The Glorious Prodigal (11 page)

****

Stuart Winslow hooked up the chestnut stallion to the buggy, threw his things in it, and drove through the night. It was dark overhead, so dark that he could barely see the road, but he knew it well enough.

As he traveled along, he came to a familiar fork in the road. The right branch led to the Simms’s place, the other to town and on to Fayetteville. For one moment he drew up and held the reins so tightly that his fingers cramped. He felt like a man on the razor’s edge, and then with wild abandon he pulled the line. “Go on, Tony. Giddyup!” He took the road to the Simms’s place.

Ten minutes later he was approaching the house. He saw a light in the upstairs window and could see Cora moving about the room in her dressing gown. He picked up a small stone and threw it so that it struck the glass.

Moving over to the door, he waited until it opened. When he saw Cora in front of him, all the attractions and thoughts about her he had tried to fight off came flooding back. For a fleeting moment he thought about the argument he had just had with Leah. Then he took her in his arms and held her, saying, “I’m a rotten dog, Cora.”

A moment’s silence passed, and then she took a deep breath. “Sure you are, Stuart, but that makes two of us. I’ve been waiting for you. I knew you’d come.”

****

Leah was mixing biscuit dough when she heard the sound of a buggy approaching. She had slept very little that night, and dark circles were under her eyes. A hope suddenly rose within her.
He’s come back!
she thought and moved over to the window. Her heart sank when she saw that it was not Stuart but Luke Garrison, the sheriff.

She saw him get out of the buggy and went to the front door. “Hello, Luke,” she said. “You’re out early.”

“Hello, Leah.”

“Come in for some coffee.”

Garrison hesitated. He shrugged his muscular shoulders, and his eyes had an odd expression. “I have some bad news.”

Instantly, fear washed over Leah.

“Something’s happened to Stuart. Has he had an accident?”

Garrison looked down at the floor. He had removed his hat and twisted it awkwardly and nervously in his strong square hands. When his eyes came up there was compassion in them, and he said, “I don’t know any easy way to say this, Leah.”

“What is it, Luke?”

“Your husband killed Carter Simms last night.”

For one moment the room seemed to reel, and for the first time in her life Leah knew she was fainting.

Seeing her stagger, Garrison leaped forward, put his arm around her, and led her down the hall to a couch. He helped her sit down and said, “Maybe I should have had somebody else come to tell you, but I thought—”

“It’s all right, Luke. Tell me what happened.”

Garrison reached up and tugged at his droopy mustache and said, “Well, I don’t know how long it’s been going on, but it looks like your husband’s been seeing Cora.”

“I know about it, Luke.”

“Well, Carter was supposed to be gone for two days. He came in early last night and he caught your husband with Cora.”

The pain had become a dull ache in Leah’s broken heart, and she listened without looking at the sheriff. “What happened?”

“It looks like Carter had a gun, and he started shooting. He hit Cora, but he didn’t kill her. Then Stuart jumped up, and they started struggling for the gun. It went off and Carter took a bullet right in the heart.”

The silence in the room was heavy. Luke Garrison wished that he were anywhere else in the world. Like others in the community, he had a great sympathy for Leah Winslow. He had known of Stuart’s infidelity, as he knew most things that
happened in the county. Now he sat there helpless, knowing that the agony for this woman was just beginning.

“What will happen to him, Luke?”

“He’ll have to stand trial.”

“But it was an accident, wasn’t it?”

Garrison knew his politics, and he understood how unlikely it was that this shooting would be called an accident. “It depends on the jury,” he said carefully. Then honesty compelled him to say, “It’s serious. He could hang for it, Leah. Have your father-in-law get the best lawyer he can. Stuart’s going to need it.”

Leah sat there with her hand on her stomach, the child inside of her moving rapidly as a wave of nausea came over her. A deadness seemed to settle on her spirit, and she could not think clearly. She was aware that Luke Garrison was watching her carefully, but she could not frame a single word.

She remembered a spiritual that Annie sang a lot, but the only words she could remember clearly were, “And the walls came tumbling down.”

