Red Grass River

themselves against the heat. A weakling breeze sagged through the courtroom’s tall windows. A growing line of prospective jurors was already crowding the hallways and many of the veniremen were forced to wait outside in the shade of trees. Now the bailiff announced that court was in session, the Honorable H. P. Branning presiding.

Gordon Blue had informed the Ashleys that Circuit Court Judge Branning had a reputation for no-nonsense legal proceeding, a factor in their own favor. “Gramling’s going to challenge so many of the jury candidates,” Blue had told Joe Ashley, referring to John Gramling, the state prosecutor, “that he’ll use up all his peremptories by tomorrow. In the meantime Branning will get his fill of him for slowing things down so much. By the time the jury’s seated we’ll have them and the judge on our side.”

And so did the first day of the trial go. Of the twenty juror candidates questioned, Gramling challenged seventeen and did not seem happy with the other three. Gordon Blue challenged none. Near the end of the day Judge Branning called both lawyers to the bench and asked the state’s attorney whether he intended to continue to weight down the proceedings with still more challenges tomorrow. “The peremptory is not an infinite privilege, Mr. Gramling,” the judge said. Gramling said he was fully aware of that—and aware as well that every potential juror so far, with a single exception, was a friend of the Ashleys, and the one exception was so clearly intimidated by the family he couldnt even look the defendant in the eye and could hardly be relied on to be impartial. The judge looked at Gordon Blue who shrugged in the manner of one baffled utterly by the state’s argument. After warning Gramling not to test his patience the judge adjourned court for the day.

As Bob Baker led John Ashley by an arm toward a side exit, John Ashley looked over at his family seated behind the defense table. His father nodded to him and his mother and sisters blew kisses and the twin brothers Frank and Ed each showed him a fist of encouragement. Bill was scribbling in a notebook—having been recruited as a secretarial assistant by Gordon Blue. Bob Ashley shouted, “We gone beat em, Johnny!”

Then he was outside and in Bob Baker’s Model T and they were clattering down the road on the short drive back to jail. As when they’d come to court in the car that morning—he in his fresh white suit and Bob Baker in a starched uniform and wearing his holstered and strapped-down pistol on the side away from John Ashley—they made the ride in silence.

The following day was mostly a repetition of the first—one venire-man after another was eliminated from the jury pool by Gramling’s peremptories. Judge Branning’s irritation grew. When he recessed for lunch he brought the gavel down like he was trying to break it. The early afternoon saw still more candidates dismissed by Gramling’s challenges. The judge drummed his fingers.

The sky framed in the windows began to darken with gathering clouds. The wind kicked up and carried on it the smell of the coming storm and brought to the courtroom some relief from the stifling heat. Thunder rolled in the distance. The first scattered raindrops were smacking the roof and the raised shutters when Gramling at last used up the last of his peremptory challenges. The judge heaved a theatrical sigh and said perhaps they could now proceed at quicker pace.

But Gramling then filed a motion for change of venue, citing the pertinent statutes permitting the action. He wanted the trial moved to Dade County, where, he argued, there was much better chance for the state to seat an impartial jury.

Judge Branning rubbed his face with his hands and said he’d take the motion under advisement and rule on it first thing in the morning. Gordon Blue muttered. “Damn!” and the look on his face made John Ashley’s chest go tight. The judge motioned the bailiff to the bench for a private word with him. John Ashley wondered if Blue had considered that the judge might get so fed up with Gramling he’d let the trial go elsewhere.

His father was whispering to Bill in obvious agitation as his other three sons leaned in to listen. Blue patted John Ashley’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, they cant do this.” He began gathering his papers. “I’m going to talk with your daddy. I’ll see you in the lockup later.” The judge banged his gavel and adjourned for the day.

In the clamor of voices that rose behind the judge’s exit from the room, John Ashley was suddenly certain the trial was going to go to Dade County—to Miami—to a jury of complete strangers. His mother scowled at John Gramling who took no notice as he gathered his papers. Old Joe was listening to Bill. Bob waved to catch John Ashley’s attention and pointed at Bob Baker who was talking to the bailiff. John Ashley did not understand what Bob was signifying but Bob and Frank and Ed were already hastening from the courtroom.

