The Killing Tree (26 page)

Mamma Rutha was standing now. Next to the stream with her arms raised toward the sky.

“The body couldn’t hold the blood inside,” she said. “And it was in misery to die. I cut my hand and I held it over her mouth.
Trying to pour blood back in her. Won’t a momma do anything, give anything, her blood even? But the body wanted to be with
her soul. It wanted to stretch towards the sun. It was all I could do to help her. So I took her to her soul.”

I looked into the stream and I saw the mirror again. Framed by the vision of Mamma Rutha, with arms lifted to the sky. I recognized
the ugly twisted woman within. With howling white eyes and lips soggy in pain. With a body unable to hold its own blood. It
was the soulless Mary, before she was carried to the sun.

T
he courtroom surprised me. It was smaller than I had expected. With a low ceiling and an uneven shape. Smelling like a room
that once held men covered in starch, but was now filled only with the dusty scent of old wood and waxed floors. With only
an American flag and a plaque of the Ten Commandments for decoration. There was nothing great about the room. There was nothing
that spoke of the agony it held. Or of the hope. Its walls never realized the significance of everything they framed.

I hadn’t known what to wear. I wanted to look respectable enough to be believed. But not so respectable that I couldn’t be
a common criminal. I ended up wearing a church dress, not the dusty rose one and not the purple and white one. It was deep
blue and plain. And I pulled my hair back off my face, because I didn’t want to look girlish. I was afraid that if I looked
young and sweet, a judge might pity me, and prefer to send Trout to jail over me. And I left my lips naked. I didn’t want
to look pretty. I wanted to look guilty. Believable and guilty. I glanced at my dress as I sat in the courtroom, and I felt
the shabbiness of my life.

I had been nervous all morning. Remembering all the Perry Mason shows I had ever watched. The way an audience would pack the
courtroom. The way the newspaper would take everyone’s picture on the courthouse steps. The long speeches of the lawyers.
The feverish emotion of their arguments. The looks of shock that would sweep the entire room when someone unsuspected would
declare her guilt. The sound of the gavel as the judge would cry, “Order! Order in my court!” to silence all the whispers.
I would cause all of Crooktop to lose order when I declared my guilt.

Two men strode in with heavy steps. One was young, and one was old. Their backs slightly bent with the weight of the briefcases
they shouldered. The old one’s case was worn and tattered, with papers bursting from the unzipped top and bulging sides. The
young one’s case was still thin and shiny, looking as if he took great pains to polish it every morning. They matched their
cases. The old one looking tired and pasty. His belt had long given up the fight against his belly, which spilled over his
waist as though someone had squeezed him too tightly, causing everything to overflow. But the young one was trim and eager,
with a neatly groomed appearance that spoke of his importance.

I listened to them. The old one was teaching the other. He was explaining how to “nail the crook every time.”

“It’s all in your opening, son. That’s where your whole case is won or lost. The jury makes up its mind after the first five
minutes, so you got five minutes to sell yourself. If you can convince the jury to like you, they’ll do what you ask. To hell
with the evidence. To hell with all that nonsense about reasonable doubt. It’s about us, son. It’s about the suits that strut
before ’em.”

They were lawyers. The ones trying to take Trout’s freedom. They were my enemy. And yet they hadn’t seen me sitting there,
and they didn’t even know my name.

“And you know how to get the jury to like you, son? You be like them. Jurors are common folk. The high school dropout. The
angry neighbor. The farmer that has his hidden field of marijuana. They want to be looked in the eyes and asked for help.
Not preached at.”

“And I suppose telling them how the law was created to protect them from people like the defendant doesn’t hurt either, does
it?” the young one asked.

“Ah hell. The jury is the law. Those twelve people are the power. The moment you forget that is the moment you lose your case.”

“Well, at least there’s no jury to worry about for this next case, since the fella pled guilty earlier. Here he comes now,
let’s get this boy sentenced and shipped on over the mountain where he belongs,” the young one said.

