Acre Under a Green Sky

Garry and I were to be witnesses for the defense. My father went over our testimony with us in the office one morning; careful not to coach us, and he assured us that we'd be fine. Garry was cool about the whole thing, except that we had to wear suits. That really pissed him off.

I was scared shitless. I imagined that Matt Bradley would bring up every lie I'd ever told, every misdeed, my murderous fantasies about my father, the corruption of our family life, my mother's drinking, the times I tried to masturbate and failed; everything and anything to discredit my testimony. As the days and minutes passed before our court date, forgotten sins and atrocities occurred to me. I would have to answer for my forbidden trips to red dog mountain with Garry, breaking into the Death House, and eavesdropping on Will Mosko and my father, and that it was me who withheld valuable evidence from my father. The list was endless, and I saw myself breaking down on the stand; crying out for all the world to hear, "Yes! Yes! I did it! Yes, I'm the one you want!" I saw myself happily climbing the stairs of the scaffold, craning my neck to accommodate the noose, rejecting the hood and the cigarette; saying, "Get it over with!" I was magnificent.

My grandfather drove Garry and me to the courthouse that morning. My mouth was like cotton and my ears were flooded with terror so that now both Garry and I were squinting to hear everything that was said to us. We must have appeared 'supremely stupid' to my grandfather.

He left us in the hall outside the courtroom and told us to stay put until we were called. Then he went into the courtroom to take his place at the defense table. We sat on benches like church pews and whispered about the others waiting there to be called as witnesses. We recognized some of them as other guests of the graduation day picnic at Luka's house, but we were the only kids. Garry carped some more about his suit and took off his clip-on tie. I envied him. My father had tied my tie with a Windsor knot. I didn't dare touch it. Already there was a noose around my neck.

The bailiff or guard or whatever he was had to tap me on the shoulder because I didn't hear him call my name. I suggested that Garry go first, but he said they wanted me. He held the door open, and I entered the courtroom.

Every head turned my way, and I heard people say, "He's the one. He did it. Now we'll get to the bottom of this." My father claims they were all commenting on how handsome I looked in my suit, but I know what I heard. I stopped dead in my tracks. My father was standing down at the other end of the aisle holding the gate open for me and smiling encouragement, but it was a nudge from the bailiff that got me moving. I looked beyond my father to the judge sitting up there at the very same desk I had once climbed over to get into the arms of my father. It was the same courtroom, but none of it was the same.

I was sworn in and took my seat on the witness stand. My grandfather was sitting at the defense table with a stupid grin on his face. Luka was wearing the suit my mother and I found in his closet –– also my father's belt that was never returned. Luka had no belt, and his pants were falling down around his ankles that first day of trial, so my father whipped out his own belt and gave it to Luka and never got it back.

Luka was smiling up at me, and in that instant I found myself loving him as never before. He gave me a funny salute and a wink to give me courage. In spite of all my father's instructions to the contrary, I waved and said, "Hi, Luka!" It was a totally involuntary reaction. I just wanted to sit down with Luka and shoot the breeze. Everyone laughed when I greeted Luka, and I felt more relaxed.

My father began asking me questions about the picnic at Luka's house, and I guess I was answering them. I had no sense of the process underway –– only the light. The room was so bright it was almost painful. There were no windows; just achingly bright panels of light in the ceiling. I felt as if I were squinting under a spotlight.

I told them about how Luka took each of us by the wrists and swung us round and round until our feet left the ground, and about how he dropped one of Marilyn's arms and about how she cried and he had to hold her in his arms to make her stop. He asked me which arm he dropped, and I was able to figure it was her left arm. He said that Luka's right hand dropped Marilyn's left arm. I didn't know about that, but it was definitely "this arm" he let go of. It was easy to put myself in her place as I watched what happened. It was "this arm" all right. Now, I was on a roll; and once again, saying too much. I told about how Jeff took Marilyn's baton and started doing his Jerry Lewis, and how Marilyn grabbed the baton away and ran into the house for hours and hours. I even said that Jeff was my brother's best friend, and that my mother called him Danny's imaginary friend because he was so shy and backward and all. My father was trying to keep me on track, but people were laughing so I went with it. Then my father handed me over to Matt Bradley, and my mood changed dramatically. This was the end.

Matt Bradley got up from his chair and walked over to me with a smile. He introduced himself and extended his hand. I looked to my grandfather, who waved me on, so I shook Matt Bradley's hand. "Did Marilyn scratch her father's wrist here when he dropped her arm?" Bradley asked, exposing his own inner wrist.

"I don't know."

"Did you see a scratch?"

"No."

"Did Mr. Luka complain of a scratch after the accident?"

"No."

"So you neither saw nor heard anything about Marilyn scratching her father that day?"

"No."

"Marilyn was a little friend of yours, wasn't she?"

"No."

"I got the impression here today that you liked Marilyn and Jeff."

"They were okay."

"And Mr. Luka?"

"Oh yeah, I like him a lot. He's fun." And again, people laughed and I waved to Luka, and said, "You are!"

"And I'm sure he thinks the world of you. Especially after today."

"Objection!" my father called out, jumping to his feet looking enraged.

"I have no more questions for this young man," Matt Bradley said, turning his back on me.

"That's all?" I said, looking about me. "That's all there is?"

The judge said, "Run along now, son."

"Not until I get a ruling on my objection, your honor," my father said.

"Sustained. Strike that last bit," the judge said, and I was free to join Garry back out in the hall.

By the end of the day, my father had established that Marilyn could have scratched her father during the incident at the picnic; though no one actually saw or heard about a scratch that day. To my father's credit, he had already established with medical and forensic experts that it was not a scratch one would necessarily comment on. Suddenly, earlier questions that made little or no sense were now resonating with the jury.

"Would a man cry out in pain from such a scratch?"

"No."

"Would such a scratch require medical attention? A tourniquet to stop the bleeding or a dressing of some kind?"

"No."

"A band-aid, for God's sake?"

"No."

"Would you call it a less than superficial wound barely worthy of notice; much less, comment?"

"Yes."

And so, doubt permeates the air like an odor one can't quite identify, and another major piece of the prosecution's case sinks out of sight.