Butterfield says, “I’m ready to proceed, your honor.”
Dick nods. Neither man would say a word to me on our way up the stairs. This could mean one of two things: they aren’t worried or they don’t want me to have any more time. Johnson shrugs, “Let’s get started, then.”
Back in the courtroom, I notice that though the spectator section is just as crowded as the last two days, its composition has changed.
There are more blacks and fewer whites, which, I interpret, means that they heard there is no evidence against Paul. For the first time, I notice a group of Chinese in the back sitting with the Tings. They may have been here all this time, and I never noticed them. God only knows what they think of the criminal justice system in Bear Creek.
I begin by calling my character witnesses first, and they do well, though Doss’ SAME minister gets a little carried away.
“Mr. Bledsoe’s reputation as a law-abiding nonviolent citizen is as spotless as the son of God’s.”
I turn and see Butterfield scratching his head as if he might be thinking that Jesus is usually portrayed these days as a revolutionary who set out to overthrow the established order, but he decides to let it go. Now that we’ve opened up the door on my client’s character, Butterfield can attack it, but Class appears to have led a pretty quiet life, and the prosecutor sits with his hands in his pockets as if this testimony is so much window dressing, which of course it is.
I decide to call Mary Kiley before Eddie Ting and instantly understand why Butterfield was ready to go forward. Instead of the assertive woman who last evening was willing to stick her neck out, today Mary Kiley seems a timid, shy soul who knows she is in trouble for telling the prosecutor one thing and me another. In her own backyard, she projected a strong, almost bitchy, personality; now, she seems like a little girl who will parrot the last person who talked to her.
Wearing a white dress that gives her a childlike quality, she has to repeat her name three times before the court reporter can get it down.
By the time she sits down, all I have managed to establish is that she isn’t certain that Darla was at the school all afternoon.
On direct examination, Eddie Ting’s testimony is straightforward enough, but as Butterfield begins to wind down, it is clear its usefulness is limited. Paul is motionless while Dick leans forward to hear better. Butterfield is like a giant stork flapping from behind the podium as he follows the timehonored tradition of calling attention to himself and away from the witness on cross-examination.
His next-to-last question to Eddie is, “Isn’t it a fact that all you have discovered is some receipts for the purchase of hogs from Dixie Farms that appear to have been altered?” “Yes, sir,” Eddie says in a meek voice.
Butterfield drapes himself over the podium.
“And you can’t positively say who did it or why they did it, can you, Mr. Ting?”
Eddie folds his arms across his chest as if he wishes he hadn’t ever made the decision to cross the Mississippi River to come to Arkansas.
“No, sir.”
Again Dick declines to cross-examine, and I let Eddie step down. The judge has already prevented him from speculating about why the receipts may have been doctored.
“I’d like to recall Darla Tate, your honor,” I say, and while we wait for her to come from the witness room, I glance at Paul, but he is like a statue. I look behind the railing for Connie and Tommy. They must be thinking that they have been suckered again. I can’t quite see either of them, nor do I really want to.
If Darla has a clue as to why she is being recalled, I can’t guess it from her expression. As she enters the courtroom, she is not smiling, but does not appear afraid either. Today she is wearing a loose, blousy tunic that conceals her biceps. I wish I could make her pull up her sleeves and show the jury her muscles. If Darla doesn’t turn out to be the murderer, I will feel like an idiot, not an uncommon emotion for me the last couple of weeks. My face grows hot again as I think how I have allowed myself to be manipulated in this case.
“Just a couple of questions, Mrs. Tate I say, forcing a smile at her as she seats herself.
She nods, now spreading a plastic grin on her own face. I would like to get her to answer before she figures out what is going on, but if she did kill Willie, she will be ready for me.
“Mrs. Tate, I’m going to show you some documents which have been identified collectively as defendant’s exhibit one,” I say, approaching her.
“Can you tell the jury what these are?”
Darla squints hard at the sheaf of papers, but I notice her palm and fingers are steady as she takes them from me. She goes through them one
by one and announces, “These are receipts from Dixie Farms for hogs.”
“Would you look at these closely and tell me if any of the figures on the number of hogs purchased in each one appear to have been altered?”
I have to admit that Darla is either innocent or a cool customer. As if this were a surprise, she says, “You know, they seem to be. For example, this five appears to have been a six, but it looks as if part of it was erased.”
I pretend to study the pink copy bearing the Confederate logo of Dixie Farms.
“Can you think of a reason why someone would alter these figures?”
Butterfield springs out of his chair.
“Objection, your honor. He’s asking her to speculate.”
Johnson, who has gotten curious and is leaning over to his left to look at the receipts, says, “Overruled.”
Tipped off that she doesn’t have to answer, Darla says blandly, “I don’t know why.”
“Well, let me suggest a reason and see if you agree,” I say, taking the receipts from her and handing them to Johnson, who helps me out by peering at them.
“If somebody wanted to steal some live hogs from the plant and conceal
that fact, wouldn’t it help to make it appear that the actual number of hogs purchased was different than it truly was?”
Darla doesn’t miss a beat.
“All you’d have to do to check,” she says, shrugging, “is call the person who sold them to you and ask him what his copy says.”
“But first you’d have to suspect something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”
Darla shrugs.
“I suppose so.”
I go back to the podium, since Johnson is still going through the papers.
“Where do you keep the receipts?”
Darla shifts in her seat for the first time since she has been on the stand.
“In a filing cabinet next to my desk.”
“Is it kept locked?” I ask.
“No, anybody could have access to the drawer.”
I let that answer hang for a few seconds.
“I just asked you if it was locked. Did you alter those receipts, Mrs. Tate?” Darla says, “Absolutely not.”
“Your honor, may I come pick up the receipts and show them to the jury?”
Johnson nods, and I come forward and hand them to Ira Kingston, a white man seated at the end. If he begins to yawn, I’m dead meat.
I turn to Darla and ask, “Are you absolutely certain that you have an alibi for the time Mr. Ting was murdered?”
Darla, indignant now or appearing to be, snaps, “I was at my sons’ school volunteering in the office.
You can ask the school secretary, Mary Kiley.”
I let Darla stew for a moment.
“Did you murder Willie Ting because you were involved in some scheme,” I ask as dramatically as possible, “to steal meat from the plant and he had found out and was about to fire you?”
“No, I did not!” Darla shouts at me, her bosom heaving under her dress.