Where the Crawdads Sing(82)

After a few near misses, they’d all gotten to know one another, and Chanel became very polite, only flashing her armament when the kids got too rowdy. She’d come and go, sometimes within feet of whoever was coming up or down the brick ’n’ boards.

Every spring she’d escort her little kits on forays into the oak woods and along the slipstreams. Them scurrying behind, running into and over one another in black-and-white confusions.

Pa, of course, was always threatening to get rid of her, but Jodie, showing maturity far beyond his father’s, deadpanned, “Another one’ll just move in, and I always reckoned it’s better the skunk ya know than the skunk ya don’t know.” She smiled now, thinking of Jodie. Then caught herself.

“So, Dr. Cone, on the night Chase Andrews died, the night he fell backward through an open grate—a posture consistent with being pushed by someone—fibers on his jacket came from a red cap found at Miss Clark’s residence. And there were strands of Miss Clark’s hair in the cap.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cone. I have no further questions.”

Tom Milton looked briefly at Kya, who watched the sky. The room leaned physically toward the prosecution as though the floor tipped, and it didn’t help that Kya sat rigid and detached—carved from ice. He flicked his white hair from his forehead and approached the coroner for the cross-examination.

“Good morning, Dr. Cone.”

“Good morning.”

“Dr. Cone, you testified that the wound on the back of Chase Andrews’s head was consistent with him going backward through the open hole. Isn’t it true that if he stepped backward on his own and fell through the hole by accident, the results of hitting the back of his head would have been exactly the same?”

“Yes.”

“Were there any bruises on his chest or arms that would coincide with him being pushed or shoved?”

“No. There was, of course, heavy bruising over his entire body from the fall. Mostly on the back of his body and legs. There were none that could be identified specifically as developing from a push or shove.”

“In fact, isn’t it true that there is no evidence whatsoever that Chase Andrews was pushed into the hole?”

“That is true. There’s no evidence that I’m aware of that Chase Andrews was pushed.”

“So, Dr. Cone, there is no evidence from your professional examination of Chase Andrews’s body that proves this was a murder and not an accident?”

“No.”

Tom took his time, letting this answer sink into the jury, then continued. “Now, let’s talk about those red wool fibers found on Chase’s jacket. Is there any way to determine how long the fibers had been on the jacket?”

“No. We can say where they came from, but not when.”

“In other words, those fibers could have been on that jacket for a year, even four years?”

“That’s correct.”

“Even if the jacket had been washed?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s no evidence that those fibers became attached to that jacket the night Chase died?”

“No.”

“There has been testimony that the defendant knew Chase Andrews for four years prior to his death. So you’re saying that anytime during those four years, when they met wearing those items of clothing, it’s possible the fibers were transferred from the cap to the jacket.”

“From what I have seen, yes.”

“So the red fibers do not prove that Miss Clark was with Chase Andrews the night he died. Was there any evidence at all that Miss Clark was in close proximity to Chase Andrews that night? For example, her skin fragments on his body, under his fingernails, or her fingerprints on the buttons or snaps of his jacket? Strands of her hair on his clothes or body?”

“No.”

“So, in fact, since the red fibers could have been on his jacket for as long as four years, there’s no evidence whatsoever that Miss Catherine Clark was near Chase Andrews the night of his death?”

“From my examination that is correct.”

“Thank you. No more questions.”

Judge Sims declared an early lunch recess.

Tom touched Kya’s elbow gently and whispered that it had been a good cross-examination. She nodded slightly as people stood and stretched. Almost all stayed long enough to watch Kya being handcuffed and led from the room.

As Jacob’s steps echoed down the hall after leaving her in her cell, Kya sat hard on her bed. When she was first incarcerated, they hadn’t allowed her to bring her knapsack into the cell but let her take some of its contents with her in a brown paper bag. She reached into the bag then and pulled out the scrap of paper with Jodie’s phone number and address. Since being there, she’d looked at it almost every day and thought of phoning her brother, asking him to come be with her. She knew he would, and Jacob had said she could use the phone to call him. But she had not. How would she say the words: Please come; I’m in jail, charged with murder.

Carefully, she put the paper back into the bag and lifted out the World War I compass Tate had given her. She let the needle swing north and watched it settle true. She held it against her heart. Where else would one need a compass more than in this place?

Then she whispered Emily Dickinson’s words: