Law of the Gun. Martin H. Greenberg

what do you want to tell the court about your relationship with your husband?”

      “I loved him according to everything the Good Book teaches. True, Asa had a temper, but I knew how to cope with that.”

      “Did you ever fear for your life?”

      Kathleen Calloway studied a white handkerchief that she held firm in her grasp. After a moment, she looked up. “No. Fear and faith cannot coexist.”

      The prosecutor nodded to the witness, then to Judge Stanton, before returning to his seat.

      The judge said, “Mr. Gerber, your witness.”

      Gerber approached. “Admirable statement, Mrs. Calloway.”

      “A true statement, young man.”

      “Mrs. Calloway, did your husband raise a hand to you in the presence of Mrs. Messenger?”

      Mrs. Calloway’s mouth went slack. She fiddled with the handkerchief. “He did not strike me.”

      “But he threatened to, did he not?”

      “Idle threats.” She tossed her hand, and the kerchief flapped like an injured bird.

      “The marshal’s report from that day documents that you had a black eye and a cut lip when he arrived on the scene.”

      “That was six months ago, but I suppose it is possible.” She chuckled nervously. “I must admit that I have never been a graceful woman. Likely, I had walked into a door.”

      “I see. Shall we call your doctor to the stand to report how many times you have walked into doors, or fallen down flights of stairs, or stepped off porches, or fallen from—”

      “Get to your point, counsel.” The judge glanced toward the window. The snow had picked up. His pocket watch read 10:40.

      “You were a long-time victim of abuse, were you not, Mrs. Calloway? Over the years, your husband had broken your nose twice, cracked several ribs, dislodged teeth, broken your arm. Can you deny these reports?”

      She waved the handkerchief, its symbol of surrender lost on her. “That did not give her the right to kill him. With God’s grace I had things under control. I was a submissive wife, according to the teachings of the gospel. I prayed for my marriage every night, and I arose every morning and forgave my husband. I set breakfast in front of him and asked God for a good day. Most days, God gave me that. Mr. Calloway meant nothing by what he did, and he was quite sweet and genuine when he apologized. He always apologized. I felt loved then, and I knew my prayers were being answered.”

      She dabbed at tears as she continued. “It is quite upsetting for all this—our private life, our way of working together—to be brought out publicly. And, it is her fault for meddling.”

      “What did you say to her that day, when you returned to the room?”

      “I-I don’t recall.”

      “Was anyone else present?”

      “I’m not sure. Our maid might have returned by then.”

      “Thank you.” Gerber turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I call to the stand Esther Knowles.”

      “Objection!” Halsted cried. “The maid is my witness.”

      The judge said, “How many witnesses do you have?”

      “Minus my character witnesses, two.”

      “Gerber?”

      “One, Your Honor.”

      The judge nodded. “Overruled. I don’t care who talks to her first, just get it done.”

      The women scrambled, and as Mrs. Calloway stepped down, Esther Knowles was sworn in and put on the stand.

      Gerber said, “Tell me about Mrs. Calloway’s habit of cooking breakfast.”

      “She only did that after they had fought the night before. I always knew when Missus had been beaten—even if Mister hadn’t left marks—because she would take over the breakfast duties in the kitchen.”

      “Do you recall what she said after Mr. Calloway died?”

      “Yes, sir.” The woman sneaked a sideways glance at her employer.

      Gerber said, “Madam, you are under oath to tell the truth.”

      “Yes, sir. Mind you, she was in a sort of daze. I had just returned from the mercantile and set my basket in the kitchen when I heard the gunshot. I was standing in the doorway of the library when she said, ‘I have often wondered whether my life would be better if he just died.’”

      The gasp that escaped many a female lip—including Lucinda’s—left no doubt that several had entertained similar thoughts.

      “Halsted, your witness.”

      The prosecutor mentally sifted for something with which to dilute the maid’s story. “Mrs. Knowles, did you ever see the deceased physically abuse his wife?”

      The maid studied a moment. “No, sir. But I—”

      “Did you see the deceased physically assault the defendant?”

      “No, sir.”

      “Nothing further.”

      Halsted returned to his station with clenched teeth.

      “Gerber?”

      “Your Honor, I call Lucinda Messenger to the stand.”

      Lucinda took a deep breath and exhaled, then stood and walked for what seemed like miles toward the court clerk waiting with Bible in hand. She was glad she had chosen her gray wool suit with its lined cape. The extra warmth was comforting.

      She looked up at the judge. “Do I need to remove my gloves? It’s awfully cold in here.”

      He was touched by the tenderness of her voice. “No, ma’am,” he replied.

      The clerk said, “Place your left hand on the Bible, raise your right hand, and repeat after me.”

      Lucinda simultaneously raised her right hand and positioned her left hand over the words Holy Bible stamped in gold on the cover. Tentatively, she lowered her left hand, while her mind superimposed a picture from her past. The past and present jumbled together, and she saw a Bible slammed against a pulpit, heard her own voice instructing an old woman, heard the old woman repeating I solemnly swear, I solemnly swear…

      “Mrs. Messenger? Mrs. Messenger?”

      “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Lucinda stammered, remembering where she was. “Yes, I solemnly swear.”

      She took the seat indicated by Mr. Gerber, and clamped her right palm around her left forearm as if she could hold back the venom that life tried to pump into her veins.

      “Is there something wrong with your arm, Mrs. Messenger?” The attorney’s tone of concern seemed genuine.

      She paused. “It is from the bite. Rattlesnake.”

      The judge leaned forward. “Rattlesnake? When was this?”

      “At our homestead. My husband threw it on me.”

      The crowd gasped.

      Gerber studied the reactions of judge and jury. “Your husband threw a rattlesnake on you? What led up to that terrifying act?”

      Her eyes welled, and it was as if the courtroom floated in a mirage. Do not cry, she admonished. It wasn’t easy, being forced to go back to the origins of her altered path. She closed her eyes and willed her mind back there, back to that place….

      Hiram Messenger dragged his feet, stirring dust as he approached the house. The wind in turn swept it away as it had swept away the dirt that had covered the seeds from his spring planting. After it had finished with that, it swept the seeds away, too.

      He