The Glorious Prodigal Page 10

  “No, you don’t know, Ellie. I can’t hold my head up.”

  “It’s not your fault, Leah.”

  “I think it is.” And then Leah spoke the thought that had lain heavily on her heart, not just recently but for years. “If I had been the right kind of wife, I’d have kept my husband at home. I didn’t have whatever it is a woman has to have to hold on to a man.”

  “Why, that’s foolishness! You can’t talk like that.” Ellie continued to speak for over half an hour, but she saw that it was hopeless. She had never seen Leah so despondent before. She and Ace had been terribly worried about her. Now she said, “Maybe he’ll get off and you can start over.” She saw something pass over Leah’s features, and she said, “Don’t you think so?”

  Leah shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t really think I can.”

  Ellie reached over and took Leah’s hand. “Honey, I know he ain’t done right. I ain’t no Christian myself, but I know the Bible says something about forgiving folks. Especially a husband.”

  Ellie’s words cut into Leah’s heart, and tears began to stream down her face. “I know it, Ellie, but somehow . . . I just can’t!”

  ****

  Charles Fields stepped up beside Leah and took her arm. “Let me help you up these steps, Leah,” he said. The minister kept a firm grip on Leah’s arm and asked, “Who’s taking care of Raimey?”

  “Annie.” Suddenly she turned and whispered, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Brother Fields. I can’t seem to pray anymore. It’s as if a part of me has died.”

  “You’re not the first to have that happen, Leah. Some of the most courageous and best of God’s saints have gone through it. The old church fathers called it ‘the dark night of the soul.’ I’ve had a little of it myself, and I know how bitter it is. It’s as though God has died, or He’s shut you off and refuses to listen.”

  Leah bit her lip as they reached the top of the steps to the church. “I feel like I’m totally lost.”

  “You mustn’t feel like that. Come on. Let’s go in.”

  Fields could see how hard the trial had been on Leah. It was taking its toll on the whole family, but it was affecting Leah’s faith. He escorted her to the front, where she took her seat beside the Winslows, then he took a seat and began to pray for her and for the outcome of the trial. He had faithfully gone every day and sat in the back of the courtroom and prayed silently for the entire Winslow family. As the trial progressed, he, as well as the rest of the town, was amazed at how Mordecai Frasier had somehow found new life and had made a spirited defense for Stuart, but Fields remembered how in the eyes of the jury it seemed to have had little effect. When the time for the closing arguments had come, Fields had listened as the two men dueled in front of the courtroom, each trying to sway the jury. At the time, Fields had thought, Richard should have gotten another lawyer. I have a bad feeling about this. He could still picture Stuart sitting at the table with Frasier. At one point Stuart had turned and looked at Leah. Field’s gaze had shifted to Leah, and he saw her drop her head and slump her shoulders, and he knew that something was terribly wrong.

  Right then the music started, and Fields shook the sad memory from his mind and reached for his sermon notes. He offered a silent prayer, for this week he had chosen to speak on God’s boundless love and His unfathomable mercy.

  ****

  “You’ll pull out of this all right.” Ace Devainy was sitting beside Stuart in the small room off the main courtroom. The final arguments had been made, the defense and the prosecution rested, and the judge had charged the jury to deliberate behind closed doors and reach a verdict. Now there was nothing to do but wait. Devainy had pressured the sheriff and had been given permission to sit with Stuart as he waited. Ace looked over and saw that his friend’s face was pale.

  “Ace, what will happen to Leah and Raimey and to the new baby? That’s what’s eating me alive.”

  “Well, maybe the jury will see it was self-defense and let you off.”

  “Have you been watching them, Ace? You know better.”

  Devainy knew that Stuart was right. Leonard Stokes had outmaneuvered his opponent quite skillfully, for the jury was stacked with solid citizens, all handpicked by Stokes.

  It would have been better, Ace thought, if the jury had been a bunch of sorry rascals. Some people that could come in and understand a man’s weakness. They look like a bunch of Pharisees up there.

  The bailiff stepped inside and said, “The jury’s comin’ in, Stuart.”

