Eric stood. “Your Honor, if it please the court, the People call Mrs. Sam Andrews.” The room breathed out as Patti Love, the grieving mother, made her way to the witness stand. Watching the woman she’d once hoped would be her mother-in-law, Kya now realized the absurdity of that notion. Even in this sullen setting, Patti Love, dressed in the finest black silks, seemed preoccupied with her own appearance and importance. She sat straight with her glossy purse perched on her lap, dark hair swept into the perfect bun under a hat, tipped just so, with dramatic black netting obscuring her eyes. Never would she have taken a barefoot marsh dweller as a daughter-in-law.
“Mrs. Andrews, I know this is difficult for you, so I’ll be as brief as possible. Is it true that your son, Chase Andrews, wore a rawhide necklace hung with a shell?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And when, how often, did he wear that necklace?”
“All the time. He never took it off. For four years I never saw him without that necklace.”
Eric handed a leather journal to Mrs. Andrews. “Can you identify this book for the court?”
Kya stared at the floor, working her lips, enraged at this invasion of her privacy as the prosecutor held her journal for all the court to see. She’d made it for Chase very soon after they met. Most of her life, she’d been denied the joy of giving gifts, a deprivation few understand. After working for days and nights on the journal, she’d wrapped it in brown paper and decorated it with striking green ferns and white feathers from snow geese. She’d held it out as Chase stepped from his boat onto the lagoon shore.
“What’s this?”
“Just something from me,” she had said, and smiled.
A painted story of their times together. The first, an ink sketch of them sitting against the driftwood, Chase playing the harmonica. The Latin names of the sea oats and scattered shells were printed in Kya’s hand. A swirl of watercolors revealed his boat drifting in moonlight. The next was an abstract image of curious porpoises circling the boat, with the words of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” drifting in the clouds. Another of her swirling among silver gulls on a silver beach.
Chase had turned the pages in wonder. Ran his fingers lightly over some of the drawings, laughed at some, but mostly was silent, nodding.
“I’ve never had anything like this.” Leaning over to embrace her, he had said, “Thank you, Kya.” They sat on the sand awhile, wrapped in blankets, talking, holding hands.
Kya remembered how her heart had pounded at the joy of giving, never imagining anyone else would see the journal. Certainly not as evidence at her murder trial.
She didn’t look at Patti Love when she answered Eric’s question. “It’s a collection of paintings that Miss Clark made for Chase. She gave it to him as a present.” Patti Love remembered finding the journal under a stack of albums while cleaning his room. Apparently hidden from her. She’d sat on Chase’s bed and opened the thick cover. There, in detailed ink, her son lying against driftwood with that girl. The Marsh Girl. Her Chase with trash. She could barely breathe. What if people find out? First cold, then sweaty, her body reeled.
“Mrs. Andrews, would you please explain what you see in this picture painted by the defendant, Miss Clark.”
“That’s a painting of Chase and Miss Clark on the top of the fire tower.” A murmur moved through the room.
“What else is going on?”
“There—between their hands, she is giving him the shell necklace.”
And he never took it off again, Patti Love thought. I believed that he told me everything. I thought I’d bonded with my son more than other mothers; that’s what I told myself. But I knew nothing.
“So, because he told you and because of this journal, you knew your son was seeing Miss Clark, and you knew she gave him the necklace?”
“Yes.”
“When Chase came to your house for dinner on the night of October 29, was he wearing the necklace?”
“Yes, he didn’t leave our house until after eleven, and he was wearing the necklace.”
“Then when you went into the clinic the next day to identify Chase, did he have the necklace on?”
“No, he did not.”
“Do you know of any reason why any of his friends or anyone else, besides Miss Clark, would want to take the necklace off Chase?”
“No.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom called quickly from his seat. “Hearsay. Calls for speculation. She can’t speak to the reasoning of other people.”
“Sustained. Jurors, you must disregard the last question and answer.” Then, lowering his head ganderlike at the prosecutor, the judge said, “Watch your step, Eric. For crying out loud! You know better than that.”
