The primary aim of the "Novel Excerpts" blog category is to showcase my creative writing, specifically from the novels I've written. Hopefully, these posts will provide a glimpse into my storytelling style, themes, and narrative skills. It's an opportunity to share my artistic expressions and the worlds I've created through my novels.
The Boaz Schoolteacher, written in 2018, is my fifth novel. I'll post a chapter a day over the next few weeks.
Book Blurb
In the summer of 2017, Katie Sims and her daughter Cullie, moved from New York City to Katie’s hometown of Boaz, Alabama for her to teach English and for Cullie to attend Boaz High School . Fifteen years earlier, during the Christmas holidays, five men from prominent local families sexually assaulted Katie. Nine months later, Katie’s only daughter was born.
Almost from the beginning of the new school year, as Katie and fellow-teacher Cindy Barker shared English, Literature, and Creative Writing duties for more than 300 students, they became lifelong friends.
For weeks, Katie and Cindy endured the almost constant sexual harassment at the hands of the assistant principal. In mid-October, after Cindy suffered an attack similar to Katie’s from fifteen years earlier, the two teachers designed a unique method to teach the six predators a lesson they would never forget. Katie and Cindy dubbed their plan Six Red Apples.
Read this mystery-thriller to experience the dilemma the two teachers created for themselves, and to learn the true meaning of real justice. And, eternal friendship.
Chapter 56
After staying at Cindy’s until almost midnight Wednesday night, I almost used another sick day on Thursday. It would have been a mistake. Both Thursday and Friday were surprisingly focused and productive. There were no Real Justice discoveries and no one except Ben Gilbert for some odd reason, was late turning in their short, short story (Piggly Wiggly, a spoof of John Updike’s A & P) I had assigned via Facebook on Sunday night. It was almost like everything was back to normal. Other than the absence of Cindy, and that would be changing this coming Monday.
The only thing I could honestly claim was even remotely uncomfortable was Riley Radford’s surprise visit to my office at 10:30 a.m. on Thursday. I had never seen her so humble and contrite. She just kept apologizing and saying that her father had put her up to bugging my office as a joke. She relayed he had somehow obtained a key to my office and that she had sneaked in during a Friday afternoon pep-rally last August. As she was walking out, she also apologized for how she had been maligning (not her word) Cullie and promised she would start treating her like a real sister. I hoped she was sincere.
Last night, with Cullie at Cindy’s, Wayne and I spent some quality time beneath the sheets. Well, at least until a little after 11:00 when he was called away. Earlier, during a candlelight dinner over another customized meal by Pirates Cove, he explained why Ryan and Danny and Cynthia had been able to make bail. “Money and power.” He had said while dipping another plate of spaghetti. “Judge Tyler Broadside probably wouldn’t be sitting on his bench if it weren’t for the five most powerful families in Boaz. Even with their money and influence he only won the last election by forty-three votes. It was dessert time before I asked him for the day and time of their preliminary hearing.
“Katie, ever since Cindy was released on Wednesday, I’ve been trying to find the best time to tell you. I apologize for the delay. I feel I’ve broken my promise to keep you posted about what’s going on in your mother’s case.” He had pushed aside the slice of coconut pie I had just sat in front of him, pulled out his chair, and stood beside me as I reached for his hand. I wasn’t sure if I should kiss him or slap him. The latter certainly wasn’t feasible or seriously considered.
“Okay, what has had you so reluctant to talk to me?” I said.
“Barbara Burgess is missing. DA Abbott told me late Wednesday afternoon after Cindy’s hearing. I don’t think you knew, but I stuck my head in the back of the courtroom for a few minutes. I left when you were called to the witness stand. I didn’t want to make you nervous. I waited out in the hall. Never did come back inside. But I did follow Abbott to his office before you, Cindy, Matt, and Jed Cole exited.”
“What exactly does this mean?”
“There won’t be a preliminary hearing. Its main value is for the defendant, for an opportunity for the Judge to determine whether the DA has legal reason to go forth with his case and to determine the amount of bail, if any. Since the three defendants have posted a bond, they are free, so that’s not an issue. Abbott will be taking their case to a grand jury, but that probably won’t happen until Ms. Burgess is found.”
