The Trial of Dr. Kate (3 page)

“I feel like the whole county’s against me.” A look of surprise crossed her face. “I can’t believe I said that—it sounds so paranoid.”

“You’re not paranoid. You’re in a tight spot, and I want to help,” Shenandoah said. “What can I do?”

“If I’m going to win an acquittal, it’s going to come down to who they believe more—me or my accusers.”

“Tell me what to do,” Shenandoah said.

“You’re a reporter. Try to find some good character witnesses. See what they think about this silliness. Do people really think I could harm my best friend?”

“I’ll do my best. I want to talk to Jake Watson about your situation. Is that okay with you?

“Of course. Tell him I said it’s okay. He’ll trust you.”

“I don’t know Mr. Watson. None of my kin ever needed a lawyer because they were always guilty as sin.”

Kate laughed. “Jake and my father were roommates at Vanderbilt. His office is next to the City Café.”

Standing, they stared at each other for a moment, and then Kate put her arms around Shenandoah, gave her a bear hug, and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for coming, Shenandoah. You’ll never know how much this means to me.”

Shenandoah pushed the button on the wall, and within seconds the deputy materialized. Motioning Shenandoah out, Masterson said, “I’ll come back for you in a minute, Doc.”

A feeling of despair settled over Shenandoah as she descended the stairs.
Why didn’t I keep in better touch with Kate? Kate has always been an incredible woman, my best friend and supporter. We sent Christmas cards back and forth for a few years after graduation, and then I just stopped. No wonder I felt ashamed when I read that Teletype.

Shenandoah crossed the street to the attorney’s office. She opened the massive oak door and entered a large, sparsely furnished room that contained two overstuffed chairs, a low coffee table, and an old-fashioned rolltop desk. A faded diploma stated that Mr. Watson had graduated from Vanderbilt University Law School in 1912.

Sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs, Shenandoah picked up a June 1950 issue of
National Geographic
and engrossed herself in an article about pygmies in equatorial Africa. Ten minutes later, the door swung open and Mr. Watson walked in. He appeared to be in his early to mid-sixties and wore a white short-sleeved shirt and tie. A big straw fedora topped his head, and he held a load of books in one hand and a Dixie cup full of black coffee in the other. He kicked the door closed with a thud and then set the books and coffee on the desk. Placing the hat on a coat rack, he turned to Shenandoah. “What can I do for you, young lady?”

Standing, Shenandoah said, “Hope you don’t mind that I dropped in on you. I tried to call before I left Memphis, but I couldn’t get your number.”

“Don’t have a phone—useless piece of equipment. Never needed one of the damn things.”

“Don’t you have to talk to other lawyers and judges from time to time?”

Jake Watson took a sip of coffee and said, “Have you ever considered how annoying phones are? I could be talking to President Truman, and if the damn thing rang, I’d have to answer it. Could be my housekeeper, for God’s sake. When someone calls me, Dorothy at the café comes and gets me.”

“If I wanted to talk to you, I’d call the café?”

“That’s how you’d do it,” Jake said. “Have a seat. What can I do for you?”

“My name’s Shenandoah Coleman. I’m a longtime friend of Kate Marlow, classmates all through school. I’m a reporter now with the
Memphis Express,
and I’ve come to cover Kate’s trial. I just left her at the jail. She said it would be okay for you to talk to me about her case. She said you’d trust me.”

Jake Watson laughed. “Yes, I’ll trust you. I know who you are.”

“It’s a damn shame the woman can’t get bail,” Shenandoah said.

“She’s accused of a capital offense, and the judge wouldn’t allow bail.”

“Couldn’t you convince them that she would stay here to clear her name? Besides, I’m sure her patients need her.”

“I tried everything. The prosecutor was more persuasive. Who’s your father?”

“Archibald Coleman.”

“I knew him, and of course I know his brothers. Junior’s in jail as we speak.”

“That’s what I heard. But I’m more interested in Kate. What happened?”

Jake took another sip of coffee and studied Shenandoah’s face. “So, what do you know?”

“Kate told me Lillian Johnson died of an overdose of a barbiturate. Kate was supposed to make a house call to Lillian’s, but she can’t remember her activities that day—says she passed out. Kate’s fingerprints were on the syringe. That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

“That’s basically all anyone knows.”

“Why would Kate pass out and have no recollection of her activities that day? Had she been ill?”

Jake shrugged.

