“Yes sun.”
“How about college?”
“Well, I taken fourteen hours altogether ’fore I had t’ quit. It were five courses in all. Made all A’s ’cept for a B in economics.”
“Why did you make a B in economics? Was it hard for you?”
“No suh, it just didn’t matter much t’ me.”
“When did you leave Crikside, Aaron?”
“After I gradjiated high school. I were seventeen.”
“Why did you leave?”
“Was nothin’ thair fer me.”
“No future?”
“Only coal mining, which I refused t’ do.”
“Why?”
“I feared it. Killed m’ paw. Killed lots of folks I knew growin’ up. It were no way t’ live.”
“Your mother was still alive when you left?”
“Yes suh.”
“Did she condone your leaving?”
“No suh, not partic’ly. She was fer me goin’ into the hole.”
“You mean go down in the mines?”
“Yes suh. I call it goin’ in the hole. M’ paw whipped me ’cause I wouldn’t go down and she stood with him on it, mostly ’cause it were all she knew t’ do.”
“How did your father beat you?”
“I object, Your Honor,” Venable said. “There’s a significant difference between a whipping and a beating.”
“Never mind,” said Vail, “I’ll rephrase. How often did your father hit you?”
“Once ’r twice a week.”
“Did he hit you with his hand?”
“Sometimes. Mostly he took th’ strap t’ me.”
“The strap?”
“ ’Twere his belt. Big, thick black belt, maybe two inches wide.” Aaron held up his hand and measured the width between two fingers. “He would pull it off ’n’ lick me with it.”
“How would be hit you?”
“Make m’ bend over a chair and pull down m’ britches, ’n’ gimme licks.”
“How many licks?”
“Sometimes five, sometimes ten. Maybe more.”
“Did he break the skin with these licks on your bare behind?”
“Yes suh. Sometimes they took t’ bleedin.”
“And he did this once a week?”
“Sometimes more. Whenever he were drinkin’.”
Vail turned to the judge and said, “Your Honor, I don’t know how the state defines a beating but getting stropped once a week with a two-inch belt until you bleed qualifies in my book.”
“You made your point, Counselor,” Shoat said with a nod.
“Aaron, could your father read?”
“No suh.”
“Your mother?”
“A mite. ’Twere she first read the Bible t’ me—in a kinda falterin’ way.”
“You had a brother?”
“Yes suh, m’ brother Sam. He were killed in a car accident.”
“Aunts, uncles, other relatives?”
He shook his head. “Nary.”
“Who was the most important influence in your life, Aaron?”
“ ’Twas Miss Rebecca, m’ schoolteacher.”
“She was your teacher until you went to high school, wasn’t she?”
“Yes suh, it were a one-room schoolhouse and she was our teacher. She taught me ev’thin’ I know. Taught me ’bout readin’, history, the geography of the world. ’Bout science and psychology, adventure books and the like. She had lotsa books at her place and I were allowed to read one at a time. I read all of those books ’fore I went to high school, and all the books in th’ Crikside libury—which weren’t many. Like maybe half as many as were in the bishop’s libury.”
“Your parents didn’t like you to bring books home to read, did they?”
“Uh, well, it were like an insult to m’ paw, him not being able t’ read ’n’ all. I think he and Maw considered it a waste o’ m’ time.”
“Did Miss Rebecca encourage you to leave Crikside?”
“Yes suh. Told me ’tweren’t no future thair and thet sooner or later, I would end up in th’ hole.”
“So you left when you were seventeen?”
“Yes suh.”
“Where did you go first?”
“Went to Lexington and I worked in a funeral home ’bout six months, then I came hair.”
“Why did you leave Lexington?”
“I always planned to come hair to the city.”
Vail slowly walked down the length of the jury box, sliding his hand along the highly polished railing.
“What’s the first book you ever read, Aaron?”
“The Bible. ’Twere the only book in our house.”
