The Woods at Barlow Bend (11 page)

The rustling crowd watched Mr. McCord limp down the center aisle and waited to see whom the State would call to the stand next.

“The State calls Stephen
Andrews,” said Mr. Poole.

“But,” I whispered to Aunt Mittie seated next to me, “he’s Daddy’s cousin!”
I didn’t understand why Daddy’s own flesh and blood would take the stand for Mr. Poole.

“Shhh,” Aunt Mittie whispered back, lightly patting my knee.
“We’ll just have to listen to what he has to say, Hattie.”

The heavy, rear doors of the courtroom opened.
I craned my neck and head around just as Cousin Stephen walked through the doors. Two steps into the courtroom, he stopped short and examined the crowd for a moment. By the expression on his face, I guessed he didn’t expect such a full house.

Nearly a year and a half had passed since I last saw Cousin Stephen,
a shorter, slightly less handsome version of Daddy, but he looked exactly the same as he did on the April afternoon he appeared with the tall stranger and Marshal Brooks back in Frisco City. If only I could have predicted then where their questions would lead.

After the bailiff motioned him forward with a few flicks of his fingers, Cousin Stephen marched to the witness stand, took the oath, and sat down.
I wish I could have seen Daddy’s face as he looked upon his cousin, now batting for the other team. I hope he gave Cousin Stephen a nasty glare.

“Please state your full name and profession for the record,” Mr. Poole said
, looking down at the podium rather than at his new witness. After scribbling something on his trusty notebook, he finally lifted his head and stared forward. I had to assume he looked at Cousin Stephen, although my view was a bit skewed because his back turned to me.

“Uh…I’m Stephen
Andrews. A deputy in Jackson.”

“And how do you know the defendant?”

“He’s my cousin.”

“And did you see the defendant at any point on the morning of January 31, 1934?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see the victim that morning?
”

“Objection!” Mr. Jones snapped to his feet, abandoning his casual behavior
for the first time. The crowd reacted to the outburst with an appreciative gasp, but I feared they approved Mr. Jones’s dramatic flair rather than the possibility of his pointing out an infraction. “Mrs. Andrews has not been established as a
victim
. I move that word be struck from the record.”

“Agreed,” said Judge Bedsole
. Turning to the jury, he ordered, “The jury will disregard the word ‘victim’.”

“My…
apologies, Your Honor. I’ll… uh… restate,” stammered Mr. Poole, appearing a bit ruffled by Mr. Jones’s interruption. “Deputy Andrews, did you see Mrs. Addie Andrews at any point on the morning in question.”

“Frank, you know I did.
I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” Cousin Stephen’s sarcastic tone garnered a few muffled guffaws from the audience.

“
Deputy Andrews
,” Mr. Poole said, stressing each part of Cousin Stephen’s official title, a subtle yet effective way of chastising Cousin Stephen for his use of Mr. Poole’s first name, “at what time did you see Hubbard and Addie Andrews that morning?”

“I guess it was around 9 a.m.”

“Please describe for the jury your interaction with the defendant that morning.”

“Well, I had stepped outside the station for a smoke when Hubbard pulled up out front.”

“Was he alone?”

“Not exactly.” Cousin Stephen shifted in his seat and leaned on the right armrest.

“Who was with the defendant?”

“Well, he had Addie with him.”

“And what condition was Addie in when you saw her?”

Leaning forward a bit, Cousin Stephen lowered his voice, “You know what condition she was in,
Frank.”

“Describe for the record, Deputy
Andrews, Addie Andrews’s physical condition.”

Cousin Stephen hesitated and stared straight at me.
With a pained expression, he nearly whispered, “She was dead. Addie Andrews was dead.”

“Please speak up, Deputy
Andrews. Were you able to determine what killed Mrs. Andrews?”

“Yes,” Cousin Stephen said, and then coughed into his hand.
“She had been shot.”

“And how did you determine that?”

“How did I determine what?”

“That Addie
Andrews had been shot. Did you view any wounds that would lead you to believe she had been shot?”

“Yes.
Of course.” Agitation grew on Cousin Stephen’s face as he answered the prosecutor’s questions through clenched teeth.

“So, what wound did you see?
Describe the effect of the gunshot,” Mr. Poole ordered.

“T
he top of her head was gone!” Cousin Stephen shifted in his seat again, and then, “Frank, man, her family is here! There’s no need for this. For Christ’s sake, her daughter’s right there!” As Cousin Stephen pointed at me, the entire audience twisted in their seats to gaze upon the poor, grieving daughter. “Hattie don’t need to hear this,” Cousin Stephen pleaded to Judge Bedsole.

The courtroom erupted as the crowd struggled to
look at me, their mouths gaping open as they practically drooled at the newfound excitement in the room. Reporters closed in around me.

“She’s right here, Bob,” the reporter nearest me, crouched on the floor next to my seat, yelled.
“It’s Hattie! It’s Hattie!”

Several flash bulbs popped around me as Judge Bedsole
pounded his gavel, the sound thundering over the crowd. The next several seconds were a blur of commotion. Uncle Melvin shoved a couple of the reporters, forcing them to keep their distance. Aunt Mittie tried to shield me from the photographers, first holding her pocketbook in front of my face, and then pulling me to her bosom, her arms wrapped tightly around me.

“Order,” yelled Judge Bedsole.
“Order! This courtroom will be silent!” He hammered his gavel on his desk until, at last, the frenzy died down. “You will remain quiet, or I will clear this room!”

The crowd fell s
ilent, but the air around me remained charged, almost electrified. I squeezed Aunt Mittie’s hand as I resisted the urge to run from the courtroom and all the way back to Thorsby, where I could live unnoticed. At Thorsby, I was merely Hattie, a good student with a delicate hand for needlepoint and an ear for dictation. Here, I was Hattie, child of the dead woman, and daughter of the accused. Remaining in that room required every ounce of strength I had.