Bob Baker came over and took him by the arm and said, “Let’s go.”

The rain was coming down hard now and they were sodden by the time they reached the open-sided Ford. John got in and Bob Baker cranked the motor and then got in and adjusted the spark lever and they started back to the jail. The air shook with thunder and the sky was rent bright with lightning. The trees whipped in the wind. They drove along in the jouncing car with mud slapping up under the floor-boards. John Ashley stared glumly at the gray world passing and felt that all matters of import to him had already been decided and none of them in his favor.

With the storm had come an early twilight. Sheets of water swept across the narrow road and soaked them all the more in the open car. The jailhouse came into view, the light above the door already on and glowing hazy yellow in the gloom. John Ashley cut his eyes everywhere but saw no sign of deliverance.

Bob Baker parked the car alongside the fence gate and cut off the motor which chugged for several more revolutions before shutting down. Wisps of steam issued from under the hood covers. John Ashley slid out of the car and scanned the area as Bobby worked a key into the gate lock.

“Come on!” Bob Baker hollered through a crash and roll of thunder, beckoning irritably as he swung open the gate. John Ashley entered the compound and Bobby re-locked the gate and they slogged through the mud up to the jailhouse which loomed now in John Ashley’s eyes like an enormous crypt.

As Bob Baker reached for the iron knocker to summon Norman to unlock the door John Ashley acted on his impulse of the moment and grabbed him from behind in a headlock and wrestled him away from the entry.

Bob Baker snarled a muffled curse under John Ashley’s arm and became a bucking writhing frenzy trying with both hands to break free. But John Ashley held the arm clamped round his head as hard as he could and they reeled and staggered and splashed about like mad dancers in the muddy rain. And now Bob Baker was clawing at John Ashley’s binding arm with one hand and trying to unholster his pistol with the other and John Ashley got the leverage and purchase he was struggling for and lunged toward the jail wall and rammed the crown of Bob Baker’s head against it. Bobby went slack and sagged full weight in the vise of his arm and John Ashley feared he might have killed him. So tightly was his arm locked that he had to force it open with his other hand before he could let Bob Baker fall.

He stood gasping, massaging his aching arm, watching the jailhouse door in expectation of Norman’s appearance, but the door remained shut. The wind had died of a sudden and the rain was falling straight down and spattering high and loud. He saw now that Bobby’s face was in the mud and if he was not already dead he was going to drown. He knelt and pushed him onto his side and Bob Baker sucked a huge muddy mouthful of air. He was yet unconscious and blood ran from his hair and rubied the mud under his head. The hold-down strap of his holster was unfastened and John Ashley for the second time in their lives relieved him of his gun, once again a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson. He checked the loads and then stuck the pistol in his waistband.

“Johnny!”

He looked to the yard gate and saw his brothers Bob and Ed coming on the run, each time pistol in hand, and behind them, in the driving rain, a shimmying Model T emitted vague smoke from its exhaust pipe and Frank was behind the wheel and was looking out for anyone coming from either direction in the road.

Bob kicked and kicked at the gate lock and John Ashley was about to yell out for him to hold on, he’d get the gate key out of Bobby’s pocket, but Ed was already backing up a dozen feet and now running at the fence and throwing his full weight against it and a fifteen-foot portion of chickenwire ripped off its support posts and scooped down into the mud as Ed sprawled on the fallen fence and regained his feet and here came Bob behind him laughing raucously and yelling, “Whooo! Some damn jail, aint it? Fucken Chickenwire!”

They clapped him on the shoulder and grinned hugely and he felt himself grinning back. “We’d been here waitin to jump the sonofabitch,” Ed said, “but Frankie run off the road about a quarter-mile back and it took a while to get the machine out the damn ditch.”

“He dead?” Bob asked, nudging Bobby Baker with his toe. Bob Baker groaned but his eyes were still closed.

“You all get back to the car,” John Ashley said. “Best he dont see you here. Go on now.”

“Hell, I aint scared of this mullethead,” Bob said. “Let him see me all he wants.”