THE SALINE COUNTY COURTHOUSE square in Benton, Arkansas, buzzed with activity that stifling, steamy, summer morning in 1958.
On all four sides of the lawn, the wrought iron benches were filled with people, so quilts were spread for seating—No Folding Chairs Allowed On The Grass! Makeshift tables sagged under platters of fried chicken, sliced ham, bowls of potato salad and coleslaw, and plates of cold cuts with all the trimmings. There were huge brushed aluminum tubs of ice, and lemonade, sweet tea, and bottles of Coca-Cola, RC Cola, Barq’s root beer and Nehi soda, and pans of sliced watermelon.
Fiddles, banjoes—here and there a guitar and harmonica—were being tuned and played, and a barbershop quartet was warming up on the southeast corner, cater-cornered across from the Post Office. Cameras flashed as photographers captured vignettes of the crowd. At least two, maybe three, reporters; press cards askew in their hatbands, dashed about in the crowd, pausing only to scribble hastily in their palm-size notepads. On each side, Saline County deputy sheriffs monitored the scene from the courthouse steps.
There was no formal event like Old-Fashion Day or Bauxite Day or any of the other Days regularly celebrated in Saline County. Yet, it seemed as though everyone in the county, complete with kids and dogs, needed to assess property, get licenses or permits, pay taxes, look up public records, or see about someone in jail.
At least, those were the reasons they would give if asked. But they all knew why they were really there: The Trial.
Saline County’s biggest trial in recent memory was set to commence. In the newspaper headlines, it was “The Trial of The Beautiful Beautician.” A very pretty, popular, local; “…born ’n’ raised right here in Saline County,” they said–-hairdresser, or beautician they called her—was standing trial for violently murdering her husband, with their five-year-old daughter right there in the room.
“…girl was an eyewitness!”
“…testifyin’ against her mama!”
So everyone knew who the little girl was, sitting on the polished wooden bench outside the courtroom on that day, thus there was no need to look at her. Out of curiosity, people stole sidelong glances to tell themselves, yes, it’s really her. They really are going to have her testify at her mother’s trial.
To pacify their Christian obligations, they told themselves and each other, “She seems like she’s OK. She’s not cryin’ or hollerin’ or anything, so I won’t bother her.”
Silently, they thanked God for their own beautiful children.
Truth was, no one really wanted to look at the little girl for very long anyway, or talk to her. At five years old, she was not a pretty child and she already had a reputation for having a smart mouth.
“…heard she sasses her mama sump’n’ awful,” they whispered.
“…mama says she’s just like her daddy… was,” they said.
Grossly overweight, dark hair, dark eyes, her skin sallow olive, to their eyes she looked nothing like her tall, pretty, shapely, blonde, blue-eyed mother. Repairs to the child’s cleft lip had left her face visibly disfigured, and her crooked baby teeth showed. She was nicely dressed, though, in a yellow checked sundress with a sash in the back, and white leather sandals; yellow and white ribbons held her long ponytail, and the fringe of bangs across her forehead was carefully curled.
People guessed she looked as nice as a really fat, ugly, “unfortunate” little girl could look.
She sat quietly with the county worker assigned to her, but she startled visibly every time the courtroom door opened and another witness was called.
There had been quite a discussion between lawyers and the judge as to whether the little girl should testify.
It is unprecedented, the defense said.
She is an eyewitness, the prosecutor said.
She can’t possibly understand court proceedings, the defense said.
This is no regular five-year-old, the assistant prosecutor said. She is very intelligent; she can read. She reads the newspaper and understands what she reads. Here are her test results. And her mother does not want her to testify even though she was right there in the room.
The judge harrumphed a bit. He did not cotton to people, particularly defendants, saying who should or should not be in his courtroom. He read through the papers he was handed and said, “My stars, she is smart. We prob’ly should hear what she has to say.”
The little girl watched and waited that morning, seeing lots of people she knew but they weren’t saying anything to her. Every time the courtroom door opened, the deputy standing there got bumped in the back. She wondered why he didn’t stand on the other side, in front of the door they didn’t open.
At last a man opened the courtroom door, bumped the deputy out of the way, and called her. She walked into the courtroom, down the aisle to the man holding the Bible and put her little hand on it as she had been told to do. She did not look around. Her mother had told her she better not show out.
