The Devil in Pew Number Seven (25 page)

Once inside, it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim overhead lighting. Long, cold corridors with marble halfway up their walls stretched out into the distance. Although my shoes weren’t red ruby slippers, they echoed against the polished terrazzo floors as we walked to the elevator. We rode to the second floor, where we were directed to sit on an uncomfortable oak pew outside of courtroom number 219 until the bailiff called for us. Daddy took the stand at 3:25 p.m. When finished, he sat just behind our lawyers.

From my viewpoint, waiting was the hardest part of testifying. Sooner or later, just on the other side of the twin oak doors leading to the courtroom, I’d have to face the man who shot my momma. Swinging my legs back and forth like a pendulum, I tried to work off some of the nervous energy building inside me.

While I wanted to give a good testimony for Momma’s sake, I dreaded the prospect of being in the same room with the shooter. I didn’t relish the thought of him looking at me while I answered questions. In spite of my growing anxiety, I knew it would be a first-class disaster if I got sick, as I had on the plane.

At 4:10 p.m. the bailiff ushered me into the stuffy courtroom packed with about a hundred adults. The judge sat in a high-back chair to my right, flanked by two flags. Although he appeared sympathetic as he looked down on me from his mahogany perch, I didn’t have one friend there to lean on for moral support. Not my brother. Not Missy. Not even Billy Wayne. This, of course, was no place for children.

Settling into the witness stand, I caught a glimpse of Daddy sitting in the front row. With a wink, he smiled at me. My heart leaped. Drawing strength from his presence, I forgot about my fears. Sitting upright like a doll in my red and white pinafore, I folded my hands and rested them on my lap.

When District Attorney Lee Greer approached me, I felt as if I could actually hold it together long enough to get through the proceedings. I had met Mr. Greer before the trial for a briefing and found him to be genuinely heartbroken over our situation. In a way he was like a kind, grandfatherly figure. I trusted him.

After being sworn in, Mr. Greer said, “Now, Rebecca, you see that thing
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in front of you there? Honey, if you will speak into that, I think perhaps everyone can hear you. Get that close to your mouth. Little lady, what is your name?”

“Rebecca.”

“And what is your last name?”

“Nichols.”

“And, Rebecca, how old are you?”

“I’m eight.”

“Do you go to school?”

“Yes.”

“Honey, what grade are you in?”

“The third.”

“Do you make good grades in school?”

“Yes.”

“Do you go to Sunday school?”

“Yes.”

“Do you go every Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“How about church?”

“Yes.”

“Rebecca, do you know who Jesus is?”

“Yes.”

“Who is Jesus?”

“God’s son.”

“Rebecca, do you know what a lie is?”

“Yes.”

“What is a lie?”

“It’s . . .” I looked at the ceiling to search for the right words.

“It’s what?”

“It’s not the truth,” I said with a smile.

“Well, is it a bad thing to tell a lie?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Rebecca, now, I show you this pipe here,” he said, holding out his well-worn red pipe for me to examine. “If I said this pipe was gray or was black, would I be telling the truth?”

“No.”

“If I said the pipe was red, would I be telling the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Then if I said this pipe was black, what would I be telling?”

“A lie.”

“Now, Rebecca, why shouldn’t one tell a lie?”

Although that was an easy question, I didn’t answer at first. I knew perfectly well why we shouldn’t lie. I mean, my daddy was a pastor, and I had spent my life in church. But this wasn’t a church service. Somehow talking about church stuff in a courtroom didn’t make sense to me.

Mr. Greer smiled as if thinking about another way to ask the question. He cleared his throat and said, “Did they teach you in Sunday school that to tell lies is a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

“What did they say it is to tell a lie?”

“Wrong.” I knew it was also a sin, but I wasn’t clear how much the lawyer wanted to know about sin.

“Wrong?”

I nodded.

“All right. Now, if little boys and girls tell the truth and mind their parents and are good, if they die where would they go?”

“To heaven.”

“And if little boys and girls are bad and tell lies and are mean, when they die where would they go?”