“You’re telling me her testimony is critical. Right?” I asked.
“Absolutely, without her or Ms. Robinson there is no way for the DA to present the excited utterance.”
“What about the written copy, what Clara had Barbara write out? It describes exactly what the two women saw.” I said.
“It does. Abbott says he’s never seen such a legal quandary. An excited utterance is normally admissible as an exception to the hearsay rule. The utterance can be admitted even if it is written, but it must have a foundation. That brings up the authenticity issue in our case. Without Barbara to testify that Ms. Robinson had her write out what both had seen and what she had said, the excited utterance that ‘they have killed Darla,’ the written document is strictly hearsay.”
“Let me see if I have this correct. A criminal defense attorney would argue at trial, right before DA Abbott was about to offer Clara’s written statement into evidence, her excited utterance, that the document was hearsay and that it hadn’t been properly authenticated. He, the defense lawyer, would argue that the DA himself could have written the statement a few minutes before the trial began. Am I right?”
“Absolutely. You now see why I didn’t want to tell you this. Again, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.” Wayne said, pulling me to him. This was about the time my body started talking louder than my mind, but I did find the strength to ask one final question.
“Barbara Burgess won’t ever testify. Will she?”
“Katie, we have no evidence of what you’re thinking but you have every right to believe there is foul play at work here.” Wayne said.
“The sorry bastard, bastards, have killed the dear, sweet Barbara. I feel it in my bones. There can’t be another explanation.”
“Don’t repeat me, but I suspect you are correct. I’ve had my deputies looking for her, calling her cell and her two out-of-state children since Wednesday night. I also had them go by her apartment and make an emergency entrance, thinking she might be inside and in trouble. No one seems to know where she is or what has happened.”
I almost felt guilty taking Wayne’s hand and leading him to my bedroom. After several minutes of passionate kissing and as he unbuttoned my blouse with us still standing, my mind released a non-verbal whisper, “would a loving daughter who had just found out the three people who had killed her mother, choose love-making over a night of crying and hand-wringing?” My choice to crawl beneath the sheets was clear evidence that mother and I had never been close. At least I was truthful. But it still pained and encouraged me to do everything I could so Cullie knew she was the most important person in my life.
Saturday afternoon I went to pick-up Cullie at Cindy’s. She insisted the two of us stay for dinner. It was unseasonably warm and for some reason all four kids stayed outside until dark infatuated over a cow giving birth in the pasture along the fence line next to the Barker’s driveway. Cindy and I had walked out twice and finally decided to let nature take its course, including the raw and bloody education of four smart, but naive, children.
For nearly two hours, I sat at Cindy’s kitchen bar while she cooked an elaborate meal including her grandmother’s sweet-potato cobbler. With its hand-crafted dough, it took more time than the six-layered salad, the three-meat casserole, and the one-dough homemade bread, all combined.
“I guess you’re dying to know how I straightened out the mess you made?” Cindy said, facing away from me, as I pulled and tied off her red mane.
“It’s been on my mind. Along with the matching mess you made.” I was again reminded of how much I had missed our talks. I couldn’t imagine two people being closer friends and enjoying more engaging dialog.
“It had to be God’s will. Thanksgiving was a disaster. After everyone went to bed that night I went driving and wound up buying a six-pack of beer. Can you believe that? Why on God’s green earth would I do that? Looking back, I suppose there’s something true about that old saying, ‘beer, alcohol, and whiskey, gives you liquid courage.’ After two beers, I was buzzing. Halfway through my third I was buzzing more and madder than hell. The beer and blinding memories, whatever they were, prompted me to relive the conversation Warren and Paula had on his patio outside his basement. I could have walked across a bed of burning coals. I ended up hiding my car behind an abandoned house on Sparks Avenue, west of the church, and walking to the parsonage. I sneaked through the hedges and crawled beside the brick wall. You know it. This was probably midnight, might have been a little later. Here’s the weird and crazy part, so far at least. After fifteen minutes or so alternating between looking over the wall into Warren’s basement and lying on my back, remember, I am still pregnant, looking at the stars overhead, I fell asleep. I probably would have slept till sunrise if I hadn’t smelled cigarette smoke. I’ve told you how my sense of smell has transformed into an eagle’s since I’ve been pregnant. Eagles have keen eyesight. Maybe, it’s dogs that have such a keen sense of smell. Anyway, I rolled over and eased onto my elbows and saw Warren outside, on the patio, smoking.” Cindy stopped and pushed a pan of bread into the oven and used her blender to mix seven eggs, eight ounces of flour, and way too much milk.
