“All right, when you went to the clinic,” Winsor said, “how did you get there?”
“Walked.”
“How long did it take you?”
“I don’t rightly remember.”
“Was it a half hour or so?”
“I think.”
“So you had that time all the way there to think about where you were going, right?”
“I guess.”
“We don’t want you to guess, Sarah Mae. You just do your best to tell us rightly the way it was, okay?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now when you got to the clinic, you didn’t hesitate, did you?”
“Huh?”
“You walked right in, didn’t you?”
Sarah Mae swallowed. “I think I did.”
For a moment Beau Winsor looked confused. Charlene realized immediately it was an act. He knew exactly what he was doing.
“Sarah Mae, do you remember giving a deposition in this case?”
“I think.”
“You think? Don’t you remember that you and your lawyer came to my office, and I asked you questions, and a reporter, like the one sitting over there, took down what you said. Do you remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“And then your lawyer got a copy of that, what we call a transcript, and went over it with you, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“And you had a chance to make corrections at that time.”
“I think.”
“Well, I’m looking at the transcript here.” Winsor slipped on some reading glasses and flipped open the document. “I’m looking at page 34. Now, Sarah Mae, do you recall my asking you this question: Did you hesitate before you went into the clinic? And do you remember giving this answer: No. Do you remember that, Sarah Mae?”
“I guess.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I guess it’s pretty difficult for you to remember what happened that day, isn’t it?”
Sarah Mae started to speak, but her mouth got stuck on open.
“Pretty difficult, isn’t it?” Winsor’s voice was like warm honey. Sarah Mae seemed drawn to it, almost stuck in it, and she began to tremble. Judge Lewis said, “You’ll have to answer the question, Miss Sherman.”
Shaking her head, Sarah Mae said, “I don’t know. I don’t!”
Charlene could not object to this. She could ask for a break, but that would look even worse.
“It’s all right, Sarah Mae,” Winsor said. “Just catch your breath for a minute. You need some water?”
Sarah Mae shook her head.
“Now, when Miss Moore over there was asking you questions, do you remember her asking you about meeting with Dr. Sager?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And there was that one question where she asked you if Dr. Sager had inquired about your feelings. Do remember that question?”
“I think.”
“And you said, let me see here, I jotted it down. You said this: He said something like that, meaning he asked how you were feeling, isn’t that right?”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“Now I was a little confused about that. I think the jury would like to hear a little bit more.”
Sarah Mae looked at him with saucer eyes.
“What exactly did you mean by that?” Winsor asked.
“I…”
“If you remember.”
“I don’t remember. Rightly.”
Winsor put his hand to his chin and studied the witness. “Now this is a pretty important matter, Sarah Mae. Think real hard for us, will you do that?”
“I am,” she said.
Winsor stepped to the side of the podium and looked at Sarah Mae. His demeanor changed ever so slightly – from benign consideration to the start of annoyance. Charlene was almost certain that annoyance was a reflection of the jury reaction.
“Sarah Mae,” Winsor said, “the fact is you really don’t remember much about that day, and that’s a real problem, isn’t it?”
“I don’t rightly know everything. I was so, it was so…”
“Did you discuss your testimony with Miss Moore during the break?”
“Objection,” Charlene said. “Privilege.”
“I’m not asking about the content of the conversation, Your Honor. I’m just asking if they discussed it.”
“Overruled.”
“Answer the question, Sarah Mae.”
“Did I what?”
“Discuss your testimony with your lawyer at the break.”
“Discuss?”
“Did you talk about it?”
Now Sarah Mae’s face reflected a fear born of confusion and guilt, the kind of guilt a child feels when confronted with a charge she does not quite understand. She looked at Charlene, asking with her eyes what she should say.
“You don’t have to look at your lawyer,” Winsor said. “Just tell us the truth.”
Charlene jumped up. “Your Honor, I will testify to the fact that I did what any lawyer does with a client. During the break – ”
“Now I object,” Winsor said. “That’s a self-serving statement.”
Charlene turned on Winsor. “Your whole cross-examination is self-serving, Mr. Winsor, and – ”
She was brought up short by the banging gavel of Judge Lewis. “Miss Moore,” he said sharply. “You will refrain from addressing opposing counsel. We’ll just stop it right here. Mr. Winsor has asked a question and I’ve ruled that he may ask it. I want the witness to answer. Will the reporter please read the question again?”
The court reporter, a young woman, pulled up the steno paper and repeated the question for Sarah Mae.
“So you went over your testimony with your lawyer, correct?” Winsor clarified.
“Yeah.”
“And still you are conveniently remembering some things and not others.”
“Objection.” Charlene was operating on pure instinct.
“Sustained,” said the judge, surprising her.
“Your Honor,” Winsor said, his voice theatrical, “I have no more questions for the witness.”
2
“I can’t stand this waiting!” Millie said. She and Holden were in the hospital parking lot, getting air. The afternoon was hot, dry, just like Millie felt. As nice as Holden had been, she was beginning to want to be alone. She stared blankly at the high school banner across the street. Home of the Blades.
“I know how hard this must be,” Holden said.
“Do you?” The words came hard and fast. “I need to talk to her.”
“You’ll get your chance.”
“How do you know that?” she snapped. And she knew several things at once – that he didn’t deserve her tone, that he was comforting her as his profession demanded, but that she didn’t care to hear platitudes at this moment.
“Just believe it,” Holden said.
“It’s not that easy.”
“No, it’s not easy,” he said.
She looked into his eyes and saw some long ago darkness there, shadowy and shapeless.
“I’ll call Royal,” Holden said. “The folks at the church will want to be praying.”
“Not yet,” Millie said. It sounded selfish. It was, partly. “I don’t want anyone coming up here. I want my time with her.”
“Sure. Will you excuse me for a little while? I’m going to the chapel.”
“Chapel?”
“I want to do some praying myself. You know where to find me if you need anything.”
She watched him go. When was the last time she had prayed? Millie remembered praying for kids to stop teasing her. Didn’t happen. She hadn’t taken prayer seriously since.
But then it occurred to her she had prayed recently, in a way. In her vision. Hadn’t she spoken God’s name?
And when her mother was sprawled on the kitchen floor, hadn’t she called the name of God over and over? She had been crying out for help. Now, on reflection, it seemed simply irrational. A product of stress.
Still, Millie looked up into the blue sky, as if seeking an answer. None came. The sky was just there, hot and oppressive. And never-ending.