“Now, Frank, get aholt of your witness,” said Judge Bedsole, pointing his gavel at the long-nosed prosecutor.
“I’ll stand for no more foolishness. From any of ya!”

“Absolutely, Your Honor.”
Mr. Poole consulted his notebook once again, and then raised his head toward the witness stand. “Please describe your interaction with Mr. Hubbard Andrews on the morning of January 31, 1934.”

“Well,” Cousin Stephen began, “as I said, I had just stepped out for a smoke when Hub, I mean Hubbard
Andrews, pult up in his car.”

“Was he driving fast?
Did he appear to be in a hurry?”

“I don’t recall.
Guess not.”

“Go on.
What happened after Mr. Andrews pulled his car in front of the police station?”

“Well, Hubbard jumps out and yells to me that Addie’s in the backseat.
That she’d been shot. I runned over and looked in, and there she was. Wrapped up in a blanket. I could see a little bit of her hair stickin’ out from under a blanket.”

“And why did Mr.
Andrews bring Mrs. Andrews to you rather than to a doctor?”

“She didn’t need a doctor.
She was already gone.”

“By the time he drove thirty miles from Barlow Bend to his family confidant in Jackson, she no longer needed a doctor?”

“No. She didn’t need no doctor. It looked like she was killed instantly,” snapped Cousin Stephen, “and I don’t like your tone!”

“Permission to treat the witness as hostile,” Mr. Poole said.

“You’re the one makin’ me hostile!” Cousin Stephen shot back.

“Granted,” ordered Judge Bedsole, “and I’d recommend you calm down right now, Deputy.
I’m not afraid to hold you in contempt and toss your behind in a cell of your own.”

Cousin Stephen sunk
in his chair, letting out a deep sigh. With a shrug of his shoulders, he appeared to slough off Mr. Poole’s accusations.

“
Now, Deputy Andrews,” continued Mr. Poole, “why did Mr. Andrews come to you, all the way over in Jackson, rather than the authorities in Barlow Bend?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Was it because you are his cousin?”

“Maybe so.”

“Was it because the defendant knew that you, his cousin, his trusted flesh and blood, would help him cover up his crime rather than hold him responsible for his heinous act?”

“Absolutely not!” Cousin Stephen smacked the wooden armrest of his chair hard with his hand. “I already told you that ain’t true!”

Before the judge could reach for his gavel, Mr. Jones was on his feet again, protesting Mr. Poole’s line of questions. “He answered the question, now order him to move on!”

Mr. Poole yelled back at Daddy’s attorney, but the two men’s voices jumbled together in an angry, distorted mess.

Judge Bedsole rapped his gavel hard against his desk, rattling the windows that lined either side of the courtroom. “That’s it! The next man that raises his voice will find his butt on the curb!”

The entire courtroom froze.
Mr. Poole, Cousin Stephen, and Mr. Jones all turned toward Judge Bedsole. I held my breath and waited for someone, anyone, to speak, terrified of how the judge would react.

Finally, after several tense seconds ticked by,
Mr. Poole asked his next question, “After viewing Mrs. Andrews’s body in the defendant’s car, what did you and the defendant discuss?”

“I told Hubbard that her body would have to be taken to the coroner in Grove Hill and that an investigation would be conducted.
Standard procedure for any gunshot related fatality.”

“And what did Mr.
Andrews do next?”

“Well, we decided that I would take Addie’s body to Grove Hill and Hubbard would go home.
So I guess he went home.”

“So, you let him leave?”

“He had to go tell the children what happened. He had to plan Addie’s fun’ral.”

“And did Mr.
Andrews tell you when he wanted the funeral to be?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“Hubbard said he wanted it to be as soon as possible,” Cousin Stephen said. Then, with a frustrated sigh, he added, “He wanted her buried the next day.”

“So, knowing a full investigation should be mounted into the death of Addie Andrews, you assisted Mr. Andrews, your cousin, the only witness to the supposed
accident
, bury the body the very next day rather than insist proper time for an investigation be allotted
before
the burial? Would you give a stranger such assistance? Such allowances?”

“Objection!” Mr. Jones sprang to his feet again and brought with him the gasps and cheers of the crowd.

“Withdrawn, Your Honor,” Mr. Poole said, and pointed a smirk in Mr. Jones’s direction, in full view of the pleased crowd.

“Very well,” said Judge Bedsole.
“We’re gonna take a ten minute recess. When we return, Mr. Jones, you’ll get your chance at Deputy Andrews.” Then he waved his gavel over the expanse of the crowd and said, “As for the rest of you, I expect you to cool off and shut up!”

I remained in my seat, my hand clutched in Aunt Mittie’s, through the recess.
After the bulk of the crowd rushed out the door, desperate to get a breath of fresh air and empty their lungs of new gossip I assumed, Daddy turned in his chair and looked at me.

“Sweetie,” Daddy said, “don’t worry ‘bout a thing.
This is all just a little courtroom drama. It don’t mean anything.”

“Hubbard,” Aunt Mittie warned, as she wrapped her arm around me again, “please don’t.” After her plea, Daddy turned back around in his seat, consulting in whispers with his team of attorneys.

*****

“Deputy
Andrews,” Mr. Jones began once the judge and gallery were seated again, “did Mr. Andrews offer an explanation for Addie Andrews’s injuries when you saw him that morning in Jackson?”

“Yes,” answered Cousin Stephen,
much calmer than before the recess. “Hubbard said Addie was moving around a big oak, trying to tree a squirrel, when her gun went off.”

“So, Mr.
Andrews, Hubbard, told you that Addie’s death was an accident?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any reason to doubt his story?”

“No.”