Because Barkley Cove was the first village settled in this torn and marshy stretch of the North Carolina coast, the Crown had declared it the county seat and built the original courthouse in 1754. Later, even though other towns such as Sea Oaks became more populated and developed, Barkley Cove remained the official hub for county government.
Lightning struck the original courthouse in 1912, burning much of the wooden structure to ashes. Rebuilt the next year on the same square at the end of Main Street, it was a brick two-story with twelve-foot windows trimmed in granite. By the 1960s, wild grasses and palmettos, and even a few cattails, had moved in from the marsh and taken over the once-groomed grounds. A lily-choked lagoon flooded in spring and, over the years, had eaten part of the sidewalk.
In contrast, the courtroom itself, designed to replicate the original, was imposing. The elevated judge’s bench, made of dark mahogany with a colorful inlay of the state’s seal, stood under multiple flags, including the Confederate. The half wall of the jury box, also of mahogany, was trimmed in red cedar, and the windows that lined one side of the room framed the sea.
As the officials entered the courtroom, Tom pointed to the stick figures in his drawing and explained who they were. “That’s the bailiff, Hank Jones,” he said as a lanky man of sixty with a hairline that receded past his ears, making his head almost exactly half bald and half not, walked to the front of the room. He wore a gray uniform and a wide belt, hung with a radio, a flashlight, an impressive set of keys, and a holstered Colt six-shooter.
Mr. Jones called out to the crowd. “Sorry, folks, but y’all know the fire marshal’s rules. If ya don’t have a seat, ya gotta leave.”
“That’s Miss Henrietta Jones, the bailiff’s daughter, the court recorder,” Tom explained as a young woman, as tall and thin as her father, walked in quietly and sat at a desk near the judge’s bench. Already seated, the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Eric Chastain, unpacked note pads from his briefcase. Eric, a broad-chested, redheaded man of nearly six feet, dressed in blue suits and wide bright ties purchased at Sears, Roebuck in Asheville.
Bailiff Jones called, “All rise. This court is in session. The Honorable Judge Harold Sims presiding.” Sudden silence fell. The chamber door opened and Judge Sims entered and nodded for everyone to sit, and asked both the prosecuting and defense attorneys to approach the bench. A large-boned man with a round face and bold white sideburns, he lived in Sea Oaks but had officiated over Barkley Cove cases for nine years. He was generally considered to be a no-nonsense, levelheaded, and fair arbitrator. His voice boomed across the room.
“Mr. Milton, your motion to relocate this trial to another county on the grounds that Miss Clark cannot get a fair trial due to prejudices against her in this community is denied. I accept that she has lived in unusual circumstances and been subjected to some prejudice, but I see no evidence that she has endured more prejudices than many people on trial in small towns all across this nation. And some large towns, for that matter. We will proceed here and now.” Nods of approval eased through the room as the attorneys returned to their seats.
He continued. “Catherine Danielle Clark of Barkley County, North Carolina, you are charged with murder in the first degree of Chase Lawrence Andrews, formerly of Barkley Cove. First-degree murder is defined as a premeditated act and, in such cases, the state is allowed to seek the death penalty. The prosecutor has announced that they will do so if you are found guilty.” The room murmured.
Tom seemed to have inched slightly closer to Kya, and she didn’t deny herself that comfort.
“We will begin the jury selection.” Judge Sims turned toward the first two rows filled with potential jurors. As he read off a list of rules and conditions, Sunday Justice jumped down from the windowsill with a thud and, in one fluid motion, leapt onto the judge’s bench. Absentmindedly, Judge Sims stroked the cat’s head as he continued.
“In capital cases, the State of North Carolina allows a juror to be excused if he or she does not believe in the death penalty. Please raise your hand if you will not or cannot impose the death sentence if a guilty verdict is delivered.” No hands were raised.
“Death penalty” was all Kya heard.
The judge continued. “Another legitimate reason to be excused from the jury is if you have now or had in the past such a close relationship with either Miss Clark or Mr. Andrews that you cannot be objective in this case. Please let me know now if you feel this is true.”
From the middle of the second row, Mrs. Sally Culpepper lifted her hand and stated her name. Her gray hair was pulled back severely in a tiny knot, and her hat, suit, and shoes bore the same dull brown.
