Where the Crawdads Sing(94)

“The job of judging this shy, rejected young woman has fallen on your shoulders, but you must base that judgment on the facts presented in this case, in this courtroom, not on rumors or feelings from the past twenty-four years.

“What are the true and solid facts?” Just as with the prosecution, Kya’s mind caught only snippets. “. . . the prosecution has not even proved that this incident was indeed a murder and not simply a tragic accident. No murder weapon, no wounds from being pushed, no witnesses, no fingerprints . . .

“One of the most important and proven facts is that Miss Clark has a sound alibi. We know she was in Greenville the night Chase died . . . no evidence that she dressed as a man, bused to Barkley . . . In fact, the prosecution has failed to prove that she was in Barkley Cove that night at all, failed to prove that she went to the tower. I say again: there is not one single piece of evidence that proves Miss Clark was on the fire tower, in Barkley Cove, or killed Chase Andrews.

“. . . and the skipper, Mr. O’Neal, who has operated his own shrimp boat for thirty-eight years, testified that it was too dark to identify that boat.

“. . . fibers on his jacket, which could have been there for four years . . . These are uncontested facts . . .

“Not one of the witnesses for the prosecution was sure of what they saw, not one. Yet in her defense, every witness is one hundred percent certain . . .”

Tom stood for a moment in front of the jury. “I know most of you very well, and I know you can set aside any former prejudices against Miss Clark. Even though she only went to school one day in her life—because the other children harassed her—she educated herself and became a well-known naturalist and author. We called her the Marsh Girl; now scientific institutions recognize her as the Marsh Expert.

“I believe you can put all of the rumors and tall tales aside. I believe you will come to a judgment based on the facts you heard in this courtroom, not the false rumors you have heard for years.

“It is time, at last, for us to be fair to the Marsh Girl.”





54.


    Vice Versa



1970

Motioning toward mismatched chairs in a small conference room, Tom offered seats to Tate, Jodie, Scupper, and Robert Foster. They sat around the rectangular table, stained with coffee-mug circles. The walls were two tones of flaking plaster: lime green around the top, dark green around the bottom. An odor of dankness—as much from the walls as from the marsh—permeated.

“You can wait in here,” Tom said, closing the door behind him. “There’s a coffee machine down the hall across from the assessor’s, but it’s not fit for a three-eyed mule. The diner has okay coffee. Let’s see, it’s a little after eleven. We’ll make a plan for lunch later.”

Tate walked to the window, which was crisscrossed with a mesh of white bars, as if other verdict-waiters had tried escape. He asked Tom, “Where’d they take Kya? To her cell? Does she have to wait in there alone?”

“Yes, she’s in her cell. I’m going to see her now.”

“How long do you think the jury will take?” Robert asked.

“It’s impossible to say. When you think it’ll be quick, they take days, and vice versa. Most of them have probably already decided—and not in Kya’s favor. If a few jurors have doubts and try to convince the others that guilt has not been proven definitively, we have a chance.”

They nodded silently, weighed down by the word definitively, as though guilt had been proven, just not absolutely.

“Okay,” Tom continued. “I’m going to see Kya and then get to work. I have to prepare the appeals request and even a motion for a mistrial due to prejudice. Please keep in mind, if she’s convicted, this is not the end of the road. Not by any means. I’ll be in and out, and I’ll certainly let you know if there’s any news.”

“Thanks,” Tate said, then added, “Please tell Kya we’re here, and will sit with her if she wants.” This, though she had refused to see anyone but Tom for the last few days and almost no one for two months.

“Sure. I’ll tell her.” Tom left.

Jumpin’ and Mabel had to wait for the verdict outside among the palmettos and saw grass of the square, along with the few other blacks. Just as they spread colorful quilts on the ground and unpacked biscuits and sausage from paper bags, a rain shower sent them grabbing things and running for cover under the overhang of the Sing Oil. Mr. Lane shouted that they had to wait outside—a fact they’d known for a hundred years—and not to get in the way of any customers. Some whites crowded in the diner or the Dog-Gone for coffee, and others clustered in the street beneath bright umbrellas. Kids splashed in sudden puddles and ate Cracker Jacks, expecting a parade.



* * *



? ? ?

TUTORED BY MILLIONS OF MINUTES ALONE, Kya thought she knew lonely. A life of staring at the old kitchen table, into empty bedrooms, across endless stretches of sea and grass. No one to share the joy of a found feather or a finished watercolor. Reciting poetry to gulls.

But after Jacob closed her cell with the clank of bars, disappeared down the hall, and locked the heavy door with a final thud, a cold silence settled. Waiting for the verdict of her own murder trial brought a loneliness of a different order. The question of whether she lived or died did not surface on her mind, but sank beneath the greater fear of years alone without her marsh. No gulls, no sea in a starless place.