“I’m no lawyer, but all of this seems circumstantial to me. It’s hardly enough to charge someone with murder, let alone deny her bail. Why did the grand jury indict her?”

“District attorneys can browbeat a grand jury into coming back with a true bill. In this case, it was our local prosecutor.”

“I don’t know anything about Baxter Hargrove.”

“He must have been in your class. Sure you don’t remember him?”

“I guess I’ve forgotten him. But why did he push for an indictment?”

“He hates Kate because he suppressed evidence in a murder trial, and she exposed him. A young colored man was accused of murdering a white girl he’d been seen with in public. I think they were just friends, but you know how people think in this part of the country. The girl’s body ended up in a wooded area by the lake. She’d been raped and murdered. The autopsy showed dried blood under her fingernails. The coroner typed the blood as AB negative, the rarest type. Kate knew the boy’s blood was O positive. Kate disclosed the information on the stand, and Baxter lost the case. Later, a transient farm worker from Lebanon, Tennessee admitted the crime. Baxter kept his job but lost his chance for the state senate.”

“Where was Army Johnson when Lillian died?” Shenandoah asked.

“At his garage.”

“He’s a mechanic?”

“Among other things.”

“Kate told me she has no recollection of being at Lillian’s house. Has anyone been able to place her there?”

“A neighbor saw her car there that morning.”

“None of this sounds good.”

“These situations are never straightforward. There’re always extenuating circumstances. It’s my job to convince the jury that Kate’s innocent.”

“Hope you can.”

“It’s never over until the fat lady sings.”

“You an opera buff?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then we have something in common, Mr. Watson. I’m always pleased to meet an opera fanatic. And we’re all fanatics.”

“Yes, we are.” Jake began sorting through a pile of papers. “Anything else I can do for you, Shenandoah? I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

“Anyplace I can get a room?”

“Hattie Mae Hooper takes in boarders.”

“Where does she live?”

“High Street—big two story with a porch. White, I think.”

They shook hands, and Shenandoah said, “Thanks, Mr. Watson. If there’s anything I can do to help Kate, please let me know.”

T
he man who named High Street knew his topography, because the hill that Shenandoah’s new Bel Air had to climb strained its powerful V8. The street was lined with stately maple and elm trees, some towering seventy-five feet above the sidewalks. The yards in front of the houses contained drought-yellowed grass. Hattie Mae’s two-story dwelling had once been white, but the sparse, peeling paint revealed patches of bare gray spots like an untreated skin disease. A wide, covered porch sported a swing hanging from rusty chains. Flowerbeds filled with petunias, daisies, and rose bushes adorned either side of the walkway.

When Shenandoah knocked on the screen door, she heard a dog barking in the back of the house. A tuft of cotton safety pinned to the screen caught her eye just as a huge brown-and-white English bulldog came charging down the hallway straight toward her. Shenandoah braced herself for an attack. At the last moment, the dog stuck his front paws straight out in front of him and slid across the hardwood floor, slamming his head into the doorframe.

“Mr. Applebee, behave yourself! You’ll give the poor lady a heart attack. I’ll be there directly. Jest hold on.”

A woman came slowly out of the shadows of the hallway. Bending over the prostrate body of Mr. Applebee, she poked him with her index finger. The dog jumped to his feet and spun around two times before lifting his right leg and passing a flatus of foul-smelling methane.

“Stop that, Mr. Applebee. That’s enough of your nonsense. Go get in your box.”

The dog looked up at his mistress with bloodshot, baggy eyes and waddled off down the hall.

“Come in, lady,” the woman said, pushing open the screen door. “Mr. Applebee ain’t dangerous, jest stupid. Not the sharpest tack in the box.”

As Shenandoah passed through the door, the woman stared at her, studying her face with an unnerving intensity. Portly, with heavy jowls not unlike Mr. Applebee’s, she had dirty gray hair that stood straight out from her head as if she had just stuck her finger into an electric outlet. Her cotton dress hung loosely from her ample frame, and she wore black high-top tennis shoes with nylon stockings rolled over the tops.

“You’re Mrs. Hooper?” Shenandoah asked.

“Hattie Mae to my friends, and I ain’t got no enemies.”

“My name is Shenandoah Coleman, and I need a room for about ten days. Mr. Watson told me you take in boarders.”

“That’s a fact, and I’ve got an empty room. Come in the living room and we can talk it out.”

