years of doing nothing.”

  “Doing nothing! Why, sonny, I’ll have you know my brother and I organized the Civilian Guard, and we’re out there every night enforcing the curfew and watching for Japanese planes, aren’t we, Norris?”

  “We sure are,” Norris answered from the gallery to another ripple of laughter that had to be silenced by Murdoch’s gavel.

  “Defense counsel will instruct his witness to direct his responses to the court and not the gallery,” Murdoch ordered.

  “Yes, your honor,” replied Collins meekly before scratching his head again and waiting for the room to still. “Now before we get into your duties as a volunteer guard, I wonder if you’d take a look at something for me.” From his baggy pocket Collins withdrew a small wooden carving and handed it to Nat. “Did you make this?”

  Nat took it, replying, “Looks like mine.” Turning it bottom-side up, he examined it myopically and added, “Yup, it is. Got my initials on the bottom.”

  “Tell the court what it is.”

  “It’s a wood carving of a wild turkey. Where’d you get it?”

  “At the drugstore in Whitney. Paid twenty-nine cents for it off their souvenir counter.”

  “Did you tell Haverty to mark it in his books so I get credit?”

  The judged rapped his gavel.

  “I certainly did, Mr. MacReady,” Collins answered to the accompaniment of soft laughter from the spectators, then rushed on before drawing further wrath from the sober-faced Murdoch. “And where did you make it?”

  “In the square.”

  “What square?”

  “Why, the Town Square in Whitney. That’s where me and my brother spend most days, on the bench under the magnolia tree.”

  “Whittling?”

  “Naturally, whittling. Show me an old man with idle hands and I’ll show you the subject of next year’s obituary.”

  “And while you whittle, you see a lot of what goes on around the square, is that right?”

  Nat scratched his temple. “Well, I guess you could say we don’t miss much, do we, Norris?” He chuckled, raising a matching sound from those in the room who knew precisely how little the pair missed.

  This time Norris smiled and restrained himself from replying.

  Collins took out a pocket knife and began cleaning his nails as if the f
ollowing question were of little consequence. “Have you ever seen Lula Peak coming and going around the square?”

  “Pret’ near every day. She was a waitress at Vickery’s, you know, and our bench sets right there where we got a clear shot of it and the library and pretty much everything that moves around that square.”

  “So over the years you saw a lot of Lula Peak’s comings and goings?”

  “You bet.”

  “Did you ever see her coming and going with any men?”

  Nat burst out laughing and slapped his knee. “Hoo! Hoo! That’s a good one, isn’t it, Norris!” The whole courtroom burst into laughter.

  The judge interjected, “Answer the question, Mr. MacReady.”

  “She come and go with more men than the Pacific fleet!”

  Laughter burst forth and Murdoch had to sound his gavel again.

  “Tell us about some you saw her with,” Collins prompted.

  “How far back?”

  “As far back as you can remember.”

  “Well...” Nat scratched his chin, dropped his gaze to the tip of his brown high-top shoe. “Let’s see now, that goes back quite a ways. She always did like the men. Guess I can’t rightly say which one I saw her with first, but somewhere along when she was just barely old enough to grow body hair there was that dusky-skinned carnie who ran the ferris wheel during Whitney Days. Might’ve been back in twenty-four—”

  “Twenty-five,” Norris interrupted from the floor.

  Slocum leaped to his feet—“Objection!” just as the judge rapped his gavel. “Lula Peak is not on trial here!” put in the Solicitor General. “William Parker is!”

  Collins pointed out calmly, “Your honor, the reputation of the deceased is of utmost importance here. My intent is to establish that because of her promiscuity, Lula Peak might have gotten pregnant by any one of a dozen men she’s been known to have consorted with.”

  “By implying her fetus was sired in 1925?” retorted Slocum irately. “Your honor, this line of questioning is ludicrous!”

  “I’m attempting to show a sexual pattern in the deceased’s life, your honor, if you’ll allow me.”