Morning spilled across the bedroom. Solon would arrive in less than two hours to take Jessa to town to meet with Papa’s lawyer. She couldn’t think of anything she’d like to do less. She fished around for the woolen socks she’d kicked off in the night and spotted one on the floor. When she threw her feet over the side of the bed, she noticed that dust had painted every surface. The boards had been laid when Jessa was just learning to walk. When the family first arrived, they’d lived in a dugout with a dirt floor carved into the earth, its chimney rising from the ground like a tree stump. According to Papa, Mama had swept it at least a dozen times a day. “You like your dirt clean, don’t you, Mollie?” he’d still tease. Now, they used the dugout for storage and as a summer kitchen, rendering fat for soap and canning and pickling. As the house continued to settle, dirt kept rising between the floorboards. Mama seemed to have lost her appetite for sweeping—and for order in general. Unwashed bowls were left for the girls. The eggs Mama collected got stranded on the porch, the slop bucket showed up in the hen house, and the whisky jar went empty. If Papa were sent away for years, the dirt might overtake the floor; the great sands might swallow the house.
The bulk of the care of the livestock—feeding, watering, checking on the cows and first spring calves—was falling to Jessa. The buds of the shin oaks had broken the last week of March. She’d had to move the cows out of the pastures that bordered the shinnery to keep them from eating berries that were toxic to the cattle for a few weeks each year. Solon had sent Grover over to help. She’d noticed how light Grover was on the rein, using his legs to signal to his horse what needed to be done. Seemed a lifetime ago she’d met him at that picnic. He was still a beanpole, but he looked more rugged than when he’d first come to the Shinnery. They worked efficiently together, ensuring the Campbells wouldn’t lose any livestock to the berries. A lot of ranchers destroyed their shinneries for this reason, but Papa had taught Jessa better. Without the expanse of the low-growing thicket of shin oak, the sandy plateau it occupied would eventually collapse and blow away. They’d lose all the tall grass that took root in the shinnery—big bluestem, switchgrass, and drop seed—food for many creatures, from cattle to cottontails. The thicket’s fall acorns fed the hogs, and the deer and pronghorn—and, before they were driven out, the Comanches. It also provided shelter to prairie chickens, turkeys, bobwhites, and quail. All that Jessa loved about her home was held by the roots of the shinnery, roots said to go on for miles. Its budding was a danger, but only if you didn’t take care. To eliminate the danger was to lose the vitality of the place.
Jessa reached under the covers, searching for her other sock. Agnes was her bedmate now, splayed across the bed like something spilled. Nellie had moved to Mama’s bed. She’d made a big fuss about having to take care of “dear Mother,” but Jessa knew she’d moved out to spite her. Nellie had passed the teacher’s exam, and she had put in for a position in Colby, Kansas. Jessa hoped there’d be some semblance of reconciliation before her sister left. She thought a lot about the night they’d learned Papa wouldn’t be coming home, how when Jessa finally made it to bed, Nellie was waiting.
“You lied to me,” Nellie had said. “I knew you were with Will after that party. If you’d told the truth then, none of this would have happened.”
Jessa was silent. Her sister had a right to be indignant.
“Now Solon says I can’t even go to town. Not for the mail, not for anything. Not ’til this ‘business’ settles down. Business,” Nellie repeated. “As if Papa is away arranging some cattle sale and not sitting in jail.” A deep furrow appeared across Nellie’s forehead. “And the thing is, you could have stopped it.”
It hadn’t felt like it at the time, Jessa thought; it had felt ordained. She’d raked over events a lot in the past month. How painfully naive she’d been to believe God Himself had guided her steps toward a piano player. She’d always been so sure of God on the Shinnery. She heard Him in the thunder and wind, the screech of the red-tailed hawk. Found His blessing in the sunshine and rainfall, in the spring grass and the night sky. But she saw now, how in moving to town, she’d reduced Him. A God she could fit in her apron pocket that concerned Himself with the matters of her heart—that told her to go this way or that, that cared one whit about her and Will Keyes. She’d gotten God wrong, it was clear to her now, and although prayer was a reflex, she vowed never to ask God for anything again. The only prayer worth the Almighty was thanks. This morning, socks on her feet, preparing to don her too-tight skirt and stiff shoes, she took a deep breath. She would have to get through this day, and the next, and the next, on her own power.
