The Woods at Barlow Bend (16 page)

“Now, Mrs. Franklin,” continued Mr. Jones, “do you believe that Hubbard
Andrews killed your sister?”

“No, I do not.”

“In your
opinion,
was your sister’s death an accident?”

“Yes, I believe it was.”

“And why do you believe that?”

“Because I believe that Hubbard
Andrews really did love my sister. He carried her for two miles through the woods so that she could be given a Christian burial and her family could say goodbye. I think he really loved her.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Franklin.
Nothing more, Your Honor.”

Mr. Poole, still appearing rattled by Mr. Jones
’s questions for Aunt Mittie, declined to cross-examine her, so she was dismissed from the witness stand and joined me in my pew. With that, Mr. Jones declared the defense’s case finished. Judge Bedsole gave his usual instructions to the jury (no speaking to the press or anyone else about the case), told Mr. Jones and Mr. Poole to be ready with closing arguments at 9 a.m. sharp, and rapped his gavel on his desk to signify the close of day three of Daddy’s trial. After the bailiff dismissed all of us for the day, Mr. Jones’s assistant, Peetie, approached me with another invitation for dinner with Daddy. I declined the invitation, politely, the way Ms. Jenkins had taught me.

“No thank you
. Unfortunately, I will be unable to join him for dinner this evening. Please thank him for the invitation for me,” I told Peetie, and then left the courthouse.

In
truth, I couldn’t stand the idea of sitting across a table from Daddy. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to look him in the eyes again. Instead, I walked back to the hotel in silence with Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin, wondering if I had, in fact, lost both of my parents regardless of the jury’s decision.

Chapter 22

September 26, 1935

Grove Hill, Alabama

Closing argu
ments started shortly after 9 a.m. on September 26, 1935. The courtroom was packed by 8 that morning, and the temperature seemed to rise with every new spectator. I swear every person in Grove Hill was trying to squeeze into the room to hear Mr. Jones’s last-ditch effort to save Daddy’s life and Mr. Poole’s final attempt to end it.

Mr. Poole was up first, and
, from his usual rigid stance behind the center podium, he cleared his throat and began, “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what happened to Addie Andrews at Barlow Bend on January 31, 1934? Who ended her life?” He paused as he looked from his notes to the jury. “That is the question you have been tasked to answer. Mr. Hubbard Andrews would like you to believe that his wife’s death was an accident, but, as you have learned over the last three days, Hubbard Andrews would like you to believe a mountain of untruths.” With that line, I heard several agreeable mutters from the crowd, which were quickly met by the cautionary stares of Judge Bedsole and his bailiff.

“He would like you to believe he was a faithful husband, but you now know he was not,” Mr. Poole continued and gain
ed steam as he rolled through the next few lines of his meticulously planned speech. “He would like you to believe he was a devoted father and husband, but now you know he thought only of himself on that cold January morning. He would like you to believe he is an honest, hardworking businessman, but now you know him to be a cunning and desperate fraud. You now know that his fear of being exposed drove him to end his young wife’s life.” Mr. Poole paused again to let the full weight of his words press against the ears and rest on the shoulders of the jury.

“If we could expose the secrets of Barlow Bend, we would learn that Mr. Hubbard
Andrews drove his unsuspecting victim miles from the warmth and comfort of her home in Frisco City, to the thick, icy woods. He walked her two miles into those woods, and then, once so far into the woods that his crime would have no witness, he shot Addie Andrews at close range, ensuring a fatal wound.” Mr. Poole took one last pause, waiting for a reaction, but his words seemed to muzzle the usually opinionated and frequently vocal crowd into silence.

Mr. Poole concluded his speech with an air of empathy, not for Daddy or Momma, us kids or the family that aches for her, but for the jury.
“As if his crime was not heinous enough, he then enlisted the help of family and friends to quickly dispose of her body and all physical evidence of his crime and then coolly slipped into the role of grieving widower. He not only killed his own wife, but he wants you to offer him comfort, sympathy, and support. Ladies and gentlemen, a decision has been assigned to you. You must decide whether you will be fooled by his ruse and allow him to get away with robbing four children of their mother, and a family of their daughter and sister, or will you say, ‘No more, Mr. Andrews.’ I believe your decision is clear. You must convict him of his crime, of what he truly is, a liar, a womanizer, and a calculated killer. You must return a verdict of guilty. Mr. Hubbard Andrews is guilty of first degree murder.”

