Where the Crawdads Sing (26 page)

1970

Stating his name as Mr. Larry Price—a man with curly white hair, cut short, and dressed in a blue suit that shone cheaply—and that he drove the Trailways bus on varying routes in this area of North Carolina, the next witness was sworn in. As Eric questioned him, Mr. Price confirmed that it was possible to bus from Greenville to Barkley Cove and back again on the same night. He also stated that he was driving the bus from Greenville bound for Barkley Cove the night Chase died, and none of the passengers looked like Miss Clark.

Eric said, “Now, Mr. Price, you told the sheriff during his investigation that there was a skinny passenger on that bus who could’ve been a tall woman disguised as a man. Is that correct? Please describe this passenger.”

“Yeah, that’s right. A young white man. Reckon he was ’bout five ten, and his pants just hung on him like sheets on a fence post. He wore a big bulky cap, blue. Kept his head down, didn’t look at anybody.”

“And now that you’ve seen Miss Clark, do you believe it’s possible
that the skinny man on the bus was Miss Clark in disguise? Could her long hair have been hidden in that bulky cap?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Eric asked the judge to request that Kya stand up, and she did so with Tom Milton by her side.

“You can sit back down, Miss Clark,” Eric said, and then to the witness, “Would you say that the young man on the bus was the same height and stature as Miss Clark?”

“I’d say ’bout exactly the same,” Mr. Price said.

“So all things considered, would you say that it’s likely that the skinny man on the 11:50
P.M.
bus traveling from Greenville to Barkley Cove on the night of October 29 of last year was in fact the defendant Miss Clark?”

“Yeah, I’d say that’s very possible.”

“Thank you, Mr. Price. No further questions. Your witness.”

Tom stood in front of the witness stand and, after five minutes of questioning Mr. Price, he summed up. “What you’ve told us is this: one, there was no woman who looked like the defendant on the bus from Greenville to Barkley Cove on the night of October 29, 1969; two, there was a tall, thin man on the bus, but at the time, even though you saw his face very close, you didn’t think of him as a woman in disguise; three, this idea of disguise only came to you when the sheriff suggested it.”

Tom continued before the witness could respond. “Mr. Price, tell us how you’re sure the thin man was on the 11:50
P.M.
bus of October 29? Did you take notes, write it down? Maybe it was the night before or the night after. Are you one hundred percent sure it was October 29?”

“Well, I see what you gettin’ at. And, when the sheriff was jogging my memory, it seemed like that man was on that bus, but now, I reckon I can’t be one hundred percent sure.”

“Also, Mr. Price, wasn’t the bus very late that night? In fact, it was twenty-five minutes late and didn’t arrive in Barkley Cove until 1:40 in the morning. Is that correct?”

“Yeah.” Mr. Price looked at Eric. “I’m just trying to help out here, do the right thing.”

Tom reassured him. “You’ve been a great help, Mr. Price. Thank you very much. No further questions.”

E
RIC
CALLED HIS NEXT
WITN
ESS
, the driver for the 2:30
A.M.
bus from Barkley Cove to Greenville on the morning of October 30, a Mr. John King. He testified that the defendant, Miss Clark, was not on the bus, but there was an older lady, “. . . tall like Miss Clark, who had gray hair, short with curls, like a permanent wave.”

“Looking at the defendant, Mr. King, is it possible that if Miss Clark had disguised herself as an older lady, she would have looked similar to the woman on the bus?”

“Well, it’s hard to picture it. Maybe.”

“So it’s possible?”

“Yes, I guess.”

On cross, Tom said, “We cannot accept the word
guess
in a murder trial. Did you see the defendant, Miss Clark, on the 2:30
A.M.
bus from Barkley Cove to Greenville in the early morning of October 30, 1969?”

“No, I did not.”

“And was there another bus from Barkley Cove to Greenville that night?”

“No.”

1970

When Kya was led into the courtroom the next day, she glanced toward Tate, Jumpin’, and Mabel and held her breath at seeing a full uniform, a slight smile across a scarred face. Jodie. She nodded slightly, wondering how he’d learned of her trial. Probably the Atlanta paper. She tucked her head in shame.

Eric stood. “Your Honor, if it please the court, the People call Mrs. Sam Andrews.” The room breathed out as Patti Love, the grieving mother, made her way to the witness stand. Watching the woman she’d once hoped would be her mother-in-law, Kya now realized the absurdity of that notion. Even in this sullen setting, Patti Love, dressed in the finest black silks, seemed preoccupied with her own appearance and importance. She sat straight with her glossy purse perched on her lap, dark hair swept into the perfect bun under a hat, tipped just so, with dramatic black netting obscuring her eyes. Never would she have taken a barefoot marsh dweller as a daughter-in-law.