  Stuart Winslow rose to his feet, and Ace watched him leave. I’m afraid he’s in for it. I hope he can take it, Ace thought, then he quickly joined the others in the courtroom awaiting the verdict.

  ****

  Richard Winslow reached over and took his wife’s hand. His own hand was unsteady, and he had to struggle with his feelings against his own son. For years he had carried on a running battle with Stuart, about the way his son lived, and now all this had almost wrecked him. He had slept very little over the past few months, and his health had been affected. He turned to Diane and knew, however, that she was worse off than he was. He squeezed her hand and she turned to look at him. Then both of them turned to watch as the jury filed in. Richard was a man who knew people, and from the blank expressions on their faces, he drew no hope.

  Judge Broz asked, “Have you reached a verdict, gentlemen of the jury?”

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  “How do you find the defendant?”

  The foreman of the jury, a wealthy farmer dressed in a black suit, held a slip of paper in his hand. He looked directly at Stuart Winslow and said, “We find the defendant guilty of murder in the second degree.”

  Everyone turned to look at Stuart, but his face seemed to be frozen, and he did not say a word.

  Judge Broz studied the tall figure of Stuart Winslow. Though he was a hard man, he was just, or so he felt. He was dedicated to the courts and the system of law, believing strongly that they were ordained by God to keep anarchy away from the people. And now as he sat examining the prisoner, his eyes drifted to Stuart’s wife and his parents. He felt compassion for the family, and at times such as this, he wished himself in another profession. Still it was a question he had settled long ago.

  “This country was built on contracts. A contract of a man or a woman with their country. If a man signs up to be a soldier, he contracts to obey his superiors. If he violates that contract, he must pay the consequences. This country was also built on the contract of marriage, and you, Stuart Winslow, have violated your own marriage vows. You have debauched the wife of another man. You killed that man when he discovered you with his wife.” He hesitated only briefly, then he said in a level tone, “There are times when leniency is in order, but you have not shown any remorse. I sentence you to the state penitentiary for a term of twenty years. Remove the prisoner.”

  A murmur ran through the courtroom after the sentencing, but Leah seemed locked in a trance. Though she heard the words and saw all the commotion all around her, it didn’t seem real. But then she saw Stuart, who turned and gave her one unfathomable look—and then he was taken away.

  And it was at that moment Leah Winslow knew that she herself had been sentenced along with her husband, Stuart Winslow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Number 6736

  Stumbling off the police wagon that stopped in front of the rising, cold walls of the Tucker State Penitentiary, Stuart stepped down and took his place in a ragged line of miserable men. Two armed guards watched them with bored faces, one of them muttering impatiently, “Come along—step out there!”

  Leg chains jingled as the eleven men hobbled forward, and Stuart lifted his eyes to the grim structure that was to be his home for the next twenty years. Ever since the trial he had been in a mental and emotional coma. He could barely remember the good-byes of his friends and loved ones before he was taken away. His mother had clung to him and whispered, “God won’t forget you, Stuart, so don’t you fo
rget Him!”

  But God seemed very far away, even nonexistent, as Stuart entered the gates that swung back to admit him. Behind him one of the men uttered a choking sob, but Stuart simply narrowed his eyes and looked around the yard, where men in stripes were gathered in small groups. They were smoking and joking, and if the clothing had been different, he could have pictured the same kind of men gathered outside a rodeo or a ball game. But despite the almost friendly sounds of voices and laughter, a chill ran up Stuart’s spine. He saw that some of the inmates had lined up and were calling out, “Fresh fish! How do you like your new home? Tucker Farm ain’t so bad. Be good boys now and you’ll be all right.” The shouting became more raucous and cruel, the remarks cruder, as the new inmates were forced to shuffle past. The guards ignored the regular prisoners as they marched their new ones through another set of barred doors guarded by a man with a shotgun held firmly in his hands.

  Concrete and steel loomed everywhere, and guards with shotguns stood all around, giving the place a cold, clammy air of gloom. These new dismal pictures soaked into Stuart’s numbed mind, and he kept his lips firmly clamped together, determined not to let any emotion show on his face.

