She supposed, if they were to get a new trial, there would have to be new evidence. Where and how would she, or even a new attorney, find evidence after the police had been over everything, had collected and presented in court all the evidence to be found? She stood in the middle of the living room frantic with fear, her mind circling like a caged animal searching for a way to escape.
At last she picked up her purse and headed for Mama’s, to tell Sammie what must be told. Try to explain to her nine-year-old child that the law, which was meant to protect them, had turned against them. That the grown-ups on the jury whom Sammie knew and trusted, did not believe her daddy, that the whole town had betrayed him.
5
IN THE VISITING room of the Rome jail, Morgan stiffened as two deputy U.S. marshals pulled him away from Becky and Sammie. It took all the resolve he had not to fight them as they jerked his arms behind him, snapped on handcuffs and forced him toward the door. The time was eight-fifteen, the morning after he was sentenced in Rome’s U.S. courthouse by the town’s one federal judge. He and Becky and Sammie had been allowed only a few moments to say good-bye, the three of them clinging together. As if they might form an unbreakable chain that could never be wrenched apart. Sammie, when she looked up at him, was so vulnerable and perplexed. He knew Becky had debated a long time whether to bring her this morning. But the pain Sammie was experiencing now was preferable to his being taken away without seeing her, to Sammie learning later that Morgan was gone for good, that he might never come home again.
From the hall, he looked back for as long as he could see them, Sammie biting her lip, the tears streaming down. Becky stone-faced, holding the child close, trying not to cry. Then he couldn’t see them anymore, he was forced down the hall, through the jail’s back door and into the backseat of a U.S. marshal’s car. A heavy metal grid separated him from the front seat as if, despite handcuffs and a belly chain, they thought he would attack the driver from the rear.
In the backseat of the official vehicle, handcuffed to a second deputy, he watched the driver get settled, listened to the engine of the heavy Packard start up smooth and powerful. As the black car headed through Rome in the direction of Atlanta, he imagined Becky and Sammie getting in their car, holding each other, comforting each other. Imagined them driving the few blocks to Caroline’s, and he was mighty glad for Becky’s strong and caring mother.
Becky had been so still during the trial, sitting near him at the attorney’s table, never moving, and so very pale. After the verdict, when he was back in his cell he kept reliving that moment: “Life and twenty-five years, life and twenty-five years.” He kept seeing her face, closed and still, trying to hide the pain. Kept seeing the faces of his neighbors, members of his church, his automotive customers—the hard faces of strangers. In less than four weeks from the day Falon walked into the shop asking Morgan to come look at his car, nearly the whole town had turned against them. Their lives had been blown away as thoroughly as a landing craft sunk by a destroyer.
During the two-hour ride to Atlanta, handcuffed to the deputy marshal, he experienced every bitter emotion, desolation, helplessness, a violent rage that he had no way to act upon. He had always viewed the U.S. legal system as carefully designed to protect honest men, to confine those who threatened ordered society. How dumb was that?
If a federal jury could do this to an innocent man, what other destruction might the courts be capable of?
He and Becky had made their marriage vows for life; they had joined as a team not to be parted. Now Morgan himself, in one moment of bad judgment, had wrenched their family apart. In going with Falon to look at his car, he had broken all his promises to Becky and had shattered their little girl’s life. Now, if he hadn’t been chained he would have tried to grab the deputy’s weapon, would have done his best to break away and get the hell out of there. Watching the thin, scowling deputy, he grew increasingly restive. Only when the deputy’s hand edged toward his gun did Morgan try to sit easier. These men didn’t know him, they didn’t know what he might try. He was dealing with a different world now. He had no rights anymore. He would soon be surrounded by guards like these who lived by power, and by inmates just as power hungry, and he’d sure have to watch himself.
After the trial he had suggested to Becky that she file for divorce, that she try to make a new life for herself and Sammie. Her face had gone red with anger, her eyes blazing, then she had clung to him, weeping. Not since a mortar shell had ripped through the hull of his ship in the Pacific, the water gushing in through splintered metal, had he realized how frail and precious life was. Falon’s deliberate destruction of their lives had been as brutal as any enemy attack.
They entered the outskirts of Atlanta, passed the Fox Theater and then the hotel where he and Becky had had dinner before he left with the navy. She’d ended up crying halfway through the meal. The future then, as he went off to war, had seemed irrevocably black and empty.
He’d come home from that one—but maybe he’d had better odds, even in war, than he had now.
South of Atlanta the modest little houses gave way to mottled fields and then the Federal Pen loomed, tall and gray and cold, its fortress face and guard towers challenging all comers. Parking their black limo before the front door, the deputies pulled him out, forced him up the steps and inside.
He was booked and told to strip. His clothes were taken away, and a guard searched the cavities of his body, stirring his rage. He showered as he was told. He dressed in the prison blues he was issued, then moved into the cellblock followed by a guard. The cells stood five tiers high. He climbed the narrow metal stairs to the third level, walked ahead of the guard along the steel catwalk. He was locked into a single cell, and was grateful for that. He hoped he wouldn’t be moved later into one of the bigger cells with multiple cots and with unrestrained roommates. Sitting down on his narrow bunk, he didn’t look at the men in the cells across the way, didn’t make eye contact. Some of them watched him idly; others stared directly at him, caged predators assessing new prey.
6
THE NIGHT BEFORE Sammie said good-bye to Daddy she dreamed she was there in the police station. Sleeping next to Mama, Misto close in her arms, she saw their good-bye there in the jail and she hugged Misto tight, trying not to cry and wake Mama.
“It will be all right,” Misto murmured, his whiskers tickling her ear. “It isn’t over, Sammie. Your daddy will be all right.”
“The cowboy will come?” Sammie whispered. “He will help Daddy?”
“You dreamed he would,” Misto said.
She hadn’t answered, she’d hugged the big cat tight and he pressed his cool nose against her cheek. “You are my Sammie, you will endure.” He purred against her so hard she thought his rumble would wake Mama, but it didn’t, she was too tired from the courtroom trial.
“It must have been ugly and mean,” she whispered, “if Mama wouldn’t take me.”
“It was ugly. But your daddy will prevail, and so will you.” And Misto had leaped from her arms, raced around the night-dim room, raced up the curtains never moving them and making no sound, only delighting Sammie. He sailed from the curtain rod to the dresser with not a stir of air, then to the top of the open closet door and back to the bed, then up, up to the ceiling. His joy and wildness, his cat-madness made her want to race and fly with him, and maybe that would make the pain go away. He sailed around the room twice, then pounced down again and snuggled close, still and warm against her, purring and purring. Misto was with her all the rest of the night, snuggled in her arms. In the morning when she and Mama drove to the jail she knew he was near; sometimes she could feel his whiskers on her cheek or feel a brush of fur, and that helped her to be strong for Daddy.