The Endless Forest
Page 209
“Should have been one back then,” Levi said.
“Be that as it may,” said Bookman. “Is there new evidence you wish to present?”
“Just what never got said last time.”
“Well, then,” said Bookman. “The accused is very ill, as I understand it. Is that so, Mrs. Savard?”
Hannah agreed that it was.
“A mortal illness.”
“She has very little time.”
“Mr. Mayfair, do you consider Mrs. Focht to be well enough to take part in these proceedings?”
“She is in her right mind. As far as her physical well-being is concerned, that question is best answered by Friend Hannah.”
Hannah stood again. “She has had a large dose of laudanum which will keep the pain within bounds for a while. There are side effects, but she is able to speak on her own behalf.”
“Of course I am,” Jemima said. “With laudanum all things are possible.”
The peculiar smile on her face was far more unsettling than any diatribe she might have delivered.
“Mr. Fiddler,” said Jim Bookman. “Your statement.”
It seemed for a moment that Levi wouldn’t speak at all. Then he raised his head and straightened to his full height.
“My mother and my brothers and me were born in slavery, into the Kuick family that used to live here in Paradise. The same family Mrs. Focht married into.”
He must have rehearsed this speech hundreds of times over the years, because it flowed easily, from one point to the next without hesitation or reaching. Levi told about the Kuick household and his mother’s responsibilities in the kitchen, about Jemima’s first arrival at the house as a maid, and the changes once she married Isaiah Kuick. In quick strokes he drew a picture of Jemima as a woman who disliked his mother on sight and did what was in her power to make Cookie’s life miserable.
“Because Ma wasn’t afraid of her,” Levi said. “That’s what made her so mad. We were still slaves or we would have left right then. Once we got our manumission papers and we went to work for Mr. Wilde at the orchard things got better. All three of us, Mama and my brother Zeke and me. Mama in the house, me and Zeke in the orchards. That was the best time, until the day Mrs. Wilde and my mama both went missing and never were seen alive again.”
His voice was a little more strained as he told the rest of the story; how Jemima had stepped in to comfort Mr. Wilde in his loss, how quickly they had wed, and what life had been like for Levi, still mourning his mother, once Jemima came into the household.
When he seemed to have finished, Bookman looked at him over the top of his reading spectacles. “Mr. Fiddler, what you have got here is a sad story about a mean and vindictive woman, but the law requires more before a person can be charged with murder. Motive, method, and opportunity are the cornerstones of such an accusation. Are you saying the motive in this case was simple hatred?”
“No, sir,” Levi said. “I’m saying she was a widow woman and wanted a husband and Mr. Wilde was her object. She did what she had to do to make that possible, and that meant getting rid of my mother so she could get shut of the first Mrs. Wilde.”
Bookman made a grumbling noise that rattled in his throat. “This still leaves the matter of method and opportunity, but let’s put that aside for the moment. Mrs. Focht, what do you say to these accusations?”
Jemima looked surprised to be asked. “I’ve heard them all before. What is it you want me to say? That I needed a husband? A woman with a child to raise and no money must have a husband. Of course.”
The magistrate worked his jaw as if he were chewing something tough.
“Mr. Fiddler, you are by my observations a careful man and fastidious. Surely you must see that if I send Mrs. Focht to Johnstown for trial, there’s little chance she’d live long enough to stand before a judge, and it’s almost a certainty that if she did, the judge would throw out the case. Can you be satisfied with the knowledge that she’ll be standing before her Maker soon enough, and that he’ll be better able to mete out punishment than we are?”
“I want to hear her admit it,” Levi said. “Then I’ll be satisfied to let the devil deal out her due.”
“Anything to say, Mrs. Focht?”
“Let Callie talk next.” She said this with no emotion, as though she were asking him to open a window or pass the salt.
“Mrs. Middleton,” said Jim Bookman. “Did you want to make a statement?”
“Yes,” Callie said. “I have some evidence to give. I should have given it long ago, and I’ll ask Levi to forgive me for holding back. Jemima did kill Cookie Fiddler, and I know because I saw her do it.”
The sharp silence that followed was broken by Levi. He said, “You weren’t even in Paradise that night.”
“I was. I’ll tell the whole story now if you want to hear it.”
Bookman said, “You saw Mrs. Fiddler die, and you never told anyone? Mrs. Middleton, why would you keep such information to yourself?”
Callie looked directly at the magistrate. “I was a little girl. I was afraid. And nobody ever asked me. Martha they called down to the meetinghouse to give testimony, but not me. It never occurred to them to ask me. And later … I don’t have an excuse. There is no excuse. I can only ask for pardon.”
