Elysium: The Plantation Series Book IV (19 page)

Pickering tucked his
thumbs into his suspenders. "Don’t want you feeling nervous up here on the
stand, boy. You ever been in a court of law in your life?"

"Yes, sir."

Pickering raised his
eyebrows. "Oh. You mean to say you have been charged with a crime
yourself."

"No, sir. I mean to
say I was here yesterday."

Somebody snickered. If
Thomas had to guess, he’d figure it was Cabel. But he could see the tight white
faces of the jury.
Uppity
, that’s what they’d be thinking. An uppity
black boy talking back to his betters. But even Thomas knew the first rule in
courtroom proceedings – don’t ask a question you don’t know the answer to, so
if Pickering was embarrassed, he’d done it to himself.

When it was time for the
summations, both sides were succinct.

"The evidence is
circumstantial, yes," Mr. Marshall, the prosecutor, admitted. "But
compelling nonetheless. We have the testimony of a dying woman that three men
lit the fire that killed her husband Alfie and a short time later, Annie
herself. She described three men wearing bandanas, one red, two blue. One with
long yellow hair, another with a Yankee accent. Neither of those two is our
defendant. No, Jacques Valmar is the arsonist who wore a red bandana that day."

 The prosecutor walked to
the evidence table and held the bandana aloft. "Furthermore, everyone who
saw Mr. Valmar tied to the bell post covered in tar and feathers remembers how
neatly his shiny new boots were placed next to him. Boots poor Annie Rivers
described with her dying breath."

Marshall looked directly
at the jurors. "Not two hours later, three men terrorized the home of
Garvey Bickell. One with long yellow hair and a blue bandana. Another in a blue
bandana. And Jacques Valmar, wearing a red bandana – and pointy boots.

"No question Mr.
Valmar was at Mr. Bickell’s home, recklessly firing shots into a house where
women and children live. He has a ruined leg to prove it. And, gentlemen, there
is no question that Valmar came to the Bickell’s straight from burning a cabin
to the ground with two old people in it. That man," he said, pointing to
Valmar, "is a murderer."

Next Mr. Pickering
delivered the defense’s summation, hitting the points just as Thomas expected. "How
many of you men got a bandana in your pocket?" he asked the jurors. "Any
of them red or blue?" He pointed to juror number three. "Henry Spade,
I notice you got long blond hair. You been setting any cabins on fire lately?
As for the accent, maybe you good folks have noticed, our town is overrun with
Yankees down here to take advantage of our difficulties. You’ve heard them on
the streets, in the taverns; how many men you think are in this parish this
very day with a Yankee accent?

"That leaves Mr.
Valmar here. Anybody in the courtroom bought a pair of new boots the last few
months? Got pointy toes, like the Texans sport?" Pickering himself raised
his hand. "I got a pair like that myself. Oh, in the back – thank you,
Fred – you got a pair like that, too."

The defense rested and
Mr. Pickering returned to his seat with a smug smile directed at the
prosecutor. The jury was sent into deliberations, then everyone stood as Judge Lafitte
left the courtroom.

"Well," Major
Whiteaker said. "Now we wait."

Thomas nor Valentine
could go into the tavern or the café with their white friends. To try it would
be like throwing matches into a puddle of kerosene with the town so riled up.
They split up, Thomas and Valentine going to their own tavern on the other side
of town.

Hours later, a boy sent
by the bailiff ducked into the tavern and announced that the jury had been sent
home for the night, court to commence at ten o’clock in the morning.

"Well, lets us go
then," Valentine said.

"I’ll come with you,"
Thomas said. "Fanny promised to meet me at mama’s."

"Then Cabel and I
are inviting ourselves to supper," Reynard said. "You ain’t going
nowhere on your own, not tonight, nor tomorrow night or the next neither."

They arrived just as dark
fell. Thomas took Fanny to the back porch where he could put his arms around
her in the shadows.

"Ahem," Mr.
Chamard said tactfully. "Thomas, I’ll stop by and tell Miss Musette how it
went today."

Thomas quickly released
Fanny and stepped away. "Yes, sir. I know she’ll want to hear."

"Good night, then."
He peered at Fanny. "Don’t neglect your supper now."

