The Trial of Dr. Kate (23 page)

“Don’t be silly.”

Mr. Flatt turned to the judge. “Your Honor, the prosecution cannot accept this individual as a juror.”

The judge nodded. “Agreed. You may step down, Mrs. Alexander. You’re dismissed.”

Gladys Alexander, her lower lip trembling, walked up the center aisle and exited the courtroom through the back door.

As the door closed, a second individual entered and took the witness chair.

“State your name,” said the bailiff.

“Mark Stone.”

Once again, the prosecutor asked his leading question, to which Mr. Stone answered, “I don’t know.” Mr. Flatt asked several other questions that produced what he considered satisfactory answers. After about ten minutes of this exchange, Thelonious P. Flatt said, “This individual is acceptable to the prosecution.”

The judge looked at Jake. “Mr. Watson?”

Jake walked to the man and said, “Mr. Stone, could you explain your relationship to Lillian Johnson?”

The man glanced at the judge, then at Mr. Flatt, and finally at Jake Watson. In a voice not nearly as loud as his response to Mr. Flatt, he said, “My niece.”

Jake walked back to the defense table. “This individual is not acceptable to the defense,” he said to the judge.

This give-and-take proceeded throughout the morning session. By the time the judge called for the lunch break, neither side had been able to agree on a single juror. Jake Watson had told Shenandoah earlier that it would be a long and difficult process.

As the crowd exited the courtroom, Shenandoah leaned over the railing to say hello to Jake and the two women.

“Morning, Shenandoah,” Jake said. “Do you know Rebecca?”

“Not really. I do remember you from when I was a child, but you’re a few years older than Kate and me.”

Rebecca extended her hand and shook Shenandoah’s with a firm and steady grip. “I’m pleased to meet you, Shenandoah. Jake and Kate have told me a lot about you.”

“All good, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely,” she said with a smile, dimples like her sister’s forming in her cheeks. Shenandoah glanced to her right to see Deputy Masterson waiting to take Kate back to her cell. She grimaced as she turned to leave.

Jake and Rebecca exited in front of Shenandoah while Mr. Flatt was stuffing papers into an expensive leather briefcase. The judge, bailiff, and court reporter had already left the room. Thelonious P. Flatt had on his coat and vest and still hadn’t produced so much as a thimble of sweat.

The City Café bustled with customers, so Shenandoah decided to walk over to the Esso station where they kept homemade sandwiches. She bought a ham and cheese sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and a Coke, then carried them to a picnic table out back.

As Shenandoah finished eating, she glanced across the street and saw Mr. Flatt’s chauffeur polishing the front chrome bumper of the Cadillac. The man had shed his cap and coat, and he wore a white cotton T-shirt with its tail sticking over his pants. The car sat off the street under a massive maple tree.

Shenandoah wandered across the street. “That’s a beautiful car. How does it drive?”

The man looked at Shenandoah and smiled. “Like a dream. Great highway car.”

Shenandoah extended her hand. “My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. I’m a reporter for the
Memphis Express
.”

“Austin Davis. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. Didn’t know the
Memphis Express
was interested in this case. I don’t think the
Nashville Tennessean
had anything about it.”

“I’m a friend of Dr. Kate Marlow, and I also wanted to interview Buford Frampton for a book I’m writing on the E. H. Crump political machine. How long have you driven for Mr. Flatt?”

“I’m pinch-hitting for the summer. His regular driver broke his leg last month.”

“What’s your usual job?”

“I’ll be a senior at Fisk this fall. Next year I’m going to Howard University Law School.”

Shenandoah said, “I’ve heard of Howard. Isn’t it mostly a colored school?”

“Yeah, it’s been around since 1869. Graduated a lot of heavyweights.”

“So how come you’re just a chauffeur? Seems like you should be a law clerk.”

“I applied for a clerkship, but Mr. Flatt doesn’t hire coloreds for office work. Said if I wanted a job, it was chauffeur or nothing.”

“So you didn’t have a choice.”

“Not if I wanted a summer job.”

“You get lunch?”

He nodded. “I brought my lunch. No place up here where I could eat.”

“Esso station over there has homemade sandwiches. They’ll sell to you, particularly if you buy some gas.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. How’s the trial going?”

“They’re arguing over jurors now. The way it’s going, it’ll be a while before they get down to business. Tell me about Mr. Flatt.”

“What you want to know?”

Shenandoah laughed. “Doesn’t he sweat like the rest of us?”