Mr. Poole took one more look at the jury and then at the audience behind him.
When he turned to the crowd, they broke into applause. I couldn’t believe it. They actually applauded as if they were at a play. At that moment, the truth of why every seat was filled rang out. Sure, the reporters were doing their jobs, and a few family members were on hand to offer support for Momma or Daddy, whichever side their loyalties lay, but the crowd was there for themselves. To them, this wasn’t the real trial that could lead a man eventually to a life in a cell or, God forbid, the electric chair. This was some tacky soap opera come to life in their own pathetic town, right in front of their pathetic eyes. Momma would have been disgusted by the whole display, truly and completely disgusted. She would have narrowed her perfect blue eyes at them and then dismissed them from her life.

“They’re just a trifle,
Honey, just a trifle.” Momma’s voice floated around in my mind.

“Quiet down, everybody, hesh up,” Judge Bedsole silenced the crowd again, “I’m not gonna warn you people again.”
Unfortunately, any sincere belief that future outbursts from this crowd wouldn’t happen had left his voice. “Mr. Jones, go on with your closin’. Get to it.”

Mr. Jones had chosen a light grey suit
with a pale blue tie today. He appeared well rested without a glimpse of worry as he rose and set his notebook on the podium. He smiled at the jury as he started to speak, “Ladies. Gentlemen. Mr. Poole is right. We’ve come to decision time. You’ve listened to all the supposed expert testimony, solicited opinions, and wildly concocted theories that were brought forth by Mr. Poole over the last three days. You’ve listened to all of this, but heard no real evidence of a crime. You’ve heard grief. You’ve heard rumors. You’ve heard suspicions. But you’ve heard no evidence. The State has a false hunch that Hubbard Andrews killed Addie Andrews, but they have no proof of that hunch. So that’s all they’ve got, a hunch.”

Moving
toward the jury box, Mr. Jones motioned to Daddy and then to the two rows behind Daddy where Grandpa Andrews, cousins Stephen and Leroy, Leroy’s wife Jewell, Aunt Mittie, Uncle Melvin, and I all sat. “What you have,” Mr. Jones continued in his kind, gentle tone, “is evidence of a fifteen year marriage that produced four children and a community of people who loved both Addie and Hubbard Andrews.” Mr. Jones then turned to the jury and spoke directly to each one, trying to hold their gazes as long as possible.

“So now, let me tell you what
really happened on January 31, 1934. Hubbard and Addie Andrews drove out to Barlow Bend before dawn. They were hoping to get a few squirrels, maybe even a turkey, on the last day of the rifle huntin’ season. They hiked two miles into the woods looking for their prize. They crossed the Alabama River at Barlow Bend and finally heard some squirrels rustling the vines, climbing up a tree. Addie had the shotgun, Hubbard the .22. Addie tried to scare ‘em around that tree so Hubbard could take the shot, and then tragedy struck. Addie’s gun snagged on a twig and went off, killing her instantly. In shock at the site of his beautiful Addie dead in front of him, Hubbard did what any good man would do. He tenderly wrapped his beloved wife in a blanket, rowed her body across the river, and then carried her for two miles through the thick pine. The damp, cold air stung his fingers. The sharp branches slapped his face and snagged his clothes. As her body grew cold, his arms burned with the burden of his load, but he pushed on for the two-mile hike back to their car. Why? Not so he could fool you, not so he could get away with some imagined crime. He carried her so that he could give his Addie, the mother of his children, a Christian burial. He carried her so that everyone who loved her could say goodbye. He carried her because he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her, even for a moment, alone in those woods.”

Mr. Jones paused for a moment, glancing at Daddy, and then strangely, at me, “Hubbard
Andrews is not a perfect man. But you cannot deny his love for Addie Andrews. A love so strong that it would not allow him to harm her. Instead, that love propelled him to carry her home, to her children, to her family. You must honor that love with a verdict of not guilty. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, I know you will make the right decision.”

As Mr. Jones took his seat, applause did not arise from the audience. Rather
, the unfolding of handkerchiefs and sniffles could be heard from both sides of the courtroom. Papa Lowman quietly walked out. Aunt Mittie quickly excused herself. I sat completely silent, stunned by the vision of Daddy carrying her. In my mind’s eye, I saw Momma wrapped in a blanket, slumped lifeless in Daddy’s arms. I tried to resurrect my anger, remember what I had learned over the three days, but in my mind, all I saw was Daddy carrying her, step after step through the cold, damp woods. All I felt for him was pity, a deep pity for Momma’s
sweet-like-chocolate-candy Harry,
carrying his wild love to her grave. In that moment, his past sins didn’t matter. My heart ached for him.

