The Trial of Dr. Kate (27 page)

Three quick steps placed Austin in front of the sheriff. “What you need, boss?”

“Ain’t no loitering allowed around here. Whose car is that?”

“Belongs to Thelonious P. Flatt, the prosecutor. I’m his driver.”

“I don’t care if the damn thing belongs to Jesus Christ. Move it.”

“Where to, Sheriff?”

“Out of town. Ain’t no niggers supposed to be where they ain’t wanted.”

A slow smile formed on Austin’s face. “So it’s not really the car you want moved as much as me.”

“You got it. Now shove off.”

“Yes, sir, boss.”

Jasper Kingman turned his gaze from Austin to Shenandoah. “I ain’t going to take any more shit off you, Shenandoah. I don’t care if you are a reporter. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay clear of me, and when this trial’s over, I want your ass out of town.”

Shenandoah glared at the sheriff and, through clenched teeth, said, “I come and go as I please, Jasper, and you’re not going to do a damn thing about it.”

“Don’t push me, asshole. Now get your nigger friend out of here.”

Once in the Cadillac, Shenandoah said, “I’m sorry, Austin.”

Austin didn’t say a word. He drove slowly onto the street, gripping the steering wheel as if trying to choke the sheriff. After a block of silence, he said, “Shenandoah, this southern shit drives me crazy. I guess you think I’m a coward for saying, ‘Yes, sir, boss.’ But if I didn’t, I’d get the crap beat out of me and slammed in jail. Believe me, I learned that the hard way.”

Shenandoah shrugged. “They’re not all like Kingman. There’re some reasonable people who aren’t racist. They just don’t speak up.”

Austin bit his lower lip. “It seems like otherwise perfectly nice white people just don’t like colored people. They don’t necessarily treat you badly. They just kind of ignore you. Sometimes I feel like I’m invisible.”

“I guess Chicago’s better,” Shenandoah said.

“It is and it isn’t—just different. I can go places there that I can’t here, but the bigotry’s still there. At least in the South, you know where you stand. In the North, it’s more subtle. White people don’t realize how much colored people despise them. Know something else? There’s a new generation coming, and white people aren’t going to know what hit them.”

Austin parked the Cadillac in front of the clinic. The place looked deserted, but Jazz was standing on the porch waiting for them. Her hair looked different, and it took Shenandoah a moment to realize that she had straightened it. Pulled tight against her skull and wound in a bun at the nape of her neck, it made her look sophisticated.

She shot Austin a big grin, and then, turning to Shenandoah, asked, “Ready for some lunch, Miss Shenandoah?”

“I’m so hungry I could eat a polecat.”

“Come on back to the kitchen. Nurse Little and me are ready to eat right now.”

They followed Jazz through the deserted clinic and found Nurse Little in the kitchen placing silverware on a small table.

“Hello, Shenandoah, Austin. Glad you could join us. Have a seat.”

As soon as Austin and Shenandoah took their seats, Jazz set a platter of fried chicken in the center of the table, and Nurse Little passed Shenandoah a bowl of lima beans. Sweet iced tea with mint leaves, stewed okra in tomatoes, and cornbread were already on the table.

Austin took a bite out of a chicken breast and said, “Now this is what I like about the South.”

Jazz beamed with satisfaction. Nurse Little sat next to Shenandoah, while Jazz lounged practically on top of Austin.

“Where’s Hank?” Shenandoah asked.

“He ain’t feeling good today,” Jazz said. “Stayed home.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Heat, mostly. He worked in the garden too long yesterday.”

Austin put away the fried chicken like there would be no tomorrow. A traditional southern dinner cooked for a Yankee.

Shenandoah glanced at Nurse Little and asked, “Do you think Dr. Kate misses her patients?”

She placed her fork on the table and looked at Shenandoah. “She’s worried sick about them. It’s killing her that she can’t run the clinic.”

“Hopefully this will all be over by Friday. If Jake Watson gets her off, she can be back to work by Saturday.”

“I hope so. We all miss her so much it’s driving us crazy. I heard the prosecutor was really hard on her this morning,” Nurse Little said.

“That’s his job. It’s up to Jake to refute everything the man says,” Shenandoah said.

