(Inspired by the song “Long Black Veil” by Johnny Cash)
Icy wind howled off the bare gray hills that surrounded the small town, and it rushed furiously into the streets, shaking walls as the crowd shuffled into an old building. People spilled out, down the steps and into the dusty clay street. Children ran through the crowd and peeked through the windows, and everyone spoke quietly.
“Mr. Brown, how many witnesses will you be calling?” The Judge asked, inside.
“Three, your honor.” Replied the Prosecutor.
Cold iron cuffs were cutting into my skin. The Judge sat to my right in the center of the room, and I gazed quietly across the crowd that stared back at me. The faces were a collection of my neighbors and colleagues, and friends that I had grown up with in our little town. At the other end of the dark room I made out the face of my childhood friend Cody, standing with his wife and daughter. Cody peered at the prosecutor and Jen watched me with sad eyes as she clutched her sleeping child. They were the only faces I saw that hadn’t convicted me yet.
“Shut the damn door so we can speak over this wind.” The Judge says.
The howling becomes muted. Every few minutes the building is rocked again by an angry burst of wind, but the old walls are firm and hold the gusts outside. The crowd shuffles into their final positions and settle in. Sitting across from my defense in the front of the crowd is a broad-shouldered man with stern dark eyes that the Judge called Mr. Brown. He sat calmly next to three men I recognized as regulars at only saloon in the little town, and they appeared to have been washed and properly dressed for this occasion. Mr. Brown walked to the center of the courtroom and called up his first witness. A hunched man rose and stumbled to the front. His nose is swollen and deeply crimson, his skin cracked and dusty. His wild white hair shoots in all directions, and if he hadn’t been washed for court you might’ve smelled his stale odor from any corner of the room. Mr. Brown glanced down at his notes and began.
“Sir, were you at the saloon on the night in question?”
“Yes.”
“Did you witness the murder?”
“Oh yes, yes sir. I saw it. I saw a man get killed alright, and I saw another man run off.” He peeks at me.
“Where did you see this happen?”
“Well I was drinking, and I went to piss outside in the mud. Right when I walked out, I saw clear as anything the man getting killed, right there in the street, under the moonlight and in front of God and all of us.”
“He was killed in the street. And was the street well-lit?”
“Yes sir.”
“And you saw who killed him?”
“Yes sir.”
“Is that man here now?”
“That’s him alright.” The bum points at me.
“I saw him clear; I saw his dark hair and the red knife in his hand, and when he saw us, he ran and cut through the alleys, but I know it was him.”
The crowd swayed angrily and excitedly. I saw Jen bury her face in Cody’s shoulder, and Cody’s eyes searched mine for a reaction, but I only sat there quietly, watching through the windows as the howling wind came from those dark distant hills. My defense rose to cross-examine the red-nosed witness. He clutched at a loose bunch of papers and looked around, avoiding eye contact with me. He had a wiry build and wore a patchy gray suit that lay loosely over his frame and several times he had to ask for my name while fidgeting with his papers.
“Were you drinking?” He asked the witness, then:
“Had you seen my client before that night?”
“How could you tell that it was my client?” He stammered through his questions.
The crowd was angry now. Every stammered question damned me further. I could see faces frowning and whispering to their neighbors- pointing at me. I looked for Jen, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes.
“I’ll call up my second witness.” said Mr. Brown.
After the second he called his third witness. All three agreed that I was the saloon-street slayer. Mr. Brown retired his case, and my little friend in the loose suit tried and tried and then eventually retired his case too, and soon it was just me and the Judge and the howling wind and the frowning faces.
“Son.” Said the Judge, “Now it’s your time. Can you think of something, anything, to save yourself? Where were you that night, son?”
I looked back at the Judge and met his tired eyes for a moment. Then I looked for the only eyes in the room that matter at all. Jen stood silently, shaking. Terror and shame and fear look back at me through her dark brown eyes. She stands with her husband, my friend, and looks away. I saw Cody and I lowered my head with shame, but not the shame of a murderer. I shake my head to the Judge, who also shakes his head sadly.
The next morning a sheriff leads me silently at sunrise through the cold streets under the gray hills, and we arrive at a scaffold that has a single thick rope that sways gently in the cool morning breeze. It’s heavy, and coarse on my neck. In the street, clay and dust settle quietly and from my perch standing on a trap door I watch as another crowd of faces starts to grow. This time, the faces are somber and tired. I look for Jen, but I only see Cody. Bright orange light shines from behind the dark gray hills and I look up at the clear morning sky that was swept clean of clouds the night before. I breathe deep, cold breaths. I look back at the faces for Jen. The sheriff pulls a lever and the trap door opens.
Anthony Harper is a new writer who recently left the United States Navy, after serving four years. Originally from Baltimore Maryland, he now resides in sunny Pensacola Florida with his dog Maggie Lamar-Jackson Harper.