The man said, “What is your name?” so she told him her whole name, Anna Fay Kelly. Her voice was strong, clear, like a much older child. No mumbling or stammering for this not-so-little little girl.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth, so help you God?”
“I swear.”
He showed her where to sit, and she then looked around the courtroom, seeing all her aunts and uncles along with the people she knew, but not so well. She did not look at her mother, sitting at a table to her right, facing her. The man at the table opposite from where her mother was sitting got up and came to stand in front of her.
“Well, Miss Annie…,” he began, and although she knew she should not interrupt adults, she said, “I said my name is Anna.” Her articulation was perfect. Well, as perfect as it gets in central Arkansas, given the regional dialect. There was no lisp or impediment as one might expect of a five-year-old with a facial deformity. The courtroom tittered, and the judge banged his gavel.
“Order in the court,” he said.
From the corner of her eye, Anna saw Aunt Jewel turn down the corners of her ruby-lacquered lips in a grimacing stage frown and nudge Aunt Alice with her elbow.
The man talking to Anna cleared his throat and began again.
“OK, Miss Anna, let’s start again. Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”
Anna was stunned. Her eyes widened and her face got hot. Is he makin’ fun’a’ me? “Pretty” and “little” were words never used to describe her. Maybe he’s doin’ what my mama calls ‘suckin’ up’. She decided right then she didn’t like this man very much.
“No, sir.”
Laughter in the courtroom, judge hollered, “Order!” Gavel banging.
“Oh. OK well, then…” the man seemed to not know what to say next.
If Anna wasn’t going to like him, she needed to know who he was.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Laughter again, quieter this time, judge banging gavel again.
“Oh. I didn’t say, did I? My name is J.G. Booker,” he said. He was kind of embarrassed.
“J.G. Booker. OK,” said Anna. J.G. Booker.
Anna Fay Kelly was not taking her eyes off him; she was intense, focused. Kind’a unnerving. Not like a five-year-old. His kids, at five years old, couldn’t pay attention to anything for one whole minute.
“Well, then,” clearing his throat again, recovering, “I’ll just ask you some questions, we need to make sure you know what tellin’ the truth means. What do you think it means to tell the truth?” He thought, this might be the most unnecessary question I’ve ever asked a witness. This little girl had just clearly shown she knew truth. But he pressed on with his prepared script.
“It means you tell what really happened.”
“And what if you don’t tell what really happened?”
“Then you’re tellin’ a story.”
“A story? What does that mean, ‘tellin’ a story’?”
“It means you’re lllyyyiiinnnggg.” Anna’s face was serious with her exaggerated pronunciation of the word.
“Lllyyyiiinnnggg.” J.G. Booker said the word just like Anna had. “Does that mean tellin’ a lie, Miss Anna?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever told a lie, or a story, Miss Anna?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another ripple of muffled laughter, and another bang of the gavel.
“Well, then, how do we know you won’t tell a lie today, then?”
Is this man stupid?
“Because I put my hand on the Bible and sweared to God I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth. Didn’t you hear me? You were sittin’ right there,” pointing to his chair, “… lookin’ right at me.” And her Aunt Beebee had told her to just tell the truth, saying, “I know you will, though.”
Anna knew she also wasn’t supposed to point, it was rude to point, but clearly this man was not very nice and he was not very bright either. Aunt Alice started laughing; Aunt Jewel looked like she wanted to get up and leave.
The courtroom filled with laughter, the judge banged the gavel and said he would clear the courtroom if he heard another sound.
Mr. Booker’s face turned red, and he turned away from her and walked back to his table. Anna kept her eyes straight ahead and wished people would stop laughing at her. She was so tired of people laughing at her and making fun of her. My mama told me people are always go’n’a’ laugh at me ’cause I’m so fat. And ugly.
The man took a drink of water from a glass on the table and returned, somewhat less red, and asked, “Miss Anna, how old are you?”
“I’m almost six.”
“Almost six. So you’re five years old now?”
“Five-and-a-half.”
“So, Miss Anna, have you ever seen your daddy or mommy hit each other?”
“Yes, sir. But my mama hit my daddy more.”
“She did? Well, Miss Anna, is your mommy here in this room today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is she? Do you see her?” The girl hadn’t yet looked at her mother, so he really wasn’t sure that she’d even seen her.
