About
This Novel; Chapter 1 ; Chapter 2; Chapter 3; Chapter 4; Chapter 5; Chapter 6; Chapter 7; Chapter 8; Chapter 9; Chapter
10; Chapter 11
1974
“Come
on, we’re late.”
Two
journalists, Jim Easton and Marvin Rosenbush, ascended the steps of the Muskogee
County courthouse.
Marvin,
a recent transplant from New York City, wore bell-bottom blue jeans and a
yellow t-shirt emblazoned with a photo of the rock group Kiss. He wore glasses and
his long, scraggly red hair draped over the wire rims. At 24 years old, he had recently been named
the youngest senior editor in the history of the local bi-weekly newspaper, The Jackson City Sentinel.
“What’s
this guy’s name again?” he asked his tour guide.
“William
Baxter,” said Jim, “but everyone just calls him the Reverend.”
Jim
Easton, 22, was a recent graduate of the University of Alabama’s School of Journalism. His hair was cut short, and he wore regular
blue jeans and a red and white striped collared shirt, untucked.
“Were
you at the first trial?” Marvin asked.
“No,”
Jim said. “I was at school, but I heard
about it.” He opened the main door and
held it for his elder.
“What
about the last one?” Marvin asked as he slipped into the air conditioned
building.
“The
second one didn’t go to trial. It went
before a grand jury. They failed to
indict.”
“How
could they fail to indict?” Marvin asked.
“Not
enough evidence,” Jim said.
“So,
basically the man has gotten away with murder twice?”
“It
looks like it.”
They
walked down a marble pathway toward the courtroom.
“And
now the insurance company doesn’t want to pay out?” Marvin asked.
“Right.”
“The
first wife was murdered and the second wife dies mysteriously under similar
circumstances. I wouldn’t want to pay
for that either.” They paused in front
of the door to the main courtroom. “So what are we here for today?” Marvin
asked.
Jim grasped the door handle. He looked at the armed guard sitting on a
bench by the doorway. “The Reverend is
scheduled to testify.”
The
guard gave a motion, and they entered the courtroom.
Several
heads turned to see who was coming in, but Marvin focused on the one sitting in
the witness chair.
The
Reverend looked to be in his early forties.
He wore a black suit several shades darker than his skin with a white
button-up shirt underneath and a black string tie.
Marvin
froze under his gaze. The man seemed to
be appraising him, judging him, and Marvin suddenly felt self-conscious for the
way he dressed.
He
felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to
Jim, who was motioning him to an open spot on the bench near the back of the
courtroom.
The
lawyer standing before the Reverend paused, as if thinking of the right words
to ask his next question. The man was in
his mid fifties, balding, and wore large square bifocals.
Marvin
looked at Jim.
“The
lawyer for the insurance company,” Jim whispered.
Marvin
nodded. “He looks like a lawyer for an insurance company.”
The
lawyer took a few steps toward the jury box, away from the Reverend. “Mr. Baxter,” he asked without looking at
him. “How did your first wife die?”
Melvin
Little stood up like a shot. “Objection,
Your Honor! That has no bearing on this
case.”
“The
objection is sustained.”
“I’ll
rephrase, Your Honor,” said the attorney for the insurance company. “Mr. Baxter, you are aware of the
similarities…”
“Objection!” Melvin cried.
“Your Honor, may I speak with you in a side bar?”
“Come
on, then,” the judge said.
The
two lawyers huddled before the judge.
Melvin was making a series of chopping motions with his hands, while his
counterpart from the insurance company had his palms turned into the air in the
universal expression of, “Who me?”
Marvin
looked at Jim, who was shaking his head.
The
huddle broke. Melvin wore a smug
grin. He strolled back to his chair like
a peacock on display.
Mr.
Barrett, the insurance man, shook his head.
“No further questions for this witness,” he said.
Melvin
casually spun toward his client.
“Reverend Baxter…” His expression softened. “I’m
so sorry for your loss,” he said.
The
Reverend nodded his head and offered a thin smile of appreciation.
“I
hate to even ask about this,” Melvin said.
“I know this must be difficult for you, but could you please describe
the health of your wife in the months before she died?”
“She
appeared to be in good health,” said the Reverend.
“She
was never diagnosed with any kind of pulmonary disease or asthma?” Melvin
asked.
“She
may have had a cold a few days before she died, but she was never diagnosed
with anything, no.”
“Thank
you, Reverend. Thank you for taking the
time to be with us today. No further
questions, Your Honor.”
The
judge excused the Reverend, and a new witness was brought forward and sworn in
by the bailiff. Dr. Henry Poole, the
pathologist who performed Calpurnia Baxter’s autopsy, took the low seat beside
the judge.
Mr.
Barrett’s next round of questions combined dry legalese with medical jargon, so
much so that it caused Marvin to sink down in his pew and forced down his
eyelids under the weight of their dullness.
The
aim of the questions, he gathered, was to establish that Calpurnia Murphy died
of natural causes, whereby the insurance company would be under no obligation
to pay out on an accidental death policy.
Melvin
Little’s turn brought little relief to Marvin’s boredom.
“Now,
doctor, I am going to ask you to assume that Mrs. Maxwell showed no symptoms of
lung disease, bronchial infections, and so forth, no pneumonia, or respiratory
problems or even coughing…”[i]
“Objection
to the hypothetical,” Mr. Barrett said without much enthusiasm.
“This
follows the evidence, Your Honor,” Melvin said.
“I’m just trying to establish the cause of death here.”
“I’ll
allow it,” said the judge.
“And
Dr. Poole,” Melvin continued, “let’s further assume that Mrs. Baxter was an
educated woman who would recognize whether she was sick or not, and that on the
date of her death she went about her normal duties: cooking and cleaning and so
forth, and that she then left home by automobile and collided with a tree. Based on this hypothetical question, can you
tell me the cause of death?”[ii]
Marvin
looked over at Jim, who mimed the act of smothering someone with a pillow.
“All
right,” Dr. Poole said. Based on that,
I’d say the cause of death was traumatic.
That trauma aggravated an underlying condition that might have otherwise
remained dormant.”
Melvin’s
eyes lit up. “So, you’re saying
Calpurnia Baxter would not have died if not for the accident.”
“I
don’t believe so. No.”
Marvin
tilted his head toward the door. Jim
followed him out.
“I
feel like I just traveled through the looking glass,” Marvin said.
“I
know what you mean,” Jim said. “Everyone’s
pretending it wasn’t a murder. What the
hell is going on?”
“The
man is getting paid to commit murder,”
Marvin said, “And the justice system is helping him do it. It’s a great story. The only problem is we can’t write a story
about it.”
“What
are you talking about?” Jim asked, anger entering his voice. “You just said it was a great story.”
“No one wants to read about the ins and outs
of an insurance policy,” Marvin said.
“And
if we say he’s a murderer, his lawyer will sue us for everything we’ve
got. The Sentinel doesn’t have the money to take that kind of hit. We’ll have to lead with something else. Didn’t you say there was a fair in town?”
Jim
lowered his shoulders in defeat. “Yeah,”
he said as he followed his young boss out of the courthouse and into the
afternoon sun. “Let’s go to the fair.”
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