Solon and Jessa walked side by side down the center path to the courthouse. The big stone planters were filled with dandelions and petunias, and something that looked like a lily that Jessa couldn’t name. The courthouse looked forbidding to her now, like the building itself was waiting for an answer, an accounting. She told herself that was silly. Papa had made it clear to Solon he didn’t want Jessa near the place during the trial. She was only coming to talk to the lawyer.
Mr. Stanhope met them in the hall. He had large brown eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard, neatly trimmed. His belly strained against a bright blue brocade vest. He didn’t seem too much younger than Papa. They followed him into a room off the corridor. Although there were three chairs, Solon stood at the threshold. When Mr. Stanhope motioned to the door, he left.
The lawyer explained to Jessa that he served clients in the surrounding five counties but lived in Haskell, some twenty-five miles away. “But this being a ‘high profile’ case,” he said, “Judge Hamner’s allowed me the use of this office for the duration.”
High profile? Jessa didn’t like the sound of that.
The lawyer pored over some papers. “We’re just waiting on a transcriptionist.”
Jessa didn’t know what a transcriptionist was, but it sounded vaguely medical. As she waited, she felt her baby stretching—at least that’s what it had looked like the times she’d witnessed it, a hand or foot traveling across her belly, like the path of a prairie vole moving just under the surface. At six months along, she almost always felt the baby when she was still.
She looked down over the square through the room’s big, tall window and was glad no one could see inside. Maybe today, after she confirmed her father’s story, they’d let him come home. The judge had said no bail, but if she could bear out the facts, perhaps the judge would reconsider her father’s release until trial. But what exactly were the facts? Her father had said Will would marry her, his aim in going to town—everyone knew the old jest of a shotgun as a persuader. That’s what she knew.
The door burst open and in came Mrs. Posey. She nodded to Jessa in a formal way, making no indication of their friendship. Jessa was surprised to see her, but then she remembered one time Papa had needed something notarized and they’d gone to the post office to do it. Introductions were made and Mrs. Posey settled into a chair. As she scooted closer to the desk to arrange her papers and uncap her ink jar, her bosom practically rested on the table. Mr. Stanhope seemed distracted by it.
“Gotta get the date and time recorded,” Mrs. Posey said. “Make sure it’s all according to Hoyle.”
Mr. Stanhope eagerly pulled out his watch. “Ten fifteen.”
“Ain’t that a fancy one!” she said of the timepiece.
“Harvard Law, Class of 1875.”
“Land’s sake! A Yankee lawyer,” she said. “Might want to consider bringing in someone from south of the Mason-Dixon with you on this case.”
“You are schooled in jurisprudence, Mrs. Posey?” said Mr. Stanhope, no longer gazing at her bosom.
“I’m schooled in Texas. The shooter is a father of five girls, and a thrice wounded Confederate. The seducer, a northerner by birth. A case of southern frontier justice, whether you intend it or not.”
“I appreciate your opinion,” he said, when clearly he did not. Jessa’d seen this when she had first come to Rayner to live with the Martins: townsfolk saying one thing when they meant another.
Mr. Stanhope gave Jessa a smile, though his eyes contradicted his lips. “For the record now, dear—name, age, and relationship to the defendant.”
“Jessamine Campbell, seventeen, daughter,” she said. Strange to be reduced to three small facts.
“Now state the nature of your relationship with Will Keyes, twenty years old, male, formerly residing in the city of Rayner, Stonewall County, Texas. Now deceased.”
Deceased. She took in the word: deceased. Where had he been buried, she wondered. Who had come to mourn him? Probably not his mama, far off in Indiana with her bad husband.
“Miss Campbell?” said Mr. Stanhope. “Your relationship?”
She aimed for simple. “I loved Will Keyes. We were—we planned to marry. At least he led me to believe it.”
“You met him in June, correct, when you moved to town, boarding with the Martin family?”
She nodded.
“You need to affirm it verbally,” he instructed.
“Yes,” she said. “June.”
“And when exactly did he propose marriage?”
She shrugged.
“For the record,” he repeated, less patiently.
She didn’t know, for the record or not for the record. “I’m carrying his child, isn’t that enough to know?”
“We need a timeline. When was the promise made? The date?”
“Umm . . . I can’t say.”
Mr. Banks sighed. “If we are to defend your father, we need to make the strongest case we can. And since your father cannot testify, you’re going to have to—”
“What?” Jessa interrupted. “Solon said Papa doesn’t want me to talk in court.”