CHAPTER SIX

The Verdict

Leonard Stokes stood looking out of his office window. Fall had come, and now the red, gold, and yellow leaves of the sweet gum tree were dropping to the ground, making a multicolored carpet on the dry, dead grass. Somehow autumn always brought a sense of fatalism to Stokes, for he was a man sensitive to moods and to those about him. It was a trait that had served him well as a lawyer. He was only thirty-five, but already he was the rising star in the firmament of the state judicial system. A tall, lean man with sharp gray eyes, Stokes had been the hottest defense lawyer available, and many had been shocked when he had left a lucrative practice in order to become district attorney for a rather minimal salary. What those people did not understand was that Stokes intended to move up in the world, and a record as a crusading district attorney would get him a good start on the governor’s chair. After that there was always the Senate, and beyond that, who knew where his political ambitions would lead?

Turning from the window, Stokes moved back to his desk, sat down, and stared at the elderly man who was seated across from him. “You’re not looking too well, Mordecai.”

Mordecai Frasier indeed did not look well. He was in his eighties and had been a legend for many years, both as a lawyer and finally as the chief justice of the State Supreme Court. He could have risen to greater heights but had chosen to remain in his native state of Arkansas and had served his people admirably all of his life.

“I’m doing very well for an old man.” Frasier’s voice was thin now. He had lost his trumpet voice, which had been powerful enough to fill any courtroom in the state, making many lawyers realize they had met their match. His eyes were faded, and his hands trembled, so he quickly folded them in front of him. “I think we need to do some more talking about the Winslow case.”

“I can’t see that there’s a lot to talk about, Mordecai.”

“Well, after all, it wasn’t premeditated, and there was no malice intended.”

“You can’t change one fact, I’m afraid. Carter Simms is dead and buried, robbed of his life, and Stuart pulled the trigger.”

“That’s not been proven yet.”

“It can be easily proven that Winslow was with Simms’s wife. Carter had every right to defend his home from an intruder. You know that as well as I do.”

Anger washed across the face of Mordecai Frasier, and a touch of the old fire glowed in his eyes. “You and I know that if every adulterer were shot, there wouldn’t be enough men left in the state even to elect you governor. And that’s what you’re after, isn’t it?”

Stokes suddenly grinned. He liked Mordecai Frasier and admired him greatly. He had patterned much of his own practice and tactics on this old man’s life and career, but when Stokes went into the courtroom, everything else went out—friendship, family, money—nothing meant anything except winning.

“What do you have on your mind?” Stokes asked. He already knew what the elderly man had on his mind, but it had to be said. As he watched Frasier try to put his thoughts together, he felt a sharp stab of pity.
Twenty years ago he would have cut me to pieces in a courtroom. I wouldn’t have stood a chance. But now he’s a poor choice for a lawyer. He may be a good friend of Richard Winslow, but that’s not enough. His memory’s gone and he’s a sick man.
Stokes well
knew that Frasier had come out of retirement to take on the case as a personal favor to Richard Winslow. He also knew that it was not a wise move on Richard’s part.
He should have gotten a young, tough, sharp fellow wanting to make a reputation for himself, but he didn’t.

“I’m thinking of accidental death.”

“Come on, Mordecai. You know that won’t do.”

Indeed, it was merely an opening gambit for Frasier. He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Well, manslaughter, then.”

The conversation did not last long, and finally Frasier got up and nodded. “Think about it, Leonard. This is a young man we’re talking about. Stuart Winslow has great potential.”

Stokes did not respond to this. “Take care of yourself, Mordecai. This case may be too much for you.” He ventured to hint at something that he would not have bothered with if it had been any other man. “Why don’t you take on a young assistant and let him do the hard work and the hollering in court?”

The suggestion offended Frasier. His pride was still there, and he said, “I think I can handle myself in court, Leonard.”

As soon as Frasier left, Jim Johnson came into the room. He was only twenty-five, but Stokes had picked him to work with because he was just the type of aggressive attorney he wanted.

“What did you give him?” Johnson asked.

“What did I give him? Nothing.”

