Mother Lode (44 page)

He let out a low moan. “You’re just
imagining it, Jorie. You’re upset over all that’s happened, and you
feel responsible.”

“I killed her.”

“You took her out on a day when there was
going to be a blizzard. Bad judgment perhaps, but not murder.”

“On purpose.”

Earl was starting to sweat. He had to have
time to think. Something that hadn’t fully registered when he first
came in, took front and center now. He looked around the room. What
was it?

“Where’s your bedsheet?”

Jorie didn’t answer.

“Come on — where is it?” Earl pushed Jorie
aside, pulled the blankets back, discovered strips of cloth tied
together, made into a noose.

He glanced at the steam pipes above. “What
did you plan to do with this?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“What the hell for?” the
sheriff yelled. “The sentence can’t be any more than
Life!
”

“That’s just it.”

“What in tarnation is that supposed to
mean?”

“I committed murder. I can’t live with
that.”

“Well, for now, you’ll have to.” Earl dug at
his hand. “Listen, everything depends on the hearing this morning.
If you stick to this story, they’re going to try you for sure, and
if that happens you won’t have the chance of a fly in that spider’s
web.”

The only response was a slight nod from
Jorie.

Earl took a deep breath. The hearing was
about to start. Maybe he could talk George into holding it without
Jorie.

He bundled up the makeshift noose and
stuffed it inside his coat. He was about to wake the jail keeper
when he thought better of it; the less anybody knew about this, the
better.

He locked the cell and ran up the stairs two
at a time.

George McKinney was not in the building.
Earl sat on the bench in the hall and looked at the big clock on
the wall. Eight-thirty, too early. He waited several minutes, tried
to calm himself. Suddenly he remembered the wad of cloth under his
coat. What to do with it? He ran next door to his office, and
stuffed the rags in his filing cabinet. Lockheed was there.

“What are you doing here? You’re supposed to
be over at the court for the hearing.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now, dammit.”

“Sorry, sir, I thought — “

“Never mind. Go.”

Incompetence, all around him. He missed old
Flint, the best deputy he’d had. But Flint had gotten the French
pox, necessitating early retirement.

By the time he got back to the court it was
eight-forty-five. Would the judge never come? The itching was out
of control. He blotted the blood on his hand from the scratching.
He’d like to go outside and get some more snow, but he might miss
the judge.

He wondered if there was anything else in
the cell that Jorie could use to do himself in. Mentally, he made
an inventory. No, he didn’t think so.

He heard footsteps on the stairs and waited
anxiously. Buck Boyce approached him— the last person he wanted to
see right now.

“Morning,” the prosecuting attorney said,
seating himself beside Earl.

“Morning, Buck.” He hoped Boyce couldn’t see
how anxious he was.

“Nice to see the sun, finally. Beautiful
day.”

Was it? Earl hadn’t noticed.

Boyce was in a good mood. “Interesting
little drama we have here. Yup, this case is shaping up
nicely.”

“Depends on how things go today.”

“Not much question, it’ll go to trial.”

Earl was reminded of a
passage from “Julius Caesar” he’d had to memorize in school. It
seemed to apply here: ‘
Yon Cassius hath a
lean and hungry look
.’

“Guess you’d like to see that happen.”

“Hey, you’re the one that started this. You
going soft on me?”

“I don’t have a lot to go on, Buck. Do
you?”

Buck stared at Earl in amazement. “Well, what the
hell did you drag me into this for? I was counting on you—”

George McKinney strode down the hall and
entered his private chambers.

Earl rose. “Always count
your
own
chickens, Buck. Not somebody else’s.” He excused himself and
tapped on the judge’s door.

“Come in, come in.”

The judge was lighting up his first cigar of
the day. “No poker game, tonight, Foster. Got company.”

“That’s fine with me.” Earl didn’t waste any
time. “Does the accused have to be present for the hearing,
George?”

“You know he does.”

“Aren’t there any exceptions?”

“Not in my court. Why?”

Did he dare tell the judge?

