Sharyn McCrumb - The Ballad of Frankie Silver

Mr. Donnell sighed wearily, perhaps at his own folly in having left the marble halls of Raleigh to come out to the uncouth hinterlands, where juries didn’t even know how to reach a proper verdict. No doubt the judge had wished to get an early start on his travels east, but it was not to be.

One of the other jurors handed the foreman a piece of paper. “We have a list, sir.”

The bailiff conveyed the paper to His Honor, who read it twice over with an expression of increasing annoyance. At last he motioned for William Alexander to come forward and take the list of persons to be reexamined. Judge Donnell looked out toward the gallery. “The witnesses are reminded that they are still sworn. They may now exit the court.”

Gabriel Presnell gathered up the little band of folk from the mountain wilderness and marched them out into the hall to await their turn on the witness stand.

Over the hum of murmurs from the gallery I heard the upraised voice of Nicholas Woodfin. “They have not been sequestered!” He stood up, waving a hand in protest. “Your Honor, the witnesses were not sequestered last evening.”

He was right. In trials, those who will testify in the proceedings are kept separate from their fellow witnesses so that they may not compare their stories, and thus, wittingly or not, influence one another’s account of the events in question. On Wednesday night before the trial began, the witnesses were indeed kept apart according to procedure, but last night no one bothered about them. We thought they were finished, that the trial was over. We thought the jury had only to deliberate for the evening and then return in the morning to deliver their verdict. Instead the twelve jurors had come back demanding another round of testimony from the witnesses, except that now this jury would be hearing people who had been at liberty to compare notes, to exchange their impressions of the case-in short, witnesses whose recollections were now tainted by the opinions of their fellows. I wondered what Judge Donnell would do about this breach of custom. Suppose a witness’s new and altered version of the circumstances affected the verdict?

We waited in silent consternation while the old judge considered the matter. Nothing about this trial was going to be easy for any of us. An unlikely defendant, an unheard-of crime, an inexperienced attorney, and now obstacles strewn in the path of a swift resolution. Henceforth no doubt the very name of Morganton would cause the judge to shudder. At last, having contemplated all the possible ramifications of the extraordinary request, Mr. Donnell turned to me for the first time during the proceedings. “Clerk of court,” he said, nodding for me to come forward, “what say you in this matter?”

I stood up. “Well, sir,” I said faintly, “I have not seen it done before, but there is nothing in the law books specifically prohibiting the reexamination of witnesses. They have been sworn.”

Mr. Donnell’s eyes narrowed. “So they have.” He leaned forward, addressing his remarks to the two attorneys. “I will permit this, gentlemen.”

Woodfin paled. “But, Your Honor, the witnesses may have conferred-”

“They have been sworn, counselor. They have taken God’s oath to tell the truth, and we must assume that they will continue to tell the truth as they see it. As they now recall it.” His tone brooked no argument, but even so Mr. Woodfin remained standing for a moment or two longer, wide-eyed and gasping, as if he were casting about for some straw of legal redress. It was one of the very few times during the course of the trial that I saw him look around for his cocounsel Thomas Wilson, but that worthy gentleman offered him no help; he merely shook his head as if to say that the point was lost, and that no good could come of arguing about it.

Judge Donnell turned to the prosecutor. “Mr. Alexander,” he said, “you may begin, sir.”

He consulted the list and nodded to the bailiff. “The state calls Miss Nancy Wilson to the stand.”

In the short interval during which we awaited the arrival of Nancy Wilson, I had time to scan the crowd, and I noticed that Miss Mary Erwin was not present among the spectators. Perhaps she had seen her fill of legal chess games on the preceding day, or more likely, she had anticipated an unfavorable verdict, rather than the unexpected continuation of the trial that took us all by surprise.

Nancy Wilson entered the courtroom for her second turn on the witness stand looking uneasy. Wearing the same black dress as yesterday but not the same confident demeanor, she kept close to the bailiff’s side, making her way through the spectators with a worried frown, as if she were wondering what the jurors wanted from her now.

When the preliminaries were settled, William Alexander approached the witness with a perfunctory smile intended to calm her fears. “The jurors would like to hear your testimony again, Miss Wilson. Let us begin again. I will ask you questions, and you must answer truthfully to the best of your knowledge. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Go on, then.”

“State your name, please.”

“Nancy Wilson.”

“You reside in the Toe River section of western Burke County?”

“That’s right.”

“No kin to Attorney Thomas Wilson of Morganton.”

“No. Not that I ever heard.” She shrugged. “Maybe back in England five hundred years ago.”

William Alexander permitted himself a genuine smile. “There is no need to deny Mr. Wilson so thoroughly, madam,” he assured her. “We are merely establishing that you have no ties to the court that might affect your testimony. That aside, it is no crime to be related to such a worthy gentleman as my learned colleague.”

“Even if he is a lawyer!” someone called out from the gallery.

This jest proved too much for Judge Donnell, and his own smile vanished as he banished the levity from his courtroom with the oak gavel.

“Miss Wilson, are you acquainted with the defendant Frances Silver?”

“I know her.” An emphatic nod.

“Are you related?”

“Her husband Charlie was my first cousin.” Nancy Wilson looked as if she intended to say more, or perhaps she meant to remind the prosecutor that he already knew these things, but something in Mr. Alexander’s expression must have counseled patience, for she contented herself with that brief reply, and the questioning continued.

“How did you come to hear about the disappearance of your cousin Charles Silver?”

“Last December I was visiting at my uncle’s cabin when Frankie”-she nodded contemptuously toward Mrs. Silver-“ she came in saying that Charlie was gone.”

“Did the defendant know where he was?”

“Frankie had already told the family that Charlie was gone the day before. She just came to say he wasn’t back yet from a visit to the neighbors over the ridge. We began to think that Charlie had come to harm on the walk home through the snow. He might have fallen through the ice and drowned in the Toe River.”

“Did Mrs. Silver seem concerned about her missing husband?”

“Not her. She was angry, more like.” Nancy Wilson tossed her head. “She was put out about Charlie being gone, in case he was having a good time without her. And she was all-fired mad about having to do all the chores herself. She wanted the cows fed, as if a big strong woman like her couldn’t do it perfectly well herself. And she kept saying that she was going to run out of firewood, and would one of the boys come over and chop some for her.”

“Did they?”

She shook her head. “There wasn’t no need. Alfred said he had seen a whole cord of oak and kindling already chopped and stacked, sitting right there by the side of the cabin a day or two back. ‘You can’t have used it all up yet, Frankie,’ he told her. Of course, now we know what happened to that wood.” Nancy Wilson looked defiantly around the courtroom, as if daring anybody to come up with another explanation for the missing woodpile.