for the attention. Her thin figure was wrapped tight in a slim-fitting black belted suit. She wore black suede pumps, a small black velvet half hat, and a simple string of pearls. The emphasis on black worked perfectly and she emanated grief and suffering, sort of. She was very much the widow, but a young and attractive one at that.
All twelve men watched every step as she made her approach, as did the lawyers, the judge, and virtually everyone else. Pete, though, was not impressed and kept his eyes on the floor. The court reporter swore her to tell the truth, and Jackie situated herself in the witness chair and looked at the crowd. She carefully crossed her legs and the crowd watched every move.
From behind a podium, Miles Truitt smiled at her and asked her name and address. He had coached her well and she looked sincerely at the faces of the jurors as she spoke. Other essentials followed: She was thirty-eight years old, had three children, had lived in Clanton for five years but moved to Georgia after the death of her husband. “I became a widow,” she said sadly.
“Now, on the morning of October 9 of last year, at approximately nine o’clock, where were you?”
“At home. We lived in the parsonage beside the Methodist church.”
“Where was your husband?”
“Dexter was in his office at the church, at his desk, working on his sermon.”
“Tell the jury what happened.”
“Well, I was in the kitchen, putting away dishes, and I heard some sounds I’d never heard before. Three of them, in rapid succession, as if someone on the front porch had clapped his hands loudly three times. I thought little of it, at first, but then I became curious. Then something told me to check on Dexter. I went to the phone and called his office. When he didn’t answer, I left the parsonage, walked around the front of the church and into the annex where his office was.” Her voice broke as her eyes watered. She touched her lips with the back of her hand and looked at Miles. She was holding a tissue she had taken to the stand.
He asked, “And did you find your husband?”
She swallowed hard, seemed to grit her teeth, and continued, “Dexter was at his desk, still in his chair. He’d been shot and was bleeding; there was blood everywhere.” Her voice broke again, so she paused, took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and was ready to move on.
The only sound in the courtroom was the quiet hum and rattle of Ernie Dowdle’s radiators. No one moved or whispered. They stared at Jackie and waited patiently as she gamely pulled herself together and told her horrible story. There was no hurry. The town had been waiting for three months to hear the details of what happened that morning.
“Did you speak to him?” Miles asked.
“I’m not sure. I remember screaming and running around his desk to his chair and grabbing him and pulling him, and, well, I’m not sure of everything. It was just so awful.” She closed her eyes and lowered her head and wept. Her tears created others, and many of the women who knew her and Dexter were wiping their eyes too.
Her testimony was unnecessary. The defense offered to stipulate that Dexter Bell was in fact dead and that his death was caused by three bullets fired from a .45-caliber Colt pistol. Sympathy was irrelevant to the facts, and any evidence deemed irrelevant was by law inadmissible. However, Judge Oswalt, along with every other judge in the state, and the entire country as well, always allowed the prosecution to trot out a surviving relative or two to ostensibly prove death. The real purpose, though, was to stir up the jurors.
Jackie gritted her teeth again and plowed forward, or at least tried to. Dexter was lying on the floor, she was talking to him, but he was not responsive. She remembered running from his office covered in blood and screaming, and that’s when the deputy showed up with Hop and, well, after that, she just didn’t remember things that clearly.
Another pause as Jackie broke down, and after a painful gap seemed unable to continue. Judge Oswalt looked at Miles and said, “Mr. Truitt, I think we’ve heard enough from this witness.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Any cross-examination, Mr. Wilbanks?”
“Of course not, Your Honor,” John Wilbanks said with great sympathy.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bell, you are excused,” the judge said.