Austin Davis shook his head. “No, and I’ve never seen the man wrinkle that white suit either.”

“What’s he like to work for?”

“Treats me like any other Negro. Like most of the people in Nashville. I’m from Chicago, and this Jim Crow crap pisses me off.”

“Is he a good lawyer?”

Austin Davis placed the rag on the hood of the car and leaned against the fender. He looked Shenandoah dead in the eye. “Old Thelonious is a peacock, but the man is smart as a whip and thorough. I can tell you this—I’d hate like hell to have him after me.”

Shenandoah said, “I’ve got to get back to court. Nice talking to you.”

* * *

Judge Grant opened court precisely at one o’clock. For the next three hours, Thelonious and Jake continued to interview prospective jurors without agreeing on a single one. Judge Grant remained patient throughout the process, but the spectators were becoming bored. Almost all of them were fanning themselves with paper fans supplied by Walton’s Funeral Home. At one point Mr. Applebee began to snore, and the judge looked up, trying to see who was disturbing his court. Hattie Mae must have nudged Mr. Applebee with her foot, for the noise stopped as quickly as it started. Jake Watson looked bemused. Kate sat stone-faced throughout the jury selection, but Rebecca took notes, and from time to time she would whisper something into Jake’s ear.

For her part, Shenandoah simply sat back and watched Thelonious P. Flatt. The man had yet to sweat in the sweltering courtroom, and as Austin Davis had said, his suit remained unwrinkled. To top it off, every time he picked up a piece of paper to read, he slipped on a pair of pince-nez. He looked like every picture of FDR that Shenandoah had seen during the war. Baxter Hargrove stared into space throughout the whole process and never once looked in Kate’s direction.

From what Austin Davis had told Shenandoah, Mr. Flatt was a very interesting man. For all his flamboyance, the man appeared methodical and deadly serious. His questions were to the point, simple, and direct. He did not grandstand, and his voice remained calm, yet forceful. Jake kept his questions short and to the point as well. It looked as if there would be no theatrics when the trial started.

Judge Grant slammed down his gavel exactly at four o’clock. Jake, Kate, and Rebecca remained at the defense table for a few minutes, talking softly, but Thelonious P. Flatt and Baxter Hargrove headed up the aisle ahead of Shenandoah. She followed them out of the courthouse and watched Austin Davis, once again in uniform, hold open the back door of the big Cadillac for his boss.

Since it was still early, Shenandoah decided to go to the garage. As usual, the radio was playing a country song at a deafening level, a Hank Williams tune called “I’m Walking the Floor Over You.” She found Bobby on a creeper under a ‘46 Ford pickup. He rolled out from under the car, sat up, and wiped a strand of hair from his face, leaving a streak of grease across his cheek. “How’s the trial going?” he asked.

“Not much action today. They’re still trying to pick the jury.”

“I think that’s going to be hard, don’t you?”

“Definitely. I think that’s Jake’s plan—or part of it, anyway.”

Bobby stood and walked to the workbench. He turned down the radio and leaned his back against the bench so that he could face Shenandoah. “Momma said you could come to supper tonight. I suspect she wants to check you out.”

“That’d be great. I just have to tell Hattie Mae. What time?”

“About six. That’ll give me time to clean up. We’re just eating out of the garden. See you later, alligator.”

“I’m amazed by how well you do clean up,” Shenandoah said with a grin.

Shenandoah got to Hattie Mae’s just as she and Mr. Applebee climbed the hill to the house. Both were out of breath.

“Lord have mercy, Shenandoah, if He don’t send us some rain soon, we’re going to die in this heat. I ain’t seen nothing like it in all my days. Just look at Mr. Applebee. Poor thing is miserable.”

“I know what you mean. I can’t wait for October. What’d you think of the jury selection today?”

“Fireworks’ll start soon enough.”

Shenandoah said, “By the way, Hattie Mae, I’m going over to Bobby Johnson’s house for supper tonight. Thought I’d better let you know.”

Hattie Mae gave her a crooked grin. “Better watch out, Shenandoah. That boy’s going to hog-tie you yet.”

“We’re just friends, Hattie Mae.”

The old lady giggled as Shenandoah got into her car. She got to Bobby’s right at six o’clock. An angry sun still hung high in the western sky, and the temperature on the Coca-Cola thermometer by Bobby’s front door read 98 degrees. She knocked on the screen door, and in about three seconds, Wally came charging down the hallway.

