The Woods at Barlow Bend (13 page)

“I guess he could have.”

“Mrs. Williams, with all due respect, I think your soap opera programs have heightened your imagination. Would you agree that it is possible that Mr. Andrews was, shall we say, sleepin’ in the dawg house that night, as many of us men have had to do from time to time when we tick off the missus? Only, in my client’s case, the dawg house is that old barn next to his home?”

Folding her arms, Mrs. Williams looked directly at Daddy as she said, “I saw what I saw, Paul!”

“Mrs. Williams, did you and your dear Thomas, God rest his soul, ever argue?”

“Of course, we disagreed sometimes.”

“Did you ever send him out to the dog house?”

“Well, I’m sure…”

“Did you ever yell so loud that the neighbors might hear ya?”

“Well, Mr. Jones, I’m sure we had our moments, but…”

“As all married couples do, Mrs. Williams, as all couples do. Thank you, Mrs. Williams. I’ll tell Momma you said ‘hi’,” and Mr. Jones took his seat.

Judge Bedsole ordered a lunch break after Mrs. Williams’
s testimony, allowing her an opportunity to hear the reviews and sympathies of the Ladies Auxiliary and other adoring fans crowded in the hallway. I had hoped that I would get to see Daddy during the break, but his attorneys rushed him off to a back room before anyone could get to him. Aunt Mittie explained that they were probably trying to avoid the reporters and photographers, but Daddy’s quick exit without even a look at me, still hurt. At the café, I tried to eat the chicken salad sandwich Aunt Mittie ordered for me, but the act of chewing only increased my nausea. I was pleased with the way Mr. Jones had handled Mrs. Williams. Maybe she’d be more careful in her future assumptions and accusations, but one big question still hung over my head. Did Daddy betray Momma? Did Momma cheat on Daddy in return? I always thought their fighting was just part of their personalities, too strong-willed to be defeated. Was I wrong? Mr. Jones didn’t answer that question. He examined the question. He momentarily distracted all of us from the question. He provided plausible theories and more than enough tit-for-tat, but no one answered the question with any degree of certainty. And Daddy ran off before I could ask him directly. Did Daddy betray Momma? Did Momma have her own secrets to hide?

Back at the courthouse, Aunt Mittie ordered a few reporters out of our seats, demanding that they have a little respect for family members.
As Uncle Melvin and I moved to join Mittie, I saw John Howard leaning over Mr. Poole. Uncle John wore a very serious, desperate expression, and Mr. Poole’s shoulders looked stiffer than ever. If Uncle John had any pride at all, he should have been embarrassed by what he did that afternoon. He stood there and begged Mr. Poole to let him take the stand.

“Come on, I can help.
I got plenty to say about ol’ Hubbard and a few choice ones about Addie,” said Uncle John.

“Mr.
Howard, I have already told you. Your assistance is not needed,” Mr. Poole answered.

“Come on, you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.
You were ready to let him get away with it. I deserve my turn!” Uncle John desperately wanted his moment in the spotlight.

“Mr.
Howard, leave now or I will have you removed.”

“Fine, I’m goin’.”

Uncle John barreled down the aisle and slammed the door shut behind him. He looked just as angry as he did the night Momma poured out his whiskey. I bet Momma would have been just as pleased by him being ordered to leave the courtroom as she was when he stormed out of the kitchen that night. When he passed my pew, the familiar stench of stale liquor floated by me. Whatever Aunt Audrey saw in him that made her marry the man must be a secret between her and God, because I sure couldn’t see any redeeming qualities.

Momma was certainly right about him.
Uncle John was a pathetic excuse for a man, and he apparently considered himself responsible for Daddy being accused of murder. Surely, these educated men had more reason than the rantings of a drunk to drag my family through all of this. It really didn’t matter what reasons actually existed. Regardless of what truly prompted Mr. Poole to accuse Daddy of something so awful and drag his name through the mud, from that moment on, I no longer considered John Howard family. If Uncle John considered himself a proud member of Daddy’s lynching party, he had officially lost the privilege to be treated as family. I should spit on Uncle John’s grave, too.