“That is correct. He does not,” said Mr. Banks. “But we cannot have your father incriminate himself on the stand.”
Mrs. Posey set down her pen and crossed her arms. “So you expect this child to save him?”
The lawyer appeared agitated with Mrs. Posey. “Do we need to call another scribe?”
“Good luck, darlin’,” she said. “There ain’t no one else in this two-bit town ’til next Wednesday, when the county’s part-time secretary makes his bimonthly visit.” She pushed her chair back from the desk.
“Let me explain something, Miss Campbell.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “You must convince the jury that Mr. Keyes obtained carnal knowledge of you after he made the solemn promise of marriage. And paint, for the jury, the picture of how, after breaking said vow, he threatened you with disgrace.”
“Your plan then,” interjected Mrs. Posey, “is for Campbell to enter a plea of innocent and remain silent, while you extract some salacious tale from his barely growed daughter in front of everyone?”
Stanhope stood up, as if he were actually in a court of law. “Without her testimony, Mr. Campbell is a villain. With her testimony, he’s an avenging angel.”
Mrs. Posey was not swayed. “She’ll have to move to the Yukon when you’re finished with her.”
Her protest seemed to inspire him. He turned to Mrs. Posey theatrically, voice booming. “Without her testimony, he may never see his family again.”
Now her voice boomed. “It’s a manslaughter charge.”
“Well, he’s not a young man. With Miss Campbell’s testimony, possible acquittal and a return home to take care of his daughter, this girl you so wish to protect—along with her bastard, I might add.” Mr. Stanhope turned to Jessa. “Pardon the nomenclature, Miss Campbell.”
Nomenclature? Villains and angels? Jessa’s head was starting to spin. “May I please speak with Papa?” she said.
“No,” the lawyer said. “The State will call you, Miss Campbell. I’m merely trying to prepare you for that. Now, continuing . . . your relationship with the deceased with dates, please.”
“Well, we were sweethearts. Betrothed in August. The last Saturday, I think. Whatever that date was.”
“Good. So, this was in secret?” he said.
“Yes. I know that wasn’t right. That’s why I’m telling you everything now.” Jessa glanced over at Mrs. Posey on “everything,” to indicate she was doing no such thing.
“Very good,” said Mr. Stanhope. “So, you had—and excuse me for such indelicate questions—intimate relations with Will Keyes.” The lawyer sounded out each syllable of “in-del-i-cate” and “in-ti-mate” like he was competing in an elocutionary contest.
“Yes, sir.”
“As a result of this in-ti-mate relationship, you found yourself with child, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And how did Mr. Keyes react?”
Not my bastard, bastard, bastard. “He was . . . uh, caught off guard.”
“Caught off guard?” he repeated. “Do you mean unhappy?”
“I suppose a little.” Will was dead and could not dispute her. “We were gonna elope, but then his brother got kilt. Grief ate him. He was drinking. Papa went to talk to him, to help him, you know.”
“So, it is your testimony that John Reese Campbell went to Rayner to help Mr. Keyes, not hunt him down.”
“Yes, sir.” Papa had been angry. He wasn’t a killer, yet he had pulled the trigger. Was it in rage? In grief over Jessa’s condition, like the grief that had turned violent against the unruly goat? Or did Papa do “what had to be done,” a righteous act, as some were claiming, to maintain order on the front porch of the frontier by avenging the wrong done to him? Reading some of the headlines, her father was portrayed as the victim. Was that right?
“So, next . . .” Mr. Stanhope stared down at the papers on the table as he spoke. “Were there any other men with whom you were in-ti-mate, Miss Campbell?”
Where had that come from? She felt clammy. “No.”
He looked up. “And you will testify to that under oath?”
Jessa clasped her hands together in her lap to steady them. “Yes, sir.” Surely, no one would say otherwise. What could anyone hope to gain in testifying to such a thing but bald shame? Besides, she thought, those men had long since vanished. Strangers. Drifters. She’d never have to see them. They were as gone as Will. Gone as Levi. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.
What a fool-headed girl she’d been.
Haskell Free Press, June 8, 1895
TRIAL UNDERWAY
The J.R. Campbell murder case . . . was taken up. The examination of witnesses occupied the time until Wednesday afternoon, including night sessions, when the attorneys began their addresses to the jury, the eight speeches being concluded about 3 p.m. Thursday.