“Yes, sir. She’s sittin’ right there.” She pointed in her mother’s direction, still without looking at her. She hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble for all this pointing.
“OK. Now tell us about the night your daddy died. Did your mommy hit your daddy?”
“Ob-jection!” said Bud Harvey, the man sitting beside her mother. Anna knew him. He was standing now. “Leading the witness.”
“Sustained. Rephrase the question,” said the judge. The courtroom rustled, the gavel banged but not quite so hard this time.
“Yes, sir. Oh, yeah. I meant to ask, who’s your daddy, Miss Anna?”
“Tot Kelly.” Anna beamed with the answer; she was so proud of her daddy. As quickly as it appeared, the smile vanished and Anna’s eyes burned with unshed tears; Tot Kelly was dead.
“Did he have another name?”
“His real name is Thomas.”
“OK, Miss Anna. Now what happened the night your daddy died?”
Anna really didn’t want to talk about this, it made her sad, frightened, and angry, but she’d been told to answer the questions.
“My daddy and my mama were fussin’, we were in the kitchen, and she got a knife and started stabbin’ him.”
The only sound in the courtroom now was the stenography machine.
“What do you mean, fussin’? Were they hittin’ each other?”
“No, sir, they were arguin’. They weren’t hittin’.”
“’Arguin’?” he repeated as if he’d never heard the word before. Really, he’d never heard a five-year-old talk about ‘arguin’’. He wanted to make sure they were all on the same page. “Why do you say they were arguin’? What were they ‘arguin’ about?”
“They were fussin’ and hollerin’ at each other, Mama wants my daddy to work day shift.” She still talked about her daddy as though he was alive, and she wasn’t about to say that her daddy was really mad that night because of what Flo had done to Anna and Aunt Ellie.
“And so that was it? So, Miss Anna, they were just fussin’, and all at once your mommy got a knife and just started stabbin’ your daddy?”
The lawyer’s presentation was annoying Anna. Even at five-and-a-half, she knew when she was being talked down to.
“Stop callin’ me ‘Miss’. And stop sayin’ ‘mommy’. I’m not a baby.”
The courtroom roared and Anna began to cry. The judge banged his gavel so hard it broke, he motioned to officers, and spectators were hastily ushered out and the hallway outside cleared.
Someone handed Anna some tissues and got her a glass of water. The judge leaned toward her and asked if she was all right.
“Yes, sir,” she said through her tears. “I just didn’t like them laughin’ at me.”
“Anna, I think they were just surprised at how grown-up you are,” he whispered. Anna’s eyes widened in surprise; those sounded like kind words. The judge would remember the look on her face for a long time.
She could feel her mother glaring at her, and she was scared. Answer the questions.
The man again, “So tell me again what happened that night.”
“I said, they were arguin’, my mama got real mad and got a knife and started stabbin’ my daddy.”
“Now, Mi—,” throat cleared, “Anna, again, tell me about the arguin’. How can you tell arguin’ from just talkin’ like we’re doin’ here today?”
“Talkin’ loud! Hollerin’. Mad. Mad. Mad. Sayin’ bad words. My mama says something and my daddy says ‘No!’”
Anna was seeing the entire event in her head, hearing her daddy’s voice as he hollered at her mama; “what did you do?! I’m leavin’! I’m callin’ the police!” She couldn’t say that, though, because then they might blame her daddy, and Anna knew it wasn’t her daddy’s fault. She saw the kitchen covered with blood. She wanted her mama to be in trouble for killing her daddy.
“Mmm. Yes, that does sound like arguin’ to me.
“Objection!” Bud Harvey again.
“Sustained,” the judge answered. “Ask a question.”
“Are you sure no one got hit before your daddy got stabbed?”
“No, sir. No one got hit.”
“What did you do when your mo—mama started stabbin’ your daddy?”
“I started hollerin’ at her to Stop! Stop! Stop! You’re hurtin’ my daddy!”
Anna seemed to be reliving the scene; she leaned forward in her seat, her whole body tense, and looked to be about to leap from the chair. She was staring intently at the bloody kitchen right there in the center of the courtroom that no one else could see. The jury sat straight up in their seats. Anna’s face crumpled as she stared into the center of the room.
