Dovey Coe (13 page)

I sat back down, the knot in my stomach pulling tighter. I needed to talk to Amos, but I weren't going to get my chance, it appeared. I watched Mama and Caroline fuss with the napkins and waxed paper that the biscuits come wrapped in and then looked past them to the mountains that framed our town like a circle of wise old men and women. I noted Katie's Knob, one of the tallest and proudest among them, and I already missed running up her trail behind Amos, searching for all the interesting things a mountain had to offer.

Wilson Brown come up on me unexpected and sat by my side. “That Paris sure do like to make things up, don't she?” he asked.

I give him a nod in response, and Wilson fell silent. He was as good as Amos at picking up my moods, which made him a valuable friend. I wondered if the folks in Charlotte would let me write him letters.

Daddy started humming an old tune, “Sweet Molly Malone,” I think it was, and you'd think it would have made me sad to hear it right then, but strange enough, it made me feel better.

I leaned back again, this time closing my eyes.
It was time for me to think about this trial head-on. I needed to do something quick, especially if Amos was up to something, as I suspected he might be. Considering the matter at hand, Mrs. Caraway's testimony had helped our side, in my opinion, and Paris's testimony had harmed my chances, true enough. But what of Sheriff Douglas's testimony? Was there anything he had said that might be used to help my case?

I wished I had paid more attention when Sheriff Douglas had been on the stand, but I'd been too busy worrying about what Paris had said. I thought back as hard as I could. Mr. Jarrell had had the sheriff describe the scene of the crime, how he'd found Parnell's body and that of Tom's, how there'd been a cut on his arm and blood from that.

“Did the loss of blood from the cut kill Mr. Caraway?” Mr. Jarrell had asked the sheriff, and everyone had grown real quiet, waiting for the answer.

“Nope, it weren't the cut that killed him,” the sheriff had answered, and you could hear everyone let their breath out again. “It was the blow to his head from that soda canister.”

The canister had been sitting up on a table beside the witness stand, along with the knife and
the shirt Parnell had been wearing, a small spot of blood on the sleeve from where I'd cut him. Mr. Jarrell had pointed to the metal canister and asked, “Is that there the murder weapon?” and the sheriff had nodded. “Yes, sir, it is. Like I said, the doctors say Parnell died from the blow to his head. That cut weren't deep at all, to tell you the truth.”

Now that seemed to me a good point. Folks had spent far too much time talking about how I'd cut a man to death, but that weren't it at all. When I'd taken my knife to Parnell, it felt like it barely touched his skin. Most of the cut went into tearing that shirt.

I pictured that soda canister in my head again. It was about three feet high, with a round thing like a real small steering wheel atop it and a place where you attached the hose to let the soda run out. Who would have ever thought you could use such a thing to kill a man? Seemed odd to think about something as happy as an ice-cream soda or a cherry-lemon float being related to such a horrible act.

The last thing I had remembered that night in the back room of Caraway's was me stabbing at Parnell and tearing his sleeve and then him coming at me and my fall backward. What Mr. Jarrell
needed to prove was that I'd gotten back up, taken hold of one of them soda canisters, raised it up high, and clobbered Parnell over the head with it.

How could he prove such a thing? I wondered. And then a worse thought came to me: Did Mr. Jarrell even have to prove such a thing? Was me being alone in the room with Parnell's body enough to get me convicted? It couldn't be that easy, could it?

It could have, but in a flash I had me a thought that made me burst out laughing. “I got it!” I yelled, startling Wilson and everyone else. “I know the answer!”

“What is it, Dovey?” Mama cried, coming toward me. “Are you okay? What is it that you got?”

I scrambled to my feet. “I ain't got time to talk to you now. But I reckon you'll see what I mean in a few minutes.” With that, I ran toward the courthouse, aiming to hunt down Mr. Harding. I believed I had him a bit of information he could use to help us with our case.

The front hallway of the courthouse was dark and cool. I hurried down the long corridor, past the courtroom, where my very way of life was at stake, past the judge's chambers and the district attorney's office. I didn't rightly know where I
was going, but I figured I'd be able to find Mr. Harding around here somewhere, as the courthouse seemed the natural habitat of a lawyer, even during the lunch hour.