  “All right. Line up here!” The guards who had escorted them now formed them into a ragged line and ordered them to face front. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, miserable and frightened, when a steel door opened and a short, sturdy man briskly entered. He had iron gray hair with a slight curl and a pair of penetrating blue eyes that looked as hard as nails.

  “My name is George Armstrong. I’m the warden.” Armstrong’s voice was not loud, but it carried well. He walked up and down looking the men over, then stepped back in front of them and took a deep breath. “I don’t have a long speech for you. You men have all broken the law, and you are here to serve your sentences. You’ll hear it said that I’m a hard man.” Warden Armstrong paused, and his eyes fastened onto those of the men standing closest to him. His glare had made many a man feel that he was being searched, tried in the balances, and found wanting. “Maybe I am. Maybe I have to be. I hope I’m a fair man, however, and there’s one verse of Scripture that I want to leave with you without preaching to you. ‘Whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.’ That’s the rule here. You behave yourselves, and you’ll be all right. But don’t try my patience, or you’ll find yourself in a worse condition than you’d ever dream possible.” He turned and said, “All right, Mr. Munger.” Wheeling on his heels he left the room, and silence reigned.

  The man the warden had addressed as Mr. Munger came forward. He was six feet tall and appeared to be as hard as the concrete prison walls. His eyes were hazel, his hair a light brown, and there was an implacable air about him as he stalked back and forth, staring at the line of fledgling inmates. “Which one of you is Moore?”

  “Here. I’m Moore.”

  Munger’s head swiveled, and he went at once to the middle-aged man who had answered. The prisoner was a meek-looking fellow, undersized and with a fearful expression.

  Without warning, Munger raised his stick and, with one swift, practiced motion, drove the blunt end of it into the pit of Moore’s stomach. Moore’s breath exploded as he doubled over and fell to the floor gasping for breath. Munger stood looking down at him with a cold, sadistic expression. “I’m Mr. Munger, sir!” he said. He reached down, jerked the man to his feet, and shoved him into line. “Moore, I’ve been looking over your records. I look over the records of all new cons.” He grinned suddenly, but there was no humor in it. “I see that you’ve got five years to serve for embezzlement. I can’t stand an embezzler, Moore! Don’t think you’re going to get any time off for good behavior. I’ll see to it that you don’t.”

  Moore’s face turned a sickly pale color, and he expelled and inhaled air as if he were drowning. Trembling like a man in a stiff breeze, he opened his mouth as if to say something, but all that came out was a faint whisper. “Yes, sir, Mr. Munger.”

  Munger nodded, then turned his head. “Winslow! Where are you?”

  “Here, sir!”

  Stuart stood straight, his eyes locked onto those of Munger. Winslow had never seen such eyes before. They were glassy like a cat’s—with nothing beneath them, a total lack of emotion.

  “Well, Mr. Murphy, we have a killer here with us. He got caught with another man’s lady and shot the poor fellow when he tried to protect what was rightfully his. Is that right, Winslow?”

  Stuart knew there was no use in denying what a jury had convicted him of, so he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “We’ll just call you Lover Boy, then. Will that be all right, Lover Boy?” Munger waited for Stuart to answer, and when no response was forthcoming, he reversed his stick and drove it into Stuart’s stomach.

  Stuart had seen the blow coming and tensed his muscles. He did not move; nor did his eyes flicker.

  “Oh, a tough one! Lover Boy’s a tough one, Mr. Murphy,” Munger said to one of his subordinates standing nearby. Then with one quick motion, the chief guard swung his stick and caught Stuart in the head.

  The unexpected blow drove Winslow to the ground, and the world seemed to be made of flashing lights. From far away Stuart could hear a voice saying, “Why didn’t you toughen your head muscles against that, like you did your stomach muscles? Come on, get to your feet, Lover Boy.”

  Stuart came slowly to his feet, the room reeling. He squeezed his eyes and shook his head, and Munger’s face came slowly into focus inches from his own.