The last witness of the day was Mr. Dominic Lavender,
Alabama License Inspector. Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin had to explain his testimony to me during supper that evening. According to Mittie and Melvin, all the highly-technical and confusing mumbo jumbo from Mr. Lavender boiled down to motive. He testified that the hotel in Grove Hill had been licensed under several names including Hubbard Andrews, Herbert Andrews, Hubbard Anders, and, for the two years leading to Momma’s death, Addie Andrews. Mr. Poole then tried to convey to the jury that the frequent name changes on the business license were highly suspicious and typical of someone trying to scoot around the law. Mr. Poole suggested that Daddy killed Momma before she could divorce him, and take the hotel, his livelihood, away.

“But Aunt Mittie, that sounds awful,” I said, unable again to enjoy the plate of food in front of me.
I didn’t understand why Daddy would change the license so often. Why did he change his name back and forth? His actions did seem terribly suspicious, at least to me.

“I know, I know, it was damaging, but Mr. Jones smoothed things over a little,” said Mittie.
She was trying her best to calm me, and I pretended as best I could, but inside, I was a wreck. Yes, Mr. Jones had pointed out that at the time of Momma’s death, Daddy was a successful Raleigh Man in Monroe County and didn’t need the hotel to support his family, but I was afraid the damage was done. Between the rumors of broken marriage vows, loud arguments, suspicious business dealings, and Momma’s supposed unhappiness, would anyone on the jury believe that Momma’s death was an accident? Would anyone in that room believe Daddy’s story? Did I still believe his story? That last question washed over me, soured my stomach, and created a clammy feeling that I couldn’t ignore. Before I got sick at the table, I asked to be excused, and rushed up the stairs.

Chapter 19

September 24, 1935

Grove Hill, Alabama

The next day, Uncle Melvin, Aunt Mittie
, and I arrived back at the courthouse bright and early. I was feeling much stronger than the day before, at least physically. I had decided to concentrate on supporting Daddy and was determined to stick with my new plan. Momma detested the idle gossip that ran rampant through the streets of Frisco City, so in her honor, I intended to ignore all of it. I also reminded myself that Mr. Poole, no matter how completely wrong he was, had a job to do. I just desperately needed Mr. Jones to keep doing his job, and for the jury to believe the Clarke County native. Daddy’s fate, and mine, rested in the clever hands of the hometown boy.

Mr. Poole, still trying to provide enough evidence for a conviction,
called William Murray, the strange large man in the dark jacket who I first saw in Frisco City, then later witnessed handcuffing Daddy in the café, to the stand as the first witness of the day. According to Mr. Murray, he was a detective with the Clarke County Sheriff’s Department, and the lead detective investigating Momma’s death.

“Detect
ive Murray,” Mr. Poole began, “what was assumed to be the original cause of death for Addie Andrews?”

“Hunting accident,” answered Detective Murray.

“So, what made you investigate Addie Andrews’s death further?”

“The County Coroner said a few things that got me thinkin’.”

“What did the coroner say?”

“Well, he told me that Mrs.
Andrews was supposedly squirrel hunting with her husband, but, according to the coroner, her husband’s cousin, Stephen Andrews, not Hubbard Andrews, brought the body in. Hubbard Andrews had dropped off Mrs. Andrews’s body to Stephen at the police station in Jackson.”

“What was suspicious about that?”

“I found it odd that Mr. Andrews would drive from Barlow Bend to Jackson, the opposite direction of the Andrews home in Frisco City.”

“Well,” said Mr. Poole, “Mr.
Andrews may not have been thinking clearly. Maybe he was in shock. Is that possible?”

“Maybe, but I was
also suspicious of the wound the coroner described. It didn’t sound like somethin’ that would happen while squirrel huntin’.”

“Uh huh, so
that was why you began a criminal investigation?”

“I had my suspicions, and then I started hearing
all of these rumors, wild stories about the two of them, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, and then Mrs. Andrews’s father, Malachi Lowman, and her brother-in-law, John Howard, came to see me. Drove all the way from Searight to Grove Hill. They also had their suspicions about the way Addie died and Hubbard’s involvement in the whole thing. I figured I should at least look around a bit.”

“And what did you find?”

“Well I went back to the doc, uh… the coroner. He said ‘the top of her head was blown off.’ Said it was one of the most gruesome things he had ever seen, especially from squirrel hunting.”

“For those of us who are not experienced hunters, explain why you found that to be suspicious.”

“Well, you hunt squirrel with a .22 or somethin’ like it. Somethin’ small enough so that the meat will still be intact once you shoot the animal. Somethin’ small enough for a squirrel isn’t gonna blow a woman’s head off. It just didn’t make no sense.”