“There’s a difference between an excuse and an explanation,” said the magistrate.
“Be that as it may,” said Bookman. “Is there new evidence you wish to present?”
“Just what never got said last time.”
“Well, then,” said Bookman. “The accused is very ill, as I understand it. Is that so, Mrs. Savard?”
Hannah agreed that it was.
“A mortal illness.”
“She has very little time.”
“Mr. Mayfair, do you consider Mrs. Focht to be well enough to take part in these proceedings?”
“She is in her right mind. As far as her physical well-being is concerned, that question is best answered by Friend Hannah.”
Hannah stood again. “She has had a large dose of laudanum which will keep the pain within bounds for a while. There are side effects, but she is able to speak on her own behalf.”
“Of course I am,” Jemima said. “With laudanum all things are possible.”
The peculiar smile on her face was far more unsettling than any diatribe she might have delivered.
“Mr. Fiddler,” said Jim Bookman. “Your statement.”
It seemed for a moment that Levi wouldn’t speak at all. Then he raised his head and straightened to his full height.
“My mother and my brothers and me were born in slavery, into the Kuick family that used to live here in Paradise. The same family Mrs. Focht married into.”
He must have rehearsed this speech hundreds of times over the years, because it flowed easily, from one point to the next without hesitation or reaching. Levi told about the Kuick household and his mother’s responsibilities in the kitchen, about Jemima’s first arrival at the house as a maid, and the changes once she married Isaiah Kuick. In quick strokes he drew a picture of Jemima as a woman who disliked his mother on sight and did what was in her power to make Cookie’s life miserable.
“Because Ma wasn’t afraid of her,” Levi said. “That’s what made her so mad. We were still slaves or we would have left right then. Once we got our manumission papers and we went to work for Mr. Wilde at the orchard things got better. All three of us, Mama and my brother Zeke and me. Mama in the house, me and Zeke in the orchards. That was the best time, until the day Mrs. Wilde and my mama both went missing and never were seen alive again.”
His voice was a little more strained as he told the rest of the story; how Jemima had stepped in to comfort Mr. Wilde in his loss, how quickly they had wed, and what life had been like for Levi, still mourning his mother, once Jemima came into the household.
When he seemed to have finished, Bookman looked at him over the top of his reading spectacles. “Mr. Fiddler, what you have got here is a sad story about a mean and vindictive woman, but the law requires more before a person can be charged with murder. Motive, method, and opportunity are the cornerstones of such an accusation. Are you saying the motive in this case was simple hatred?”
“No, sir,” Levi said. “I’m saying she was a widow woman and wanted a husband and Mr. Wilde was her object. She did what she had to do to make that possible, and that meant getting rid of my mother so she could get shut of the first Mrs. Wilde.”
Bookman made a grumbling noise that rattled in his throat. “This still leaves the matter of method and opportunity, but let’s put that aside for the moment. Mrs. Focht, what do you say to these accusations?”
Jemima looked surprised to be asked. “I’ve heard them all before. What is it you want me to say? That I needed a husband? A woman with a child to raise and no money must have a husband. Of course.”
The magistrate worked his jaw as if he were chewing something tough.
“Mr. Fiddler, you are by my observations a careful man and fastidious. Surely you must see that if I send Mrs. Focht to Johnstown for trial, there’s little chance she’d live long enough to stand before a judge, and it’s almost a certainty that if she did, the judge would throw out the case. Can you be satisfied with the knowledge that she’ll be standing before her Maker soon enough, and that he’ll be better able to mete out punishment than we are?”
“I want to hear her admit it,” Levi said. “Then I’ll be satisfied to let the devil deal out her due.”
“Anything to say, Mrs. Focht?”
“Let Callie talk next.” She said this with no emotion, as though she were asking him to open a window or pass the salt.
“Mrs. Middleton,” said Jim Bookman. “Did you want to make a statement?”
“Yes,” Callie said. “I have some evidence to give. I should have given it long ago, and I’ll ask Levi to forgive me for holding back. Jemima did kill Cookie Fiddler, and I know because I saw her do it.”
The sharp silence that followed was broken by Levi. He said, “You weren’t even in Paradise that night.”
“I was. I’ll tell the whole story now if you want to hear it.”
Bookman said, “You saw Mrs. Fiddler die, and you never told anyone? Mrs. Middleton, why would you keep such information to yourself?”
Callie looked directly at the magistrate. “I was a little girl. I was afraid. And nobody ever asked me. Martha they called down to the meetinghouse to give testimony, but not me. It never occurred to them to ask me. And later … I don’t have an excuse. There is no excuse. I can only ask for pardon.”
“There’s a difference between an excuse and an explanation,” said the magistrate.
