Rome was a small town, everyone knew Morgan, knew he was a good man, knew how hard he worked at the automotive shop he had built. And everyone knew Brad Falon, knew he’d been in trouble all through school, had been in Juvenile Hall and later in prison. Everyone knew that Falon meant trouble, and that Natalie wasn’t much better. What dark and twisted leverage, what illusion, had been at work in the courtroom while that slovenly woman occupied the witness stand? That slattern with her wild black hair and tight skirts and jangling jewelry who had already gone through three husbands and a dozen lovers? What magnetism had been in play among the unseeing jury of townspeople, of six men and six women, to make them believe Natalie, to allow her to successfully hoodwink them?
Becky didn’t know how she was going to tell Sammie that her daddy wasn’t coming home. She felt drained, wanted to be with her own mother, wanted Caroline to hold and comfort her as if she herself were a child again. Wanted Caroline to reassure and strengthen her as they must now support Sammie. She wanted to be the little girl again, to be held and soothed, to be told what to do, told how to live her life, now that they were alone.
After the verdict Becky had phoned Caroline from the glassed-in phone booth at the courthouse, trying not to cry. Later, after the sentencing, she had phoned her mother again, had stood with her back to the glass door that faced the courthouse hallway, avoiding the eyes of her neighbors as they crowded out of the courtroom glancing at her with righteous or with embarrassed stares. She had wanted only to be away from them, to remove herself even from the few awkward attempts at sympathy. She hated her neighbors, she hated the jury that was made up of her neighbors, she hated the courts, hated the judge, the police, hated the damned attorney who had lost for them.
Sitting rigid on the edge of the chair, she thought of making herself a cup of tea. She hadn’t eaten since last night, but she didn’t care enough to get up and put the kettle on or to rummage in the refrigerator for something she thought she could keep down. She needed to pull herself together, needed to go on over to her mother’s and tell Sammie. She didn’t know how to face Sammie, didn’t known how to present the truth to her. Even if she talked about an appeal, tried to say he might be coming home, that wouldn’t be straightforward, the hope was too slim. If one attorney couldn’t win for them, how could another? She and Morgan had always been honest with Sammie. With the perceptive dreams Sammie had, one couldn’t be otherwise, couldn’t sidestep the true facts even though they were painful.
Sammie knew as well as she did that Brad Falon had set Morgan up, that the child feared and hated Falon and with good cause. While Morgan was overseas Falon broke into their house, terrified them both, and killed Sammie’s cat: Sammie knew too well what he was. The fact that this man had destroyed her daddy made the blow all the more frightening. That night when he broke in, Sammie’s yellow tomcat had leaped on Falon and done considerable damage before Falon killed him with a shard of broken glass. Sammie had never gotten over Misto’s death, she still dreamed of him. Sometimes she imagined he was there in bed snuggled close to her, she imagined that Misto’s ghost had come back to her. But lots of children had imaginary companions. The dreams comforted Sammie, and they hurt no one.
It was Sammie’s dreams of future events that were upsetting. Powerful predictions that, days or weeks later, would turn out to come true: the courthouse fire that Sammie dreamed in surprising detail exactly as it would later happen, its fallen brick walls, every detail occurring just as she’d seen.
There were happy dreams, too, the birth of the neighbor’s kittens, each with the same exact coloring that Sammie saw in her dream. But then had come the terrifying nightmare that brought Sammie up screaming that her daddy had been arrested and shoved behind bars, that he had been locked in a cell by the very officers who had been Morgan’s friends. That was the beginning. It had all happened, the robbery, Morgan’s arrest, Morgan locked in jail just as she’d dreamed.
On the witness stand, Falon told the jury that, originally, Morgan had driven over to look at Falon’s stalled Ford coupe, which was parked in front of Natalie’s apartment building. He said Morgan had noted the parts he must order and then had left, saying he was going back to the shop. Morgan’s mechanic testified that Morgan had never returned there, that at closing time he’d locked the shop up himself and gone home.
Falon said when Morgan came to look at his car he had acted nervous and seemed anxious to get away. He said he’d gone back upstairs to Natalie’s after Morgan left. Said he’d come down again shortly before three, walked across the street to the corner store and bought some candy and gum. The shopkeeper had testified to that, he said he’d seen Falon go back to the apartment building and in the front door. Falon testified that he had been with Natalie the rest of the afternoon and all night. When Natalie took the stand to corroborate his testimony she had blushed and tried to act shy that they had spent the night together. Right, Becky had thought angrily, and how many dozen other men over the years.
The court had allowed Becky to sit at the table with Morgan and Sed Williams, their attorney. She’d had a hard time avoiding the stares of the packed gallery. She had listened to the bank tellers identify Morgan’s voice, identify his hands with the thin lines of grease that clung in deep creases and around his nails, from his work in the auto shop when he forgot to wear gloves. The empty bootleg whiskey bottle the police found in Morgan’s car had Morgan’s fingerprints on it. Everyone in town knew that Morgan and she didn’t drink. A shopkeeper across the street from the bank had heard the shots, had seen Morgan’s car pull away, and had written down the license number.
Why couldn’t the jury see that Falon had planted it all? Why couldn’t they see that? Her helplessness there in the courtroom, her inability to speak up and correct this evil, had made her physically ill.
Now, when she rose from the wicker chair to go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, her stomach twisted so hard that she ran for the bathroom. She threw up in the sink, angrily cleaned the sink and scrubbed it with cleanser, then began to pace the house, living room to the two small bedrooms to kitchen, then back again, aimless and lost, desperate with rage.
An appeal was the only chance they had, was all they had to cling to. She had to think about that. How to get the money together? The best way to find a more competent attorney. She shouldn’t have hired Williams; he was too quiet, too low-key. She had thought he was a family friend, that he really cared about Morgan and would work hard for him. She’d thought that his quiet, professional manner in the courtroom would help them get to the truth. But when he had a witness on the stand she’d seen how weak he was, with no ability to defend his client.
She didn’t know how to start an appeal. She didn’t know if there was a waiting period, didn’t know how appeals worked. She’d been so sure Morgan would be acquitted that she hadn’t bothered to find out. She had to find a new attorney and figure out how to pay him. They’d bought the house after Morgan went in the navy, with the smallest payments they could obtain. Maybe she could get a second mortgage or borrow money on the shop. She wanted an attorney who would dig harder, a man strong enough to make a new jury see the truth. She tried to cheer herself that an appeal would end the nightmare, that Morgan would be out soon, that it wouldn’t be long and he’d be home again. Meantime she could run the shop just fine. Albert, the new mechanic, was a skilled worker even if he was dull about everything else. She knew she could take on more bookkeeping jobs, she always had a waiting list. Sammie would be in school, and she’d have plenty of time to work. Long empty nights in which to work. Long, empty weekends.