“How old were you then?”
“When I read it th’ first time?”
“Yes.”
“ ’Bout six.”
“You read the Bible when you were six years old?”
“Yes suh.”
“Is religion important to you?”
“Yes suh.”
“Why?”
“Well suh, I guess I’m tryin t’ figger it out.”
“Religion’s in your thoughts a lot, is it?”
Aaron nodded. “Yes suh.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“Yes suh.”
“Are you a Christian?”
“Yes suh.”
“Other than reading the Bible, when’s the first time you became aware of Christ?”
“ ’Twere from Reverend Shackles.”
“How old were you then?”
“ ’Bout nine, I reckon.”
“Tell the jury about Reverend Shackles.”
“Well, he were a fearsome man, tall and lean like a pine tree, and he had terrifyin’ eyes and a long beard, come down t’ about hair.” He pointed to his chest. “ ’N’ he would put his hand on m’ shoulder, and press down real hard till m’ knees hurt, and he would sermonize over me. ’Twere like … he were pickin’ me out to yell at.”
“And that embarrassed you?”
“No suh, scairt me outta m’ wits. He preached hellfire and damnation ’n’ thair were no room fer sinners. ’Twere like, if you sinned, you were hell-bound, an’ nothin’ to stop it. No absolution, no forgiveness, just hell awaitin’ down thair. I mean, even if yuh jest had bad thoughts. Even when yer nine yairs old, y’cain’t help havin’ a bad thought now and agin.”
“So he was a frightening figure?”
“Yes.”
“And he said you were going to hell?”
“Yes suh.”
“And that troubled you even at the age of nine?”
“Yes suh, troubled me from then on.”
“So you tended to suppress your bad thoughts, as you put it?”
“Yes suh.”
“Tried not to think bad thoughts?”
“Tried.”
“And when you did have a bad thought, what then?”
“I would be scairt… I would feel… uh …”
“Guilty?”
“Guilty, yes suh, but also … y’know, like helpless?”
“Helpless in what way?”
“Thet I were goin’ t’ hell and nothin’ I could do would stop it.”
“Aaron, are you familiar with the term ‘fugue’ or ‘fugue state’?”
“Yes suh.”
“What does it mean?”
“Mains forgettin’ things fer a while.”
“Do you have a term for it?”
“Yes suh. Call it losin’ time.”
“And did you ever lose time?”
“Yes suh.”
“Often?”
“Yes suh.”
“When?”
“Well, I’m not perfeckly sure. At first you don’t know it’s happenin’. Then after a while, you know when you lose time.”
“How do you know?”
“Well, one minute I’d be settin hair, a second later—jest a snap of a finger—I’d be settin over thair, ’r walkin’ outside. Once I was in the movies
with a girl ’n’ jest an instant later we were walkin’ outside the movie. I don’t know how the picture ended, I was jest outside on the street.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?”
“No suh.”
“Why not?”
“I didn’t think they’d b’lieve me. Thought they’d make fun o’ me or maybe put me away.”
“So it was fear?”
“Yes suh.”
“Did it worry you?”
“Well, mainly I would wonder if I did somethin’ wrong.”
“Like what?”
“Y’know, maybe I said somethin’ wrong, made somebody mad, somethin’ like thet.”
“Did you tell Miss Rebecca?”
“No suh. I din’t tell anybody.”
“Did you know what caused it? By that I mean, were there subjects you avoided because you knew they might bring on this condition?”
“Reckon it were lotsa things. Sometimes when m’ paw were lickin’ me, I’d lose time. Next thing I know, I’d be in m’ room and ’twould be ’n hour later. Sometimes when I were havin’ sex, suddenly I’d be in the shower or on my way home. It was like that. First time I went in th’ Catholic church it happened. Jest no way o’ tellin’.”
“How did you meet Bishop Rushman?” Vail asked.