“To hell.”

“All right, honey. Now, do you know Mr. Williams?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

* * *

They told me I would be safe.

They told me just to tell the truth.

And in my pretrial briefing, they told me I’d have to identify my mother’s killer. The time for that had come. But now, with Harris Williams sitting beside his lawyers at a table not more than twenty feet from the witness stand, how could I be sure I was really safe?

What would prevent him from coming after me?

Then again, I had to tell the truth. Biting my bottom lip, I summoned the resolve to identify the man who took everything I loved away from me—even if it might provoke him to anger. I pointed diagonally across the room. As I did, the faces of the jury focused on the defendant. Harris looked up, and our eyes met for a long moment before he diverted his gaze.

I remembered to breathe.

“All right, honey. Now, did you see him on March the 23rd?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you see him?”

“At my house.”

“And do you live with your daddy?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s Rev. Nichols, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“When you saw Mr. Williams, what was he doing?”

I hesitated. In a way, that was a difficult question to answer. The events of that day flooded into my mind in such a painful swirl of pictures, I didn’t know where to start. Sensing my misgivings, Mr. Greer tried a different approach.

“Where did you see him at your house?”

“When he walked in the door.”

“Was the door closed when he walked in?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see him do anything?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see him do?”

“I saw him pull out a gun.”

“Pulled out a gun, did you say?”

I nodded.

“All right. Now, what did you see him do with that gun, if anything?”

“Shoot Daddy.”

“How many times did you see him shoot your daddy?”

“Two.”

“After he shot your daddy, did you see him do anything else with that gun?”

“Yes.”

“What did you see him do?”

“Shoot Mama.”

“Where was your mother when she was shot?”

“She was standing close to the dryer.”

“Did you later see your mother in the house?”

I nodded.

“Where did you next see your mother after she was shot?”

“In the bedroom.”

“In the bedroom. All right, honey. Where was she in the bedroom?”

“Underneath the bed.”

“Was your mother lying down?”

“Yes.”

“How close did you get to her?”

“I got close enough to touch her.”

“Was there any blood on her?”

“I didn’t see none on her.”

“Did you see any anywhere else?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“On the spread.”

“On the spread. All right. Now, after you saw your mother lying there, what did you do then?”

“I went back down the hall.”

“When you went back down the hall—” Mr. Greer said, but stopped and then turned to the judge.

“Your honor, this particular question is purely for corroboration of what her daddy had said.” The judge motioned for him to continue. He asked, “Did your daddy say anything to you?”

“Yes.”

“What did he tell you to do?”

“He told me to run down to Aunt Pat’s house and tell her to call the police.”

“Did you do that?”

“Yes.”

“Now, is Pat your aunt?”

“No. I just call her Aunt Pat.”

“When you went to Aunt Pat’s, did you say anything to Aunt Pat?”

“Yes . . . I said, ‘Aunt Pat, Daddy has been shot by [Harris] Williams. Mama has, too, but I didn’t get no answer out of her.”

After his final question, Mr. Greer offered me one of his warmest smiles before taking a seat near Daddy. I could tell by the way his eyes sparkled around the edges that he thought I’d done a good job on the witness stand. I was briefly cross-examined and then escorted from the courtroom, thankful to be out of the spotlight and relieved to put some distance between me and the monster who had stolen my mother’s life.

* * *

During the weeklong trial, the state called eleven witnesses while the defense summoned seven. Daddy sat in the front row every day that week, head half-bowed as if in prayer, listening to the proceedings. When asked by the press about his feelings, Daddy said, “I would like to see justice
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in this trial. I don’t have the attitude of seeking vengeance for what this man has done, but I feel that violent people should be confined or dealt with according to the law to protect society.”

Grandma Welch, who constantly fought back tears throughout the court case, admitted that being in the same room with the man who took her daughter from her was grueling. She told reporters, “It’s so hard to look at him,
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knowing his finger pulled the trigger.” It had to have been especially difficult for her to listen as the defense made the case that Harris was intoxicated and therefore should receive leniency.