All the doors was closed, and no lights shown behind them. I scurried down a flight of stairs at the hallway's end, my stomach all jittery and my blood racing through me like a train. The basement corridor smelled of mildew and cigar smoke. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw just where that smoke was coming from. A cloud billowed from Sheriff Douglas's office, the door of which was open. From where I was, I could see Mr. Harding perched on the edge of the sheriff's desk, a fat cigar in his hand. As soon as he saw me, he stubbed it out. “Miss Dovey, I have some good news for you,” he said, coming out into the hallway. “I've just had a very interesting conversation with the sheriff.”

I smiled. “I bet it ain't as good as the news I got for you,” I said. “It's going to bust this trial right open.”

Mr. Harding looked at me for a moment, and then a big grin broke across his face. “Does your news have anything to do with a certain piece of evidence?”

I nodded. “It surely does,” I said. I could barely
contain myself and thought I might start jumping up and down from sheer excitement.

“You know, Miss Dovey, they say great minds think alike,” Mr. Harding said, motioning me into the sheriff's office. “Why don't you come on in here and tell the sheriff what you're thinking?”

I walked straight into the sheriff's office. “I'd be glad to, Mr. Harding,” I said, forgiving him all his earlier errors and poor performance. “Why, I'd be downright thrilled.”

I
had already taken my seat up front when my folks and Caroline and Amos come back into the courtroom after lunch. Mama and Daddy looked mystified, Caroline appeared confused, and Amos wore a nervous expression. I smiled at one and all as they took their seats behind me, then turned directly to Amos. “Don't say a word,” I mouthed at him. “We got it all figured out.” Then I turned around and waited for Mr. Harding to do his job.

After Judge Young called court back in session, me and Mr. Harding had to wait a long while to get to where we wanted to be. Mr. Harding declined to ask Sheriff Douglas any questions at that time, which seemed to make Judge Young
a bit irate. In fact, I worried a bit that the judge might fire Mr. Harding for not doing his job and order me to get a new lawyer. Fortunately, the judge did not go that far. Mostly he just give Mr. Harding hard looks, which made Mr. Harding's face turn red each time, but he seemed prepared to stick things out until it was our turn.

To my surprise, Mr. Jarrell did not have many witnesses past Sheriff Douglas. He brought up Curtis Shrew to testify that I'd said I'd soon as shoot Parnell as look at him, which caused Mr. Harding to raise an eyebrow at me, but I simply shrugged my shoulders and said, “You know how I talk big sometimes.”

Mr. Harding did not look pleased.

Finally, it was Mr. Harding's turn to present my case. The very first person he called to the witness stand was Sheriff Douglas, which made a lot of folks mumble and murmur. You could tell from the sounds of their voices they thought that Mr. Harding had had his chance with Sheriff Douglas and had let it go by. Mr. Harding paid the voices no attention, though. Everybody would understand soon enough.

“Sheriff Douglas,” Mr. Harding started. “Would you please turn your attention to exhibit A and tell me what it is.”

Sheriff Douglas looked over to the canister. “Well, sir, that's the murder weapon right there.”

“Could you describe it, please?” Mr. Harding asked.

“That there's a metal soda canister. You attach a little hose to it, and soda come out.”

“I see,” Mr. Harding said, like it was all news to him. “Now, Sheriff Douglas, would you describe the condition you found this canister in when you came across it at the murder scene.”

“Well, it had a little dent in it from where it hit the victim on the head. And see that round thing on top?” He pointed to what looked like the thing you twist to turn on an outdoor spigot. “That had some blood on it.”

Mr. Harding seemed to think this over for a minute.

“Was it Parnell's blood?” he asked finally.

“Ain't likely, sir,” the sheriff answered. “Parnell didn't let no blood from his head. He died from what the blow did to the inside of his head, not the outside.” He shrugged. “I reckon it belongs to whoever gone and killed Parnell.”

“You had a chance to look at Miss Coe at the scene of the crime, did you not, Sheriff?”

“Yes, sir. I checked her for bruises and such,
signs to see if she'd been struggling with Mr. Caraway.”