“Miss Shena, Daddy!”

Shenandoah opened the door and walked in as Wally ran to her and put his arms around Shenandoah’s right leg.

Shenandoah walked down the hall with Wally attached to her leg like a leech. Bobby appeared from the back of the house and said, “Wally, get off Shenandoah’s leg.” He hurried forward and removed the boy. “Come out to the back porch. I’ve got a job for you.”

Wally and Shenandoah followed Bobby down the hallway, by the kitchen, and out the back door. As they walked, Wally pointed to his hand. “Gone.”

Shenandoah took Wally’s hand in hers and traced her index finger over the area where the wart had been the day before. She glanced at Bobby. “When did this happen?”

“When I got him out of bed this morning, it was gone.”

“Maybe it rubbed off in his sleep,” Shenandoah said.

“I couldn’t find it in his bedclothes. Could be Dr. Kate’s right. Some things can’t be explained by science.”

Bobby pointed to a small wooden bucket with a metal crank on top. “Have you ever made ice cream?”

“No. We didn’t have a refrigerator in Beulah Land.”

“I swear, Shenandoah, I wonder about your childhood—if you even had one.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“This is rock salt. You put ice in the bucket and over the metal part and add the salt. Then you crank. When it gets too hard to crank, it’s ready. You got to keep adding salt and ice. I’ll be in the kitchen with Momma.”

For the next fifteen to twenty minutes, Shenandoah cranked the handle with gusto. It was harder work than she thought, and her arm grew tired and sore. Finally, when she could crank no longer, she went back into the house and found Bobby, his mother, and Wally in the kitchen. Bobby had a beige apron around his neck and was frying tomatoes on the stovetop. Wally sat on the floor playing with a pan and wooden spoon, beating it like a drum. Mrs. Johnson was mashing boiled potatoes with a large fork. Grease splattered over the stovetop, and every so often Bobby lifted a tomato out of the frying pan and placed it on a folded brown paper grocery sack.

Shenandoah couldn’t believe that Bobby was actually cooking. Most of the men she knew couldn’t boil water.
Careful, girl. Get a grip. This won’t work. Can’t work.
She carried the wooden bucket to where Bobby worked. “I think this must be ready. I can’t crank it anymore.”

Mrs. Johnson said, “Give it to me, Shenandoah, and I’ll put the ice cream in the freezer.”

As they sat down to eat, Bobby took Shenandoah’s right hand and Mrs. Johnson the left. They bowed their heads, and Mrs. Johnson said, “Lord, thank You for this food. We appreciate all the many good things You bring into our lives. Help us to follow Your example in all we do. Bless everyone at this table, and please, Lord, help our dear and beloved Dr. Kate in her hour of need. In Christ’s name. Amen.”

Wally sat on two big books next to his grandmother so she could supervise his eating. Mrs. Johnson glanced at Shenandoah. “Help yourself, Shenandoah.”

Shenandoah picked up the large platter covered with fried tomatoes and handed it to Mrs. Johnson. “We didn’t eat this well in Beulah Land.”

Bobby laughed. “This is what I call a triple S, a southern summer supper. Fried green tomatoes, fried okra, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. We’ve also got sliced cucumbers soaked in vinegar, fresh cornbread, and sweet iced tea with a sprig of mint.”

“It all looks good, and I’m sure I’ll eat too much.”

Wally used his hands to scoop up his food, and within minutes, mashed potatoes smeared his face.

Mrs. Johnson passed Shenandoah the cucumbers. “Tell me about yourself, Shenandoah.”

“I guess you know I’m a Coleman from Beulah Land. Everyone seems to know that. I left Round Rock in 1938 when I graduated, ferried airplanes during the war, then college, and now I work for the
Memphis Express
.”

Mrs. Johnson kept eyeing Shenandoah throughout the meal as if she didn’t quite trust someone who’d come from Beulah Land, even if she did have a steady job. Shenandoah got the impression that Mrs. Johnson would guard Bobby’s best interests with her life. Wally kept a constant stream of chatter going, and Bobby seemed oblivious to most of it. From time to time, he glanced Shenandoah’s way and flashed a shy smile.

The ice cream Shenandoah had helped make turned out to be delicious, served with slices of fresh peach on top. She would have eaten two helpings had she not stuffed herself on fried okra and fried green tomatoes.

Shenandoah helped Bobby and Mrs. Johnson clear the table. As she placed her plate on the countertop, she said, “I’m happy to help with the dishes.”