Follow The Butterfly

Th e trial took place at the Cumberland County Court in Bridgeton during the last two weeks of March, just as spring started to break through. I knew I wouldn’t be able to touch or talk to Mama but I was excited because I hadn’t seen her since the day she was arrested, over six months earlier. Gran had stubbornly refused to allow me to visit, even though Mr. Hargraft had intervened and pleaded with her to change her position. Mama did manage to write me letters, which Mr. Hargraft would go out of his way to deliver to me, and I treasured those letters. Th ey were fi lled with love and consideration for Lexie and me, and Mama never complained about her own situation. I would shut myself up in my room, away from Gran’s prying eyes, and write letters back but I couldn’t let Mama know how miserable I was without her. I mostly told her about how we were getting along at school and the friends we had made and I hardly ever mentioned Gran or Grandpa. I was not allowed to be in the courtroom except for the time when I gave testimony. Th at happened on the second day of the trial and I was really nervous when Mr. Hargraft came to get me. I remember him taking both of my hands in his and saying, “Cassie, all you have to do is tell the truth. Remember what I told you, the prosecutor might try to trip you up, so don’t let him confuse you. Now do you think you can handle this?” I nodded, and he handed me over to a man in uniform, I had never seen before, who led me into the courtroom and into the witness box. Th en, another man stood in front of me, blocking my view, and made me put my hand on the bible and swear to tell the truth. When I was asked to state my name, I couldn’t speak for a moment because my eyes were fi xed on Mama. She was sitting next to Mr. Hargraft behind a large table, just a few short yards away. Even though her hair was pulled back in a pony tail and she was wearing a faded blue blouse, she was still my beautiful Mama, and as she looked back at me, she gave a hint of a smile and mouthed, “I love you.” I continued to stare until I was asked again to state my name, “Cassandra Mae Taylor,” I said in a quavering voice. Th at’s when the judge, who looked like a kindly Santa, leaned over and whispered, “Try to speak up, dear.” I faced forward and lifted my head proudly, then once again stated my name, but this time in a loud strong voice, “Cassandra Mae Taylor.” Th e judge leaned over again and smiled, “Well done,” he said. After that, Mr. Hargraft made me repeat everything I had told him about my life at home with my family. I tried not to look at the jury because I could feel all of their beady eyes on me as I told my story and I heard an audible gasp when I came to the part about Papa trying to drown Mama in the bathtub. When I looked across at Mama, knowing that only half of my testimony was true, while the rest was a fi gment of my imagination, she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. I stared back at her, willing her to let me continue, and not to expose me. She seemed to get my message, because she lowered her head and sat that way until I had fi nished. Mr. Hargraft then asked me what I had seen, or heard, on the day of Papa’s death and, in a clear voice, I answered, “Absolutely nothing, Lexie and I were fast asleep.” I didn’t feel quite as confi dent when the prosecutor crossexamined me. When he rose from the table, adjacent to where Mama sat, he seemed to dominate the courtroom. He was a tall, somewhat portly man, with thick white hair and heavy eyebrows that seemed to meet in the middle of his forehead. He had the most piercing brown eyes that seemed to stare right through me as he walked towards the witness box. I couldn’t help noticing his clothes too. Unlike Mr. Hargraft, who wore a plain navy suit, white shirt and light blue tie, the prosecutor wore a black pin striped suit with a black shirt, and white tie. It seems odd now that I would notice the way he dressed but he reminded me of someone I had seen in a movie. He stood in front of me for a moment not speaking until the judge said, “We haven’t got all day Mr. Phillips. Please proceed with your cross-examination.” Despite my nervousness and his booming voice asking me the same questions over and over, but in a diff erent manner, just to try and trick me, the formidable Mr. Phillips never got me to change my story. Mr. Hargraft, repeatedly rose to interject and sighed as he said, “Asked and answered, your honor.” I was so relieved when the prosecutor decided to fi nish with me and Mr. Hargraft declined the opportunity to re-cross, but at the same time I knew I would soon be taken out of the courtroom and away from Mama. As the bailiff escorted me down the center aisle towards the exit, I know I had tears running down my cheeks as I looked over at her and whispered, “I love you Mama.” Th e trial went on for days but the only way I got to hear about it was by watching the local news or reading the paper. Many people came forward as character witnesses for Papa, including Gran and Grandpa, who proclaimed him to be a kind and gentle man who wouldn’t harm a fl y. Others came forward to testify that they had never seen any evidence of physical abuse and Mama had never confi ded in them that she was a victim of any beatings. I felt like running out into the street and screaming, for the entire world to hear, that Papa was too clever to let anyone know what he was doing. He avoided hitting her where any bruises would be seen and usually punched her in the chest or stomach. Often she would double over in agony and drag herself into the bathroom, to vomit in the toilet. If I couldn’t tell the world, at least I could tell Gran and I didn’t hesitate, but that got me in a whole heap of trouble. As usual, she called me a liar and sent me to my room without supper and imposed a weeklong curfew. Poor little Lexie had no idea what was going on, and I aimed to keep it that way. On the second to last day of the trial, in the afternoon, Mr. Hargraft put Mama on the stand. I guess he felt it was the only way she might get her story across to the jury. I was horrifi ed that same night, to discover that Mama had lost a baby, a year before I was born. Th e miscarriage was a result of a beating, but at the hospital, Mama was too scared to tell any of the hospital staff what really happened, and claimed to have fallen down a short fl ight of stairs. When she was sure, just three weeks before Papa died, that she was pregnant again, she knew she had to make every eff ort to protect herself, just as she had with Lexie and me. She claimed that Papa’s reaction to her that day, by throwing her across the room, threw her into a panic and she was terrifi ed that she would lose another child. Th en, when he made the remark about Lexie being ripe for the picking, she completely lost control and that’s when she picked up the poker. Th e remark had triggered Mama’s memory when, on two occasions, she had seen Papa fondling two of the neighbor’s young daughters. He had been behind the house and she confronted him about it, but he had threatened to kill her if she mentioned it to anyone. Th is time, the idea of him molesting Lexie, was more than she could bear. Th e next morning, Mr. Phillips cross-examined Mama and soon had her in tears. He questioned the truth of all of my testimony, and after being reminded that she was under oath, she admitted that I had made up the story about the near drowning and the haircutting incident. It was only natural, that he would then proceed to badger her into admitting that everything she had testifi ed to had been a pack of lies and that there was no evidence to support her story. To make matters worse, Mama had to admit that she wasn’t pregnant after all, even though she was sure that she was at the time she killed Papa.