“I am channeling The Almighty Himself!” he bellowed by way of introduction as he brought the Bible down with a mighty force against the oaken lectern.
The Reverend Malachi Thompson was all hellfire and brimstone that night, adding to the thick, hot air that hung in the tent like a pall when the breeze died. Slamming fist against pulpit, slamming the Bible, he stomped the plank platform upon which he stood.
After a while, he settled into his message and people—women, mostly—ducked out of the long meeting to go do their business or tend fussy infants. More time passed, and here or there a man would quietly leave, returning after a few minutes. Nearly two hours into the service, Lucinda slipped out of the tent and headed down the path toward the outhouse she had been told was for the womenfolk.
It was nearly pitch black out, and Lucinda’s widow’s weeds helped her blend into the darkness. She moved slowly till her eyes adjusted.
She surveyed the area around her and determined that no one else was on the path. Backbreaking work on the homestead had strengthened her, and she thought how it was all part of the armor God had provided her. For the second time that day, she climbed the tree.
Two dark leather straps held the Winchester to the top of a branch, one securing the barrel, the other holding the stock in place. With fluid movements, she unclasped the front strap, pivoted the barrel, drew a bead, held her breath, and squeezed the trigger.
The reverend slumped forward against the podium, then slid out of sight behind it. During those seconds, as a stunned congregation watched the scene play out before them, Lucinda refastened the strap, dropped to the ground, and ducked into the outhouse.
After a moment, she heard the sounds of someone approaching. When he was almost upon her, she stepped from the privy.
“Ma’am? Pardon, have you seen any men out here?” The man was out of breath.
“Men?” She brought her hand to her throat. “Did I come to the wrong—?”
“No.” He waved off the notion. “Nothing like that. The reverend’s been shot.”
“Shot? Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma’am. Any men spotted out here?”
“No, I haven’t seen any men out here.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be out here alone. I’m taking you back up to the tent.”
She nodded, felt an odd comfort as he gripped her arm just above the two scars.
Someone coughed.
Lucinda jumped, surveyed the courtroom. The silence echoed.
Her attorney was still standing there, and she tried to shake the feeling that she had been in a trance or a deep sleep.
“Are you prepared to move on?”
She nodded.
“Please relay the events of the morning of July fourth.”
“Mrs. Calloway answered the door, and I noticed immediately that she had been injured. She smiled slightly, though, and allowed me into the foyer. I explained that her husband wanted to see the flyer correction before the crates were unloaded.
“I waited while she announced me, and heard how unkind he was toward her.”
“Do you recall what he said?”
Lucinda nodded. “He told her that she knew not to enter his library and that he would handle the problem himself. Then, it sounded like he sprang from his chair, and Mrs. Calloway made a little…yelp, I suppose is how I would describe it. The door flew open, she rushed past me, and her husband bellowed for me to come in.”
Lucinda’s pulse pounded in her ears. She fought the urge to grip her arm.
“Take your time, Mrs. Messenger,” Gerber said as he sent a look to the judge that dared him to rush the woman at this stage of the trial.
She exhaled. “He was putting on his jacket as I entered the room, but I saw that he wore a shoulder holster over the left side of his chest.”
“Did you notice whether it contained a gun?”
“Yes, sir. It did.”
“Continue.”
“I was upset over what I had heard, and didn’t want to even be in the same room with him. I handed him the print proof, and said that Mr. Larkin would have the boxes sent to the park gazebo, as originally arranged. I excused myself, but he rudely told me that I had not been dismissed, and that he would be allowed the courtesy of my silence while he verified the correction.
“My heart was pounding hard enough, I suspected he could see it shaking my body.”
“Were you afraid of him?” asked Gerber.
“Not at first. I saw him as someone who wanted to be in control, to have the upper hand. I have seen many women like Mrs. Calloway, and I believe God has given me a voice for those women. Therefore, I confronted the man. Before I knew what had happened, he had grabbed my wrists and wrenched them, forcing me onto his lap. I tried to struggle, but he was more than twice my size. He laughed then, and said he wished he had a feisty woman instead of that—I’m sorry, Mrs. Calloway—that milquetoast he had been saddled with.
“He let go of my left wrist with his right hand, and clamped it around the nape of my neck. I put up a real struggle then, started to cry out.” Lucinda brought her hand to her throat and swallowed. “That’s when he grabbed my throat. I fumbled for the gun. I thought that if I could scare him with it, he would back off. As I pulled the gun loose from the clip, and pivoted the barrel toward him, it went off. I had no idea it was one of the new double-action pistols.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Messenger, nothing further.”
“Halsted?” said Judge Stanton.
Halsted approached, thinking how he had never seen the likes of this case. Remarkably, the woman seemed innocent of the crime for which she was on trial. Yet, she had admitted to other killings. Rather than cover up the rumors—the legend of Lucy Angel—who was most assuredly the woman seated before him in the witness box, the defense had looked it boldly in the face and attacked it. If the strategy works, Halsted thought, I must try it.
Today, though, he had a job to do. He said to the defendant, “Do you deny that you have blatantly taken the lives of three men?”
“Yes.”
“Yes? But—”
“None, sir, were blatant. All were in defense.”
“Were there more than three?”
“Objection! Irrelevant.”
“Sustained.”
“Three, then. Nothing further.”
Judge Stanton glanced at his watch. 2:45. He should have just enough time to make the 4:15 train. “Closing statements, gentlemen.”
Halsted drank water from the glass—more than anything, it was a means of collecting himself—and approached the juror’s box. “This woman has appeared before you today and admitted to killing three men. Murdering them. She even had the audacity to share her lawless ways with a writer. Gentlemen, I implore you. Do not allow her feminine wiles, her notions of some cosmic justice to sway you. She could have asked for help from the authorities. She could have walked away. She could have remembered her place as a lady and avoided confrontation. Lastly, she could have minded her own business, and not interfered in the privacy of marriage. Be mindful of our laws when you govern this case.”
Matthew Gerber waited for Halsted to sit before he addressed the jury. “Gentlemen, the real victim in the case set before you is our very own defendant, Lucinda Messenger. She did not kill Asa Calloway because of his repeated abuse to his wife. She shot him in self-defense when he, like an animal, physically attacked her. You have seen what hanging a man