Morning Glory (64 page)
From a brusque female medical examiner who identified herself as Leslie McCooms came the fact that remnants of dust and lemon oil matching those on the torn dustcloth had been found on
Defense counsel released the witness without questions, reserving the right to cross-examine her later.
From Gladys Beasley, long-standing lioness of estimable repute, came the concession that the dustcloth and lemon oil (exhibit A) could possibly have come from the Carnegie Municipal Library of Whitney, where Will Parker was employed and on duty the night of
Atlanta
Constitution
and she had given Will Parker permission to take home one of the two copies when it was three days old or more.
It was all testimony that Will had expected, yet he felt shaken at how incriminating it sounded when stated by witnesses under oath, from a hard wooden chair on a raised platform beside the judge's dais.
But the tide subtly turned when Robert Collins cross-examined Miss Beasley.
"Did
"She most certainly did."
"And did she speak to Mr. Parker?"
"Yes."
"How do you know?"
"I could hear their conversation plainly from the checkout desk. The library is U-shaped, with the desk situated in the crossbar so that I can see and often hear everything that's going on. The ceilings are high and everything echoes."
"When did you hear the first such conversation between Peak and Parker?"
"On
"How can you be sure of that date?"
"Because Mr. Parker asked for a borrower's card and I began to fill one out before realizing he had not established residency in Whitney. The card was filled out in ink, thus I couldn't erase and reuse it for another patron. Abiding by the motto, Waste not, want not, I filed Mr. Parker's card in a separate place to reuse when he came back in with proof of residency, as I was sure he would. He still uses that original card, with the date of September second crossed off."
Miss Beasley presented Will's borrower's card, which was entered as exhibit B. "So," Collins went on, "on the day of September second, you overheard a conversation between
Miss Beasley, prim and well-packed and indubitably accurate, repeated verbatim what she had overheard that first day when Lula sat down across from Will and stuck her foot between his thighs, when she trapped him between the shelves and attempted to seduce him, when she vindictively accused his wife of being crazy from the time Elly was a child, a time when Miss Beasley herself remembered Eleanor See as a bright, inquisitive student with a talent for drawing. She told of Will's polite but hasty exit on that day and others when Lula followed him into the library under the pretext of "bettering herself" with books which she never bothered to check out.
Listening to her testimony, Will sat tense. After the dressing down she'd given him he'd feared her antipathy on the witness stand. He should have known better. He had no better friend than Gladys Beasley. When she was excused she marched past his chair with her typical drill sergeant bearing, without a glance in his direction, but he knew beyond a doubt that her faith in him was unassailable,
Miss Beasley was the prosecution's last witness. Then it was Collins' turn.
He spent thirty seconds boosting himself from his chair, sixty gazing out over the gallery and fifteen removing his glasses. He chuckled, nodded at his toes and called, "Defense calls Mrs. Lydia Marsh."
Lydia Marsh, looking pretty as a madonna with her coal black hair and pale blue dress spoke her oath and stated that she was a housewife and mother of two whose husband was fighting "somewhere in Italy." A careful observer might have seen the almost imperceptible approval in the softening of the jurors' mouths and the relaxing of their hands over their stomachs. Certainly Robert Collins saw and set out to capitalize on the sense of patriotism running rife through every American in that jurors' box.
"How long have you known Will Parker, Mrs. Marsh?"
The questions were routine until Collins asked
Lydia
to relate a story about what happened the day Will Parker left for
Parris Island
to be inducted into the
United States
Marines.
"He came by the house,"
Lydia
recalled, "and called from down by the gate. He acted slightly nervous and maybe a little embarrassed—"
"Objection, your honor. Witness is drawing a conclusion."
"Sustained."
When Lydia Marsh continued it was with the avid determination to paint things accurately. "Mr. Parker refused to meet my eyes at first, and he wiped his hands nervously on his thighs. When I went down to wish him goodbye, he gave me a green towel and a fruit jar full of honey. He told me he'd stolen them from me nearly a year and a half before, when he was down and out and had no money. At the time he stole the fruit jar it had been filled with buttermilk—he'd taken it from our well. And the green towel he'd taken from the clothesline along with a set of my husband's clothes, which had, of course, been worn out long before that day. He apologized and said it had bothered him all that time, stealing from us, and before he went off to war, he wanted to make it right. So he was bringing me the honey, which was all he had to repay us with."
"Because he thought he might not get the chance again? He feared he might die in the war?"
"He didn't say that—no. He wasn't that kind. He was the kind who knew he had to fight and went to do it without complaint, just like my own husband did."
"And more recently, Mrs. Marsh, since William Parker's return from the Pacific, have you been aware of any marital discord between him and his wife?"