Chapter 23

September 18, 1935

Grove Hill, Alabama

The jury began deliberations around 10 a.m. on Thursday morning.
By Friday evening, a verdict still wasn’t back. The town buzzed with talk of
did he
or
didn’t he.
At supper with Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin, every single person who walked into the café rushed over to our table to ask if we had heard anything. They, of course, offered some trite version of sympathy or encouragement, but I knew their game. They were all so terrified that they might have missed the big climax. A few of the tacky fans didn’t even try to hide their relief of learning that they hadn’t missed the grand finale.

After supper, I tried to read, but couldn’t force my eyes to focus on the page
, or my mind on the words. I told Aunt Mittie I was going on a walk and slipped out the staff entrance to the alley behind the hotel. The alley led to a field. Across the field was a small patch of pine trees. Lit by a full moon overhead, I walked into the woods until I found a fallen tree. I sat on the rotting trunk, looked up at the clear night sky, and tried to wrap my mind around everything I had learned during Daddy’s trial.

I couldn’t understand why Momma stayed with Daddy.
She could have left him. She knew about the baby and Elsie. She probably knew about others, too. So why did she stay? It seemed unlike her to put up with his betrayal. She never put up with selfish or childish behavior from us, so why him? The whole thing seemed beneath her. Did she try to ignore it? Did she try to change him? Did she have her own sins to atone for? I couldn’t make sense of any of it.

What I did know was that Momma stayed through
all of it. I would have known if she intended to leave. I think I would’ve sensed that. I would have known if they were that unhappy with each other. So, if she stayed, there must have been love. Maybe she loved him in spite of his flaws. Maybe she loved him because he was flawed. Maybe she loved the fact that this perfectly handsome man with his perfectly wavy hair and perfect blue eyes and perfectly respectable family was flawed. Maybe she loved the chaos of it all.

I
also knew Momma was not one to go back on her word. If she said she would do something, she did it. She wasn’t afraid of things getting messy, and she was stubborn as all get out. Maybe that was it. Momma was too stubborn to leave. She was so determined to love Daddy that she wouldn’t let him off her hook. Maybe she was determined that he was a good man at heart, and she was going to force him to live by their marriage, by the promises they made sixteen years ago.

So where did
all of this leave me? What would I do when the jury came back? What would I do if the jury came back with a guilty verdict? I decided I would keep fighting. That’s what Momma would do. I believed in my heart that he didn’t kill her. He was far from innocent, but he wasn’t guilty of this crime. If the jury came back with a guilty verdict, I would conjure up all of Momma’s stubbornness and determination and figure out how to mount an appeal. I had read about appeals in the newspaper and was sure Mr. Jones would know something about them, too.

I
also realized then, sitting on that hard tree trunk and staring into the darkness of the woods, what I would do if the jury came back with a not guilty verdict. As much as I didn’t want to, I would help Aunt Mittie pack our suitcases one more time and move to Uriah with Daddy. I didn’t want to drop out of Thorsby or change my future plans, but what else could I do? I would pick up where Momma left off. I would force him to live a good life. I would show Meg, Billy, and Albert how much Momma loved them. I would show them that she did not live foolishly or naively. She was not a stupid woman. She was not a fool. She was determined. She loved him, flaws and all.

At
10:30 p.m., Saturday, September 28, 1935, we were summoned back to the courthouse. The jury had finally reached a decision. The whole town crammed in the courtroom and crowded around the doors of the Clarke County Courthouse awaiting the verdict.

“Not guilty,” was
all I heard before the room erupted in a frenzy of reporters swarming around Daddy and cheers from the Ladies Auxiliary. The hundreds of onlookers poured out of the room and down the steps of the courthouse, surely running home to tell whomever they could, the big news. I stood still once again, just like I did on the day Daddy was taken away in handcuffs. I stood frozen, mouth gaping, while the reality of the verdict sunk in. Daddy would be free. My family, what was left of it, would be together again. A new life awaited me in Uriah, Alabama–my third new life in less than two years.

“Aunt Mittie, I need to
talk to you,” I said, standing with Aunt Mittie behind the throng of reporters. “Daddy wants us to move to Uriah.”

“I know,
Honey,” Mittie answered without looking at me. “We’ll get your things from school and get back to Luverne. I’ll help you pack up Meg and the boys.”

“Aunt Mittie, please let me explain.”

“Don’t need to, Honey,” said Mittie, “Your momma wouldn’t leave him and neither will you.”