“How in the hell did you get inside the house?” I asked.
“Rain, righteousness, and Ruger. The last motivated Warren more than doing the right thing. It was barely drizzling when he was smoking but apparently it had rained enough earlier for the leaves to lose their voices. I was able to sneak down the stairs without his detection. The nine-millimeter Ruger spoke clearly even though, at the time, it didn’t make a sound. As God would have it, Warren had disabled his alarm when he came outside for a five-minute smoke. Oh, the power of small blessings.”
“You’re an idiot. Warren knew exactly who you were. Still knows.” I said.
“That could be a problem. If he goes back on his promise.”
“Promise. You got him to promise he wouldn’t tell? And, then you shot him. Two times?” This was turning into more of a horror story than I had imagined.
“Shot the windows three times. That for sure was a mistake. Shot them from inside Warren’s basement.”
“How on earth did he survive two blasts from a nine-millimeter?” I asked.
“God works in mysterious ways I guess. I would have sworn I killed him. Looking back, it didn’t make much sense to tease out that promise from him. Does it?” Cindy asked buzzing around the kitchen like she was a professional chef.
“So, before you shot him, he gave you the tape. Where is it now?”
“That’s how I got arrested. After I got back to my car I smashed it up pretty good with my boots, even pulled out most of the tape. As I was driving down Mill Avenue I must have been going too fast or driving a little erratic. I saw the blue lights behind me as I got into the curve at Five Points. I slowed but then at the last moment I jerked toward Bethsaida Road and tossed the tape out the passenger window. There’s a drainage ditch there. I then pulled into Dollar General’s parking lot and waited on the cop to circle back around.”
“I’m afraid to ask what happened to your Ruger.” All I could think was why hadn’t Cindy already been arrested. God must be taking care of her to keep Warren quiet.
“I hid it under the porch at the abandoned house on Sparks Avenue. Don’t ask me why I didn’t leave the tape there. Also, don’t worry. I sneaked back over there late morning for my Ruger. It’s halfway to Heaven by now.” Cindy said, looking at me with both hands raised with palms pushing back and forth towards my face. “Don’t ask.”
Cindy’s dinner was ten times better than anything I could have imagined preparing, even better than the Pirates Cove meal I had fed Wayne last night. After three episodes of Quantico on Netflix, Cindy’s cell phone rang. It was nearly ten o’clock. It didn’t take long to figure out it was Maxine. The caller had undoubtedly asked if Cindy was coming to church tomorrow. As I paused the TV, I heard Cindy say, “oh goodness, that is so sad, so tragic.” Less than a minute later the call ended, and Cindy returned her iPhone to the coffee table.
“Sad, tragic, but real justice. Warren Tillman died tonight at 7:30. That was Maxine. She had just heard.” Cindy said without emotion, the only indication of what she was feeling was a slight smile, almost a smirk.
“What else did she say?” I asked.
“Just how the doctors were surprised that he never regained consciousness after his surgery.”
“Maybe we can conclude he never got a chance to tell who shot him.” I said.
“Looks that way. Let’s watch Grace and Frankie. You like that don’t you?” Cindy certainly was putting on an act. Surely, she wasn’t this cold of a person. It was like she had swatted two big green flies. It wasn’t at all like she had killed two people in the last two months. But, what did I know? I didn’t have a clue what it was like to lose the love of my life, a man who had rescued me from a harsh and hillbilly upbringing, who had loved me like a princess until the night he left my bedside and never returned to say goodbye.
The Pencil-Driven Life 