She stumbled into the kitchen to start the meal.
As she was pulling out a pot, Lou heard a noise behind her and turned. It was Oz. She
wiped at her eyes, for she still wanted to be strong for him. Yet as she focused on his
expression, Lou realized she had no need to worry about her brother. Something had
seized him; she didn't know what. But her brother had never looked this way before.
Without a word, he took her hand and drew his sister back down the hallway.
The jury filed into the courtroom, a dozen men from the mountain and the town, at least
eleven of whom Cotton could hope would do the right thing. The jury had been out for
many hours, longer than Cotton had thought probable. He did not know if that was good
or bad. The real card against him, he knew, was that of desperation. It was a strong
opponent, because it could so easily prey upon those who worked so hard every day
simply to survive, or upon those who saw no future in a place where everything was
being carved out and taken away. Cotton would loathe the jurors if they went against
him, yet he knew they easily could. Well, at least it would soon be over.
Atkins asked, "Has the jury reached a verdict?"
The foreman rose. He was a man from the town, a humble shopkeeper, his body swollen
from too much beef and potato, and from too little effort with arms and shoulders. "Yes,
Your Honor," he said quietly.
Hardly a single person had left the courtroom since the jury had been given its charge
from the judge and sent out. The whole population of the room leaned forward, as though
they all had just been struck deaf.
"What say you?"
"We find ... for Southern Valley." The foreman looked down, as though he had just
delivered a death sentence to one of his own.
The courtroom erupted into shouts—some cheers, some not. The balcony seemed to sway
with the collective weight of the decision of a dozen men. Hugh Miller and George Davis
exchanged slight nods, lips easing into victorious smiles.
Cotton sat back. The legal process had had its day; the only thing absent was justice.
Miller and Goode shook hands. Miller tried to congratulate Wheeler, but the big man
walked off in obvious disgust.
"Order, order in this court or I'll clear it." Atkins slammed his gavel several times, and
things did quiet down.
"The jury is dismissed. Thank you for your service," he said and not very kindly. A man
entered the courtroom, spotted Cotton, and whispered something in his ear. Cotton's
despair noticeably deepened.
Goode said, "Your Honor, it now remains solely to appoint someone to represent Miss
Cardinal's interests and assume guardianship of the children."
"Judge, I've just received some news that the court needs to hear." Cotton slowly stood,
his head down, one hand pressed to his side. "Louisa Mae Cardinal has passed away."
The courtroom erupted once more, and this time Atkins made no move to contain it.
Davis's smile broadened. He went over to Cotton. "Damn," he said, "this day get better
and better."
Cotton's mind went blank for a moment, as though someone had smote him with an anvil.
He grabbed Davis and had it in his mind to deliver him into the next county with his right
fist, but then he stopped and simply heaved the man out of his way, as one would shovel
a large pile of manure off a road.
"Your Honor," said Goode, "I know we're all very sorry to hear about Miss Cardinal.
Now, I have a list of very reputable people who can represent these fine children in the
sale of the property that has just now passed to them."
"And I hope you rot in hell for it," cried out Cotton. He raced to the bench, Goode on his
heels.
Cotton pounded his fist so hard on the mighty bench of justice that Fred the bailiff took a
nervous step toward them.
"George Davis tainted that whole jury," roared Cotton. "I know he's got Southern Valley
dollars burning a hole in his pocket."
"Give it up, Longfellow, you lost," said Goode.
Neither man noticed the courtroom doors opening.
"Never, Goode. Never!" Cotton shouted at him.
"He agreed to be bound by the decision of the jury."
"I'm afraid he's got a point there," said Atkins.
A triumphant Goode turned to look at Miller and his eyes nearly crossed at what he was
seeing.
"But Henry," pleaded Cotton, "please, the children ... Let me be their guardian. I—"
Atkins was not paying attention to Cotton. He too was now staring at the courtroom, his
mouth wide open.
Cotton slowly turned to see what Atkins was looking at, and felt himself feeling faint, as
though he'd just seen God walk through that door. Lou and Oz stood mere before them