Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

He paused for a moment while the thunder of his final words echoed in the murmurs of the spectators. What a talent for rigmarole Mr. Alexander has got, I was thinking. The said s and aforesaid s rumbled through the air like drumbeats. The prosecutor’s carefully wrought indictment was as majestic in sound and cadence as a mass in Latin, and surely as incomprehensible to the majority of its hearers.

Mrs. Silver stood there looking down at the floor, letting the words wash over her head like a mighty river, and understanding not a syllable of their sense, I am certain, for when Judge Donnell said, “How do you plead?” she merely stared up at him, bewildered.

His Honor spoke louder. “How say you, Frances Silver, are you guilty or not guilty?”

There must have been a nudge or a sign from Nicholas Woodfin indicating that this was her cue (they had rehearsed the process beforehand, surely), for suddenly Mrs. Silver stood up straighter, and in a clear, soft voice she said, “Not guilty.”

This response came as no surprise to anyone. Since the penalty for murder is inevitably death, there is nothing to be gained by admitting one’s guilt. No doubt Woodfin and Wilson had explained to their client that her only chance to escape the gallows was to fight the accusation in open court.

Not guilty.

Judge Donnell nodded to Woodfin and Alexander, and then he uttered the phrase that would begin the trial: “Then let the jury come.”

Why must I say I’m not guilty, I asked them. Why can’t I just tell them all how it was right then and there, and then they can decide for themselves what should be done with me. Anybody ought to be able to see how it was-even town folk. The old lawyer, Mr. Wilson-he is black and skinny like a crow-he smiled down his beak at me and said, “Proper procedure must be followed in a court of law.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he speaks to me, and I wonder if he is dry-mouthed and has trouble swallowing, on account of being in the presence of a wicked murderess. I keep my eyes downcast, and I speak in a soft voice, though, for I do not want them to think me mad-or, worse yet, an ignorant savage from nowhere, for they would hang me without a second thought if they convicted me of that-of being a nobody.

My father has money and can pay for my defense. He comes from good people down in Anson County, near the town of Charlotte, which is where the enemy lawyer hails from. My grandfather William Stewart was a proper man of business in the county, and once he lawed some fellow in court, just like gentlemen are always doing to settle some dispute.

We settle disputes different up the mountain.

I used to speak more ladylike when I was a young ’un, before we came to this place, but I have got out of the way of it now. There wasn’t much call for fine words up the mountain. Hard work is what talks the loudest up there.

The young fellow, though-Mr. Woodfin, his name is-he nodded his head, and said, “I wish you could just tell your tale straight out. It must have been possible to do so in a court of law once upon a time, Frankie, but now we have a great book full of rules concerning the conduct of a trial. It is a game we lawyers play, and you must bear with us.”

I like him. He has a well-scrubbed look about him, and calf’s eyes, and his clothes are right out of a picture book. He is like the prince in the fairy tale. He looks straight into my eyes and says that he will not stand to see me hanged.

So I am safe.

SPENCER ARROWOOD had watched hours of television, eaten meals he barely tasted, and slept more than he needed to before Martha reappeared with another handful of mail and a stack of library books. She brushed aside his questions about work at the office, announced that she could get her own cup of coffee, and insisted that he look at what she’d brought.

“Nobody has ever written a book on Frankie Silver that I can find,” she told him. “But she has rated quite a few chapters in local histories. I brought you a couple of old books, Dead and Gone and Cabin in the Laurels for starters. I looked over them last night, by the way. They’re pretty interesting.”

Spencer smiled. “Thanks, but I haven’t been to the bank lately. Do you take checks?”

“Consider it a get-well gift, Spencer, I don’t do casseroles. Anyhow, they’re both used, so the Book Place let me have them cheap. They even marked the pages for you. How are you feeling?”

Spencer sighed. “I’ve been better. Thanks for the books.”

“I brought you something else that you might want to see.” She handed him a copy of the Johnson City Chronicle open to the headlinePARENTS OF SLAIN GIRL DEMAND DEATH OF KILLER. Colonel Charles Wythe Stanton, older and grayer but still in charge, stared out at him from the page of newsprint. He was wearing a dark suit and tie instead of an army uniform, but his piercing expression had not changed. Spencer skimmed the article, already knowing what it would say.

“Colonel Charles Stanton (U.S. Army-ret.), whose daughter Emily was murdered on the Appalachian Trail in 1977, met today with a Tennessee victims’ organization to discuss the scheduled execution of the man who killed his daughter. ‘Fate Harkryder should be executed at once,’ Colonel Stanton told the group. ‘His legal ploys have given him twenty years of life to which he was not entitled. I wish he had shown as much mercy to my daughter. He didn’t let her live to be twenty.’ Colonel Stanton stressed the victims’ families’ need for closure, so that they can go on with their lives.” The article went on for another half dozen paragraphs, but Spencer had heard it all before, and he didn’t dispute any of it. That wasn’t what worried him.

“Where’s the front page of the paper, Martha?” asked Spencer, noting that the part he was reading was section B.

“LeDonne spilled Pepsi on it this morning,” said Martha with a shrug. “It wasn’t dry yet.”

He heard an odd note in her voice, and filed it away for future consideration.

Martha turned her deck chair to face the view of sunlit mountains and sat down across the table from him. “I don’t know how you can bear to go inside,” she said. “I’d just stare out at these hills for hours at a time.”

He smiled. “It gets cold up here after sunset.”

“It’s always a different scene, though, isn’t it? The mountains change color from one day to the next. I can count six shades of green without even turning my head. So peaceful.”

“Most of the time.” There was a small photo of Emily Stanton accompanying the newspaper article.

Martha took a sip of coffee. “Have you done any more thinking about Frankie Silver?”

“Off and on,” he said, shrugging. “It doesn’t fit into my experience anywhere yet. She was an eighteen-year-old girl. By all accounts she was pretty, hardworking, and virtuous. Yet she killed her young husband with an ax. Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she was crazy?”

“She seemed sane enough during the trial, apparently. They convicted her anyhow.”

“Cabin fever? It was winter when it happened. I remember Mrs. Honeycutt talking about snow on the ground and the river being frozen. Maybe she just got tired of being shut up in that little one-room cage.” Martha shivered. “I know I would.”

“Yes,” said Spencer, “but you hadn’t lived in a place like that all your life. Surely Frankie Silver was used to it.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Martha. “Maybe you’ll never understand it. Times were different then. I don’t see what you can do with a case that’s a hundred and fifty years old, with not even a crime scene left to look at, but if it keeps you off your feet for a while longer, then I’m all for it. Better than thinking about that other case.”