"I talked to their aunt."
He tossed the newspaper on the table and took a few steps in my direction. His bloodshot eyes narrowed and glared at me. Here, the pistol would've been useful.
"The truth is, Mr. Traynor, you tried to paint the unmistakable picture that these two little innocent children saw their mother get raped and murdered in her own bed, isn't that right?"
I took a deep breath and weighed my response. The courtroom was silent, waiting. "I have reported the facts as accurately as possible," I said, staring straight at Baggy, who, though he was pecking around the lady in front of him, at least was nodding at me.
"In an effort to sell newspapers, you relied on unnamed sources and half-truths and gossip and wild speculation, all in an effort to sensationalize this story."
"I have reported the facts as accurately as possible," I said again, trying to remain calm.
He snorted and said, "Is that so?" He grabbed the newspaper again and said, "I quote: 'Will the children testify at trial?' Did you write that, Mr. Traynor?"
I couldn't deny it. I kicked myself for writing it. It was the last section of the reports that Baggy and I had haggled over. We'd both been a little squeamish, and, with hindsight, we should have followed our instincts.
Denial was not possible. "Yes," I said.
"Upon what accurate facts did you base that question?"
"It was a question I heard asked many times after the crime," I said.
He flung the newspaper back on his table as if it were pure filth. He shook his head in mock bewilderment. "There are two children, right, Mr. Traynor?"
"Yes. A boy and a girl."
"How old is the little boy?"
"Five."
"And how old is the little girl?"
"Three."
"And how old are you, Mr. Traynor?"
"Twenty-three."
"And in your twenty-three years, how many trials have you covered as a reporter?"
"None."
"How many trials have you seen, period?"
"None."
"Since you are so ignorant about trials, what type of legal research did you do in order to accurately prepare yourself for these stories?"
At this point I would have probably turned the gun on myself.
"Legal research?" I repeated, as if he were speaking another language.
"Yes, Mr. Traynor. How many cases did you find where children age five or younger were allowed to testify in a criminal trial?"
I glanced in the direction of Baggy, who, evidently was now under the wooden bench. "None," I said.
"Perfect answer, Mr. Traynor. None. In the history of this state, no child under the age of eleven has ever testified in a criminal trial. Please write that down somewhere, and remember it the next time you attempt to inflame your readers with yellow journalism."
"Enough, Mr. Wilbanks," Judge Loopus said, a little too gently for my liking. I think he and the other lawyers, probably including Harry Rex, were enjoying this quick butchering of someone who'd meddled in legal affairs and gotten it all wrong. Even Mr. Gaddis seemed content to let me bleed.
Lucien was wise enough to stop when the blood was flowing. He growled something like, "I'm through with him." Mr. Gaddis had no questions. The bailiff motioned for me to step down, off the witness chair, and I tried desperately to walk upright back to the bench where Baggy was still hunkering down, like a stray dog in a hailstorm.
I scribbled notes through the rest of the hearing, but it was a failing effort to look busy and important. I could feel the stares. I was humiliated and wanted to lock myself in my office for a few days.
Wilbanks ended things with an impassioned plea to move the case somewhere far away, maybe even the Gulf Coast, where perhaps a few folks had heard of the crime but no one had been "poisoned" by the Times's coverage of it. He railed against me and my newspaper, and he went overboard. Mr. Gaddis, in his closing remarks, reminded the Judge of the old saying, "Strong and bitter words indicate a weak cause."
I wrote that down. Then I hustled out of the courtroom as if I had an important deadline.
Chapter 11
Baggy rushed into my office late the following morning with the hot news that Lucien Wilbanks had just withdrawn his motion to change venue. As usual, he was full of analysis.
His first windy opinion was that the Padgitts didn't want the trial moved to another county. They knew Danny was dead guilty and that he would almost certainly be convicted by a properly selected jury anywhere. Their sole chance was to get a jury they could either buy or intimidate. Since all guilty verdicts must be unanimous, they needed only a single vote in Danny's favor. Just one vote and the jury would hang itself; the Judge would be required by law to declare a mistrial. It would certainly be retried, but with the same result. After three or four attempts, the State would give up.
I was sure Baggy had been at the courthouse all morning, replaying with his little club the venue hearing and borrowing the conclusions of the lawyers. He explained gravely that the hearing the day before had been staged by Lucien Wilbanks, for two reasons. First, Lucien was baiting the Times into running another large photo of Danny, this one in jailhouse garb. Second, Wilbanks wanted to get me on the witness stand to peel off some skin. "He damned sure did that," Baggy said.
"Thanks, Baggy," I said.
Wilbanks was setting the stage for the trial, one that he knew all along would take place in Clanton, and he wanted the Times to tone down its coverage.
The third, or fourth, reason was that Lucien Wilbanks never missed an opportunity to grandstand in front of a crowd. Baggy had seen it many times and he shared a few stories.
I'm not sure I followed all of his expansive thinking, but at that moment nothing else made sense. It seemed such a waste of time and effort to put on a two-hour hearing, knowing full well it was all a show. I figured worse things have happened in courtrooms.
* * *
The third feast was a pot roast, and we ate on the porch as it rained steadily.
As usual, I confessed that I'd never had a pot roast, so Miss Callie described the recipe and the preparation in detail. She lifted the lid off a large iron pot in the center of the table and closed her eyes as the thick aroma wafted upward. I had only been awake for an hour, and at that moment I could've eaten the tablecloth.
It was her simplest dish, she said. Take a beef rump roast, leave the fat on it, place it in the bottom of the pot, then cover it with new potatoes, onions, turnips, carrots, and beets; add some salt, pepper, and water, put it in the oven on slow bake, and wait five hours. She filled my plate with beef and vegetables, then covered it all with a thick sauce. "The beets give it all a purple tint," she explained.
She asked me if I wanted to say the blessing, and I declined. Praying was not something I had done in a long time. She was far more gifted. She took my hands and we closed our eyes. As she spoke to heaven the rain tapped the tin roof above our heads.
"Where's Esau?" I asked after my first three large bites.
"At work. Sometimes he can get free for lunch, often he cannot." She was preoccupied with something and finally said, "Can I ask you a question that's somewhat personal?"
"Sure, I guess."
"Are you a Christian child?"
"I'm sure I am. My mother used to take me to church on Easter."
That was not satisfactory. Whatever she was looking for, that wasn't it. "What kind of church?"