“I was down on South Street, beggin’ fer a meal, when this big black car pulled up and the door opened and the bishop, he leaned out ’n’ says, ‘C’mere son.’ So I went over ’n’ he asked where I were livin’ and I told him sleepin’ in unlocked cars ’n’ he says, ‘Come along with me,’ and he took me to Savior House and I moved in thet night. Reckon Billy Jordan hed tole him ’bout me.”
“And you became friends after that?”
“Yes suh. From thet moment on.”
“And did you talk about religion with the bishop?”
“Yes suh. He were tryin’ to convince me t’ become a Catholic.”
“And you resisted?”
“Not really. I were jest, you know, tryin’ to get it all straight in m’ mind. Reverend Shackles tellin’ me one thaing, ’n’ the bishop tellin’ me jest the opposite.”
“And you thought a lot about that?”
“Yes suh.”
“And sometimes when you were having sex with your girlfriend did you lose time?”
“Yes suh.”
“But you don’t know why?”
“Not really.”
“And you have no recollection of what happens when you’re in this state?”
“No suh. I jest lose time.”
“And this has been happening for ten years or more?”
“Yes suh.”
“And you never told anyone?”
“No suh.”
“Now I want to talk about the night Bishop Rushman was murdered. There was an altar boy meeting scheduled, wasn’t there?”
“Yes suh.”
“Did any of the other altar boys show up?”
“No.”
“Nobody else?” Vail was saying.
“No suh.”
“Was the bishop upset?”
“No. He said he were tired anyway and we could meet another time.”
“What did you do when you left?”
“I went over to Savior House and found an empty bed. ’Twere real cold thet night and I din’t wanna go back to the Hollows. Then I decided t’ go over to the bishop’s office and borrow a book t’ read. When I got thair, I heard some noise—like people shoutin’—up in the bishop’s bedroom so I went up t’ see if everything was all right. When I got to the top of the stairs I taken m’ shoes off and stuck ’em in m’ jacket pockets. The bishop was in the bathroom and then I realized what I heard was him singin’. Then… I felt like there was somebody else thair, besides the bishop, and that’s when I lost time.”
“You didn’t actually see anyone else?”
“No suh.”
“Did you see the bishop?”
“No suh. But I could hear him. He was singin’ in the bathroom.”
“You just sensed that somebody else was in the room?”
“Yes suh.”
“Then what happened?”
“Next thing I knew, I were outside, at the bottom of the wooden staircase up to the kitchen, and I saw a police car and the … there was a flashlight flickin’ around, then I looked down … and uh, there were blood all over… m’ hands … and the knife …”
Aaron stopped for a moment, staring at his hands.
“And … and then, I jest ran … don’t know why, I jest ran into the church and another police car was pullin’ up front and I ducked into the confessional.”
“And what did you think, while you were hiding in there, before the police found you?”
“Don’t remember, ’cept I was scairt, so scairt there was a lump in m’ throat.”
“Aaron, did you have any reason to kill Bishop Rushman?”
“No suh.”
“Did you plan his murder?”
“No suh.”
“To your knowledge, did you kill Bishop Rushman?”
“No suh.”
“Thank you.” Vail turned to Venable and nodded. “Your witness,” he said.
Connerman felt let down. When Vail had called Stampler to the stand, he had expected fireworks, it was such an audacious move. Where was the Vail flair? The surprises? The tail twisters? How was he going to prove insanity? Was he going to let her take her swipes and then come back with his heavy guns? Was his secret weapon the psychiatrist, Molly Arrington? So far, except for some nice dramatics and clever rhetoric, Vail hadn’t unproven a damn thing Venable had thrown on the table. And now Vail had given her a shot at Stampler, who could not have been called to the stand unless he agreed.
Had Vail finally blown one?