  “Oh, we’re going to have lots of fun, Lover Boy! I’ve had plenty of guys here before who thought they were tough, but they were jelly when I got finished with them. I never saw a woman chaser who wasn’t yellow.” Turning to the middle-aged guard who was watching all this without expression, he said, “Mr. Murphy, as soon as the men get their clothes, put Lover Boy on the new unit. Have him push a barrow. That ought to take some of the starch out of him.” He turned again and stared into Stuart’s face. “I hate a womanizer,” he said between clenched teeth. “But you won’t be doing any of that again for twenty years, Winslow. That’s all over for you. You’ll be pushing a wheelbarrow until you’re an old man!”

  ****

  Stuart had the number 6736 displayed prominently on the back and front of his black-and-gray striped uniform. When the other new prisoners were taken to their cells, the guard named Murphy took him at once to the construction site.

  “A new unit’s being built, Winslow,” the guard said as they approached a big mixer churning the wet concrete. A line of inmates stood with their filled wheelbarrows, waiting to push them up a steep incline. “This is a new unit. It’s going to be three stories high. You ought to have some gloves, but you’re on the bad side of Mr. Munger, and he won’t permit it.” Murphy studied Winslow’s face and shook his head. “Don’t give him any trouble. If you bow down and don’t get his back up, he’ll forget about you soon enough and move on to someone else. But if you’re stubborn about it, life will be even more miserable for you here than it oughta be.”

  Stuart had arrived at the construction site slightly after one. For the next five hours he pushed the wheelbarrow up and down the incline. At first it was bearable enough, for he was stronger than most men, but his hands were in screaming agony by the time the construction superintendent said, “All right. That’s it for today.”

  As Stuart picked up the handles of the wheelbarrow, he felt a sticky moistness. Looking down at the grips, he saw that they were stained scarlet with blood. His hands were torn to pieces, blistered, and then the blisters destroyed. Twice during the long day, Felix Munger had come by to watch with sadistic pleasure in his eyes as Stuart pushed the wheelbarrow up the incline. Each time Stuart had let nothing show on his face, making Munger laugh.

  “You’re a tough one, all right, Lover Boy. We’re going to have a lot of fun, you and me.”

  Stuart stood there for a moment trying to flex his hands. He turned to fall in line with the inmates who were heading across the yard
back toward the main gate, but a double shadow loomed in front of him. He looked up to see Munger and Murphy blocking his path.

  “Well, did you have a pleasant day, Lover Boy?”

  Determined to do nothing deliberately to anger the chief of guards, Stuart said tightly, “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, now, I see this killer’s learned some manners, Mr. Murphy.” A slight triumph lit Munger’s glassy eyes, and he looked down at Stuart’s hands. “Oh, you got some blisters! Too bad.” He turned to the other guard. “Mr. Murphy, I think we ought to show a little kindness to Lover Boy. Take him to the infirmary and get those hands fixed up. Then to the mess hall and see that he gets a good supper. Now”—Munger grinned—“say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Munger.’ ”

  Stuart considered complying with Munger’s order, but something rose in his throat. He looked full into the man’s eyes, then clamped his lips tightly together. Stuart knew full well that his own stubbornness would lead him to disaster, yet he remained silent, waiting for the consequences of refusing to play Munger’s game.

  “Oh, you still haven’t learned anything, Lover Boy! Well then, take him to the hole, Mr. Murphy. Throw him in tonight with nothing but water. That’ll teach Winslow here a few manners.”

  “Come along, Winslow,” Murphy said, leading Stuart away.

  Neither man said anything as they entered the main gates and headed toward the dispensary. An inmate on infirmary duty was tilting back in a chair reading the Police Gazette. He got up and said, “What’s this, Murphy?”

  “Guy’s got some bad hands. Do what you can, Charlie.”

  “Sure. Here, sit down. What’s your name?”

  “Stuart Winslow.”

  The attendant looked at the hands and whistled, “Boy, you did tear your paws up, didn’t you? Let’s get somethin’ on ’em and some bandages.”

  The inmate quickly washed off the blood, applied some yellow salve, and then carefully wrapped each palm. “Better do this every day and take it easy now, will ya? You’re cut to the bone.”