“Get them out of here!” Judge Glass was standing, retreating towards the steps that led down away from the bench. I could see fear in his eyes, and I didn’t blame him. There was something about the tone of their voices, the robotic manner in which they spoke, the continuous use of the word Satan. Nobody moved. It was as if no one were breathing.
Several bailiffs converged on Boyer and Barnett, grabbed them by the arms, and began to lead them out of the courtroom. As they did so, both boys continued to chant, and they continued to look at the same spot in the courtroom. I followed their eyes and almost gasped. Standing in the back against the wall was a tall, redheaded young woman in a black leather jacket. It was Natasha.
The chanting faded steadily as the bailiffs led the defendants off down the hallway outside the courtroom. Beaumont and Dunbar had moved to the defense table. Dunbar was wrapping a handkerchief around his finger; Barnett had bitten him so hard he was bleeding. I heard him mutter something to Beaumont about a tetanus shot, but Beaumont looked too stunned to respond.
There were at least a hundred people in the courtroom, and it was so quiet I could hear the ancient clock on the wall above me ticking. It took Judge Glass a couple of minutes to regain his composure. Finally, he looked down at Beaumont and Dunbar and said, “I’ve been on this bench for forty years, and I’ve never seen anything so disrespectful. The young people in this nation are going to hell in a handbasket, I tell you. Hell in a handbasket.”
“Judge, we can do the scheduling without them,” I said.
“I know that!” he snapped. “Don’t you think I know that, Mr. Dillard? Do you think you’re the only person in this room who knows what’s what?”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. Just trying to move things along.”
The judge looked out over the crowd. “You folks came to see the show,” he said. “I guess you got your money’s worth.” He turned to his clerk. “Give me a trial date. Six months.”
As the clerk looked through her calendar, I glanced over my shoulder. Natasha was still there, and she was staring at me. I didn’t hold the gaze, but over the next several minutes, as Judge Glass set the trial date, motion deadlines, expert deadlines, and plea deadlines, I periodically looked back at her. Each time, she was looking directly at me, seemingly sneering. I felt she was trying to intimidate me, and by the time we were finished and the courtroom began to clear, I was angry. I stood motionless at the table as first the judge, then the lawyers and the crowd moved out. The reporters and camera-men were packing up their gear. I continued to look in her direction. She didn’t move.
“What are you doing?” Fraley said from over my shoulder.
“Natasha’s here.” He followed my stare.
“That’s un-fucking-believable,” he said.
“She’s been staring at me since they made their scene.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, “but do me a favor. Shoot her if she tries to kill me.”
I started to walk towards her as the last of the crowd moved through the double doors. As I pushed through the low swinging door that separated the lawyers from the spectators, she remained perfectly still, as if she were glued to the wall, her eyes boring into me. When I was five feet away, I stopped.
“I know what you did,” I said to her. “We’ll be coming for you soon.”
Her face tightened and she moved off the wall. Her eyes were mesmerizing; I couldn’t break her stare for a full thirty seconds. She started speaking, but I couldn’t understand a word. It sounded like gibberish, but the words were being delivered with purpose, the volume steadily growing. She moved towards me. I felt a droplet of spit hit my cheek as she continued. The veins in her neck and forehead began to swell.
A strong hand closed around my bicep and pulled me in the opposite direction. I turned and realized it was Fraley. Behind him was a television camera sitting on the shoulder of a man, pointed directly at me. When I looked back, Natasha was gone.
“What did you say to her?” Fraley said as soon as I gathered my briefcase and we got out of sight of the reporters.
“I think I was trying to tell her I’m not afraid of her,” I said.
“I hate to tell you this,” Fraley said, “but it looks to me like she’s the one who’s not afraid.”
PART III
I made the news on the local CBS affiliate at six o’clock that night. Luckily, the cameraman hadn’t gotten there in time to record what I said to her. Caroline taped one of the newscasts, and we sat that night watching it over and over, trying to figure out what Natasha was saying. She spoke in what seemed to be a strange, guttural language, something I’d never heard.
The phone rang around seven. The caller ID was blocked, but I picked it up anyway. An unfamiliar woman’s voice on the other end asked to speak to Mr. Dillard.
“Who’s calling?” I said.
“I don’t want to tell you my name,” she said in a heavy Southern accent, “but I work with your sister at Godsey’s Insurance Agency. You need to go see her.”
“Beg your pardon? Did you say I need to go see her?”
“Yes. Right away. Tonight, if possible. And it would be best if you didn’t tell her you were coming.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Please, Mr. Dillard. Please go to Sarah. She needs you.”
“Crossville’s over two hours away,” I said. “I don’t think I’d be inclined to jump in the car and go down there on the basis of an anonymous phone call.”
There was a pause at the other end. I heard her draw in a deep breath.
“She’s been injured,” she said.
“Injured? Is she all right? Has she been in an accident?”
“No, I… I… You have to promise me you won’t tell her it was someone from work who called you. She’ll know it was me.”
“What’s going on?” I said. “If she’s hurt, I want to know what happened.”
“It was Robert,” she whispered. “He beat her. He beat her up.”
Her words stung me like a swarm of bees. I knew he was wrong for her. I knew he was a hothead. I was afraid something like this might happen, but I hadn’t had the guts to come out and say it to Sarah.
“Where is she?” I said, trying to remain calm.
“She’s at home. I just left there. It’s bad, especially her beautiful face.”
“Did she go to the hospital? Did she call the police?”
“She won’t do either one. She begged me not to call the police.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“I’ve known Robert since he was a little boy, Mr. Dillard. I’ve been working for his daddy, and his granddaddy before that, for thirty-five years. Robert’s a bad seed. He’ll do it again.”
“No, he won’t,” I said. “I can promise you that.”
I talked to her for a couple more minutes and then thanked her for calling.
“Mr. Dillard?” she said before she hung up. “I just want to tell you that Sarah is so proud of you. She brags on you all the time.”
I hung up the phone and tried to control my anger. Think, dumb-ass. Think. What should you do?
Caroline, who had started the chemotherapy treatments a couple of weeks earlier and had recovered well from the initial effects, wandered into the kitchen.
“Who was that?” she said.
“A friend of Sarah’s down in Crossville. She says Sarah’s boyfriend beat her up. She says I need to come down there tonight. Apparently it’s bad.”
