across and squeezed her own, and she returned the pressure, trying to keep her breath steady in her chest.
A minute later Margery was led in, her head down, and her gait slow. She stood, her expression unreadable, no longer even bothering to meet anybody else’s eye. “C’mon, Marge,” she heard Beth mutter beside her.
And then Judge Arthurs entered the courtroom and everybody rose.
* * *
• • •
Miss Margery O’Hare here is a victim of unhappy circumstance. She was, if you like, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Now only God will ever know the truth of what happened on the top of that mountain, but we do know that it is only the flimsiest of evidence that takes a library book, one which by all accounts may have traveled halfway across Lee County, and places it near a body that may have come to rest some six months earlier.” The defense counsel looked up as the doors at the back opened and everyone swiveled in their seats to see Kathleen Bligh march in, sweaty and a little breathless.
“Excuse me. I’m very sorry. Excuse me.” She ran to the front of the court where she stooped to speak to Mr. Turner. He glanced behind him and then stood, one hand on his tie, as the people in the court murmured their surprise.
“Your Honor? We have a witness who would very much like to say something before the court.”
“Can it wait?”
“Your Honor, this has a material bearing on the case.”
The judge sighed. “Approach the bench please, Counsels.”
The two men stood at the front. Neither attempted to lower their voices much, one from urgency and the other from frustration, so the court got to hear pretty much everything that was said.
“It’s the daughter,” said Mr. Turner.
“What daughter?” said the judge.
“McCullough’s daughter. Verna.”
The prosecution counsel glanced behind him and shook his head. “Your Honor, we have had no prior notice of such a witness and I object in the strongest terms to the introduction of such at so late—”
The judge chewed ruminatively. “Did the sheriff’s men not go up to Arnott’s Ridge to try to talk to the girl?”
The prosecution counsel stammered, “Well, y-yes. But she wouldn’t come down. She hasn’t left that house in several years, according to those familiar with the family.”
The judge leaned back in his chair. “Then I would say if this is the victim’s daughter, possibly the last witness to see him alive, and she is now content to make her way down into the town to answer questions about his last day, then she may well have information pertinent to the case, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Howard?”
The prosecution counsel glanced behind him again. Van Cleve was straining forward in his seat, his mouth compressed with displeasure.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Good. I will hear the witness.” He waved a finger.
Kathleen and the lawyer spoke for a minute in hushed voices, and then she ran to the back of the court.
“When you’re ready, Mr. Turner.”
“Your Honor, the defense calls Miss Verna McCullough, daughter of Clem McCullough. Miss McCullough? If you could make your way to the witness box? I would be much obliged.”
There was a hum of interest. People strained in their seats. The door opened at the back of the court, revealing Kathleen, her arm through that of a younger woman, who walked a little behind her. And as the court watched in silence, Verna McCullough made her way slowly and deliberately to the front of the courtroom, every stride an apparent effort. Her hand rested on the small of her back and her belly sat low and huge in front of her.
A murmur of shock, and a second wave of exclamation as the same thought occurred to each person, went up around the room.
* * *
• • •
You live at Arnott’s Ridge?”
Verna had held her hair back with a bobby pin and now fiddled with it, as if it were out of place. Her voice emerged as a hoarse whisper. “Yes, sir. With my sister. And before that our father.”
“Can you speak up, please?” said the judge.
The lawyer continued. “And it’s just the three of you?”
She held on to the lip of the witness box and gazed around her, as if she had only just noticed how many people were in the room. Her voice faltered for a moment.
“Miss McCullough?”
“Uh . . . Yes. Our mama went when I was eight and it’s been us three since then.”
“Your mama died?”
“I don’t know, sir. We woke up one