Where the Crawdads Sing(95)

The annoying cellmates down the hall had been released. She almost missed their constant nattering—a human presence no matter how lowly. Now she alone inhabited this long cement tunnel of locks and bars.

She knew the scale of the prejudices against her and that an early verdict would mean there had been little deliberation, which would mean conviction. Lockjaw came to mind—the twisting, tortured life of being doomed.

Kya thought of moving the crate under the window and searching for raptors over the marsh. Instead she just sat there. In the silence.



* * *



? ? ?

TWO HOURS LATER, at one in the afternoon, Tom opened the door into the room where Tate, Jodie, Scupper, and Robert Foster waited. “Well, there’s some news.”

“What?” Tate jerked his head up. “Not a verdict already?”

“No, no. Not a verdict. But I think it’s good news. The jurors have asked to see the court record of the bus drivers’ testimonies. This means, at least, they’re thinking things through—not simply jumping to a verdict. The bus drivers are key, of course, and both said they were certain Kya was not on their respective buses and weren’t certain about the disguises either. Sometimes seeing testimony in black and white makes it more definitive to the jurors. We’ll see, but it’s a glimmer of hope.”

“We’ll take a glimmer,” Jodie said.

“Look, it’s past lunchtime. Why don’t y’all go over to the diner? I promise, I’ll get you if anything happens.”

“I don’t think so,” Tate said. “They’ll all be talking about how guilty she is over there.”

“I understand. I’ll send my clerk for some burgers. How’s that?”

“Fine, thanks,” Scupper said, and pulled some dollars from his wallet.



* * *



? ? ?

AT 2:15, Tom returned to tell them the jurors had asked to see the coroner’s testimony. “I’m not sure if this is favorable or not.”

“Shit!” Tate swore. “How does anybody live through this?”

“Try to relax; this may take days. I’ll keep you posted.”

Unsmiling and drawn, Tom opened the door again at four o’clock. “Well, gentlemen, the jurors have a verdict. The judge has ordered everyone back to the courtroom.”

Tate stood. “What does it mean? Happening so fast like this.”

“Come on, Tate.” Jodie touched his arm. “Let’s go.”

In the hallway, they joined the stream of townspeople jostling shoulder to shoulder from outside. Dank air, smelling of cigarette smoke, rain-wet hair, and damp clothes, flowed with them.

The courtroom filled in less than ten minutes. Many couldn’t get a seat and bunched in the hall or on the front steps. At 4:30 the bailiff led Kya toward her seat. For the first time, he supported her by her elbow, and indeed, it appeared she might drop if he did not. Her eyes never moved from the floor. Tate watched every twitch in her face. His breath labored against nausea.

Miss Jones, the recorder, entered and took her seat. Then, like a funeral choir, solemn and cheerless, the jurors filed into their box. Mrs. Culpepper glanced at Kya. The others kept their eyes ahead. Tom tried to read their faces. There was not one cough or shuffle from the gallery.

“All rise.”

Judge Sims’s door opened, and he sat at his bench. “Please be seated. Mr. Foreman, is it correct that the jury has reached a verdict?”

Mr. Tomlinson, a quiet man who owned the Buster Brown Shoe Shop, stood in the first row. “We have, Your Honor.”

Judge Sims looked at Kya. “Would the defendant please rise for the reading of the verdict.” Tom touched Kya’s arm, then guided her up. Tate placed his hand on the railing as close to Kya as he could get. Jumpin’ lifted Mabel’s hand and held it.

No one in the room had ever experienced this collective heart pounding, this shared lack of breath. Eyes shifted, hands sweated. The shrimper crew, Hal Miller, knotted his mind, fighting to confirm that it truly was Miss Clark’s boat he had seen that night. Suppose he’d been wrong. Most stared, not at the back of Kya’s head, but at the floor, the walls. It seemed that the village—not Kya—awaited judgment, and few felt the salacious joy they had expected at this juncture.

The foreman, Mr. Tomlinson, handed a small piece of paper to the bailiff, who passed it to the judge. He unfolded it and read it with a vacant face. The bailiff then took it from Judge Sims and handed it to Miss Jones, the recorder.

“Would somebody read it to us,” Tate spat.

Miss Jones stood and faced Kya, unfolded the paper, and read: “We the jury find Miss Catherine Danielle Clark not guilty as charged in the first-degree murder of Mr. Chase Andrews.” Kya buckled and sat. Tom followed.

Tate blinked. Jodie sucked in air. Mabel sobbed. The gallery sat motionless. Surely they had misunderstood. “Did she say not guilty?” A stream of whispers quickly rose in pitch and volume to angry questions. Mr. Lane called out, “This ain’t right.”

The judge hammered his gavel. “Silence! Miss Clark, the jury has found you not guilty as charged. You are free to go, and I apologize on behalf of this State that you served two months in jail. Jury, we thank you for your time and for serving this community. Court dismissed.”