The Secrets on Chicory Lane: A Novel(51)

I decided to attend the opening of the trial. Luckily, no one from the press knew who I was. I went through the x-ray screener and checked in with the court officials so I could slip inside when they opened the doors. The courtroom held only so many seats; therefore, they were at a premium. Some news outlets weren’t able to get in. No one showed up to support Eddie, but the victim was represented by family members and friends. Mr. Crane sat alone at the defense table. When he saw me, I gave him a subtle nod, and, recognizing me, he smiled back.

Interestingly, I saw an older man in the courtroom who I thought looked familiar. He was tall, had a head of white hair, and appeared to be in his late seventies. I’d seen him somewhere before. Who was he? It really bugged me. Was he someone from our church? One of my former teachers from high school or junior high?

A door on the side of the bench opened. A bailiff led out Eddie, who was dressed in an ill-fitting suit. He was bald and thin, with dark circles under his eyes. He didn’t look well at all. He must have lost twenty pounds since I’d seen him last, almost twelve years ago. I’d aged, too. I was fifty-two and Eddie was fifty-one. He ignored the spectators behind the rail and sat at the table next to Mr. Crane. I was sitting in the back, so I doubted he could have spotted me had he attempted to look. I preferred that he not see me at all, but if he did, I planned to give him a smile. He probably needed it.

The trial began. Judge Fredrickson—a gruff-looking man with fat cheeks—took his place as we all rose. Then the jury entered and took their seats—twelve men and women and a couple of alternates. There was one black juror—a middle-aged man—and four white women of various ages. The rest were all clean-cut, white, all-American male citizens of Limite. The youngest appeared to be in his twenties, the oldest in his sixties.

The District Attorney, a man named Paul Shamrock, got things going with the opening statement. He was a slick good ol’ boy type, perhaps fifty-something, and he spoke with a heavy West Texas accent. Shamrock was a charmer, used to putting on a show for the jury. He laid down the basics of the case. “Edward” Newcott had been living with a common-law wife, Dora Walton, at his house and place of business on Chicory Lane. When he started to refer to Eddie as a “known devil worshipper,” Mr. Crane stood and objected; it was overruled. Besides, there was probably no way that anyone in Limite didn’t already know about “Evil Eddie.”

Eddie and Dora were friends with another unmarried couple who lived together in another part of town—Wade Jones and Catherine Carter. Jones, a former member of LaVey’s Church of Satan, worked for Eddie, and Carter was a regular fixture at the “black house,” as it was called. The quartet ran a Satanic church called The Temple—all stuff I already knew—and they were controversial figures in Limite. Crane didn’t object to any of that. The DA promised that evidence would show the two couples had engaged in a drug-fueled “black mass” of Satanic rituals—objected to by Crane but overruled—and that afterward, according to the defendant’s own written confession obtained by the police, “Mr. Newcott” drugged, strangled, and mutilated his victim in a frenzied state. Shamrock said the jurors would hear testimony about how Eddie had cut open Ms. Walton’s abdomen, removed her unborn child, and then built a “demonic sculpture”—again the objection, again the overruling—in the front yard of the house for everyone to see “as a slap in the face to humanity,” for this had occurred on Christmas Eve, a “sacred night for anyone living in Limite.”

It sounded pretty bad.

The prosecution’s opening statement was over in an hour. The judge didn’t want to take a break, so Crane rose to outline what would become the defense’s strategy—that the defendant was a mentally ill person who didn’t realize what he was doing on Christmas Eve of 2005. Testimony from medical experts and psychiatrists would attest to Eddie’s condition. After hearing all the facts, Crane promised, the jury would agree that Eddie should be found not guilty by reason of insanity.

I noticed one juror roll his eyes.

We broke for lunch. Eddie and Crane remained sitting at the defense table as the spectators got up to leave. It was then that Eddie turned his head around to look at the crowd that had come to see him. I noticed him nodding at the tall, white-haired man who looked familiar, and the old gentleman nodded back. Someone on Eddie’s side? Who could it be?

Then Eddie’s eyes found me. They grew wide with recognition. His jaw dropped slightly. I did what I’d planned—I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up. He was too shocked, I think, to respond. I went out with the throng and looked for a fast food joint in the area to get something to eat. As I walked, reflecting on the day’s proceedings, I found it surprising that I wasn’t as upset about the trial as I’d feared. It was terribly interesting, and as a writer, attending it could only help me in my work. But yes, it was also painful to see Eddie at the defense table. It hurt to see his shaved head and his decrepit body. For a man who was once spectacularly gorgeous, he appeared to be a completely different person. It was so very sad.

Outside in the street, a news crew spotted me and a young woman came over with a microphone, followed by a cameraman. “Pardon me,” she said, “aren’t you Shelby Truman?”

“Yes,” I said, but I didn’t want to be interviewed. “Please, no comment, I don’t wish to talk, sorry.” I started to walk away.