“All right, Sally, tell me what’s on your mind,” the judge said.
“As you know, I was the truant officer for Barkley County for nearly twenty-five years. Miss Clark was one of my cases, and so I had some dealings with her, or tried to.”
Kya couldn’t see Mrs. Culpepper or anyone in the main gallery unless she turned around, which of course she’d never do. But she remembered clearly the last time Mrs. Culpepper sat in the car while the man in the fedora tried to chase her down. Kya had been as easy on the old man as she could, taking off noisily through brambles to give him a clue, then circling back and hiding in some bushes next to the car. But Fedora ran in the opposite direction toward the beach.
Crouching there, Kya shook a holly branch against the car door, and Mrs. Culpepper looked out the window directly into her eyes. She thought at the time that the truant lady smiled slightly. In any case, she made no attempt to give her away when Fedora returned, cussing up a streak, then driving down the road for good.
Now, Mrs. Culpepper said to the judge, “Well, since I had dealings with her, I don’t know if that means I should be excused.”
Judge Sims said, “Thank you, Sally. Some of you may have dealt with Miss Clark in the shops or in official ways, as in Mrs. Culpepper’s case, the truant officer. The point is: can you listen to the testimony given here and decide whether she’s guilty or innocent based on the evidence, not on past experience or feelings?”
“Yessir, I’m sure I can do that. Your Honor.”
“Thank you, Sally, you can stay.”
By 11:30 seven women and five men sat in the jury box. From there Kya could see them and stole glances at their faces. Most of them she recognized from the village, though she knew few of the names. Mrs. Culpepper sat squarely in the middle and gave slight comfort to Kya. But next to her sat Teresa White, blond wife of the Methodist preacher, who years ago had rushed from the shoe shop to whisk her daughter away from Kya as she stood on the curb after having lunch in the diner with Pa—that one and only time. Mrs. White, who had told her daughter that Kya was dirty, now sat on the jury.
Judge Sims called for a lunch recess until 1:00 P.M. The diner would bring over tuna fish, chicken salad, and ham sandwiches for the jurors, who would eat in the deliberation room. To be fair to the town’s two eating establishments, the Dog-Gone Beer Hall would deliver hot dogs, chili, and shrimp po’boys on alternative days. They always brought something for the cat, too. Sunday Justice preferred the po’boys.
39.
Chase by Chance
1969
A fog was lifting from an August morning in 1969 as Kya motored to a remote peninsula the locals called Cypress Cove, where she had once seen rare toadstools. August was late for mushrooms, but Cypress Cove was cool and moist, so perhaps she could find the rare species again. More than a month had passed since Tate had left the compass for her on the feather stump, and though she’d seen him in the marsh, she hadn’t ventured close enough to thank him for the gift. Neither had she used the compass, though it was tucked safely in one of the many pockets of her knapsack.
Moss-draped trees hugged the bank, and their low-hanging limbs formed a cave close to the shore through which she glided, searching the thickets for small orange mushrooms on slender stalks. And finally she saw them, bold and brilliant, clinging to the sides of an old stump, and, after beaching her boat, sat cross-legged in the cove, drawing them.
Suddenly she heard footsteps on the duff and then a voice: “Well, look who’s here. My Marsh Girl.” Whirling around, standing at the same time, she stood face-to-face with Chase.
“Hello, Kya,” he said. She looked around. How had he gotten here? She’d heard no boat. He read her question. “I was fishing, saw ya pass, so landed over yonder on the other side.”
“Please just go,” she said, stuffing her pencils and pad in the knapsack.
But he put his hand on her arm. “C’mon, Kya. I’m sorry about how things turned out.” He leaned in, wisps of breakfast bourbon on his breath.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Hey, I said I’m sorry. Ya knew we couldn’t get married. Ya never coulda lived near town. But I always cared about ya; I stayed by ya.”
“Stayed by me! What does that mean? Leave me alone.” Kya tucked the knapsack under her arm and walked toward the boat, but he grabbed her arm, holding hard.
“Kya, there’ll never be anybody else like ya, never. And I know ya love me.” She ripped her arm from his hands.