They talked as they ate, and Austin had several helpings of fried chicken. Jazz brought out a chess pie and coffee after they’d finished, and both Shenandoah and Austin complained about being too full.

Checking her watch and seeing that she had ten minutes to get to the courthouse, Shenandoah shoved her chair back and said, “Austin, I’ve got to go. Can you drive me back?”

Austin glanced at Jazz and then back at Shenandoah. “Yeah, sure.”

As they left the kitchen, Shenandoah said, “Thanks for lunch, Jazz.”

In the car on the way back to the courthouse, Shenandoah turned to Austin and asked, “You got something going with Jazz?”

“No comment.”

“She looks at you like she could eat you alive.”

“She’s cool.”

“You think it’ll get serious?”

“Shenandoah, I haven’t got time for a serious relationship.”

They arrived at the courthouse with two minutes to spare. Shenandoah rushed into the courtroom and took her seat as Judge Grant’s gavel hit its mark.

With the coroner seated, Jake Watson took a notepad and walked to the witness stand. Glancing at his notes, he said, “Doctor, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Certainly.”

“You identified the barbiturate in Lillian Johnson’s blood, didn’t you?”

“Secobarbital sodium. Seconal.”

“Seconal is what? The trade name?”

“Yes.”

“Does it come in an injectable form?”

“No.”

“And yet you say that it in your opinion, the drug was given by injection.”

“It’s water soluble. If someone wanted immediate results, it could be given intravenously.”

“The person would have to dissolve the capsules in water.”

“Yes.”

“I’d like you to repeat some of the qualities of this drug. I hate to make you do this twice, but I think it’s important.”

“It’s a short-acting barbiturate used mostly for sleep. It’s habit forming and can be obtained only with a prescription.”

“Tell us again how it works.”

“It depresses the sensory cortex. It’s dose related.”

“Try to explain that in simple terms.”

“It decreases brain activity, and that causes the individual to lose consciousness. A high enough dose will cause death.”

“The individual stops breathing?”

“Yes.”

“What is the lethal dose?”

“One to two grams orally. Administered directly into a vein, it would take less.”

“How much of this drug did you find in Lillian Johnson’s blood?”

“Two grams.”

“A lethal dose.”

“Correct.”

“Doctor, I’d like to present you with a hypothetical question.”

“Okay.”

“If a trained medical professional were to inject a dose of medication into the vein of a patient, would he or she use one that came in an injectable form, or one that required dissolving capsules in water?”

“Objection. The witness can’t be expected to second-guess what some hypothetical doctor might do,” Thelonious said.

“Sustained. Keep to the facts in this case, Mr. Watson,” Judge Grant said, then added, “The jury will disregard the statement.”

“Doctor, what else did your autopsy reveal?” Jake asked.

“The deceased suffered from multiple sclerosis and cancer of the colon.”

“Would you describe the cancer as terminal?”

“Objection. The witness doesn’t have a crystal ball. The defense is leading the witness,” Thelonious said.

“Sustained.” The judge repeated his admonishment to the jury. “Let me rephrase my question. Had the cancer spread to other parts of the body?”

“Yes.”

“Did the cancer invade the spine?”

“Yes.”

“Anywhere else?”

“Liver and abdominal cavity.”

“In your opinion as a medical doctor, would the cancer cells in the spine cause severe, unrelenting pain?”

“Yes.”

Jake smiled. Facing the jury, he said, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Thelonious, composed now, stood and said, “The state calls Sheriff Jasper Kingman.”

It had never occurred to Shenandoah that the sheriff would be a prosecution witness, though it made sense when she thought of it. The sheriff would be called to the scene of an unexpected death.

Jasper Kingman sat in the witness chair after taking the oath. He was perspiring heavily, dark crescents under each arm and heavy beads of sweat across his forehead. His breath came quickly, as if he’d run down the stairs from his office.

Thelonious said, “State your name and occupation for the court.”

“Jasper Kingman, sheriff of Parsons County.”

“In the course of your duties as sheriff of Parsons County, were you called to the home of Lillian Johnson on March 23, 1952?”

“Yes, at one o’clock in the afternoon.”

“And what did you find at the scene of the crime?”