“Uh huh.
In your opinion, what type of gun would be necessary to inflict a wound such as the one described by the coroner?”

“Somethin’ big and solid, like a shotgun.
I figure the shot entered under her chin and came out the top of her head.”

Mr. Poole
walked back to his table. His assistant handed him a long, slender box. Mr. Poole opened the box and unveiled a shotgun. “You’re saying the wound had to be caused by a shotgun. Like this one?” He waved the gun around so that the jury and audience could see the weapon.

“Yes,
Sir.”

“But, you wouldn’t hunt squirrel with a gun like this?”

“No, Sir, you’d blow the vermin to bits!”

“So, you absolutely would not us
e this gun to shoot a squirrel?”

“No,
Sir, absolutely not.”

“Mr. Murray, did you interview Mr.
Andrews during your investigation?”

“Yes.”

“And when you questioned Mr. Andrews, did you ask him what kind of gun they were using that day out at Barlow Bend?”

“Yes,
Sir. He told me they had two guns with them. He had a .22 rifle, and he claimed that Mrs. Andrews was carrying a shotgun.”

“And did the defendant tell you how Mrs.
Andrews came to be shot that morning?”

“Yes,
Sir. Hubbard Andrews said that it was an accident. He claimed that Mrs. Andrews was turning a squirrel around a tree for him to shoot when her gun snagged a branch or somethin’ and went off.”

“Didn’t that seem plausible to you?”

“No, it did not.”

“Why not?”

“May I, Your Honor,” Murray asked as he stood, “I’d like to show ya’ll somethin’.”

“Go ahead, Detective,” said Judge Bedsole
.

T
he detective walked to the center of the room, taking the shotgun from Mr. Poole.

“Mr. Poole, would you stand here
, uh, like a tree?”

The crowd giggled as Mr. Poole took his position.
Mr. Poole was less amused, but cooperated. He stood very still in the middle of the room.

“Now,” said Murray, “if I was tryin’ to turn a squirrel for my huntin’ partner around a tree, I would hold the gun like this.”
The detective held the butt of the gun with the barrel pointed down toward the floor and slowly walked in a circle around Mr. Poole. “I would try to scare or shuffle that squirrel in the right direction. How am I gonna shoot my own head off if the gun ain’t pointed at me?”

“Good question,
Detective.”

“Thank you,
Sir,” Murray handed the gun back to Mr. Poole. Back on the stand, Murray continued, “That’s when I determined that Mr. Andrews was lying. He had to be the one carrying the shotgun. The shot had to come from his gun.”

“Thank you, Detective Murray.
Nothing further.”

“I just have a couple of questions for this witness, Your Honor,” said Mr. Jones from behind his table.

“Proceed, Mr. Jones,” said Judge Bedsole.

“Detective Murray, how much would you say a shotgun weighs?
On average?” asked Mr. Jones.

“Oh, probably ‘round ten pounds.”

“Okay.” said Mr. Jones, then turned toward Mr. Poole, “May I borrow that shotgun, Sir? Promise to be real careful.” The jury laughed as Mr. Poole handed over the shotgun. “Now, if I could get a volunteer from the audience, maybe a lovely member of the Ladies Auxiliary? Good to see you joined us again today, ladies.” Mr. Jones tipped a little bow to the Ladies Auxiliary as giggles erupted once again from the enraptured women.

“I’ll help you, Mr. Jones!” a tiny woman
squealed and nearly jumped from her seat.

“Oh, I am much obliged, Mrs.?”

“Mrs. Timmons,” answered the spirited volunteer as she hurried to the front.

“Now, Mrs. Timmons, I promise this won’t hurt a bit.”
Mrs. Timmons found it difficult to control her giggles. “I just need you to hold this shotgun.” Mr. Jones went to hand her the gun, then paused as Mrs. Timmons held out both hands, “One-handed, please,” instructed Mr. Jones.

“Oooh,” said Mrs. Timmons as she struggled to hold the gun in one hand, “that’s heavy.”
Mrs. Timmons’s hand was too small to grasp the butt of the gun. Instead, she held the barrel, just above the trigger. This made the butt drop and the barrel point up toward the ceiling.

“Now,
walk from this table to Judge Bedsole’s bench and back, please,” said Mr. Jones.

Mrs. Timmons did as instructed.
As she walked, the barrel bobbed back and forth like a buoy floating on the water.

