MY GOD. She was dressed like a grown-up.
I had never seen her wearing anything but one of the three identical white jumpers she rotated through the laundry basket so that she always appeared to be wearing the same spotlessly clean dress. Today she looked like a grown woman: a formal blue skirt, a neat white blouse. On her feet were lace-up boots polished to a high shine. She wore white gloves and a straw hat.
Last night we had gone over and over the questions we would ask. “Just tell the truth,” Jonah kept saying, “and everything will be fine.”
“What are you talking about?” she scoffed. “In that courtroom the truth ain’t worth a bucket of piss.”
“Charming,” I said. “Try not to say that.”
Jonah said, “The truth is the only weapon we have, Moody. So we have to use it.”
“Maybe so,” she said.
I should have listened more carefully to that phrase of hers.
Under Jonah’s patient questioning, Moody told the same story her grandfather had told. The same story Cosgrove told. The same story every one of the witnesses from the Quarters had told.
By the time Jonah turned to Maxwell Lewis and said, “Your witness,” the gentlemen of the jury looked about ready for some dinner and a nice nap.
Lewis said, “Miss Cross, are you a permanent resident of the house where your grandfather lives, over there in the Quarters?”
“Yes, sir, that’s right. I live with him and take care of him.”
All morning I had been noticing that Moody sounded more mature. She had managed to hide the edge of anger that so often came into her voice. She was speaking carefully, politely.
“I wouldn’t really call it a house, though,” she added. “It’s more like a shack. But we do all right.”
“Now, would you say your first notice of the alleged intruders on that night was when they rode up, supposedly shooting their weapons and yelling?”
“Oh, no, sir,” she said in a very clear voice. “I would say my first notice was when Mr. North there, and Mr. Stephens, knocked on the door and showed me their search warrant.”