Jake leaned forward and said, “Objection. Your Honor, we are here today to decide whether a crime has occurred. At that point in time or even today, the sheriff could not know whether the house in question was a crime scene.”

“Sustained. Continue, Mr. Flatt.”

Thelonious glared at Jake. It was the first time Shenandoah had seen him display any emotion. Jake simply smiled.

“When you entered the room, what did you observe?”

“I found the deceased slumped in her wheelchair with her head rolled to one side, her eyes open. I felt for a pulse in her neck, and when I couldn’t detect one, I realized she was dead.”

“You looked around the room, I’m sure. Did you see or find anything out of the ordinary?”

“I found an empty glass syringe next to the wheelchair.”

“Like one a doctor would use to give a shot.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do next?”

“I pushed it into a paper bag with the blade of my pocketknife.”

“So you wouldn’t disturb fingerprints?”

“Correct.”

Thelonious walked to the prosecutor’s table and picked up a small object. Shenandoah couldn’t see what it was. The prosecutor handed it to the court reporter and asked her to mark it Exhibit A for the prosecution. Then he gave it to the sheriff and asked, “Is this the syringe you found?”

Taking it, the sheriff said, “It looks the same. They all look alike to me.”

“Does it look similar to the one you found in terms of size and shape?”

“Yes.”

“Like the one you sent to Nashville?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do next?”

“Called Army, her husband, and then the funeral home in Cookeville. Walton’s.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Jake got up from his chair slowly, as if he had arthritic joints, and walked to where the sheriff sat. “I’ll make my questions short and to the point. When you found Lillian Johnson in her wheelchair, did you see any sign of a struggle?”

“No, she looked real peaceful.”

“Her hair wasn’t messed up, her clothes pulled sideways? Nothing like that?”

“No.”

“How were you summoned? Who called you?”

“Lillian’s younger sister, Trudy Underwood.”

“When she phoned you, what did she say?”

“She was hysterical—you know, sobbing. Said her sister was dead.”

“Thank you, Sheriff. That’s all.”

Thelonious stood and said, “The state calls Jack Key.”

He waited for the witness to take the oath and then said, “State your name and occupation for the court.”

“Jack Key. I work in the Nashville field office of the TBCI.”

“What do those initials stand for? And tell us something about your duties.”

“TBCI stands for Tennessee Bureau of Criminal Identification. I collect evidence from crime scenes, dust for fingerprints, and send them to the national data bank, things like that.”

“In the course of your duties as a fingerprint specialist, did you have an occasion to examine a glass syringe recovered from the home of one Lillian Johnson here in Round Rock, Tennessee?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Would you explain your findings to the jury?”

“I found two distinct sets of prints. One belonged to the deceased, and the other to the defendant, Dr. Katherine Marlow. But there was no print on the plunger, as one might suspect.”

“No other prints were present?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mr. Key. No further questions.”

Jake walked to the witness stand and stood facing the TBCI man. He stroked his chin as if in deep thought. “Mr. Key, do you not find it interesting that the deceased’s prints were on the syringe? I mean, if it was Dr. Kate’s syringe, one would expect Dr. Kate’s prints to be there, but not those of the deceased’s. And why would there be no print on the plunger?”

“Maybe Mrs. Johnson picked it up for some reason. I don’t know. All I can tell you is that there were two sets of prints, and they were very distinct. I have no idea why there wasn’t a print on the plunger.”

Jake shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “It seems strange to me. Thank you, Mr. Key. That’s all.”

Judge Grant looked at Thelonious and asked, “Do you have another witness?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I have three: Maxwell Christopher, Trudy Underwood, and Army Johnson.”

“Will it be a lengthy presentation? Over two hours?”

“Yes, I think it will.”

“Very well. Court is adjourned until nine in the morning.”

Thelonious and Baxter Hargrove left quickly as they always did, but Jake and the two women stayed at the defense table, talking. Rebecca soon got up and walked up the aisle, but Jake continued to sit at the table, writing on a notepad. As he did every day, Deputy Masterson escorted Kate back to jail. Shenandoah walked to the front so she could say something to Jake, who was stuffing papers into his briefcase.

“Jake, I’ve been meaning to ask you why you’re having so much trouble getting up and down. I’ve never noticed that you had arthritis.”