The judge leaned over to Mr. Vessels. After a long pause he said, “Mr. Vessels, now that I have the whole claim with no real evidence through witnesses and documents, which you have not presented to this court, I’m hard-pressed to conclude that any single book could cause a failed marriage and or death. Do you have any other real evidence you wish to present, or do you request a continuance to develop evidence?” Judge Norton said.
“Yes, Your Honor, we’d like to present more today, thank you. We are prepared to prove that on April 11 of this year, Sheriff Buckner was then called over to nineteen-year-old Pearl Grant’s home, which is the fire tower where she is housed and employed by the state as a fire lookout. Sheriff Buckner here”—he turned, raised an exaggerated flat palm to the lawman sitting on the other side of Mrs. Wallace—“witnessed the drunken outbursts and false accusations by Miss Grant after the two teenagers, she and Miss Lovett, set the government cab on fire during a night of unlawful inebriating and wild parties and—”
“Objection. This is a motion proceeding, and none of this was mentioned in any opposition papers.” Mr. Morgan half rose this time.
“Overruled, please proceed,” Judge Norton said.
Tittering whispers came from behind, but I was too terrified and embarrassed to turn around, afraid I would see the condemnation in others’ eyes. Resting my elbows on the table, I dropped my head into a palm and kneaded my throbbing temples.
“Is this true, Honey?” Mr. Morgan whispered.
“Just the drinking, sir.” I barely breathed.
Mr. Morgan bowed his head and cupped his hand over his forehead, shielding his scowl from the judge.
Embarrassed, I hung my head.
“Order,” Judge Norton said. “Is there more to your late offer of proof, Mr. Vessels?”
“No, sir, Your Honor. But the court can of course verify everything I have said with Sheriff Buckner here.” Mr. Vessels took his seat and smiled satisfied at the sheriff and social worker before raising a contemptuous brow my way.
“Your Honor, if I may speak on behalf of my client—” Mr. Morgan rose.
“Take your seat, Counselor. I have one question for Miss Lovett,” Judge Norton declared.
Mr. Morgan leaned over and said, “Stand.”
My legs didn’t want to. Mr. Morgan stabbed me with a stern look, and I rose, gripping the table.
“Miss Lovett, did you attend a party at Miss Grant’s cab where you proceeded to get unlawfully inebriated and set the cab on fire?”
“No, sir. Perry Gillis and his kin set the cab on fire, and when we tried to tell the sheriff, he got real angry.”
“Did you attend a party there?” the judge asked.
“Yes, sir, a pajama party.”
The judge peered over his glasses. “Speak up, please.”
“I-I—”
“Miss Lovett, please answer the question,” he demanded.
“Pearl had a pajama party for us two.”
From behind, I heard soft laughter.
“Were you drinking, Miss Lovett?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. But we never—”
“Be seated,” the judge ordered.
The brisk command felt like a slap, and all I could do was gawk at him.
Mr. Morgan turned slightly and said in a quiet voice. “Take your seat.”
Murmurs lifted behind me in the public gallery.
I sank back into my chair, my heart thumping in my ears, drowning out the crowd’s energetic whispers skating around the stale, tobacco-soaked weeping walls.