The Ballad of Frankie Silver - By Sharyn McCrumb Page 0,58
the dock, Mr. Gaither, guilty of the crime of which you are accused, I’ll warrant that you will realize the value of making jurors weep instead of think.”
On Thursday morning the trial began. The family of the murdered man would be present in court, no doubt making certain that no Stewart kinfolk slipped into the ranks of the jury. By the same token, Isaiah Stewart and his sons, who waited outside the courthouse with expressionless stares, would see to it that none of the Silver clan sat in judgment of Frankie. Since both families were forty miles from home, I thought they stood a better chance than most of receiving disinterested justice.
The thought of all these grim backwoodsmen from beyond the mountains made me uneasy, for their notions of civilized behavior might differ widely from those of Morganton proper. The moment I reached the courthouse I had a word with Constable John Pearson, warning him to keep an eye on the spectators during the trial, particularly the Stewarts. They might all be armed, and they might attempt violence if the
court did not rule in their favor. Taking the law into their own hands is a common enough practice on the frontier, where courts are too far removed to serve the needs of the settlers. Men in the wilderness learned to protect their kinfolk and their possessions without the benefit of the legal system.
Pearson narrowed his eyes at my warning. “You think they’ll fight, then?”
“I hope not,” I said, “but you must be vigilant. Watch everyone. Even our own local citizens. Regrettably, many of them are much the worse for drink on court days. They might become unruly. Feelings are running high over this case.”
“So are wagers,” grunted Pearson.
“They are betting on this case? On whether she is guilty?”
“No. Her guilt seems evident—at least no one is wagering otherwise. The bet is on whether Mrs. Silver will be acquitted or sent to prison,” said Pearson.
“But surely, if she is convicted—”
He shook his head. “She is a woman. They won’t hang her.”
The first order of business on the day of a trial is the selection of a jury. Today it would be a particularly onerous task, since more than a hundred men had crowded into the courtroom upon the summons of Sheriff Butler. John Pearson was keeping order and quiet among them as best he could, while I readied the tools of jury selection: a wooden ballot box filled with 150 slips of paper, each bearing the name of a Burke County citizen, painstakingly copied from the tax records by me. Of all these men who had been summoned, we required the services of only twelve. The law states that any man between the ages of twenty-one and sixty who is a resident of the county may serve as a juror, provided that he has in his own name or in trust for him a worth of ten pounds in lands or rents, or if he leases for twenty-one years or longer land worth the sum of twenty pounds or more. It is part of my duties as clerk of Superior Court to compile from county tax records the names of those citizens eligible to serve on juries for the year, and to furnish the sheriff with that list, arranged alphabetically, with the place of abode of each man duly recorded by his name, so that the sheriff may easily locate the fellow to summon him.
To select the jurors for the trial, slips of paper bearing the names of the hundred and fifty men summoned were put in a wooden ballot box, and their names were drawn out one by one at random.
I reached into the box and drew out the first name. “David Hennessee!”
There was a stir among the crowd, and a fair-haired young man of short stature and pleasant features stepped forward. David Hennessee told the court that his date of birth was September 3, 1806, adding that he was the son of Mr. John Hennessee, who had substantial land grants along the Catawba River and elsewhere. Thus satisfied as to age and his material qualifications as a juror, Judge Donnell said, “Have you heard about this case?”
“Some,” the young man admitted. “People have been talking about it around town.”
“Are you acquainted with any of the principals in the case?”
“You mean do I know these folks, the Silvers, or that other family? No, sir. Nary a one. They’re from a long way west of here, sir.”