When he reached the first row, Jodie, Jumpin’, and Mabel stood to allow him to squeeze by and sit next to Tate. Father and son nodded at each other, and tears swelled in Tate’s eyes.
Tom Milton waited for Scupper to sit, the silence in the room complete, then said, “Your Honor, the defense calls Robert Foster.” Dressed in a tweed jacket, tie, and khaki pants, Mr. Foster was trim, of medium height, and had a neat beard and kind eyes. Tom asked his name and occupation.
“My name is Robert Foster, and I’m a senior editor for Harrison Morris Publishing Company in Boston, Massachusetts.” Kya, hand to her forehead, stared at the floor. Her editor was the only person she knew who didn’t think of her as the Marsh Girl, who had respected her, even seemed awed at her knowledge and talent. Now he was in court seeing her at the defendant’s table, charged with murder.
“Are you the editor for Miss Catherine Clark’s books?”
“Yes, I am. She is a very talented naturalist, artist, and writer. One of our favorite authors.”
“Can you confirm that you traveled to Greenville, North Carolina, on October 28, 1969, and that you had meetings with Miss Clark on both the twenty-ninth and the thirtieth?”
“That is correct. I was attending a small conference there, and knew I would have some extra time while in town but wouldn’t have enough time to travel to her place, so I invited Miss Clark to Greenville so we could meet.”
“Can you tell us the exact time that you drove her back to her motel on the night of October 29, last year?”
“After our meetings, we dined at the hotel and then I drove Kya back to her motel at 9:55 P.M.”
Kya recalled standing on the threshold of the dining room, filled with candlelit tables under soft chandeliers. Tall wineglasses on white tablecloths. Stylishly dressed diners conversed in quiet voices, while she wore the plain skirt and blouse. She and Robert dined on almond-crusted North Carolina trout, wild rice, creamed spinach, and yeast rolls. Kya felt comfortable as he kept the conversation going with easy grace, sticking to subjects about nature familiar to her.
Remembering it now, she was astonished how she had carried it off. But in fact, the restaurant, with all its glitter, wasn’t nearly as grand as her favorite picnic. When she was fifteen, Tate had boated to her shack one dawn, and, after he’d wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, they cruised inland through a maze of waterways to a forest she’d never seen. They hiked a mile to the edge of a waterlogged meadow where fresh grass sprouted through mud, and there he laid the blanket under ferns as large as umbrellas.
“Now we wait,” he’d said, as he poured hot tea from a thermos and offered her “coon balls,” a baked mixture of biscuit dough, hot sausage, and sharp cheddar cheese he had cooked for the occasion. Even now in this cold courtroom setting, she remembered the warmth of his shoulders touching hers under the blanket, as they nibbled and sipped the breakfast picnic.
They didn’t have to wait long. Moments later, a ruckus as loud as cannons sounded from the north. “Here they come,” Tate had said.
A thin, black cloud appeared on the horizon and, as it moved toward them, it soared skyward. The shrieking rose in intensity and volume as the cloud rapidly filled the sky until not one spot of blue remained. Hundreds of thousands of snow geese, flapping, honking, and gliding, covered the world. Swirling masses wheeled and banked for landing. Perhaps a half million white wings flared in unison, as pink-orange feet dangled down, and a blizzard of birds came in to land. A true whiteout as everything on Earth, near and far, disappeared. One at a time, then ten at a time, then hundreds of geese landed only yards from where Kya and Tate had sat under the ferns. The sky emptied as the wet meadow filled until it was covered in downy snow.
No fancy dining room could compare to that, and the coon balls offered more spice and flare than almond-crusted trout.
“You saw Miss Clark go into her room?”
“Of course. I opened her door and saw her safely inside before I drove away.”
“Did you see Miss Clark the next day?”
“We had arranged to meet for breakfast, so I picked her up at 7:30 A.M. We ate at the Stack ’Em High pancake place. I took her back to her motel at 9:00. And that was the last I saw of her until today.” He glanced at Kya, but she looked down at the table.
“Thank you, Mr. Foster. I have no further questions.”
