Witch Ball (16 page)

"So you three young men decided to take the law into your own hands. Like the Wild West, you would avenge the suicide of a teammate, without any proof of your suspicions!" He put his face close to Eric's and stared into his eyes. Then he turned to the jury, so they could clearly see his intensity. The effect was dramatic, his fervor impressive.

"We weren't thinking like that. I don't know what we were thinking."

"And that is just it, isn't it, Mr. Alexander? You were so filled with rage that you murdered Coach Lewis Russell!"

"He was dead when we got there!"

"Are you trying to make the jury believe that you did not kill a man that you hated? Hate is a very strong emotion, Mr. Alexander. You have confessed to another crime of passion, the brutal beating of Mr. Florenz Thomas and his two companions, Mr. Sabine and Mr. Bacakus, on the night of June 26
^th
. Mr. Thomas was so badly injured that he had to be admitted to the emergency room of Baptist Hospital for treatment." He took a breath, audible to everyone in the courtroom. "How can we believe that you would perpetrate such violence on people that you barely knew, yet would spare someone that you admittedly hated?"

Eric began to weep. His hand trembled as he wiped his cheeks.

"Didn't you and your gang kill Lewis Russell? Isn't it a lie that you found him already dead?"

"No! I am not lying. He was dead!"

"No more questions, Your Honor."

Eric began to sob. His shoulders shook and rose around the sides of his head. He reminded me of a turtle withdrawing into its shell.

"We will recess until tomorrow at 10:00 a.m." the judge said. "At that time, Mr. Adams, you may begin cross examination." He banged his gavel and left the bench.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"F
leur," Mom said when we left the courtroom. "I think you should sleep at our place tonight."

Fleur hesitated. I thought she was going to refuse, but she said, "Alright, Kay. Let's stop by my house so I can pick up a few things."

We pulled up to her house to see black paint splashed across the door and front steps. A note nailed to the doorframe said
,
"
The cat was a warning. We don't need your kind here. Get lost, pervert."

The writing was
scrawly, hard to read, but it looked familiar. I think it was the same as the note tied to the rock.

"Truly, you stay in the car. I'm going in with Fleur," Mom said. "And lock the door."

I kept a watchful eye on my surroundings. The street was eerily quiet, no dog walkers, and no joggers. Maybe everyone around here was as frightened as I was.

Mom and Fleur came out quite quickly. Fleur had a small case and a cloth grocery bag. Mom had Jimmy-James in his carrier. He yowled all the way to our house. Thankfully, it is only a few blocks.

The first thing Mom did was to bring out the wine and three glasses (real wine glasses). Fleur propped open the door of the carrier with a candlestick. Jimmy had stopped shrieking, but he wasn't ready to venture into a strange place.

We sat quietly for a few minutes. After we had each had almost an entire glass of wine, Mom refilled the glasses, and we all took a deep breath.

"I think we should call the police," I said.

"I doubt that would do any good." Fleur swirled the wine in the glass, watching it coat the sides and drip down.

"We must," Mom said.

So we did. One officer came and took our statements. He sat on Dad's chair, his bulky belt, with handcuffs and gun, made it impossible for him to sit comfortably. He asked if we knew who might have left the threatening note, or if we had seen any strangers around the neighborhood
.

Fleur was very polite, answering him, "Nothing unusual
. We have a lot of activity, people running, riding bikes, or walking their dogs. I see the same people every day
—
even the Mayor's sons, once in a while. It's easy to recognize them, because they are both quite tall."

He scribbled on a small pad. The policeman stood up, "We'll be in touch," he said. "Give us a call if you have any more trouble." He then left to visit Fleur's house, taking the threatening note with him.

"Well, that was pointless," Fleur said. Lately she gave the impression that words were draining her. She used them thoughtfully, as if she were going to run out of them.

Mom went into the kitchen and scrambled some eggs. She heated frozen biscuits. I would have liked some bacon; apparently, no one else missed having meat, certainly not Fleur. We kept drinking wine with our breakfast/supper, or whatever it was.