Earl watched the ash grow on the judge’s
cigar. He swallowed hard. No, he couldn’t tell anyone about the
confession, or the diaries. If it was known what was in them,
Jorie’s motive would be clear; he’d be tried for sure, and the
outcome would serve no one.

“The kid’s real upset. He’s been throwing
up.”

“Bring his chamber pot.”

Earl shook his head.

“Come on, Earl, you gotta do better than
that.”

Earl asked again, “Does Jorie have to be
present?”

“Yes, dammit.” The ash dropped on his desk.
The judge swept it off with his hand. “Look, I don’t like this
thing any better than you do. What have you got up your
sleeve?”

“You don’t have to
ask
him anything, do
you?”

Judge McKinney let out an exasperated sigh
and spun in his swivel chair. His eyes narrowed, and by the look of
him, Earl thought maybe he’d guessed the truth. The pigment Earl
thought was permanently imbedded in George’s face had vanished.

“We have to do this by the book, Earl. I
can’t make a mockery of the courts of Michigan.”

“Of course not.”’

Finally, he said quietly, “At least his
name. I have to ask him to identify himself.”

The sheriff wanted to thank his friend but
knew that would not set well. It might suggest the judge had done
something irregular.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,
Foster.”

Earl hoped so, too. He sincerely did.

Suddenly George stood up. “Get the
prisoner.”

Chapter 36

Earl descended the stairs one more time. The
jail keeper was still asleep. He found Jorie lying on his back, his
hands beneath his head, staring at the ceiling. Or maybe it was the
steam pipes that still held his interest.

“You’re going to have to come with me to the
courtroom now. I don’t want you to say anything in there.”

Jorie continued to stare at the ceiling.

“The judge won’t ask you anything, and you
won’t say anything but your name. You got that? Let’s go.”

The hall outside the second floor courtroom
was the same shade of green as the cells below, but had not endured
the abuse, and had, in fact, been given a fresh coat of paint two
years ago.

On this morning it was crowded with people
who had something to say about Jorie or Catherine Radcliff, and
hoped Judge McKinney would call them in to speak their piece. Under
sheriff Sam Lockheed, stood sentry at the door.

“I gotta get in there. I’m a witness,
see?”

Earl recognized the voice.

“They’ll want to know what I have to say.
She was my step-mother.”

“Have you been summoned?”

“No, but what I’ve got to say’s
important.”

Lockheed stood his ground. “No one’s allowed
in unless they were summoned by the court.”

Earl heard Walter’s expletives, as Jorie’s
half-brother was turned away.

The corridor also contained a number of
others with nothing better to do. Gawkers, Earl called them. But
only a handful of people were allowed in the courtroom. He was glad
to see that Mrs. O’Laerty was one of them.

Earl took a seat beside the prisoner. Pray
God they could get this over with quickly and Jorie would hold his
tongue.

George McKinney brought the gavel down hard
and all were quiet.

“This court will come to order. As this is a
hearing, and not a trial, the proceedings will be handled somewhat
informally. Let me remind all present that our sole objective here
is to determine whether there is sufficient evidence of foul play
to bind the prisoner over for trial.”

Earl caught the word ‘evidence.’ He was sure
Boyce wouldn’t like that. Ordinarily, the burden of proof was
pretty low to go to trial. Earl recalled other times when George
would say sufficient ‘reason to suspect.’

“The prisoner will please state his name for
the record.”

Earl nudged him, and Jorie stood.

“Jordan Radcliff.”

“The court will now entertain the
arguments.”

Earl pulled on Jorie’s sleeve and the boy
sat down.

When asked to give his report for the
record, Earl stated that although originally he’d thought there
might be some foul play involved, upon further investigation, he
didn’t believe there was.

“And what caused you to do such a
turn-about?” the judge inquired.

Earl swallowed hard. He’d have to eat humble
pie if he expected George to accept this reversal.

