The Sporting House Killing G. Powell (best free novels .TXT) 📖

terrible things to survive. Condemn him to death because he lied, if you choose—but you must live with that decision.”

One of the five looked down.

“It will soon be your responsibility to deliver the most solemn decision that any human is ever obligated to make. I know you don’t take that duty lightly. Cicero Sweet will leave this courtroom today living or dying by your choice. You hold his life in your hands. After you make your decision, each of you will go back to your lives—to your loved ones, to the farm or the drugstore or the railyard or wherever you live or work. You’ll go about life as before. But every night when you lie in bed, as your loved ones slumber, you’ll ask yourself—did I do right?”

More looked down. Others watched Cicero. One glanced at his parents. Another fanned himself and stared off into the air. Wade Morrison listened, arms crossed.

“Each of you must make that choice for yourself. You must decide in your own heart what’s right, and you must live with your choice all the rest of your days. You are each strong men; that’s why you were selected. You’re not the kind of men who’ll let someone else overbear your own convictions about right and wrong. You’re not the kind of men who’ll surrender your beliefs just so deliberations will end and you can go home.”

He let that sink in. If a hung jury was all that was possible, so be it. Was he reaching them at all?

“What is the right thing to do? What punishment is just? Judge Goodrich instructed you that you may punish manslaughter by a verdict of two to five years in prison.”

He rolled the witness chair back across to the stand. All eyes followed him. He felt old and tired.

The bell in the clock tower above struck five times. Outside, Colonel Terry bayed at it from the courthouse steps.

Catfish stared upward, waiting. When bell and hound fell silent, he took from the court reporter’s desk the Bible used to swear witnesses and placed it on the witness rail. He braced himself on the rail and went to his knees, straining as he did. His knees popped loudly.

“I’ve been fortunate in my lifetime never to have to beg anyone for anything”—his voice cracked—“but gentlemen, I’m not proud. If I can save a boy by begging, I will beg, and I do so now. Please, with God’s grace, spare Cicero’s life. I beseech you: Hear the other side. There’s been too much killing in our time. When we were young, foolish old men sent us to war to kill other young men. Now we’re the old men. Have we learned any better? Did we not see enough dead boys on the bloody battlefields of our youth? Is making another mother and father grieve really the right answer today? As we near the end of the bloodiest century in human history, is more killing still the answer to wrongdoing? A jury has the right to deliver its verdict with a mighty hand of retribution.”

He raised his right hand above his head and clinched his fist. “But might doesn’t always make right.” He released the fist and placed his hand over his heart. “Is retribution the best impulse of the Christian heart?”

He pinched his spectacles onto his nose and opened the Bible, turning pages until he found what he wanted. “‘He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?’”

Not even human breath made a sound. He shut the book, removed his spectacles with a trembling hand, and struggled to his feet. Lord, help this old warrior rise one more time.

He returned the Bible to its place and brushed himself off. “If we kill one more boy, will folks be any kinder to one another? Will the world be any better? Any safer? Must young men of this modern age still die so that fearful, foolish old men feel righteous? Will we all be at peace then?”

He walked slowly back to his table, beads of sweat streaming down his face. His soggy white hair clung to his forehead. His eyes were moist. He placed his hands on Cicero’s shoulders.

“The question is not so much what kind of young man Cicero is; it’s what kind of men are we. Walk humbly, gentlemen.”

He sat.

Blair’s rebuttal came swiftly. “Cicero Sweet wasn’t a soldier in war. He didn’t shoot Georgia Gamble in self-defense. He murdered her because it suited him. If you don’t condemn this killer, you send a message by your verdict to other men who think they can murder at their will in the Reservation. You’d condemn to death other people—whores or innocent people, anyone who angers them. Gentlemen, stand up for the law. Against anarchy. Stand up for decency. Save lives by your verdict. The defendant, Cicero Sweet, is guilty of murder in the first degree. And the penalty for death is death.”

The courtroom remained subdued as the twelve jurors filed out for deliberation. Catfish stood as they went, a trickle of sweat stinging one eye closed.

Blessed are the merciful.

Chapter 42

At seven forty-two, the jury knocked.

Catfish tightened his tie.

The courtroom refilled—Cicero, Harley, and Miss Peach joined him at the defense table. Captain Blair was at his. In the gallery, the Sweets bent in prayer with Jasper beside them, head bowed, all three with hands clasped.

At eight, the clock tower bell pealed.

“All rise!”

Solemn silence settled upon the courtroom. First judge, then jury took their seats.

“Mr. Morrison, I understand you’ve been elected foreman?” the judge asked.

He rose. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Has the jury reached a verdict?”

“Yes, we have.”

“Very well, I’ll now read through it.”

Catfish prompted Cicero to rise. They stood side by side, facing the court as the judge leafed through the pages. Cicero’s fingers clenched the edge of the table. Catfish folded his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on Judge Goodrich. It always