It should have been a perfect moment. My body should have sensed his presence, and my heart should have sought out the beat
of his. The walls should have taken on a new life, pulsing with the greatness of holding him. I should have smelled his skin,
the way I had always been able to. Our eyes should have met. Mine, the color of his earth. And his, the garden of my desire,
the river of my drowning.

But that very first moment blinked by so quickly I could only remember it later as I laid in bed. And in that moment, before
my mind could whisper to my heart,
It is your love
, I didn’t know him. And it wasn’t because he was completely changed. Hair, lips, eyes, skin, everything that makes a body,
it was all the same. And yet somehow so different. With cool steel circling his wrists. And the easy way, the calm peace that
always hung upon him, replaced by a face that looked older and angrier. That looked less wise somehow. And for that brief
moment, for that second that I did not know him, I looked at him, and I saw a man that belonged there.

Another man entered the room and walked over to Trout. He placed his hand on Trout’s shoulder, and I instantly liked him.
They spoke briefly, and I guessed that he was Trout’s lawyer. He looked younger than Trout, in a suit that was too big. Like
he had lost too much weight, too quickly, and hadn’t had time to buy new clothes. He left Trout and walked over to the table
on the right. The prosecutors stood up and they all shook hands and began joking about the new golf course built over in the
foothills. I was filled with bitterness. How could he do that? How could any man touch Trout and then touch his enemy too?
How could he be on Trout’s side and joke about golf with those that wanted to hurt him?

“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the bailiff called out. The prosecutors rose to their feet. Trout’s lawyer turned from where he was already
standing to face the bench. Sensing the air of importance that floated in the room as the bailiff called those words, I rose
to my feet too. I looked at Trout. There were three lawyers on one side of the room. And he was alone on the other.

“The Honorable Judge Moser presiding,” the bailiff continued. “All people having business before this court draw nigh and
you shall be heard. God save the state and this honorable court. Court is now in session.” With those words, a new man walked
in. Draped in black and looking like a judge. With thick white hair sharply contrasting the blackness of his robe. He had
heavy eyebrows that knitted together even when his face bore no expression, giving him a look of fierceness.

“You may be seated,” the judge said lowly without looking up as he shuffled through loose papers scattered about his bench.
He put a pair of reading glasses on that his eyebrows defiantly peeked over, and looked up at the room. After I had been sitting
there all morning, behind the lawyers, the bailiff, and Trout, the judge was the first person to notice me. In the moment
our eyes greeted one another, I searched for kindness. And I willed him to have mercy.
Mercy for Mercy’s love.

“Morning, gentlemen,” the judge said, telling me he was a good person. He looked at Trout, not just the lawyers, but Trout
too, and called him a gentleman.

“In the matter of
State versus Price
, the defendant earlier entered a formal plea of guilty to felony larceny, is that correct?”

Trout’s lawyer rose to his feet, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Counsel, are you ready to present arguments with regard to his sentencing?” the judge asked, looking toward the prosecutors.

The young one rose, “The State is ready, your honor.”

“Very well then,” the judge said, looking at his papers again.

“May it please the court,” the prosecutor said, “the State will be brief, Your Honor. We don’t have any witnesses to call.
We just want to emphasize to Your Honor that this man, this migrant drifter, entered the private property of one of our most
respected community members.” He began flipping the pages of his legal pad.

“Let’s see, uh, Wallace Heron, who lives up on the mountain,” he continued. “The defendant entered his property at night,
while his wife and orphaned granddaughter slept within. He then stole four hunting dogs of great value. And not just ordinary
mutts, your honor. These were purebreds, purchased from a line of champion hunters. The defendant has admitted to all of this.
But he shows no remorse. He won’t even tell Mr. Heron what he did with the dogs. He offers nothing to mitigate the sentence
for his crime. Therefore, the State requests, Your Honor, that these facts all be weighed together, to impose the maximum
sentence for felony larceny. Thank you.”