“Well, your honor, initially, due to the
unusual circumstances of the deceased’s death, I thought a hearing
was in order. I guess I jumped the gun—there just isn’t enough to
go on. I lay it to my own concern over the deceased that I started
on that course, which I now regret. I had known Mrs. Radcliff since
our school days, and erroneously thought I was representing her
best interests in requesting a hearing.”

Earl rubbed his sweaty hands together and
picked at a sore. He hated to grovel, especially before George
McKinney. And he knew what he’d said sounded lame.

“Have you anything to say as a character
witness for the defendant, Mr. Foster?”

“I’ve known Jorie a long time. He worked for
me one summer. I found him to be honest, agreeable and
hard-working.”

“You liked him.”

“Yes, I liked him.”

“What about the hostility between mother and
son?”

“Your honor, in my opinion—” Buck spoke
out.

“I was addressing the sheriff.” McKinney
turned back to Earl. “There was, as I recall, some incident of
violence in the prisoner’s past.”

George wasn’t making it
easy. Earl tried to recall if he’d ever told George anything about
Catherine’s coming to him with tales of violence. Well, he might
have,
before
her
death. He hesitated, refrained from wiping the sweat he could feel
running down his neck.

“I do not believe the accused ever hurt his
mother.” He glanced at Jorie, who seemed not to be present at all.
“If kicking the door in when he found out his dreams of going back
to college were going up in smoke — yes, he was violent on that
occasion— with the door.”

“Mr. Foster, do you have any evidence that
the accused might have been involved in the demise of his
mother?”

The rubber band snapped once too often, broke.

Evidence?
He turned the word over in his mind.
He had no actual proof.
“No, your honor, I do not.”

The judge turned to the prosecuting
attorney.

“Mr. Boyce, you submitted the petition for a
hearing. Could you state your reasons, please?”

Buck Boyce gave Earl a withering look. “It
was on the insistence of our esteemed sheriff, your honor,” he said
sarcastically, “who beseeched me to do so.”

“Please tell the court, Mr. Boyce, what
purpose, if any, you have for proceeding with this case.”

Earl could almost see the anger rise up
Buck’s neck and color his face. Buck Boyce was stymied. He looked
at Earl as though he’d been deceived.

“Mr. Foster stated he preferred to keep the
exact reasons for calling this hearing to himself.”

“I asked if
you
have any objective
in pursuing the matter?”

Buck straightened his collar. “It seems
evident, your honor, that anyone with even a modicum of common
sense wouldn’t take their mother on a pleasure outing with a
blizzard on the way. That is, unless, he had planned some dastardly
deed.” He paused to let this sink in.

“Go on,” urged the judge.

“That fact in itself, sir, would appear to
be sufficient cause to bind the prisoner over for trial.”

“Do you have anything else?”

Earl watched Buck swallow, move his lips,
and stammer, “Not at this time, your honor.”

The sheriff let out a long, slow breath.

George McKinney questioned the examining
physician.

“Dr. Johnson, how did you find the
prisoner’s state of mind?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I found him
cooperative, if somewhat bewildered. His distress at the death of
his mother was apparent in his manner, his general state and his
heartfelt tears. If the accused has a precarious mental state, it
is temporary, having been brought on by the demise of his
mother.”

“Then you see no reason to appoint a lunacy
commission?”

“No, your honor.

“In your considered judgment, Doctor, would
you say the prisoner capable of comprehending the proceedings of
this court?”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, Earl thought, if they couldn’t plead
insanity, his only chance was to get the case thrown out
altogether.

“And capable of assisting in his own
defense, should this case go to trial?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As the family physician, do you have
anything to add regarding Jordan Radcliff’s character?”

Doctor Johnson cleared his throat again. “I
have known the defendant since he was a young boy. I have always
found him an eager student and a tender lad who wouldn’t harm a
butterfly.”

Jorie took the beads out of his pocket, and
fingered them under the table. Somehow their smooth, round orbs
were comforting. He had little interest in the machinations of the
law; it was his internal judge he had to answer to, and in this
public place he could not hold court.