A musty smell hung over the dark room like a shroud. The furnishings looked to be from the 1920s, and lace doilies adorned the arms of all the chairs. In one corner, an ancient GE oscillating fan on a floor stand droned as it swept hot air back and forth across the room.

“Sit right there, Miss Coleman,” Hattie Mae said as she plopped into the chair opposite her. “You from Beulah Land?”

“Yes. Please call me Shenandoah. Miss Coleman seems too formal.”

“Ain’t got much use for them folks—your folks.”

“Haven’t got a lot of use for them myself, Hattie Mae. Hope you won’t hold it against me.”

“I’ll pray on it, honey.”

Shenandoah noticed an eight-by-ten color-tinted photograph in a gold frame on the coffee table. The photograph was of a body in an open coffin.

“You looking at my Henry?” Hattie Mae asked.

“I wondered who was in the picture.”

“Well, pick it up and get a good look at Henry, God rest his soul. He’s dearly missed in this house.”

On closer examination, Shenandoah saw the departed Henry Hooper lying in an expensive coffin. A large bouquet of fresh flowers rested on top of the half-open lid. Henry’s hands lay crossed over his chest, and he looked peacefully asleep.

“When did Henry pass?”

“On the thirteenth of July a year ago. Poor old Henry was scared of Friday the thirteenth. Scared of ghosts, too.”

“I’m sorry, Hattie Mae,” Shenandoah said, replacing Henry’s picture.

“Tell me about yourself, Shenandoah.”

“Not much to tell. I grew up in Beulah Land and went to school in Round Rock. After the war, I got a college education and took a job at the
Memphis Express
. I came up here to cover Dr. Kate’s trial.”

“The good doctor’s got herself in a heap of trouble, ain’t she?”

“To put it mildly.”

“I reckon you know Lillian Johnson is the lady they say Dr. Kate killed.”

“They haven’t proved Dr. Kate killed Lillian. That’s for the jury to decide.”

“Most folks in town believe Dr. Kate and Army are still sweet on each other.”

“You think Army and Kate are involved?”

“You ought to know things like that don’t get by folks in a small town.”

“Sometimes it’s just gossip.”

“Maybe.”

“I’ve known Army all my life, but I never knew how he got that name.”

Hattie Mae grinned slyly and lowered her voice, as if she was telling Shenandoah a secret. “Lola, that’s his momma, was working in Nashville in 1920, a file clerk in one of the state office buildings. She met a soldier boy in the Army National Guard, and when she got pregnant, the man said he already had a wife. There was nothing for Lola to do but come home and have the baby. She jest gave the little fellow her last name. She loved that soldier boy a lot, even if he had done her wrong. That’s why she named her son Army.”

“That’s quite a story,” Shenandoah said.

“So what did you think of Army?” Hattie Mae asked.

“We were never friends. Mr. Watson said he owns a garage.”

“Yeah, but at night he’s a ridge runner.”

“Army’s a bootlegger?”

“He ain’t a bootlegger. He picks up store-bought whisky in Nashville and brings it up here. He sells it to bootleggers.”

Mr. Applebee sauntered in and stood at Hattie Mae’s feet, looking up at her with sorrowful eyes.

“Behave yourself, Mr. Applebee, or it’s back in the box.”

Hattie Mae patted her leg, and the big dog leaped into her lap, settled his massive head on her protruding abdomen, and within seconds was snoring loudly.

Shenandoah stood and moved to the east window. Hattie Mae’s yard, recently mowed, looked brown due to the drought, but the flowerbeds overflowed. Shenandoah had not noticed when she drove up, but an old black man on his hands and knees was digging in one of the beds.

Hattie Mae stood, and Mr. Applebee rolled off her lap, hitting the floor with a thud. He jumped to his feet and shook himself. “Come on, honey. Me and Mr. Applebee’ll show you your room.” The big bulldog followed Shenandoah and Hattie Mae down the long hallway with his stubby tail and narrow hips oscillating.

She led Shenandoah to a small room by the kitchen. It had a double bed that sat high off the floor, a nightstand with a Tiffany lamp, a brass alarm clock with two bells on top, and a wing chair with a floor lamp standing next to it. A small desk was positioned near a window that looked out on the flower garden.

“This is it. Ain’t fancy, but it should do you nicely. Bathroom’s next door. I only allow one roll of tissue a week, so you got to make it last. You want, you can have breakfast and supper with me and Mr. Applebee. We eat at six-thirty and five-thirty.”