My teeth grind together. Not just the family. My family.
Judge Newsome shuffles through his papers as if earnestly looking for something. “For the life of me I cannot find the results of the toxicology report to confirm this.” He raises a questioning brow to Smithy. There’s a tone in his voice. Scripted even. He knows the answer but he’s asking it here, out loud, so everyone knows.
My heart crumples.
“Unfortunately, Your Honor, the results were inconclusive. And the hospital was unable to perform a second toxicology test on the body because the family insisted on burial rites. They still practice in some...arcane ways of taking care of their own dead.” And he’s supposed to be our attorney? Murmurs and whispers scatter around the courtroom. Arcane makes us sound more hillbilly than necessary.
“So we do not have any evidence to substantiate the family’s claim?”
“That is correct, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor.” Stone’s lawyer stands. Introduces himself as Attorney John Klein of the Atlanta law firm of Klein, Klein, and Winchester. He’s an uppity man with a suit even fancier than his client’s. He holds up a set of papers. “Here we have the defendant’s own recounting of the events that took place on the night in question.” The bailiff comes over to collect the papers and passes them off to the judge. “As you can see, it was well into dusk when my client was driving home.”
Dusk. The hour of crows.
“Mr. Rutledge recalls seeing erratic movement in the road ahead. It was not until it was too late did he realize a person was swerving—drunkenly—on a bicycle in the middle of the road. Dark clothing. No proper reflectors. As my client tried tirelessly to resuscitate the victim, he recalls the pungent odor of whiskey on her clothes.”
Liar. Liar! LIAR! My teeth grind harder.
“And there is the additional eyewitness testimony...” He hands another set of papers to the bailiff for the judge. “It corroborates that the victim was seen that very afternoon at the Watering Hole. The liquor establishment is not quite two miles down the road from the incident. A place the family is known to frequent.”
“Yes.” The judge glowers at the document claiming just that. “Not an establishment our Baptist community is too proud of, Mr. Klein. Thank you for this detailed and thorough recounting of events. Smithy, do you have anything else as evidence?”
Smithy fumbles over his words but confirms all accounts of Stone’s statement and the eyewitness testimony have been verified and, to the best of his knowledge, there is nothing further to be submitted.
“It is clear to me,” the judge begins and my blood starts to simmer, “that without any evidence of negligence or malice, we can assume the defendant is not responsible, and that the victim carried a degree of responsibility as well in the outcome of events. With no clear evidence to be put forward by the prosecution, by the state of Georgia, I hereby accept the defendant’s motion to dismiss. Court is adjourned.” Judge Newsome slams down his gavel. The finality of the wood cracking like a hammer on the last nail into a coffin.
Voices rise up in the courtroom, the relief and joy enough to feast on.
Doesn’t matter how much you expect the outcome; there’s still something about hearing it that hits you harder than you’re prepared for.
Dismissed, like a teacher who’s simply allowing students to leave for the day.
Dismissed, as if Stone’s actions were unimportant. Insignificant. Irrelevant.
Dismissed, as if it was no big deal he killed Adaire. Grandmama stands to leave like church is over, the sermon is finished, and there’s nothing more to be said or done. Not a stitch of anger—or care—on her face.
“Dismissed?” I scream. It’s a mad, startling sound that jars the room quiet.
Everyone stares at me like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. Maybe I have. Sheriff Johns regards me like a wild animal that got loose. My blood is boiling now. My feet carry me forward—they tend to do that right before I do something stupid.
I should have brought a knife.
Or Uncle Doug’s pistol, if I had known where Aunt Violet hid it.
I take the cursed egg from the cup and grip it tight. The other hand searches for the little pouch in my purse.
“Unto thee what you have done!” The vehement rage and spit fly from my mouth. My dog finger—my cursing finger—fiercely points at Stone. He stumbles back as I climb over the bench.
He’s too slow and too late.
My right hand swings out, cracking the egg as I slap his face with it. The other hand slings out the bag of power; tiny rosehip hairs fly, a mist into his eyes.
It’s a hard crunch when my cheek smacks the courtroom’s wood floor. Sheriff Johns’s aftershave and cigarette breath assaults my nose as he pins me down. “Damn it, girl, I told you not to do something you’d regret.” A knee pushes into my back as he yanks my arms behind me. Metal cuffs zip-click around my wrists.
“You bastard!” I buck and fight against the hands holding me down. “You’ll pay for what you did! You’ll fucking pay!”
Like a ray of sunshine, I get one small peek at Stone’s face as the sheriff yanks me to my feet and shoves me out of the room.
Bloodred from the chicken egg oozes down his cheek and stains that expensive white shirt of his. The rot of it putrefying the air. Stone rubs fiercely at his eyes, screaming from the burn.
May death fall upon your house.
TWO
Bringing in the Sheaves
“Well, aren’t you about as dumb as a box of rocks to pull that shit in court,” Aunt Violet says to me from the other side of the jail bars.
Sure enough the sheriff let me rot a night in jail before informing me Stone wasn’t pressing charges, after all. Egg assault by a woman half your size... Well, you’d look like a straight-up pussy for crying foul. But it was worth every second in this stinking cinder block to see that pained expression on Stone Rutledge’s face.
Aunt Violet looks like hell, face puffy and red from crying. Or the alcohol. Or both. That spicy cinnamon Dentyne gum can’t hide the smell of cigarettes and vodka still lingering on her breath.
“Stone deserves worse,” I say to her and sit up to stretch. My back is killing me from sleeping on the compacted cotton pallet they call a mattress. My jaw aches a bit from when Sheriff Johns introduced my face to the floor.
We both glance down the hall as we hear the sheriff give the order that I’m to be let out. Deputy Rankin, with his belly hanging over his gun belt, grunts as he hoists himself out of his chair. His keys jangle on his hip as he waddles down the dimly lit hall.
“Is Grandmama angry?” I ask Aunt Violet.
