LaVyrle Spencer: Morning Glory

Slocum took his turn, overtly agitated.

"Is it true, Miss McCooms, that it’s possible for a victim to be strangled by someone with ten good fingers, leaving less than ten fingerprints?"

"Yes, it is."

"Thank you. You’re excused."

Will’s brief hope extinguished but he had little time to grow despondent. The surprising Collins kept a brisk pace, recognizing the value of concentrated shock.

"Defense calls Harley Overmire."

Overmire, looking like a scared, hairy ape, puffed up the center aisle, stuffed into a light blue suit with sleeves six inches too long for his stubby arms, sleeves that nearly concealed his hands.

The bailiff held out his Bible and ordered, "Raise your right hand, please."

Harley’s face was pale as a full moon. Beads of sweat stood out on his upper lip and two discs of dampness darkened the armpits of his suit.

"Raise your right hand, please," the bailiff repeated.

Harley had no choice but to do as ordered. Haltingly he lifted his arm, and as he did so his sleeve slipped down. Every eye in the room fixed upon that meaty hand, silhouetted against the white plastered wall of the courtroom, with its index finger missing.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Harley’s voice sounded like the squeak of a mouse when the trap trips.

"I do."

The bailiff droned his questions while Collins scanned the eyes of the jurors, finding every one fixed upon Overmire’s trembling, four-fingered hand.

"State your name and occupation, please."

"Harley Overmire, superintendent at the Whitney Sawmill."

"You may be seated."

Collins pretended to read over his notes for a full thirty seconds while Harley quickly sat and hid his right hand at his side. The air felt electric, charged with opinion. Collins let the voltage build while glancing pointedly over the tops of his half-glasses at Harley’s hidden hand, the infamous hand that had already gained him a countywide reputation as a military shirker. Collins removed his glasses, stretched to his feet as if his rheumatism was acting up and approached the witness stand. Putting a finger to his chin, he paused thoughtfully, then turned back toward his table as if he’d forgotten something. Halfway there, he did an about-face and stood silently studying Overmire. The courtroom was so silent a spider could have been heard spinning its web. Collins scanned every face in the jury before resting his gaze on its chairman. In a voice rich with innuendo, he said, "No questions."

It was four-twenty P.M. Stomachs were rumbling but not a person thought about supper. Neither did Judge Murdoch check his watch. Instead, he called for closing summations.

They were, to Collins’ delight, anticlimactic. Exactly as he would have it. A hungry jury, a judge and gallery in thrall, and a witness sweating on the sidelines.

The jury filed out leaving behind something unheard of: motionlessness.

As if everyone in the room knew the wait would be brief, they all stayed. Including Judge Murdoch. Reverently silent, too warm, hungry, but unwilling to miss the sound of the first returning footstep.

It came in exactly seven minutes.

Twelve pairs of shoes clattered across the raised wooden platform where twelve chairs waited. When the shuffle of bodies stilled, a question vaulted from the high ceiling.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached your verdict?"

"We have, your honor."

"Would you give it to the bailiff, please?"

The bailiff accepted it, handed it to Murdoch, who opened the small white paper, silently read it, then handed it back to the jury chairman.

"You may read your verdict to the court."

Elly’s hands clutched those of Lydia and Miss Beasley. Will stopped breathing.

"We, the jury, find the defendant, William Lee Parker, not guilty."

Pandemonium broke loose. Will spun. Elly clapped her hands over her mouth and started crying. Miss Beasley and Lydia tried to hug her. Collins tried to congratulate him. But they had a single thought: to reach each other. Through the crowd they lunged while hands patted their shoulders but went unheeded. Voices offered congratulations but went unheard. Smiles followed but they saw only each other… Will… and Elly. In the middle of the throng they collided and clung. They kissed, hard and hasty. They buried their faces in the coves of one another, harboring, holding.

"Elly… oh, God…"

"Will… my darling Will…"

He heard her sob.

She heard him swallow.

With eyes sealed tightly, they rocked, smelled each other, felt each other, shutting out all else.

"I love you," he managed with his mouth pressed against her ear. "I never stopped."

"I know that." She kissed his jaw.

"And I’m so damn sorry."

"I know that, too." She laughed but the sound was broken by a sob.

People bumped against them. A reporter called Will’s name. Witnesses waited to congratulate them.

"Don’t go away," Will’s voice boomed at Elly’s ear before he tucked her securely beneath his arm. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed close while he performed the rituals expected of him.

He shook Collins’ hand and got a firm clap on the back.

"Well, young fellow, it’s been a pleasure all the way."

Will laughed. "Maybe for you."

"There was never a doubt in my mind that you’d win."

"We’d win, you mean."

Collins put his free hand on Elly’s shoulder, including her. "Yes, I guess you’re right. We." He chuckled and added, "Anytime you want a job, young woman, I know a good half dozen lawyers who’d pay you handsome money to ply your wiles on behalf of their clients. You’ve got a nose and a knack."

Elly laughed and lifted her cheek from Will’s lapel long enough to look up into his happy brown eyes.

"Sorry, Mr. Collins, but I got a job, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world."

Will kissed her nose and the three of them shared a hearty pileup of hands that passed for a shake until it was interrupted by Lydia Marsh, who caught Elly around the neck. "Oh, Elly, I’m so happy for you." They pressed cheeks. "You, too, Will." On tiptoe she reached up to offer him an impetuous hug.

His heart felt full to bursting. "I don’t know how to thank you, Mrs. Marsh."

She shook her head, battling tears, unable to express her fondness in any way but to touch his cheek, then kiss Elly and promise, "I’ll see you both soon," before she slipped away.

A second reporter called, "Mr. Parker, may I have a minute?" But there were Nat and Norris MacReady, smiling like liver-spotted bookends, standing proud in their military uniforms which smelled of mothballs.

"Nat… Norris…" Will gave them each a hand-pump and a bluff squeeze on the neck. "Was I glad to have you two on my side! What can I say? Without you it might’ve gone the other way."

"Anything for a veteran," Nat replied.

"Say you’ll keep a supply of that honey comin’," Norris put in.

While they laughed Mrs. Gaultier and Dr. Kendall brushed past, touching Will’s shoulders, smiling.

"Congratulations, Mr. Parker."

The reporter snapped a picture while Will shook their hands and thanked them.

Feeling as if he was caught in a millrace, Will was forced to give himself over to strangers and friends alike while the reporters continued firing questions.

"Mr. Parker, is it true that you were once fired from the mill by Harley Overmire?"

"Yes."

"Because of your prison record?"

"Yes."

"Is it true he cut his finger off to avoid the draft?"

"I really couldn’t speculate on that. Listen, it’s been a long day and-"

He tried to ease toward the door but the well-meaning crowd swarmed like gnats around a damp brow.