“You are the director, Miss Foster, and if you don’t have it, would it be safe to say it was in Miss Lovett’s personal collection and that she alone carried those dirty books—”
My teeth began to clatter, and terrified, I pressed a palm over my mouth.
“Objection! Leading the witness and hearsay,” Mr. Morgan said harshly.
“Mr. Morgan.” I tugged on his sleeve, but he wrote something down on his pad and wouldn’t look at me.
“No more questions.” Mr. Vessels smiled thinly.
The judge looked down at us and then said, “Mr. Vessels, would you care to call any other witness, briefly, to counter any of this new evidence presented by Mr. Morgan?”
“Just one moment and thank you, Your Honor.” Mr. Vessels leaned over to the sheriff, and they whispered together, then, “No, Your Honor. We rest.”
“Mr. Morgan?” said the judge.
“No, Your Honor. Applicant rests.”
“If you are both through, I would like to conclude this hearing by ruling on the matter today and later I will write a formal letter. Now, I would like to say…” Judge Norton paused and directed his next words to Mr. Vessels. “Mr. Vessels had the opportunity to call Sheriff Buckner as a witness to refute the claim and did not, so I presume there is some truth to it.”
Mr. Vessels half stood, plopped back into his seat, then rose again, sputtering, “But, Your Honor, Your—”
“Take your seat, Counselor,” the judge said.
A few grumbles came from Mr. Vessels’s table.
“Before I rule, I’d like to ask Miss Lovett one last question. Miss Lovett?”
I uttered a yessir.
“Stand,” Mr. Morgan instructed me.
I rose slowly.
“Miss Lovett,” the judge said, “do you have anything you wish to say?”
I was surprised again that he asked my thoughts, the same as in the last hearing. I was hesitant, recalling how Papa whispered to Mama to never go searching for freedom at the feet of others who could strip it away.
But I had to try even if it meant on bended knee. “Yes, Your Honor,” I said, my response hoarse, the words raked across a burning throat. “I–I… Well, sir, I had a marriage proposal recently.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mr. Vessels, Mrs. Wallace, and the sheriff leaning over, gawking, stretching their necks, three sets of curious eyes falling to my belly. Mrs. Wallace whispered something to the lawyer and he nodded.
From the public benches, I heard folk squirm in their seats, knowing some were lengthening backsides to get a glimpse.
“Your Honor,” I continued, trying to ignore them, “I know many girls around here are allowed to wed young. The law—”
The judge looked up, perplexed, and made me stop talking. “Miss Lovett, how might you know that law? Are you in other trouble…in the family way?”
I pressed my lips together, tasting the stale, waxy Pastel Pink lipstick from the Avon sample that Pearl had given me the night of the party.
“Miss Lovett?” He waited.
Laughter and a few snickers punched from the rear, but I kept my eyes glued to the judge. “No, sir. Mr. Morgan told me that’s the law in this state. And he said Kentucky would legally honor such a union between a man and a child bride.” I paused, suddenly remembering my mama, Angeline Moffit, and the marriage certificate that I’d found in one of our trunks long ago. She was barely thirteen when she married my papa, Willie.
A touch of kindness spread across the judge’s face. “There’d be no need for any of us to be here today if you were soon to have a husband. Would there?”