Fleur had cat food and two bowls in her grocery bag. While Mom was cooking she went into the kitchen and put out food and water for Jimmy-James. She placed a toy, shaped like a mouse, next to the bowls.

"He hasn't taken one step out of that carrier," Mom said. "Do you think he will find his food?"

"We all have a strong sense of survival, even little kitties. I intentionally put his things far from the carrier. He will have to come out to eat."

Something was bugging me: "Fleur, I think I recognize the handwriting on that note."

"Really, Truly?"

"It looks like the handwriting on the note that was tied to the rock."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you think so?" I wanted her to be more
incensed, or at least more curious. "Fleur, you don't seem surprised. Do you know who did it? And more importantly, does that mean that the writer of those notes killed Michael-Ray?"

"I thought I knew. But Eric is under house-arrest. So
, now I'm not sure."

My mom was listening with great interest. "Why would you think it was Eric? He confessed to attacking you long after your cat was killed. You had no reason to suspect him then."

"Oh, Kay, I knew he had attacked us. Eric has very distinctive coloring. That curly hair is hard to miss, even in the dark of the parking lot. The boys wore bandanas across their faces, but they covered very little else."

"Aunt Fleur, why would you keep such a secret?" I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"There are so many reasons. He is a child. I felt that he would learn his lesson without my interference. I believe in karma. The justice of the universe is more powerful that the laws of Columbus, Mississippi. Anyway, we all know that nothing will happen to boys who beat up transvestites. They would be heroes in this town."

"I don't get it either," said Mom.

"Well, it would be like turning in Truly for a childish prank. I couldn't do it."

"Oh, please, Aunt Fleur. My daughter is nothing like Eric Alexander!" Mom reddened. Her voice had an angry edge.

"They are more alike than you know." Fleur smiled with her lips closed. Actually, I have new and interesting things to tell you."

We were paying attention to her. But I was thinking that there wasn't much that could top this news.

"Kay, I've been having visits from your mother at night."

"You mean dreams?" Mom is always grounded.

"I'm quite sure that they are visits. She looks wonderful, not at all like when she was sick. I know she's dead, but it makes me happy to see her."

"Does she say anything?" I had to ask.

"She smiles like Mona Lisa. One time she said, 'Tell Hyrum I forgive him.' That's all."

"I would like to sleep now,"
she said. "We have another rough day in court tomorrow." She took her bag and the cat carrier and headed toward our guest room. "Good night, ladies." She waved her hand over her shoulder.

"I'm much more tired than I realized," Mom said as she stifled a yawn. "I'll see you in the morning,
Truly."

"Mom, do you think she is really seeing Grandma Belle?"

"I don't know, dear. Let's get some rest."

I went to my room, still wide awake. When I tried to close my eyes all I could see was the ugly black paint defacing my aunt's house, and the threatening note. I was frightened and thought everyone else should be, too.

I lay awake for a long time. Every noise in the house was amplified, scaring me and making me flinch. The hum of the icemaker, the ticking of my alarm clock, rustling sounds outside my window, suddenly sounded sinister.

Much later, I heard Dad come home, and I finally relaxed. The muffled thump of his footsteps as he walked to the bar, and the clinking of ice in his glass were familiar and comforting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

N
ext morning, Mom sat at the table with her coffee and cinnamon rolls. Dad wasn't stirring yet. Jimmy-James crouched next to his bowl
, making crunching noises as he ate. He looked as comfortable as if he had been living here for years.

Aunt Fleur held the phone. "Yes, I understand," she said.
"Of course. I'll call you tonight." She turned to us. "That was Trillian; she and Algonquin received some unpleasant phone calls last night."

"What did they say?" I asked.

"Nothing much," she said as she waved her hand in the air as if she were brushing away an annoying bug, "some name calling, suggestions to leave town, that sort of thing." Fleur is always lady-like. She never curses. We could tell that she was editing. "So they will not be in court today." 

