Andy’s dismissal of Yettie Lindsey seems more reasonable:
according to her statement to the prosecutor, as a witness to the accident, she has nothing to add to what is already known.
Yet surely, if she is willing, she, now that Olivia has apparently begun to backtrack, could testify how desperate the situation was and how shock, even with a cattle prod, was the only alternative.
I walk downstairs to the first floor to be told that David Spath is not in and won’t be back the rest of the day. But Yettie Lindsey is in, and I walk two doors past Spath’s office to find a young, pretty black woman sitting in her office behind her desk with the door open. Yettie (her real name?
Whites are too afraid of ridicule to be so creative with names), I would guess is in her middle twenties and is short and busty with bangs and a kind of pony tail. She is wearing a maize turtleneck cotton dress that accentuates her figure. Her nose is characteristically wide; she has a lovely mouth and enormous eyes that are more green and yellow than brown. Her skin has a copper tone, and the old phrase embedded in my eastern Arkansas upbringing, “a nigger in the woodpile,” pops into my head. Although she is too dark to be what was called a “high yellow,” somewhere along the line, as with most African-Americans, she must have had a white ancestor or two. I tell her who I am and more or less invite myself in to visit. After preliminaries about my role, I say, “I thought that perhaps you might be able to help Andy show a jury there is another side to all of this that, at least, his heart was in the right place when nobody else wanted to get involved
Her elbows on the desk in front of her, Yettie Linsey leans forward and cups her chin in her hands as if she is considering her response. Thus far, her comments have been, if not unfriendly, monosyllabic. Finally, she says, her diction more elegant and refined than I expected, “I really don’t think you want me to testify for you.”
Surprised, I ask more sharply than I intend, “Why not?”
“In the first place, I don’t agree with what Andy did. Pam was a human being whose life wasn’t as horrible to her as it was to her mother and Andy. Being in arm restraints all the time isn’t particularly fun, but there’re lots of people who can’t use their bodies the rest of their life, and nobody says they’re better off dead, which is what I’ve heard Olivia say on more than one occasion.”
I am drawn to Yettie’s left hand as she tugs down at her skirt. It seems as small and delicate as a butter knife. No ring. What is her motive in spilling out this warning to me?
Am I to be some kind of messenger to my client? If she gets on the witness stand with any of this, an Arkansas jury will listen as carefully to her as they would to a scientist predicting the next earthquake. Her voice has an earnest quality that is compelling, and if the men on the jury get tired of that, they can stare at her face and her chest. “Isn’t that a fairly typical comment from a parent who’s frustrated by the system inability to help her child?”
Yettie’s face now has a smug expression, as if finally she is about to bring me up to speed.
“Olivia works the system pretty good. She’s got Andy wrapped around her little finger so tight he has trouble taking a deep breath.”
As if she is prompting me, I reply, “So you think they’re having an affair, huh?”
She raises her eyebrows as if there is no other conclusion that could possibly be drawn.
“You know where he lives?”
Before I can even nod, she says, “You think they’re any black women there?”
I resist the urge to doodle for fear she will think I am taking notes and force myself to hold my hands in my lap, as if we were discussing what the residents are having for lunch.
Knowing the area, I say, “I’d be surprised if they even have a black janitor.”
It is her turn to nod.
“You don’t have to be a genius to figure out your client has a thing for white women.”
Her face is angry now, and I can see rejection written all over it. A lot of things make me nervous about this case, but until now black racism wasn’t one of them.
“That’s not a crime anymore,” I add, feeling I had better get what I can out of her before she clams up.
“Do you have any hard evidence Andy’s involvement with Pam’s mother was more than just professional?”
A fake smile plays on Yettie’s lips, perhaps at my poor choice of an adjective.
“All you have to do is watch them,” she says contemptuously.
Since the same thought had crossed my mind, it is difficult for me to protest her vagueness. I risk asking, “Would it be fair to say that at one point you might have appreciated it if Andy had shown a little interest in you?”
Yettie brings her hands to her face as if the indignity of this question is too much for her to bear. Finally, she answers, her voice trembling a bit, “How many black professional men do you think I know?”
Her honesty is stunning. She probably doesn’t know personally twenty black men close to her age with even a master’s degree.
“Not many, I guess,” I say stupidly, feeling I should say something.
“Look,” she says, her voice suddenly weary, “I know I sound like a black bitch from hell. All I’m telling you is that you don’t want me as a witness, because I’ll tell everything I’masked.”
I sit for a few more moments, but there is nothing else to say.
“Pair enough,” I mutter and stand.
“Thanks for your time.”
She doesn’t reply.
11
Clan Bailey stands in the middle of my doorway looking as mournful as a man beginning a diet the day before Thanksgiving.
He pleads, “I know it sounds hideous, but it’s right down your alley.”
I rock back in my chair and roll my eyes in mock horror.
“An eighty-four-year-old woman caught having sex in a closet in a nursing home, who wants to dissolve her guardianship?
Thanks a lot.”
Now that he has me talking, Clan tries to hide a manila folder behind him and edges through the door like an uninvited insurance agent.
“You were the best attorney at that mental health garbage at the state hospital when we were at the PD’s Office. Come on, if I could get another continuance, I would.”
I put my feet up on my desk as I watch Clan ease into the chair across from me. He is as inevitable as a mud slide
Obviously, he was hoping his client would die before he had to try the case.
“You know how to natter a guy, Clan.”
Clan balances the dog-eared folder, which looks as if he has been snacking on it, between his knees.
“She was a friend of my mother’s, and before Mama would die, I had to sign a pledge in blood I’d try to help Mrs. Gentry if she ever wanted out.”
I smile, remembering the list of chores Rosa gave me before she died. Polish the table, water the tomatoes. It was as if she were going on a weekend trip. I haven’t missed a week with the table.
“When’s the hearing?” I ask. Hell, I owe Clan. He has given me outright four legitimate cases in the two weeks I’ve been in solo practice and referred me two others. The trouble is that this is the kind of case where you lose credibility. Not only does it waste the judge’s time but it also runs the risk of a Rule 11 motion for an attorney’s fee from the other side.
“Next Tuesday,” Clan mumbles, daring to edge the folder onto the corner of my desk.
“Our plane is supposed to leave at eleven. Brenda and I ‘ll never make it even if she’s my only witness. The nursing home would leave half their patients sitting on bedpans to have their witnesses in court to testify in order to keep somebody from busting out.”
