“Was Mr. Padgitt wearing gloves when he was arrested?” Lucien asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t arrest him.”
“Well, you boys took his shirt and his shoes. Did you take any gloves?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You’ve reviewed the entire evidence file, right, Mr. Brooner?”
“I have.”
“In fact, as chief investigator, you’re very familiar with every aspect of this case, aren’t you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Have you seen any reference to any gloves worn by or taken from Mr. Padgitt?”
“No.”
“Good. Did you dust the crime scene for fingerprints?”
“Yes.”
“Routine, isn’t it?”
“Yes, always.”
“And of course you fingerprinted Mr. Padgitt when he was arrested, right?”
“Yes.”
“Good. How many of Mr. Padgitt’s fingerprints did you find at the crime scene?”
“None.”
“Not a single one, did you?”
“None.”
With that, Lucien picked a good moment to sit down. It was difficult to believe that the murderer could enter the house, hide there for a while, rape and murder his victim, then escape without leaving behind fingerprints. But Chub Brooner did not inspire a lot of confidence. With him in charge of the investigation, there seemed an excellent chance that dozens of fingerprints could have been missed.
Judge Loopus called for the morning recess, and as the jurors stood to leave I made eye contact with Miss Callie. Her face exploded into one huge grin. She nodded, as if to say, “Don’t worry about me.”
We stretched our legs and whispered about what we had just heard. I was delighted to see so many people in the courtroom reading the Times. I walked to the bar and leaned down to speak to Ginger. “You doin’ okay?” I asked.
“I just want to go home,” she said softly.
“How about lunch?”
“You got it.”
The State’s last witness was Mr. Aaron Deece. He walked to the stand shortly before 11 A.M., and we braced for his recollection of that night. Ernie Gaddis led him through a series of questions designed to personalize Rhoda and her two children. They had lived next door for seven years, perfect neighbors, wonderful people. He missed them greatly, couldn’t believe they were gone. At one point Mr. Deece wiped a tear from his eye.
This was completely irrelevant to the issues at hand, and Lucien gamely allowed it for a few minutes. Then he stood and politely said, “Your Honor, this is very touching, but it’s really not admissible.”
“Move along, Mr. Gaddis,” Judge Loopus said.
Mr. Deece described the night, the time, the temperature, the weather. He heard the panicked voice of little Michael, age five, calling his name, crying for help. He found the children outside, in their pajamas, wet with dew, in shock from fear. He took them inside where his wife put blankets on them. He got his shoes and his guns and was flying out of the house when he saw Rhoda, stumbling toward him. She was naked and, except for her face, she was completely covered in blood. He picked her up, carried her to the porch, placed her on a swing.
Lucien was on his feet, waiting.
“Did she say anything?” Ernie asked.
“Your Honor, I object to this witness testifying to anything the victim said. It’s clearly heresay.”
“Your motion is on file, Mr. Wilbanks. We’ve had our debate in chambers, and it is on the record. You may answer the question, Mr. Deece.”
Mr. Deece swallowed hard, inhaled and exhaled, and looked at the jurors. “Two or three times, she said, ‘It was Danny Padgitt. It was Danny Padgitt.’ “
For dramatic effect, Ernie let those bullets crack through the air, then ricochet around the courtroom while he pretended to look at some notes. “You ever met Danny Padgitt, Mr. Deece?”
“No sir.”
“Had you ever heard his name before that night?”
“No sir.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“The last thing she said was, ‘Take care of my babies.’ “
Ginger was touching her eyes with a tissue. Miss Callie was praying. Several of the jurors were looking at their feet.
He finished his story — he called the Sheriff’s department; his wife had the children in a bedroom behind a locked door; he took a shower because he was covered with blood; the deputies showed up, did their investigating; the ambulance came and took away the body; he and his wife stayed with the children until around two in the morning, then rode with them to the hospital in Clanton. They stayed with them there until a relative arrived from Missouri.
There was nothing in his testimony that could be challenged or impeached, so Lucien Wilbanks declined a cross-examination. The State rested, and we broke for lunch. I drove Ginger to Karaway, to the only Mexican place I knew, and we ate enchiladas under an oak tree and talked about everything but the trial. She was subdued and wanted to leave Ford County forever.
I really wanted her to stay.
Lucien Wilbanks began his defense with a little pep talk about what a nice young man Danny Padgitt really was. He had finished high school with good grades, he worked long hours in the family’s timber business, he dreamed of one day running his own company. He had no police record whatsoever. His only brush with the law had been one, just one, speeding ticket when he was sixteen years old.
Lucien’s persuasive skills were reasonably well honed, but he was collapsing under the weight of the effort. It was impossible to make a Padgitt appear warm and cuddly. There was quite a bit of squirming in the courtroom, some smirks here and there. But we weren’t the ones deciding the case. Lucien was talking to the jurors, looking them in the eyes, and no one knew if he and his client had already locked up a vote or two.
However, Danny was not a saint. Like most handsome young men he had discovered he enjoyed the company of ladies. He had met the wrong one, though, a woman who happened to be married to someone else. Danny was with her the night Rhoda Kassellaw was murdered.
“Listen to me!” he bellowed at the jurors. “My client did not kill Miss Kassellaw! At the time of this horrible murder, he was with another woman, in her home not far from the Kassellaw place. He has an airtight alibi.”
This announcement sucked the air out of the courtroom, and for a long minute we waited for the next surprise. Lucien played the drama perfectly. “This woman, his lover, will be our first witness,” he said.
They brought her in moments after Lucien finished his opening remarks. Her name was Lydia Vince. I whispered to Baggy and he said he’d never heard of her; didn’t know any Vinces from out in Beech Hill. There were a lot of whispers in the courtroom as folks tried to place her, and gauging from the frowns and puzzled looks and head shakes it appeared as though the woman was a complete unknown. Lucien’s preliminary questions revealed that she was living in a rented house on Hurt Road back in March but was now living in Tupelo, that she and her husband were going through a divorce, that she had one child, that she grew up in Tyler County, and that she was currently unemployed. She was about thirty years old, somewhat attractive in a cheap way — short skirt, tight blouse over a big chest, bottle-blond hair — and she was utterly terrified of the proceedings.
She and Danny had been having an adulterous affair for about a year. I glanced at Miss Callie and was not surprised to see this was not sitting well.