"Quite the opposite. They're extremely happy. I believe I would have known if he'd had any reason to seek the company of a woman like
"And what makes you believe he didn't?"
Lydia
's eyes swerved to Elly's and took on a glow. "Because Elly—Mrs. Parker, that is—recently confided in me that she's expecting their first baby."
The shock hit Will as if he'd been poleaxed. He twisted around in his chair and his eyes collided with Elly's. He half-rose, but his attorney pressed him down gently. A rush of joy warmed his face as his glance swept down to his wife's stomach, then lifted once more to her blushing cheeks.
Is it true, Elly?
The words went unsaid but everyone in the courtroom sensed them with their hearts instead of their ears. And every person present saw Elly's answering smile and the merest nod of her head. They watched Will's dazzling, jubilant hosanna of a smile. And twelve out of twelve in the jury who were mothers and fathers felt their heartstrings tugged.
A murmur spread through the gallery and was silenced only when Collins excused the witness and announced the reading by the bailiff of Will Parker's military record into evidence. The bailiff, a small, effeminate man with a high voice, read from a file with eyebrows raised in approval. The records of the United States Marine Corps characterized William L. Parker as a tough recruit who knew how to follow orders and command men, thus earning him the honor of being named squad leader in basic training and in combat, and promotion to the rank of corporal before his medical discharge in May of 1943. Also on record was a citation from Colonel Merrit A. Edson, Commander of the First Marine Raiders, commending Will's bravery in battle and delineating the courageous acts that had won him the Purple Heart in what by now the war correspondents had dubbed "the bloodiest battle of the
Coral Sea
, the Battle of Bloody Ridge."
The courtroom was respectfully silent when the bailiff closed his file. Collins had the jury in his hand and he knew it. He'd gotten them with respectability, honesty and military valor. Now he'd get them with a bit of levity.
"Defense calls Nat MacReady to the stand."
Nat left his place beside Norris and hustled forward. Though his shoulders were stooped, he walked with amazing agility for one of his age. Nat looked spiffy, dressed in the woolen blouse of his World War I army uniform with its tarnished gold stars and lieutenant's stripes. It was obvious at a glance that Nat was proud to be called upon to help justice prevail. When asked if he would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, he replied, "You bet your boots, sonny."
Judge Murdoch scowled but allowed the chuckles from the gallery as Nat, eager-eyed, seated himself on the edge of his chair.
"State your name."
"Nathaniel MacReady."
"And your occupation."
"I'm a retired businessman. Ran the icehouse out south of town since I was twenty-six, along with my brother, Norris."
"What town is that?"
"Why, Whitney, of course."
"You've lived there all your life, have you?"
"I most certainly have. All except for them fourteen months back in '17 and '18 when Uncle Sam give me a free trip to
Europe
."
Titters of appreciation sounded. Collins stood back and let the uniform speak for itself; not a soul in the place could mistake Nat's pride in wearing it again.
"So you've been retired now for how many years?"
"Fifteen years."
"Fifteen years..." Collins scratched his head and studied the floor. "You must get a little bored after fifteen years of doing nothing."
"Doing nothing! Why, sonny, I'll have you know my brother and I organized the Civilian Guard, and we're out there every night enforcing the curfew and watching for Japanese planes, aren't we, Norris?"
"We sure are," Norris answered from the gallery to another ripple of laughter that had to be silenced by Murdoch's gavel.
"Defense counsel will instruct his witness to direct his responses to the court and not the gallery," Murdoch ordered.
"Yes, your honor," replied Collins meekly before scratching his head again and waiting for the room to still. "Now before we get into your duties as a volunteer guard, I wonder if you'd take a look at something for me." From his baggy pocket Collins withdrew a small wooden carving and handed it to Nat. "Did you make this?"
Nat took it, replying, "Looks like mine." Turning it bottom-side up, he examined it myopically and added, "Yup, it is. Got my initials on the bottom."
"Tell the court what it is."
"It's a wood carving of a wild turkey. Where'd you get it?"
"At the drugstore in Whitney. Paid twenty-nine cents for it off their souvenir counter."
"Did you tell Haverty to mark it in his books so I get credit?"
The judged rapped his gavel.
"I certainly did, Mr. MacReady," Collins answered to the accompaniment of soft laughter from the spectators, then rushed on before drawing further wrath from the sober-faced Murdoch. "And where did you make it?"
"In the square."
"What square?"
"Why, the Town Square in Whitney. That's where me and my brother spend most days, on the bench under the magnolia tree."
"Whittling?"
"Naturally, whittling. Show me an old man with idle hands and I'll show you the subject of next year's obituary."
"And while you whittle, you see a lot of what goes on around the square, is that right?"