Venable had a scattering of notes but the introduction of Stampler as a witness had thrown her. She was not sure exactly what strategy to follow in interrogating Stampler. She was faced with a critical decision; either she could excuse the witness, implying to the jury that Stampler’s testimony in his own behalf was worthless and immaterial, or she could tread on dangerous ground, specifically, the marked books and the symbol on Rushman’s head. Could she introduce this evidence and strengthen her contention of premeditation without getting into the volatile altar boy problem? It was her best shot and she decided to go straight for the jugular.
No prisoners.
“Mr. Stampler,” she began, “you say you did not plan the murder of Bishop Rushman.”
“No ma’am.”
“Or remember what happened?”
“No ma’am.”
“You came up the stairs and heard the bishop singing in the bathroom?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Why did you take your shoes off?”
“Well, I thought I heard the bishop arguin’ with somebody and I wanted to make sure ever’thin’ was all right but I din’t want him to think I was bein’ nosy or anything. So I took off m’ shoes so he wouldn’t hear me.”
“And then what happened?”
“I heard him singin’ back in the shower and that’s when I lost time.”
“And you remember nothing after that?”
“No ma’am.”
“You have quite a memory for quotations and sayings that appeal to you, don’t you, Mr. Stampler?”
“I have a good memory, yes ma’am.”
“Are you familiar with Nathaniel Hawthorne’s book The Scarlet Letter?”
Vail said to himself, Here she goes. She took the bait.
“Yes ma’am, I know the book.”
“And does the phrase ‘B32.156’ mean anything to you?”
Stampler hesitated. He stared at her for several seconds without responding.
“Mr. Stampler, do you understand the question?” Shoat asked.
“Uh, I believe those are the numbers that were on the back of the bishop’s head, in the pitchers …”
“Is that the first time you ever saw
them?”
“I reckon…”
“And you don’t know what the numbers mean?”
“I’m not sure …” It was obvious to Venable that Aaron was getting fidgety and uncomfortable and she moved in closer, her voice turning hard and pushy.
“You mark passages in books that appeal to you, do you not?”
“Sometimes …”
“You marked passages in the books in the bishop’s library, didn’t you?” she said, becoming even more aggressive.
“Sometimes …” Sweat began to form along the hairline high on Aaron’s forehead. His lips appeared dry and he licked them several times. To a trained predator like Venable, it was the best of all signs. Stampler was showing signs of cracking. She went to her desk and picked up a book.
“Your Honor, I’d like this marked as state’s exhibit thirty-two, please,” she said, showing the volume to Vail. It was the copy of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter from Rushman’s library.
“No objection,” he said.
Venable walked to the witness box and handed the book to Aaron.
“Recognize this book, Mr. Stampler?”
Aaron took it, looked at the cover and flipped through the pages.
“I reckon that’s from the bishop’s libury,” he said thickly. She took the book back and turned to a page marked with a slip of paper.
“Mr. Stampler,” she said, her voice becoming harsher, “I ask you, did you or did you not mark a passage on page 156 of this copy of The Scarlet Letter—indexed by the number B32?”
Aaron looked at Vail but the lawyer was scribbling notes on his legal pad.
“Uh …” he said slowly.
“I’ll be a little more direct, Mr. Stampler. Are you familiar with this quote from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter: ‘No man, for any considerable period, can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true’? Do you recognize that, Mr. Stampler?”
“Uh…”
“Do you recognize it?” she demanded. “B32.156 … doesn’t that strike a bell, Mr. Stampler?”
“I don’t…”
“Mr. Stampler, did you memorize that passage and print those numbers on the back of the bishop’s head when you killed him?”
Vail leaped to his feet. “Objection …” he started, but he never finished the sentence.
Aaron had slumped slightly as Venable’s questioning turned to an attack. As Vail stood to object, Stampler suddenly looked up, his face distorted with hatred. His body seemed to change, his shoulders snapped back and his neck got thicker. His lips pulled back as he bared his teeth. With a growl like a animal in pain, he jumped up and leaped over the railing separating witness from examiner.