THE SALINE COUNTY COURTHOUSE square in Benton, Arkansas, buzzed with activity that stifling, steamy, summer morning in 1958.
On all four sides of the lawn, the wrought iron benches were filled with people, so quilts were spread for seating—No Folding Chairs Allowed On The Grass! Makeshift tables sagged under platters of fried chicken, sliced ham, bowls of potato salad and coleslaw, and plates of cold cuts with all the trimmings. There were huge brushed aluminum tubs of ice, and lemonade, sweet tea, and bottles of Coca-Cola, RC Cola, Barq’s root beer and Nehi soda, and pans of sliced watermelon.
Fiddles, banjoes—here and there a guitar and harmonica—were being tuned and played, and a barbershop quartet was warming up on the southeast corner, cater-cornered across from the Post Office. Cameras flashed as photographers captured vignettes of the crowd. At least two, maybe three, reporters; press cards askew in their hatbands, dashed about in the crowd, pausing only to scribble hastily in their palm-size notepads. On each side, Saline County deputy sheriffs monitored the scene from the courthouse steps.
There was no formal event like Old-Fashion Day or Bauxite Day or any of the other Days regularly celebrated in Saline County. Yet, it seemed as though everyone in the county, complete with kids and dogs, needed to assess property, get licenses or permits, pay taxes, look up public records, or see about someone in jail.
At least, those were the reasons they would give if asked. But they all knew why they were really there: The Trial.
Saline County’s biggest trial in recent memory was set to commence. In the newspaper headlines, it was “The Trial of The Beautiful Beautician.” A very pretty, popular, local; “…born ’n’ raised right here in Saline County,” they said–-hairdresser, or beautician they called her—was standing trial for violently murdering her husband, with their five-year-old daughter right there in the room.
“…girl was an eyewitness!”
“…testifyin’ against her mama!”
So everyone knew who the little girl was, sitting on the polished wooden bench outside the courtroom on that day, thus there was no need to look at her. Out of curiosity, people stole sidelong glances to tell themselves, yes, it’s really her. They really are going to have her testify at her mother’s trial.
To pacify their Christian obligations, they told themselves and each other, “She seems like she’s OK. She’s not cryin’ or hollerin’ or anything, so I won’t bother her.”
Silently, they thanked God for their own beautiful children.
Truth was, no one really wanted to look at the little girl for very long anyway, or talk to her. At five years old, she was not a pretty child and she already had a reputation for having a smart mouth.
“…heard she sasses her mama sump’n’ awful,” they whispered.
“…mama says she’s just like her daddy… was,” they said.
Grossly overweight, dark hair, dark eyes, her skin sallow olive, to their eyes she looked nothing like her tall, pretty, shapely, blonde, blue-eyed mother. Repairs to the child’s cleft lip had left her face visibly disfigured, and her crooked baby teeth showed. She was nicely dressed, though, in a yellow checked sundress with a sash in the back, and white leather sandals; yellow and white ribbons held her long ponytail, and the fringe of bangs across her forehead was carefully curled.
People guessed she looked as nice as a really fat, ugly, “unfortunate” little girl could look.
She sat quietly with the county worker assigned to her, but she startled visibly every time the courtroom door opened and another witness was called.
There had been quite a discussion between lawyers and the judge as to whether the little girl should testify.
It is unprecedented, the defense said.
She is an eyewitness, the prosecutor said.
She can’t possibly understand court proceedings, the defense said.
This is no regular five-year-old, the assistant prosecutor said. She is very intelligent; she can read. She reads the newspaper and understands what she reads. Here are her test results. And her mother does not want her to testify even though she was right there in the room.
The judge harrumphed a bit. He did not cotton to people, particularly defendants, saying who should or should not be in his courtroom. He read through the papers he was handed and said, “My stars, she is smart. We prob’ly should hear what she has to say.”
The little girl watched and waited that morning, seeing lots of people she knew but they weren’t saying anything to her. Every time the courtroom door opened, the deputy standing there got bumped in the back. She wondered why he didn’t stand on the other side, in front of the door they didn’t open.
At last a man opened the courtroom door, bumped the deputy out of the way, and called her. She walked into the courtroom, down the aisle to the man holding the Bible and put her little hand on it as she had been told to do. She did not look around. Her mother had told her she better not show out.