She grinned at him. "No,
sir. We’re going right in."

Major Whiteaker stayed,
along with Reynard and Cabel. Lily had finally convinced Rachel to set one
table – no sense separating when they’d all spent the entire day together, had
breakfast together, labored together. So they were a big crowd at the big
table. After supper was cleared away, they re-convened.

Fanny acted as secretary
and took down the names of the twelve jurors, most of them known to one or more
of the people around the table.

Lily put Maddie to bed
and returned to the dining room to sit with her hands in her lap. Her eyes kept
straying to Alistair. Now and then they’d catch each other staring. Alistair
would stare on, unblinking. Lily would give him a tense smile and look away.
She had no business looking at Alistair Whiteaker. Married women did not look
on other men like she looked at Alistair.

"I’m thinking Joe
Jackson gone vote to convict," Reynard said. "He got him some brown
children over to Vacherie."

"That don’t persuade
me," Cabel said.

Fanny dipped her
old-fashioned quill in the ink. "I’ll put a question mark next to his
name."

"Ronald James. No
question he’ll vote to acquit."

"Agreed. Mickey
Thorpe?"

"He’ll acquit."

When they’d finished
their tally, they had two question marks and ten definite acquittals.

"Likely those two
will have visitors tonight," Alistair said.

Thomas nodded. It took
Lily longer to understand. "They’d do that? Isn’t that against the law,
intimidating a jury?"

"Yes, ma’am,"
Thomas said. "It’s against the law."

"But if they wear
masks . . . " Garvey said.

"And they will."
Thomas stood up. "I’ll take you home, Fanny."

"No," Garvey
said, shaking his head. "Fanny can sleep here tonight. You and Reynard and
Cabel too. Not having any of you out there with all this going on."

The young men went out to
the barn to bunk down. Garvey showed Fanny where she could sleep. That left
Lily and Alistair alone. She should go to bed, too. In just a minute, she
would.

"Did you see
Frederick in town?"

"I did,"
Alistair said. "Having a drink with Charlie Dillinger and Pete Kresky.
They’re both in the White Camellia."

"And you’re expecting
trouble? That’s why Uncle Garvey told Thomas and his friends to spend the
night?"

Alistair’s gaze was on
her mouth as she talked. She was past blushing. She knew exactly what he was
thinking because she wanted the same thing. But they were not going to be
together, she and Alistair. Not without a divorce, and even then -- Alistair
had a mother and a younger, unwed sister. They would not welcome a divorcee
into the family.

She forgot to talk. He
was silent. Her gaze ranged over his face from brow to chin. His eyes focused
on hers, then again on her mouth.

Lily had never known a
better man than Alistair Whiteaker. She’d never wanted a man as much as she
wanted Alistair. And she might never kiss him again. Never touch him again.

Rachel passed through the
room on her way upstairs. "Goodnight, Major, Miss Lily."

"Good night, Rachel,"
Lily said.

Alistair brought himself
back to her question. "It would be decent tactics, for the Camellias to be
up to nasty tricks tonight. If anyone on the jury is wavering, he’ll probably
change his mind if he sees a horde of men masked in white tearing around his
house in the middle of the night."

"But no one here has
a vote. There’s no reason for them to come here."

"Don’t expect so,
but Thomas, the others and I will take turns patrolling out around the house so
we don’t get surprised. Probably nobody coming here, though, you’re right."

 "Alistair." She
wanted to tell him so much. Thank you, I love you, I’m sorry . . . But she couldn’t
say any of those things.

Alistair let out a
breath. "I better get outside. We’ll be around if anything happens. I
promise."

A short while later, Lily
had stripped down to her slip to endure the heat of the night and was brushing
out her hair when she heard the back door slam and heavy steps crossing the
floor "Lily!" Frederick clomped through the house to her door and
pounded on it. "Lily."

She grabbed a shawl to
put around her shoulders and opened the door a crack. "Shhhh. You’ll wake
the whole house."

"Come out here,
Lily."

He reeked of whiskey and
stale sweat. "Go to bed," she hissed.

He leaned against her
door. "I want to talk to you. You want, I’ll be glad to come in there and
talk. In fact," he said, and pushed the door open, "I think it’s a
fine idea. I’ll come in there."