Eric, unfazed, continued. “All right, we know from her own drawings that the defendant, Miss Clark, climbed the fire tower with Chase at least once; we know she gave the shell necklace to him. After that, he wore it continuously until the night he died. At which time it disappeared. Is all that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. No further questions. Your witness.”
“No questions,” Tom said.
51.
Waning Moon
1970
The language of the court was, of course, not as poetic as the language of the marsh. Yet Kya saw similarities in their natures. The judge, obviously the alpha male, was secure in his position, so his posture was imposing, but relaxed and unthreatened as the territorial boar. Tom Milton, too, exuded confidence and rank with easy movements and stance. A powerful buck, acknowledged as such. The prosecutor, on the other hand, relied on wide, bright ties and broad-shouldered suit jackets to enhance his status. He threw his weight by flinging his arms or raising his voice. A lesser male needs to shout to be noticed. The bailiff represented the lowest-ranking male and depended on his belt hung with glistening pistol, clanging wad of keys, and clunky radio to bolster his position. Dominance hierarchies enhance stability in natural populations, and some less natural, Kya thought.
The prosecutor, wearing a scarlet tie, stepped boldly to the front and called his next witness, Hal Miller, a rake-thin twenty-eight-year-old with moppy brown hair.
“Mr. Miller, please tell us where you were and what you saw the night of October 29 to 30, 1969, at about 1:45 A.M.”
“Me and Allen Hunt were crewing for Tim O’Neal on his shrimp boat, and we were headed back to Barkley Cove Harbor late, and we seen her, Miz Clark, in her boat, about a mile out, east of the bay, headed north-northwest.”
“And where would that course take her?”
“Right smack to that cove near the fire tower.”
Judge Sims banged his gavel at the outburst, which rumbled for a full minute.
“Could she not have been going somewhere else?”
“Well, I reckon, but there’s nothing up that way but miles of swamped-out woods. No other destination I know of ’cept the fire tower.”
Ladies’ funeral fans pumped against the warming, unsettled room. Sunday Justice, sleeping on the windowsill, flowed to the floor and walked to Kya. For the first time in the courtroom, he rubbed against her leg, then jumped onto her lap and settled. Eric stopped talking and looked at the judge, perhaps considering an objection for such an open display of partiality, but there seemed no legal precedent.
“How can you be sure it was Miss Clark?”
“Oh, we all know her boat. She’s been boatin’ around on her own fer years.”
“Were there lights on her boat?”
“No, no lights. Might’ve run her over if we hadn’t seen her.”
“But isn’t it illegal to operate a boat after dark without lights?”
“Yeah, she was s’posed to have lights. But she didn’t.”
“So on the night that Chase Andrews died at the fire tower, Miss Clark was boating in exactly that direction, just minutes before the time of his death. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, that’s what we seen.”
Eric sat down.
Tom walked toward the witness. “Good morning, Mr. Miller.”
“Good mornin’.”
“Mr. Miller, how long have you been serving as a crew member on Tim O’Neal’s shrimp boat?”
“Going on three years now.”
“And tell me, please, what time did the moon rise the night of October 29 to the 30?”
“It was waning, and didn’t rise till after we docked in Barkley. Sometime after two A.M. I reckon.”
“I see. So when you saw the small boat motoring near Barkley Cove that night, there was no moon. It must have been very dark.”
“Yeah. It was dark. There was some starlight but, yeah, pretty dark.”
“Would you please tell the court what Miss Clark was wearing as she motored past you in her boat that night.”
“Well, we weren’t near close enough to see what she was wearing.”
“Oh? You weren’t near enough to see her clothes.” Tom looked at the jury as he said this. “Well, how far away were you?”
“I reckon we was a good sixty yards away at least.”
“Sixty yards.” Tom looked at the jury again. “That’s quite a distance to identify a small boat in the dark. Tell me, Mr. Miller, what characteristics, what features of this person in this boat made you so sure it was Miss Clark?”