Where the Crawdads Sing

“No. There was, of course, heavy bruising over his entire body from the fall. Mostly on the back of his body and legs. There were none that could be identified specifically as developing from a push or shove.”

“In fact, isn’t it true that there is no evidence whatsoever that Chase Andrews was pushed into the hole?”

“That is true. There’s no evidence that I’m aware of that Chase Andrews was pushed.”

“So, Dr. Cone, there is no evidence from your professional examination of Chase Andrews’s body that proves this was a murder and not an accident?”

“No.”

Tom took his time, letting this answer sink into the jury, then continued. “Now, let’s talk about those red wool fibers found on Chase’s jacket. Is there any way to determine how long the fibers had been on the jacket?”

“No. We can say where they came from, but not when.”

“In other words, those fibers could have been on that jacket for a year, even four years?”

“That’s correct.”

“Even if the jacket had been washed?”

“Yes.”

“So there’s no evidence that those fibers became attached to that jacket the night Chase died?”

“No.”

“There has been testimony that the defendant knew Chase Andrews for four years prior to his death. So you’re saying that anytime during those four years, when they met wearing those items of clothing, it’s possible the fibers were transferred from the cap to the jacket.”

“From what I have seen, yes.”

“So the red fibers do not prove that Miss Clark was with Chase Andrews the night he died. Was there any evidence at all that Miss Clark was in close proximity to Chase Andrews that night? For example, her skin fragments on his body, under his fingernails, or her fingerprints on the buttons or snaps of his jacket? Strands of her hair on his clothes or body?”

“No.”

“So, in fact, since the red fibers could have been on his jacket for as long as four years, there’s no evidence whatsoever that Miss Catherine Clark was near Chase Andrews the night of his death?”

“From my examination that is correct.”

“Thank you. No more questions.”

Judge Sims declared an early lunch recess.

Tom touched Kya’s elbow gently and whispered that it had been a good cross-examination. She nodded slightly as people stood and stretched. Almost all stayed long enough to watch Kya being handcuffed and led from the room.

As Jacob’s steps echoed down the hall after leaving her in her cell, Kya sat hard on her bed. When she was first incarcerated, they hadn’t allowed her to bring her knapsack into the cell but let her take some of its contents with her in a brown paper bag. She reached into the bag then and pulled out the scrap of paper with Jodie’s phone number and address. Since being there, she’d looked at it almost every day and thought of phoning her brother, asking him to come be with her. She knew he would, and Jacob had said she could use the phone to call him. But she had not. How would she say the words: Please come; I’m in jail, charged with murder.

Carefully, she put the paper back into the bag and lifted out the World War I compass Tate had given her. She let the needle swing north and watched it settle true. She held it against her heart. Where else would one need a compass more than in this place?

Then she whispered Emily Dickinson’s words:

The sweeping up the heart,

And putting Love away

We shall not want to use again

Until Eternity.

46. King of the World

1969

The September sea and sky glistened pale blue from a soft sun as Kya churned in her little boat toward Jumpin’s to get the bus schedule. The thought of busing with strange people to a strange town unnerved her, but she wanted to meet her editor, Robert Foster. For more than two years, they had exchanged short notes—and even some long letters—mostly discussing editorial adjustments for the prose and art in her books, but the correspondence, written so often in biological phrases blended with poetic descriptions, had become a bond welded in its own language. She wanted to meet this person on the other end of the mail line, who knew how ordinary light is shattered by microscopic prisms in the feathers of hummingbirds, creating the iridescence of its golden-red throat. And how to say it in words as startling as the colors.

As she stepped onto the wharf, Jumpin’ greeted her and asked if she needed gas.

“No thanks, not this time. I need to write down the bus schedule. You have a copy, right?”

“Sho’ do. Tacked up right on the wall, left a’ the doah. Hep yurself.”

After she stepped from the shop with the schedule, he asked, “Ya goin’ on a trip somewheres, Miss Kya?”

“I might. My editor invited me to Greenville to meet him. Not sure yet.”

“Well then, thata’ be mighty fine. It’s a fur piece over there, but a trip a’ do ya good.”