EARLY-SPRING SUNSHINE FILTERED through the windows of the Canaan courthouse, causing the wooden pews and flooring to glow.
Fran Jenkins sat in a chair directly behind her son, who sat at the defendant’s table. She leaned forward and clutched the rail that separated her from him.
The jurors returned, single file, their gazes landing anywhere but on the gallery of onlookers. They settled in their chairs. Women placed their pocketbooks at their feet or in their laps. The foreman blew his nose. The bailiff appeared from the judge’s quarters, hands clasped dutifully behind his back, and asked for all to rise as he announced Judge Arm’s court back in session.
Judge Arms entered the courtroom and climbed the few small steps to his bench and sat. He flipped his robe sleeves as if a gospel singer about to clap his hands.
Brad hung his head. His body had grown thin and pale, as if he’d been whittled out of dry bone. Fran placed a hand on his shoulder. Public Defender James Allard whispered in Brad’s ear.
Judge Arms took a drink from his bottle of tonic water and cleared his throat.
“Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, Your Honor,” the foreman said, his hands folded in front of him.
“Would you please read it?” Judge Franklin said.
The foreman nodded. He put on a pair of wire glasses, unfolded the piece of paper.
In the front row nearest the jury, Marigold Cumber sat still as a headstone, her eyes on the foreman, hands folded politely in her lap.
“We the jury. Find Brad Victor Jenkins guilty of murder in the first degree.”
“No,” Brad said quietly, as if to keep it between himself and God. “I’m not.”
Marigold Cumber wept.