“Mrs. Andrews, I know this is difficult for you, so I’ll be as brief as
possible. Is it true that your son, Chase Andrews, wore a rawhide necklace hung with a shell?”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And when, how often, did he wear that necklace?”

“All the time. He never took it off. For four years I never saw him without that necklace.”

Eric handed a leather journal to Mrs. Andrews. “Can you identify this book for the court?”

Kya stared at the floor, working her lips, enraged at this invasion of her privacy as the prosecutor held her journal for all the court to see. She’d made it for Chase very soon after they met. Most of her life, she’d been denied the joy of giving gifts, a deprivation few understand. After working for days and nights on the journal, she’d wrapped it in brown paper and decorated it with striking green ferns and white feathers from snow geese. She’d held it out as Chase stepped from his boat onto the lagoon shore.

“What’s this?”

“Just something from me,” she had said, and smiled.

A painted story of their times together. The first, an ink sketch of them sitting against the driftwood, Chase playing the harmonica. The Latin names of the sea oats and scattered shells were printed in Kya’s hand. A swirl of watercolors revealed his boat drifting in moonlight. The next was an abstract image of curious porpoises circling the boat, with the words of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore” drifting in the clouds. Another of her swirling among silver gulls on a silver beach.

Chase had turned the pages in wonder. Ran his fingers lightly over some of the drawings, laughed at some, but mostly was silent, nodding.

“I’ve never had anything like this.” Leaning over to embrace her, he
had said, “Thank you, Kya.” They sat on the sand awhile, wrapped in blankets, talking, holding hands.

Kya remembered how her heart had pounded at the joy of giving, never imagining anyone else would see the journal. Certainly not as evidence at her murder trial.

She didn’t look at Patti Love when she answered Eric’s question. “It’s a collection of paintings that Miss Clark made for Chase. She gave it to him as a present.” Patti Love remembered finding the journal under a stack of albums while cleaning his room. Apparently hidden from her. She’d sat on Chase’s bed and opened the thick cover. There, in detailed ink, her son lying against driftwood with that girl. The Marsh Girl. Her Chase with trash. She could barely breathe.
What if people find out?
First cold, then sweaty, her body reeled.

“Mrs. Andrews, would you please explain what you see in this picture painted by the defendant, Miss Clark.”

“That’s a painting of Chase and Miss Clark on the top of the fire tower.” A murmur moved through the room.

“What else is going on?”

“There—between their hands, she is giving him the shell necklace.”

And he never took it off again
, Patti Love thought.
I believed that he told me everything. I thought I’d bonded with my son more than other mothers; that’s what I told myself. But I knew nothing.

“So, because he told you and because of this journal, you knew your son was seeing Miss Clark, and you knew she gave him the necklace?”

“Yes.”

“When Chase came to your house for dinner on the night of October 29, was he wearing the necklace?”

“Yes, he didn’t leave our house until after eleven, and he was wearing the necklace.”

“Then when you went into the clinic the next day to identify Chase, did he have the necklace on?”

“No, he did not.”

“Do you know of any reason why any of his friends or anyone else, besides Miss Clark, would want to take the necklace off Chase?”

“No.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom called quickly from his seat. “Hearsay. Calls for speculation. She can’t speak to the reasoning of other people.”

“Sustained. Jurors, you must disregard the last question and answer.” Then, lowering his head ganderlike at the prosecutor, the judge said, “Watch your step, Eric. For crying out loud! You know better than that.”

Eric, unfazed, continued. “All right, we know from her own drawings that the defendant, Miss Clark, climbed the fire tower with Chase at least once; we know she gave the shell necklace to him. After that, he wore it continuously until the night he died. At which time it disappeared. Is all that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. No further questions. Your witness.”

“No questions,” Tom said.

1970

The language of the court was, of course, not as poetic as the language of the marsh. Yet Kya saw similarities in their natures. The judge, obviously the alpha male, was secure in his position, so his posture was imposing, but relaxed and unthreatened as the territorial boar. Tom Milton, too, exuded confidence and rank with easy movements and stance. A powerful buck, acknowledged as such. The prosecutor, on the other hand, relied on wide, bright ties and broad-shouldered suit jackets to enhance his status. He threw his weight by flinging his arms or raising his voice. A lesser male needs to shout to be noticed. The bailiff represented the lowest-ranking male and depended on his belt hung with glistening pistol, clanging wad of keys, and clunky radio to bolster his position.
Dominance hierarchies enhance stability
in natural populations, and some less natural,
Kya thought.