Slumping back in his chair, Leonard Stokes had a prophetic moment. He saw himself as a tired old man, still struggling, as he knew he would be someday. “I gave him sympathy.” Underneath his competitive bravado, Stokes could at times be compassionate, especially at moments like this when he saw his own human frailty. It was a trait he kept well hidden, however, for in the eyes of many, it would not do for the district attorney to be perceived as kind. Now he looked at Johnson and said, “Richard Winslow made a bad mistake retaining Mordecai.”

“Yes, he did. What are you going to do? Go for the jugular with first degree?”

Stokes’s gray eyes grew hard, and he murmured, “I always do, don’t I? That’s what I get paid for.”

****

Frasier had long since given up his office, so he met with Richard and Diane and Leah Winslow in a bare, unadorned room in the courthouse. There were pictures on the wall of Washington and Lincoln and a calendar advertising Lydia Pinkham’s tonic for women. The only furniture was a table and five chairs, dented and marred from years of wear. One window opened up to the outside world and admitted a yellow shaft of sunlight that struck Mordecai Frasier’s face, accentuating his pallid complexion. He was obviously troubled as he looked over at the couple, then shifted his glance to Leah Winslow.

They’re all looking at me to help them. They think the law is some kind of a magic act—that I can pull a rabbit out of a hat and everything will be well.
He was disturbed by the notion, and the light of expectancy in all of their eyes troubled him even more.

“I don’t have very good news,” he said finally. “I talked with the district attorney.”

“What did he say?” Richard Winslow demanded. The two months since the killing of Simms had aged him considerably. He had lost weight, and the muscles of his face had begun to sag. He had always been a strong man, but this blow to the family had brought him very low indeed.

“I’ve tried to get Stokes to go for second degree, but I don’t think he will. I wish we could get him to agree to a trial for manslaughter.”

“What’s the difference between manslaughter and murder?”

Frasier leaned forward and began to speak. He knew there were two times in a person’s life when fear was liable to get
out of hand. One was when facing a doctor who had bad news. The other was at a moment like this when someone’s freedom or even his life was in danger. He had been through this many times and knew that for most people the complexity of the law was like a dark forest in which one could stay lost continually. He had seen the hopelessness in so many faces, and he hated to see the same look of despair in this family, for he had been a good friend to Richard and Diane Winslow for many years. Directing his gaze at Leah, he said, “Basically speaking, Mrs. Winslow, manslaughter is the unlawful killing of another human being without malice, either expressed or implied.” He fell into the pattern of speech that had been his habit throughout his years on the bench and as a teacher of law. “It implies a killing without deliberation in the sudden heat of passion.”

“But what is murder, then?” Leah asked as she twisted her hands.

“The distinction between manslaughter and murder rests on one thing. That is
malice.
In manslaughter, though the act that occasioned the death was unlawful, no malice is involved. But malice is the very essence of murder.”

“You mean if someone is angry and bitter and expresses it and says so and then kills someone, that becomes murder?”

“Yes, although we call it homicide in the court. There are three kinds of homicides—justifiable, excusable, or felonious.”

“I don’t understand any of that,” Richard muttered.

“Justifiable homicide is the taking of a human life with justification, such as self-defense. Excusable homicide, well, that’s the killing of someone by misadventure, such as when you accidentally strike them with a moving vehicle. Felonious homicide is the wrongful killing of a human being without justification.”

“What’s the difference between first degree and second degree?”

Mordecai shook his head. “That’s not even clear to many
lawyers and judges, but basically first-degree homicide is the thing you want to stay away from. When a jury gives any judge that verdict, he will always hand down the stiffest sentence at his command.”

Leah listened for some time as Frasier continued to explain the labyrinthine ways of the law. Finally she said, “What if he’s found guilty?”

For a moment Frasier hesitated, then he said, “Judges have a great deal of latitude. For murder in the first degree it could be the maximum sentence.”

“You mean he could be hanged?” Leah whispered.

“We’ll hope for better things than that. If it comes to a prison sentence, it’s all in the hands of the judge. Judges have been known to give a sentence and then suspend it upon condition of good behavior. That’s what I’m hoping for in Stuart’s case.”