Lily ducked under his arm
into the hallway. "Come on, then," she whispered. "We can talk
in the kitchen."

She lit the lantern and
gathered what she’d need for the coming hangover. She cracked an egg into a
coffee cup, added salt, pepper and hot sauce, and handed it to him. "Drink
this."

He poured it down his
throat and gagged. "How much hot sauce you put in this, woman?"

She sat down and folded
her hands on the table. "Frederick. These men you’ve taken up with. The Knights
of the White Camellia."

"So your little
friends been gossiping, have they? Well, what about them. Fine, upstanding
members of the community, every one of them."

He wasn’t drunk enough to
slur his words at least. "No, Frederick, they are not. They are a bunch of
mean-spirited juveniles, charging into people with their horses. They’re
reckless, and they think they don’t have to answer to anyone."

"What rot, Lily. One
of them is a lawyer, for Christ’s sake."

"They’re trouble,
Frederick. They wish trouble on the people in this family."

"This family? You
talking about the black boy you got all dressed up so he can spout nonsense to
his people?" He leaned toward her and jabbed a finger at her. "What
the hell’s got into you, Lily?"

She quailed at the
ugliness in his face, but she wouldn’t back down. "These are good people,
Frederick. Don’t bring trouble here."

"They’re not your
family. They’re Negroes. And here you are letting Maddie sleep with that little
pickaninny – what kind of mother are you?"

Lily pushed her chair
back and stood toe to toe with him. "The kind who has never struck her
daughter in the face."

"I never did that."

"Yes, you did. And
Maddie has not forgotten it."

"Is that what this
is all about? This is why you scurried off, dragging Maddie with you to come
down here and live with white trash and Negroes?"

Lily wanted to slap him. She
could almost feel the impact of her palm on his face. Instead, she gripped her
hands together.

"You don’t belong
here, Frederick. I want you to leave." Now he would hit her, she was sure
of it. He was drunk, and she’d riled him. Well, let him. This time she would
not take it quietly. She had two hands, two feet, fingernails. She could bite
him if she had to.

"When I’m ready,
we’ll leave. You, me, and Maddie."

"I told you. I’m
staying. Maddie’s staying."

Frederick smiled at her,
and that scared her. "You’re my wife, Lily, darling. And I’ve missed you.
I’ll make it up to Maddie if she thought I was rough with her. When it’s time,
we’ll leave and we’ll be our own little family again. Tell me you don’t want
that, sweetheart, don’t want to be happy like we used to be?"

He stepped close and put
his hands on her arms. "Remember how happy we were?" He blinked his
eyes slowly. Just how drunk was he?

"What are you doing
here, Frederick? What do you want?"

"Right now I want to
come back to that little bed you been sleeping in and remind you how good I can
make you feel. That’s what I’d like." He trailed his fingers across the side
of her neck.

She shivered. "That’s
not going to happen. Sit down, Frederick."

Here was the Frederick
she’d come to know. His face darkened and his mouth pursed. The handsome,
dashing Frederick disappeared and this bully emerged.

"You little slut."
He tightened his hand on her neck. "You been fucking that Whiteaker."

"Don’t be vulgar,
Frederick. And I have not been sleeping with Major Whiteaker."

"But you want to,
don’t you? You always liked a good fuck."

Lily pushed his hands
away. "If that’s the language you’re going to use, I’ll tell you good
night."

Frederick raised his palms,
immediately changing tactics. "No, no." He slid into a chair with the
care of a man who knows his balance is impaired.

"I want you to
leave, Frederick. I want a divorce, and I want you to leave."

He grinned at her. "No.
I told you once. No."

"I won’t be your
wife again."

"So you said."

"Then what do you
want? An easy life, living off Uncle Garvey?"

He snorted. "As if
I’d stay on a little pissant farm like this, nothing but cows for company."

She waited, knowing what
was coming.

"Soon as Bickell
leaves you the property, I’ll sell it. Then I’ll have a stake. You and me and
Maddie, we’ll make a fresh start."

It was as Uncle Garvey –
and she – had expected. She’d tell her uncle in the morning – he could not
leave her the farm. Legally, that would be the same as handing it over to
Frederick.

"Uncle Garvey has
changed his mind."