The Pecan Man(24)

“Keep an eye on him for me, would you?” I asked.

“I’ll do my best.” He nodded his head once and disappeared through the door.

I made two phone calls when I got home. The first was to Harley Odell. That is, the Honorable Harley T. Odell, Circuit Court Judge, or “Poopsie," as he was called by everyone who knew him as a child.

He punched me in the stomach when I was twelve years old and he was just ten. There was no reason for it. He just walked up to me in our back yard and punched me as hard as he could. I guess when you’ve been called Poopsie all your life the rage just builds up until it has to go somewhere. I threw up on his bare feet. We’ve never spoken of it since, but I’m almost positive Harley Odell still feels like he owes me something for his momentary cruelty.

When I told him what I knew - well, what I wanted him to know I knew - about Eldred Mims, he promised to look into the case and let me know what he could. He also cautioned me not to get involved in something that might be more than I bargained for.

“Too late,” I said.

“Don’t say another word,” he warned. “I don’t want to know.”

“G’night, Poopsie,” I said, only half-jokingly.

“Night, Ora,” he growled.

The second call was to Ralph Kornegay. I hesitated before I called his home. On the one hand, I was angry over his treatment of an innocent man. On the other, he and his wife had just lost their only child. Right or wrong, I think Ralph believed Eldred Mims killed his son. I felt hard-pressed to stand in judgment.

I decided to tread lightly. I expressed my condolences first and my concern for Eldred Mims second. I told him I was absolutely convinced of the man’s innocence and cautioned him not to jeopardize his job by losing his cool. He defended his deputies for “using appropriate force to subdue a combative suspect.”

“Combative,” I repeated in a dry monotone.

“Yes, Ma‘am,” Ralph replied, “He was combative all right.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I said. “The man doesn’t weigh an ounce over a hundred and twenty pounds.”

“I don’t understand why you’re defending this man, Mrs. Beckworth.” His anger was evident in his use of my last name, even though we'd known each other for years.

“I’m defending him because he’s innocent, Ralph.”

“How about if we let a court decide that?”

“My thoughts exactly,” I replied. There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

“I’ll be visiting him regularly, Ralph. If he’s beaten up again, I’ll make sure you’re held personally responsible.”

I doubt my threat worried Ralph Kornegay a bit, but at least he knew I was watching.

“Is that all?” I could hear him spitting through his teeth.

“For the time being, yes.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Beckworth.”

I didn’t bother to respond. I knew his phone was on its way to the receiver and the dial tone I heard confirmed that within seconds. I cradled the handset back on its perch and locked up for the night.





Twelve





I spent the next few days visiting Eldred Mims at the county jail every afternoon. His entire face was swollen, nearly beyond recognition. It was difficult for him to eat, so I took him soft food, despite the objections of the guards whose job it was to search visitors for contraband. One day it was mashed potatoes and gravy. Another day, chicken noodle soup. He especially liked Blanche’s sweet potato casserole.

At some point I realized that I missed the smacking noise he usually made while talking. He held his mouth as still as possible while he ate, allowing the food to melt in his mouth before swallowing it. It made him seem like more of a stranger than he really was to me, that absence of familiar noise.

I didn’t know what to say to him at first. I wanted to ask him why he lied to the lawyer, but I felt like it would take too much effort and a lot more privacy to do the subject justice.

So we talked, well - I mostly did the talking, about the weather and about the Christmas holidays coming up. We talked about what we would plant in the spring and how maybe it was time for a real garden in the back yard, a garden that grew fresh vegetables we could put up. I knew Blanche would not be thrilled with the prospect of canning, but we talked about it anyway, just like it was a sure thing. I left when it seemed he was tired of conversation. I could tell it still hurt him to speak, but every day it got easier to understand what he said. His jaw had not been broken, thank goodness, just dislocated and bruised.

He didn’t seem too worried about the trial. Once when I talked to him about getting out of jail, he stopped me cold. “I’m innocent until proven guilty, Miz Beckworth. Tha’s what the law says. All’s I got to do is stick to the truth, way I see it. They cain’t convict me of somethin’ I ain’t done.”

I thought about it a moment and then said, “One would hope not, Mr. Mims, but then, they shouldn’t have beat you up for nothing either.”

“That's what I get for resistin’ arrest, ain’t it?”

The man had a remarkable sense of humor. Even I had to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. I let the matter drop for a while.

Finally, one day when there was a disturbance at the other end of the ward, I seized the opportunity to ask him why he hadn’t told Jeffrey Thatcher the truth about Marcus following him home on Thanksgiving.