“And did she have blood on her hands? Were either of her hands cut in any way?”

Sheriff Douglas answered immediately. “No, sir, I didn't see any cuts on her, but for the one on the back of her head.”

“Could the blood from her head have gotten on that canister, Sheriff?”

“Not lessen she used her head to throw that canister at Parnell.”

A few folks laughed at that. I turned around to Mama and Daddy, who both had smiles working around their mouths.

“Thank you, Sheriff, you've been very helpful. You may step down now.”

A lot of folks commenced to talking as the sheriff made his way back to his seat. Judge Young pounded his gavel and yelled out, “Order!” Everyone quieted down right quick then.

Mr. Harding turned toward me. “I call Miss Dovey Coe for my next witness.”

Another murmur went up, but Judge Young looked real threatening at folks, and that murmur went right back down.

“Miss Coe,” Mr. Harding said in a right gentle voice once I had taken a seat on the witness stand.
“Would you please describe what happened in the back room of Caraway's Dry Goods on the night of August twenty-first?”

I took in a deep breath and commenced speaking, wanting everyone to know exactly what happened once and for all. “Well, Parnell led me in there, saying he was going to fetch Tom, who was Amos's dog, but when I stepped inside the room, I seen Tom was tied up. Parnell said he was going to teach me a lesson, and when I looked at him he had a brick in his hand and was aiming to bash Tom's head in with it.”

“What happened next, Miss Coe?” Mr. Harding's voice was full of concern, as though he were talking to me about a terrible and painful thing that had happened to me. Which, I reckon, it had been, even if I was still alive to tell the tale.

“Parnell was about to throw the brick at Tom, so I went after him with my knife. Then he come at me, and I cut into his shirt and caused him to bleed some. Then Parnell hit me across the face,” I answered, remembering the fear that had filled me when Parnell had drawn back his hand. “I guess I must've hit the floor right hard, 'cause it knocked me out cold. When I come to, Parnell was laying there dead.”

“So you're saying you didn't kill him?”

“No, sir,” I replied in my most truthful voice. “I never did kill Parnell Caraway.”

Mr. Harding turned to Judge Young. “Your Honor, if I may take the liberty of asking Miss Coe to step down from the witness stand to examine the evidence, I believe we may be able to clear up some things for you.”

“Go ahead, Mr. Harding,” Judge Young told him. “Just don't take all day.”

“I promise I won't, Your Honor. Miss Coe, would you please come over and stand by exhibit A.”

I walked to the table that the canister was set upon. All eyes were upon me, and I did my best not to shake from sheer nerves.

Mr. Harding lifted up the canister from the table, struggling to get a good grip on it, then set it down on the floor. “Miss Coe, would you do me the favor of picking up this canister?”

“Sure, I'm happy to oblige,” I said, glad to finally show these folks a thing or two. Soon as I bent down and put my arms around that canister, the whole crowd understood exactly what Mr. Harding and me was up to. It must have weighed a good twenty-five pounds.

That soda canister was too heavy for the likes of me to pick up over my head.

Well, the room like to have burst with voices hitting against the walls once all them folks seen I weren't strong enough to lift that canister above my head, much less hit someone with it. Judge Young was pounding that gavel like he aimed to bust open his desk, but no one paid him no mind. I looked over to Mama and Daddy and seen the tears spilling from their eyes. Then I looked at Amos, who smiled at me before blowing a stream of air toward the ceiling, as though he'd been holding his breath during the whole trial.

Mr. Harding led me back to the witness stand. Folks quieted down then.

“I believe it's safe to say, Miss Coe, that you're not strong enough to pick up the canister that killed Parnell Caraway, is that correct?”

“I believe it's the safest bet around, Mr. Harding,” I told him.

“Your Honor,” Mr. Harding said, turning to Judge Young and bowing slightly, “I rest my case.”

W
inter come early to the mountains this year, delivering its first snow in the first week of November. Now the trees up on Katie's Knob stand dusted in white, and it looks like they got ghosts dancing through their branches. If you walk high enough up, you can see over the town, wood smoke curling up through chimneys and sending out the signal that folks are safe and warm inside their houses.