The Ballad of Frankie Silver - By Sharyn McCrumb Page 0,61
The saids and aforesaids rumbled through the air like drumbeats. The prosecutor’s carefully wrought indictment was as majestic in sound and cadence as a mass in Latin, and surely as incomprehensible to the majority of its hearers.
Mrs. Silver stood there looking down at the floor, letting the words wash over her head like a mighty river, and understanding not a syllable of their sense, I am certain, for when Judge Donnell said, “How do you plead?” she merely stared up at him, bewildered.
His Honor spoke louder. “How say you, Frances Silver, are you guilty or not guilty?”
There must have been a nudge or a sign from Nicholas Woodfin indicating that this was her cue (they had rehearsed the process beforehand, surely), for suddenly Mrs. Silver stood up straighter, and in a clear, soft voice she said, “Not guilty.”
This response came as no surprise to anyone. Since the penalty for murder is inevitably death, there is nothing to be gained by admitting one’s guilt. No doubt Woodfin and Wilson had explained to their client that her only chance to escape the gallows was to fight the accusation in open court.
Not guilty.
Judge Donnell nodded to Woodfin and Alexander, and then he uttered the phrase that would begin the trial: “Then let the jury come.”
Why must I say I’m not guilty, I asked them. Why can’t I just tell them all how it was right then and there, and then they can decide for themselves what should be done with me. Anybody ought to be able to see how it was—even town folk. The old lawyer, Mr. Wilson—he is black and skinny like a crow—he smiled down his beak at me and said, “Proper procedure must be followed in a court of law.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he speaks to me, and I wonder if he is dry-mouthed and has trouble swallowing, on account of being in the presence of a wicked murderess. I keep my eyes downcast, and I speak in a soft voice, though, for I do not want them to think me mad—or, worse yet, an ignorant savage from nowhere, for they would hang me without a second thought if they convicted me
of that—of being a nobody.
My father has money and can pay for my defense. He comes from good people down in Anson County, near the town of Charlotte, which is where the enemy lawyer hails from. My grandfather William Stewart was a proper man of business in the county, and once he lawed some fellow in court, just like gentlemen are always doing to settle some dispute.
We settle disputes different up the mountain.
I used to speak more ladylike when I was a young ’un, before we came to this place, but I have got out of the way of it now. There wasn’t much call for fine words up the mountain. Hard work is what talks the loudest up there.
The young fellow, though—Mr. Woodfin, his name is—he nodded his head, and said, “I wish you could just tell your tale straight out. It must have been possible to do so in a court of law once upon a time, Frankie, but now we have a great book full of rules concerning the conduct of a trial. It is a game we lawyers play, and you must bear with us.”
I like him. He has a well-scrubbed look about him, and calf’s eyes, and his clothes are right out of a picture book. He is like the prince in the fairy tale. He looks straight into my eyes and says that he will not stand to see me hanged.
So I am safe.
Chapter Four SPENCER ARROWOOD had watched hours of television, eaten meals he barely tasted, and slept more than he needed to before Martha reappeared with another handful of mail and a stack of library books. She brushed aside his questions about work at the office, announced that she could get her own cup of coffee, and insisted that he look at what she’d brought.
“Nobody has ever written a book on Frankie Silver that I can find,” she told him. “But she has rated quite a few chapters in local histories. I brought you a couple of old books, Dead and Goneand Cabin in the Laurelsfor starters. I looked over them last night, by the way. They’re pretty interesting.”
Spencer smiled. “Thanks, but I haven’t been to the bank lately. Do you take checks?”
“Consider it a get-well gift, Spencer, I don’t do casseroles. Anyhow, they’re both used,