He took his seat and the judge continued to shuffle papers around as I tried to absorb all that I had heard. I had carried
four dogs into the mountain to help Mamma Rutha, to keep them from killing her creatures, and suddenly it was larceny. I didn’t
even know what that meant.
Larceny.
It sounded complicated, and bad.

“Thank you, counsel,” the judge said lowly. “Counsel for the defense, are you ready?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Trout’s lawyer said as he rose to his feet.

“May it please the court,” he began. “The defense also will not call any witnesses, and thus will be brief, Your Honor. But
we want to point out that this crime was committed without any aggravation. No one was hurt, no one even knew until the next
morning. My client was not armed and the police did not find a weapon among his belongings. He may be a drifter, but perhaps
he is just young and has lost his way. We ask for leniency, Your Honor, for this sin of his youth. Thank you.”

“Thank you, counsel,” the judge said. “Does the State have any rebuttal?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Well if there is nothing further,” the judge began, and I knew. In the shiver of my legs as they pulled me to my feet. In
the spinning of the room that pulled the air from my lungs and refused to put it back in. It was time.

“Wait.” I was letting them know it wasn’t over. I was telling them it wasn’t finished. There were vows yet to be said.

“I took the dogs.” I didn’t whisper. I felt brave and strong, as I stared at the back of my love that wouldn’t look at me.

For a moment they didn’t know what to do with me. The lawyers exchanged glances with each other that changed from confusion
to amusement. For the young ones, I was probably the most exciting thing to ever happen in their short careers. The judge
looked at the lawyers, who all shrugged their shoulders.

“What is your name, young lady?” the judge asked, his eyebrows arching into dangerous mountains.

“Mercy Heron. I stole my grandfather’s dogs,” I said simply.

The young prosecutor was rising to his feet, accepting my challenge, “Your Honor, since the defendant has already pled guilty,
the State would ask the court to ignore this young lady, who is obviously confused and disturbed.”

“And what does the defense have to say about this? Do you know this young lady?” the judge asked Trout’s lawyer.

“No, Your Honor, I was not made aware of her. But in the interest of justice, I would ask that we be allowed to examine her,”
he said, his interest piqued by my challenge as well.

“Any objection, counsel?” the judge asked the prosecutors.

“Yes, Your Honor. In the interest of efficiency, the State asks that this girl be excused from the courtroom. Again I stress
that guilt or innocence is not an issue here today. The defendant is guilty. He has already entered his plea.”

“But perhaps her testimony could present mitigation,” Trout’s lawyer countered.

“What’ll it hurt to see what she has to say?” the judge said casually. “Allowing the State, of course, ample opportunity to
cross.”

I was called forward and I took an oath, swearing to tell the truth. My eyes avoided him now. They danced all around him.
Noting the color of his skin. The curl of his hair. But never settling on his face. Scared to settle there and not be answered.
Trout’s lawyer reminded me of my oath, and asked me a simple question.
Tell us what happened.
And that’s what I did. I told them about the dogs. How they were killing the mountain’s creatures. How they ran wild around
our house at night. How they were taken deep into the mountain and freed. How I gave Trout the ropes for his tent. I pledged
my vow, and I never looked at him.

“Ms. Heron,” the young prosecutor said, once Trout’s lawyer sat down.

“Yes?”

“What is your relationship to the defendant?”

Trout’s lawyer stood and objected.

“It is relevant, Your Honor. It goes to her credibility. If this court is going to be asked to believe her, it needs to know
the exact nature of her relationship with the defendant,” the prosecutor replied.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said.

He asked again about the “exact nature of my relationship to the defendant.” I almost lied. But I knew they could see it.
It was stamped across my flesh. I was his. And if I lied about my love, they might not listen to my guilt. So I told them.
He was my love.

“You took the dogs deep into the mountain?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“And you did it by yourself?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t hear you, Ms. Heron. Is it your testimony before this court that you led four large dogs weighing over a hundred
pounds each, through the densest part of the woods, in the middle of the night, miles and miles from your home, by yourself?
You’re asking us to believe that you did that all alone?”