The man said, “What is your name?” so she told him her whole name, Anna Fay Kelly. Her voice was strong, clear, like a much older child. No mumbling or stammering for this not-so-little little girl.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth, so help you God?”
“I swear.”
He showed her where to sit, and she then looked around the courtroom, seeing all her aunts and uncles along with the people she knew, but not so well. She did not look at her mother, sitting at a table to her right, facing her. The man at the table opposite from where her mother was sitting got up and came to stand in front of her.
“Well, Miss Annie…,” he began, and although she knew she should not interrupt adults, she said, “I said my name is Anna.” Her articulation was perfect. Well, as perfect as it gets in central Arkansas, given the regional dialect. There was no lisp or impediment as one might expect of a five-year-old with a facial deformity. The courtroom tittered, and the judge banged his gavel.
“Order in the court,” he said.
From the corner of her eye, Anna saw Aunt Jewel turn down the corners of her ruby-lacquered lips in a grimacing stage frown and nudge Aunt Alice with her elbow.
The man talking to Anna cleared his throat and began again.
“OK, Miss Anna, let’s start again. Aren’t you a pretty little thing?”
Anna was stunned. Her eyes widened and her face got hot. Is he makin’ fun’a’ me? “Pretty” and “little” were words never used to describe her. Maybe he’s doin’ what my mama calls ‘suckin’ up’. She decided right then she didn’t like this man very much.
“No, sir.”
Laughter in the courtroom, judge hollered, “Order!” Gavel banging.
“Oh. OK well, then…” the man seemed to not know what to say next.
If Anna wasn’t going to like him, she needed to know who he was.
“What’s your name?” she asked. Laughter again, quieter this time, judge banging gavel again.
“Oh. I didn’t say, did I? My name is J.G. Booker,” he said. He was kind of embarrassed.
“J.G. Booker. OK,” said Anna. J.G. Booker.
Anna Fay Kelly was not taking her eyes off him; she was intense, focused. Kind’a unnerving. Not like a five-year-old. His kids, at five years old, couldn’t pay attention to anything for one whole minute.
“Well, then,” clearing his throat again, recovering, “I’ll just ask you some questions, we need to make sure you know what tellin’ the truth means. What do you think it means to tell the truth?” He thought, this might be the most unnecessary question I’ve ever asked a witness. This little girl had just clearly shown she knew truth. But he pressed on with his prepared script.
“It means you tell what really happened.”
“And what if you don’t tell what really happened?”
“Then you’re tellin’ a story.”
“A story? What does that mean, ‘tellin’ a story’?”
“It means you’re lllyyyiiinnnggg.” Anna’s face was serious with her exaggerated pronunciation of the word.
“Lllyyyiiinnnggg.” J.G. Booker said the word just like Anna had. “Does that mean tellin’ a lie, Miss Anna?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever told a lie, or a story, Miss Anna?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another ripple of muffled laughter, and another bang of the gavel.
“Well, then, how do we know you won’t tell a lie today, then?”
Is this man stupid?
“Because I put my hand on the Bible and sweared to God I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth. Didn’t you hear me? You were sittin’ right there,” pointing to his chair, “… lookin’ right at me.” And her Aunt Beebee had told her to just tell the truth, saying, “I know you will, though.”
Anna knew she also wasn’t supposed to point, it was rude to point, but clearly this man was not very nice and he was not very bright either. Aunt Alice started laughing; Aunt Jewel looked like she wanted to get up and leave.
The courtroom filled with laughter, the judge banged the gavel and said he would clear the courtroom if he heard another sound.
Mr. Booker’s face turned red, and he turned away from her and walked back to his table. Anna kept her eyes straight ahead and wished people would stop laughing at her. She was so tired of people laughing at her and making fun of her. My mama told me people are always go’n’a’ laugh at me ’cause I’m so fat. And ugly.
The man took a drink of water from a glass on the table and returned, somewhat less red, and asked, “Miss Anna, how old are you?”
“I’m almost six.”
“Almost six. So you’re five years old now?”
“Five-and-a-half.”
“So, Miss Anna, have you ever seen your daddy or mommy hit each other?”
“Yes, sir. But my mama hit my daddy more.”
“She did? Well, Miss Anna, is your mommy here in this room today?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where is she? Do you see her?” The girl hadn’t yet looked at her mother, so he really wasn’t sure that she’d even seen her.