The prosecutor, wearing a scarlet tie, stepped boldly to the front and called his next witness, Hal Miller, a rake-thin twenty-eight-year-old with moppy brown hair.

“Mr. Miller, please tell us where you were and what you saw the night of October 29 to 30, 1969, at about 1:45
A.M.
”

“Me and Allen Hunt were crewing for Tim O’Neal on his shrimp boat, and we were headed back to Barkley Cove Harbor late, and we seen her, Miz Clark, in her boat, about a mile out, east of the bay, headed north-northwest.”

“And where would that course take her?”

“Right smack to that cove near the fire tower.”

Judge Sims banged his gavel at the outburst, which rumbled for a full minute.

“Could she not have been going somewhere else?”

“Well, I reckon, but there’s nothing up that way but miles of swamped-out woods. No other destination I know of ’cept the fire tower.”

Ladies’ funeral fans pumped against the warming, unsettled room. Sunday Justice, sleeping on the windowsill, flowed to the floor and walked to Kya. For the first time in the courtroom, he rubbed against her leg, then jumped onto her lap and settled. Eric stopped talking and looked at the judge, perhaps considering an objection for such an open display of partiality, but there seemed no legal precedent.

“How can you be sure it was Miss Clark?”

“Oh, we all know her boat. She’s been boatin’ around on her own fer years.”

“Were there lights on her boat?”

“No, no lights. Might’ve run her over if we hadn’t seen her.”

“But isn’t it illegal to operate a boat after dark without lights?”

“Yeah, she was s’posed to have lights. But she didn’t.”

“So on the night that Chase Andrews died at the fire tower, Miss Clark was boating in exactly that direction, just minutes before the time of his death. Is that correct?”

“Yeah, that’s what we seen.”

Eric sat down.

Tom walked toward the witness. “Good morning, Mr. Miller.”

“Good mornin’.”

“Mr. Miller, how long have you been serving as a crew member on Tim O’Neal’s shrimp boat?”

“Going on three years now.”

“And tell me, please, what time did the moon rise the night of October 29 to the 30?”

“It was waning, and didn’t rise till after we docked in Barkley. Sometime after two
A.M.
I reckon.”

“I see. So when you saw the small boat motoring near Barkley Cove that night, there was no moon. It must have been very dark.”

“Yeah. It was dark. There was some starlight but, yeah, pretty dark.”

“Would you please tell the court what Miss Clark was wearing as she motored past you in her boat that night.”

“Well, we weren’t near close enough to see what she was wearing.”

“Oh? You weren’t near enough to see her clothes.” Tom looked at the jury as he said this. “Well, how far away were you?”

“I reckon we was a good sixty yards away at least.”

“Sixty yards.” Tom looked at the jury again. “That’s quite a distance to identify a small boat in the dark. Tell me, Mr. Miller, what characteristics, what features of this person in this boat made you so sure it was Miss Clark?”

“Well, like I said, ’bout everybody in this town knows her boat, how it looks from close and far. We know the shape of the boat and the figure she cuts sittin’ in the stern, tall, thin like that. A very particular shape.”

“A particular shape. So anybody with this same shape, any person
who was tall and thin in this type of boat would have looked like Miss Clark. Correct?”

“I guess somebody else coulda looked like her, but we get to know boats and their owners real good, you know, being out there all the time.”

“But, Mr. Miller, may I remind you, this is a murder trial. It cannot get more serious than this, and in these cases we have to be certain. We can’t go by shapes or forms that are seen from sixty yards away in the dark. So, please can you tell the court you are certain the person you saw on the night of October 29 to October 30, 1969, was Miss Clark?”

“Well, no, I can’t be completely sure. Never said I could be completely sure it was her. But I’m pretty—”

“That will be all, Mr. Miller. Thank you.”

Judge Sims asked, “Redirect, Eric?”

From his seat, Eric asked, “Hal, you testified that you’ve been seeing and recognizing Miss Clark in her boat for at least three years. Tell me, have you ever thought you saw Miss Clark in her boat from a distance and then once you got closer, you discovered that it wasn’t Miss Clark after all? Has that ever happened?”

“No, not once.”

“Not once in three years?”

“Not once in three years.”

“Your Honor, the State rests.”