On Thursday, the shooter, Harris Williams, was summoned to testify. When his attorney called him to the stand, Harris hesitated. Although he had shown no emotion throughout the trial, evidently he had last-minute misgivings about offering his testimony. After privately consulting with his lawyer at the defense table, Harris rose and took his place before the court.

Their strategy was simple: make the case that Harris had been drunk, that he had no intent to harm anyone, and that he had no memory of the actual shooting and therefore the murder wasn’t premeditated. The heart of their case rested on the fact that Harris had consumed a large quantity of alcohol—upwards of two and a half gallons of whiskey over several days—and that he thought highly of my parents; he didn’t wish them any harm and was deeply sorry about his actions.

On Friday, both sides rested their cases.

* * *

Assistant District Attorney Mike Easley was the first
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to offer his closing argument to the jury on our behalf. For twenty-two minutes, he recapped the facts of the case—how we were eating dinner, how Harris barged into our house armed with three guns, and then how he shot my parents after exchanging words with Daddy.

As to the matter that Harris was drunk, Mr. Easley said, “Lt. Hayes stated there was nothing unusual about Harris in the morning or evening, no odor of alcohol. . . . Ptm. [Patrolman] Randy Williamson rode all the way to the jail with Harris and said there was no odor of alcohol. He talks about being irrational—he knew where he wanted to go to get that .38-caliber pistol. He wanted that gun that day.”

Holding the murder weapon for the jury to see, Mr. Easley said, “This is the one he used to propel two bullets into the preacher and one into his wife. He shot three times and hit three times. That’s a pretty good aim for somebody who’s supposed to be drunk.”

Regarding the character of Harris, Mr. Easley told the jury, “He is a violent and dangerous man and oftentimes mean—he likes to drink, play with guns, slap women, and beat on children. He says he’s sorry. Reckon he was sorry when he hit the sixty-nine-year-old magistrate on the head with the cinder block?”

Attorney Easley was referring to a prior incident involving Harris for which he had served eighteen months in jail. “He went there with over sixty bullets and three pistols. Do you think he was going there to have dinner?”

Mr. Easley picked up one of the other weapons and then added, “This is a short-barrel pistol—you can’t hunt with it. It’s not a target pistol; there is only one purpose—to shoot someone. He’ll tell you any poppycock he can because he stands to lose. He says he can’t remember; is that a good enough reason? He says he’s sorry. You tell a state trooper you’re sorry you were speeding and see if he doesn’t write you a ticket.”

Mr. Easley concluded, saying, “If he had a defense, he would use it. He doesn’t need a lawyer, he needs a magician. He’s grabbing at straws and has an imaginary defense. Don’t ignore the facts. This case has the most overwhelming evidence you’ll ever see. Let the people know you will not tolerate this type of conduct.”

Defense attorney Mr. Walton approached the jury and for the next fifty minutes attempted to soften the picture of his client. Regarding the whiskey, he said, “I wish it were possible for the stuff to be eradicated. Harris has a drinking problem, and he has some other problems.” He added, “Harris went there drunk—absolutely and completely out of it. Only a person who was could do what he did. . . . Do you suppose he went there for the purpose of killing Mrs. Nichols? She was his best friend. Did he go there with the intent to kill his best friend?”

I’m glad I wasn’t in the courtroom during his closing argument. To suggest that Momma was Harris’s “best friend” was an outrageous claim. Momma hardly knew the man. Sure, she cared for Harris and wanted to see him get the help he needed. But it was his wife, Sue, who was close to my mother. Harris had only been interacting with my parents for about eight months.

Our lead attorney, Mr. Greer, also gave a few closing remarks to the jury. Speaking from the heart, he said, “I ask my God that I never convict an innocent person. There is so little doubt as to what has happened. When Harris opened the door without invitation, he had an intent to commit a felony, which he did. On the murder, he had the witness of a small child, and it’s been said that from the mouth of babes come the truth. From Rebecca came the truth. I have worked with many small children as witnesses, but never one better than Rebecca.”