tormentor?
It was a stirring speech. The theatre lost a titan when Nick Woodfin chose the law instead of the stage as his profession. I could see the jurors, watching wide-eyed as the performance rose in pitch, and I have no doubt that had he been a Plantagenet, instead of a country lawyer, Woodfin could have got them to invade France with the power of his words. He has gained much in skill and style since the days when I first knew him.
At last he judged that the jurors had heard enough. The prosecution got up again and argued that shooting a man in cold blood in the sanctity of a courtroom, in front of six dozen witnesses, was murder, by God, and what else could you call it? The state’s lawyer conceded that Waightstill Avery was rich, and well connected, and that he rejoiced in the eloquence of his friends, who stood here now to defend him, but, be that as it may, Avery had—with the arrogance of the rich—appointed himself judge and executioner upon a fellow attorney. Were the honest citizens of Burke County going to let him get away with it?
The jury retired in the early afternoon to deliberate the matter. I watched the twelve men file out of the courtroom. “I suppose we might wait in the tavern,” I remarked hopefully to my fellow attorneys, for I felt much in need of a change of air.
Mr. Bynum smiled. “Why don’t we wait half an hour so that Waightstill can join the party?”
“But surely—”
Woodfin nodded in agreement. “Unless I miss my guess, we haven’t time to leave the premises. The jury should be back within the hour.”
They were back in ten minutes. As the jurors filed in, my colleagues exchanged satisfied glances, as if the speed of the verdict were a tribute to their skills of oratory, but I was still not convinced that the verdict would be a favorable one, for I had seen the shooting take place myself, and I could not call the killing of an unarmed man “self-defense,” regardless of the provocation several weeks earlier.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?” asked Judge Battle, in a tone that suggested surprise at seeing them again so soon.
“We have, Your Honor.” The foreman handed a slip of paper to the bailiff, who conveyed it to Battle.
“The prisoner will rise.”
Waightstill got to his feet and stood there with great calmness, but I saw that he was gripping the edge of the table with both hands. Even the most confident of men must realize that a jury is a capricious creature. No one knows this better than a lawyer.
Judge Kemp Battle studied the words on the paper for an agonizing minute before he looked up and announced, “The jury finds the defendant not guilty.” He paused here, as if he wanted to say more, but instead he shook his head and sighed. “Mr. Avery, you are free to go. The jury is thanked for its time.”
The color came back into Waightstill’s face, and he released his grip on the table. Tod Caldwell pounded his old adversary on the back, shouting, “We’ve done it!” as a crowd of well-wishers surrounded the defense table. My own congratulations were left unsaid, and I think the omission went unnoticed by my nephew and his supporters.
I gathered up my notes from the trial and made my way upstream against the crowd of spectators, seeking the open air. The day was bleak and colorless, with a spitting rain and gusts of cold wind coming down off the mountains as if to sweep away every last leaf of autumn in their wake. Despite the chill and the damp, I braved the elements on the side of the courthouse lawn, out of sight of the main entrance, through which the spectators and the celebrants would be leaving. I was thinking of John Boone, dead these fifteen years, and of all the trials that had come and gone since I arrived in Morganton.
Presently I heard footsteps approaching from behind me, and I turned to see Nicholas Woodfin in his great black cape coming toward me. “We have carried the day,” he said, smiling.
“Yes,” I said.
“We are going to the tavern now, as you suggested, to celebrate the jury’s good judgment, and I’ll wager that our old friend will spend more there than his defense cost him. Walk with me.”
I shook my head. In my present mood, the brown stubble of garden beside the courthouse suited me better than