“Detective Murray, is it possible that Mrs.
Andrews would carry the shotgun like Mrs. Timmons here?”

“Well, maybe, but…”

“Detective Murray, we just witnessed a woman very near Mrs. Andrews’s size and weight carry this shotgun with the barrel up, bouncin’ back and forth, without any suggestion or coaching from me. So, yes or no, would it be possible that Mrs. Andrews was carrying a shotgun like this one in the same fashion as Mrs. Timmons just did?”

“Yes,” answered Detective Murray.

“Is it possible that Mrs. Andrews would struggle to carry a shotgun steady if she was using only one hand to hold the gun and the other to feel around the tree?”

“Yes, I guess she might have.”

Mr. Jones turned to Mrs. Timmons, “Thank you, Mrs. Timmons. That was lovely and right helpful.”

“Oh, you are so welcome,” said Mrs. Timmons.
She giggled all the way to her seat.

“Now, Detective Williams,” Mr. Jones said as he held the shotgun, “it is my understanding that the trigger of a shotgun is pretty delicate, easily pulled. Yes or no, Mr. Williams?”

“Yes, the triggers are easy.”

“Do you admit that it is possible as Mrs.
Andrews moved around a tree in the shadows of early morning, that the trigger caught on a twig or branch and pulled, resulting in Mrs. Andrews shooting herself? Is that possible, yes or no?”

“I…uh…I suppose it could be possible, but I think that would be highly unlikely.”

“So, yes, it would be possible?”

“Yes,” resigned Detective Murray.

“Is it possible that Addie Andrews lost her footing in the twilight, causing her gun to fire?”

“I guess that might be possible?”

“So, isn’t it true that the theory that Hubbard Andrews shot Addie Andrews is only one of several plausible theories?”

“To my mind, it is the
only
plausible theory!”

“One last question, Detective Murray
,” said Mr. Jones, “who was the original source of these rumors you spoke of? Who came to visit you?”

“Well, Mrs.
Andrews’s daddy came to me.”

“Who was with him, Detective Murray?”

“Oh, you mean John Howard.”

“Yes,
Sir, I mean John Howard. Have you ever picked up Mr. Howard for anything?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” snapped Mr. Poole, “Mr.
Howard is not on trial.”

“If John
Howard convinced Detective Murray that an accident was a murder, I think we should know what kind of man John Howard is.”

“
Overruled. I’ll allow it,” said Judge Bedsole.

“So, Detective Murray, have you ever detained Mr.
Howard for anything?” Mr. Jones picked up where he was interrupted.

“Yes, I have.”

“What did you detain him for?”

“Public intoxication.”

“Hmmm…and how many times, roughly, would you say you’ve detained him for public intoxication?”

“Probably five or six times.”

“So, you began this investigation on the word of a drunk?”

“Sir, I…” Murray protest
ed.

“No need, Detective Murray.
I think we all know the nature of your
evidence
.” Mr. Jones winked at the jury. Before Mr. Poole had the chance to object, Mr. Jones said, “Nothing further,” and took his seat again.

“Your Honor, redirect?” Mr. Poole requested.

“Go on,” ordered Judge Bedsole.

“Detective Murray, in your expert opinion, would an experienced hunter carry her weapon as Mrs. Timmons just carried this shotgun?” asked Mr. Poole.

“Objection, Your Honor, Murray is a detective, not a lady hunter expert,” said Mr. Jones.

“Sustained, rephrase the question, Mr. Poole,” said Judge Bedsole.

“Okay. In your
opinion
, would an experienced hunter carry a gun with the barrel pointed at herself?”

“No,
Sir, in my
opinion
, she would not.”

Detective Murray left the courtroom after this last response.
As he walked past the jury, I noticed a few of them exchange some very skeptical looks. For the first time since testimony began, I felt a glimmer of hope that maybe some of them were on Daddy’s side.

During the recess that followed Detective Murray’s testimony, Mr. Jones’
s aid approached me in the hallway.

“Are you Miss Hatti
e Andrews?” the young man asked. He spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him.

“Yes, I’m Hattie
Andrews.”

“Your father would like to have dinner with you tonight, and Judge Bedsole has agreed to
allow it. Mr. Jones has made all the arrangements. Are you available at six this evening?” The young man spoke in such a strange, formal tone. He must have graduated with honors from Thorsby Institute.