Dad came down and poured his coffee before he spoke to us. His eyes were puffy and red. He must have had several martinis last night. He took a sip from his mug, and finally said, "Good morning, ladies."

Mom said, "We should all try to eat something. I think it's going to be a long day."

"I'm not hungry," responded Fleur.

"Aunt Fleur, I'm worried about you. Please eat." The oven timer dinged, I pulled the pan of rolls out of the oven, and smeared the white icing onto them. I put one on a plate and placed it in front of her. She smiled at me and took a tiny nibble.

Dad left first, taking his car so he could be at Mr. Adams' office before court. The three of us went together in Mom's SUV.

Eric was put on the stand to testify as soon as court was called to order. Judge Sanders declared recess yesterday when he began crying. Maybe that professional persona is a façade. He could have a soft side.

Eric did appear to be feeling better today. He wore the same suit as yesterday, with a shirt that looked freshly ironed. I can't say the same for his father. Hunter's tie was crooked, and the bags under his eyes seemed to have become droopier overnight.

Of all the people in the room, Johnny D. looked the worst. His clothes were badly wrinkled. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had slept in them.

We sat two rows in front of Johnny.
Anyone seeing him on the street would probably assume that he was a homeless person.  I thought I could make out the sound of soft sobs coming from his direction. When I heard the unmistakable loud honk of someone blowing his nose, I was sure it was him. I guess Mom was right about parents. No one ever gets over the loss of a child.

Mr. Adams was, of course, more gentle with his cross-examination than the D. A. had been. He called him "Eric
," instead of "Mr. Alexander." His tone was friendly. You could almost forget that we were here for a very serious reason.

"Now, Eric," he began, "tell the court about the evening when you and your friends discovered the body of Russell Lewis."

Poor Eric, he had told the same story a million times. By now, anyone in the room could repeat it by heart. He explained it all again. I was convinced that he was not lying.

Greg and Butch were allowed to leave their home today. They did not sit in the courtroom with everyone else. When they were called to testify, they were brought from a room on the left side of the bench. Each came out separately, in hand cuffs, with a policeman beside him.

It was so sad. Neither of them looked like hardened murderers. They looked more like frightened boys. Butch cried just a bit when he told his version of the story. Greg tried to remain unemotional, but his voice cracked.

Each boy's recital of the details of that night was almost exactly like Eric's. They drove around for a while, trying to decide how they would confront the coach, what they would say, gathering the nerve to face someone they feared.

Butch's mother broke down when he was brought out in an orange jumpsuit. Her husband put his arm around her shoulder, which calmed her until his testimony was over. Then she dashed out of the room.

There were no more people to testify, so Judge Sanders called recess for lunch. He would hear closing arguments when we reassembled.

Mom and Fleur and I decided to go the Zachary's, a diner almost next door to the courthouse. Today, my dad joined us. We slipped into a booth, hoping that no one would try to talk to us.

"
Truly, you understand that this is not looking good." Dad stared directly into my eyes. I was pretty sure that I knew what he was getting at. I was also a little taken aback. He had never called me anything except Gertrude.

"I don't agree, Dad. It seems that there is no real incriminating evidence."

"This is a witch hunt. There is a strong demand for a murder to be solved." He ordered a drink from the bar. It was only 12:30. He gulped it in one swallow, and raised his finger to signal the waitress for another.

Mom put her hand on my arm. "Eric could get some time, maybe a lot of time."

It didn't matter that I was over Eric, still angry and confused about his attack on my aunt. I believed that he was innocent. I did not want him to go to prison.

My hamburger sat like a two-ton lump in my stomach, even though I had only eaten part of it. I wished that we would never have to go back into that courtroom again. We had to, though. I guess I've learned that my wishes are
futile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

T
he D.A. took the floor first. He gave a speech rehashing details that everyone already knew. He was dramatic, with his voice rising and falling. I'll bet he has had some stage experience.