Eric stood and asked, “Mr. Foster, I was wondering why you stayed at the Piedmont Hotel, which is the best hotel in the area, while your publishing company only paid for Miss Clark—such a talented author, one of the favorites, as you put it—to stay in a very basic motel, the Three Mountains?”
“Well, of course, we offered, even recommended that Miss Clark stay at the Piedmont, but she insisted on staying at the motel.”
“Is that so? Did she know the motel’s name? Did she specifically request to stay at the Three Mountains?”
“Yes, she wrote a note saying she preferred to stay at the Three Mountains.”
“Did she say why?”
“No, I don’t know why.”
“Well, I have an idea. Here’s a tourist map of Greenville.” Eric waved the map around as he approached the witness stand. “You can see here, Mr. Foster, that the Piedmont Hotel—the four-star hotel that you offered to Miss Clark—is located in the downtown area. The Three Mountains Motel, on the other hand, is on Highway 258, near the Trailways bus station. In fact, if you study the map as I have, you will see that the Three Mountains is the closest motel to the bus station . . .”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom called out. “Mr. Foster is not an authority on the layout of Greenville.”
“No, but the map is. I see where you’re going, Eric, and I’ll allow it. Proceed.”
“Mr. Foster, if someone were planning a quick trip to the bus station in the middle of the night, it is logical that they would choose the Three Mountains over the Piedmont. Especially if they planned to walk. All I need from you is the confirmation that Miss Clark asked specifically to stay at the Three Mountains and not the Piedmont.”
“As I said, she requested the Three Mountains.”
“I have nothing more.”
“Redirect?” Judge Sims asked.
“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Foster, how many years have you worked with Miss Clark?”
“Three years.”
“And even though you didn’t meet her until the visit in Greenville last October, would you say that you’ve gotten to know Miss Clark quite well through correspondence over those years? If so, how would you describe her?”
“Yes, I have. She is a shy, gentle person, I believe. She prefers to be alone in the wilderness; it took some time for me to convince her to come to Greenville. Certainly she would avoid a crowd of people.”
“A crowd of people like one would encounter at a large hotel such as the Piedmont?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Foster, that it is not surprising that Miss Clark—who likes to keep to herself—would choose a small, rather remote motel over a large bustling hotel right in town? That this choice would fit her character?”
“Yes, I would say that.”
“Also, doesn’t it make sense if Miss Clark, who is not familiar with public transport and knew she had to walk from the bus station to her hotel and back again, carrying a suitcase, that she would select a hotel or motel closest to the station?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you. That will be all.”
When Robert Foster left the witness stand, he sat with Tate, Scupper, Jodie, Jumpin’, and Mabel, behind Kya.
THAT AFTERNOON, Tom called the sheriff back as his next witness.
Kya knew from Tom’s list of witnesses that there weren’t many more to be called, and the thought sickened her. The closing arguments came next, then the verdict. As long as a stream of witnesses supported her, she could hope for acquittal or at least a delay of conviction. If the court proceedings trailed on forever, a judgment would never be handed down. She tried to lead her mind into fields-of-snow-geese distractions as she had since the trial began, but instead she saw only images of jail, bars, clammy cement walls. Mental inserts now and then of an electric chair. Lots of straps.
Suddenly, she felt she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sit here any longer, her head too heavy to hold up. She sagged slightly, and Tom turned from the sheriff to Kya as her head dropped onto her hands. He rushed to her.
“Your Honor, I request a short recess. Miss Clark needs a break.”
“Granted. Court dismissed for a fifteen-minute recess.”
Tom helped her stand and whisked her out the side door and into the small conference room, where she sank into a chair. Sitting next to her, he said, “What is it? Kya, what’s wrong?”
She buried her head in her hands. “How can you ask that? Isn’t it obvious? How does anyone live through this? I feel too sick, too tired to sit there. Do I have to? Can’t the trial continue without me?” All she was capable of, all she wanted, was to return to her cell and curl up with Sunday Justice.
“No, I’m afraid not. In a capital case, such as this, the law requires your presence.”
“What if I can’t? What if I refuse? All they can do is throw me in jail.”