“Yes, sir. She’s sittin’ right there.” She pointed in her mother’s direction, still without looking at her. She hoped she wouldn’t get in trouble for all this pointing.
“OK. Now tell us about the night your daddy died. Did your mommy hit your daddy?”
“Ob-jection!” said Bud Harvey, the man sitting beside her mother. Anna knew him. He was standing now. “Leading the witness.”
“Sustained. Rephrase the question,” said the judge. The courtroom rustled, the gavel banged but not quite so hard this time.
“Yes, sir. Oh, yeah. I meant to ask, who’s your daddy, Miss Anna?”
“Tot Kelly.” Anna beamed with the answer; she was so proud of her daddy. As quickly as it appeared, the smile vanished and Anna’s eyes burned with unshed tears; Tot Kelly was dead.
“Did he have another name?”
“His real name is Thomas.”
“OK, Miss Anna. Now what happened the night your daddy died?”
Anna really didn’t want to talk about this, it made her sad, frightened, and angry, but she’d been told to answer the questions.
“My daddy and my mama were fussin’, we were in the kitchen, and she got a knife and started stabbin’ him.”
The only sound in the courtroom now was the stenography machine.
“What do you mean, fussin’? Were they hittin’ each other?”
“No, sir, they were arguin’. They weren’t hittin’.”
“’Arguin’?” he repeated as if he’d never heard the word before. Really, he’d never heard a five-year-old talk about ‘arguin’’. He wanted to make sure they were all on the same page. “Why do you say they were arguin’? What were they ‘arguin’ about?”
“They were fussin’ and hollerin’ at each other, Mama wants my daddy to work day shift.” She still talked about her daddy as though he was alive, and she wasn’t about to say that her daddy was really mad that night because of what Flo had done to Anna and Aunt Ellie.
“And so that was it? So, Miss Anna, they were just fussin’, and all at once your mommy got a knife and just started stabbin’ your daddy?”
The lawyer’s presentation was annoying Anna. Even at five-and-a-half, she knew when she was being talked down to.
“Stop callin’ me ‘Miss’. And stop sayin’ ‘mommy’. I’m not a baby.”
The courtroom roared and Anna began to cry. The judge banged his gavel so hard it broke, he motioned to officers, and spectators were hastily ushered out and the hallway outside cleared.
Someone handed Anna some tissues and got her a glass of water. The judge leaned toward her and asked if she was all right.
“Yes, sir,” she said through her tears. “I just didn’t like them laughin’ at me.”
“Anna, I think they were just surprised at how grown-up you are,” he whispered. Anna’s eyes widened in surprise; those sounded like kind words. The judge would remember the look on her face for a long time.
She could feel her mother glaring at her, and she was scared. Answer the questions.
The man again, “So tell me again what happened that night.”
“I said, they were arguin’, my mama got real mad and got a knife and started stabbin’ my daddy.”
“Now, Mi—,” throat cleared, “Anna, again, tell me about the arguin’. How can you tell arguin’ from just talkin’ like we’re doin’ here today?”
“Talkin’ loud! Hollerin’. Mad. Mad. Mad. Sayin’ bad words. My mama says something and my daddy says ‘No!’”
Anna was seeing the entire event in her head, hearing her daddy’s voice as he hollered at her mama; “what did you do?! I’m leavin’! I’m callin’ the police!” She couldn’t say that, though, because then they might blame her daddy, and Anna knew it wasn’t her daddy’s fault. She saw the kitchen covered with blood. She wanted her mama to be in trouble for killing her daddy.
“Mmm. Yes, that does sound like arguin’ to me.
“Objection!” Bud Harvey again.
“Sustained,” the judge answered. “Ask a question.”
“Are you sure no one got hit before your daddy got stabbed?”
“No, sir. No one got hit.”
“What did you do when your mo—mama started stabbin’ your daddy?”
“I started hollerin’ at her to Stop! Stop! Stop! You’re hurtin’ my daddy!”
Anna seemed to be reliving the scene; she leaned forward in her seat, her whole body tense, and looked to be about to leap from the chair. She was staring intently at the bloody kitchen right there in the center of the courtroom that no one else could see. The jury sat straight up in their seats. Anna’s face crumpled as she stared into the center of the room.