Darren, no. That is not going to happen.
Behind the defendant’s family were Dunphy relatives who attended the trial less regularly than Edna Mae and the children. These were solitary men who frowned menacingly during the testimony of prosecution witnesses; sometimes, they left the courtroom abruptly. There was a man of thickset middle age resembling Luther Dunphy, an older brother perhaps, with a hatchet-sharp face, who stared in mute incredulous fury at officers of the court (judge, lawyers, guards, bailiffs) as if he believed they might wish to impinge upon his freedom of movement; he seemed, at times, particularly disgusted with his brother’s court-appointed lawyer who (it may have seemed to him) was not speaking vehemently enough on Luther’s behalf. But between Luther Dunphy and this individual there never passed a glance; it seemed to Jenna quite possible that Luther didn’t know the man was there. Beside him there sometimes sat an older couple who appeared ravaged as if with illness—the defendant’s parents. They were an elderly couple who appeared to be in their early eighties. The man was heavyset, with flesh-colored hearing aids prominent in both ears. The woman was frail, anxious. Jenna felt pity for them, and impatience. It was not their fault that their son had become a murderer—(was it?)—but they had to be pleading with their God to save him.
Luther is not guilty. Luther killed those two men but—we know—he is not guilty.
They had to be praying with some desperation, to save their son from a first-degree conviction, that might bring with it a death sentence.
While court was in session Luther Dunphy did not glance around at his family and relatives though he must have been aware of them behind him. Like a man in a trance he appeared to be listening to the procession of witnesses—repeatedly hearing his name uttered—but he did not react. Jenna didn’t want to think He is with God. He imagines that.
Jenna wondered if Dunphy did indeed think of himself as a soldier. One who takes orders, does another’s bidding. He kills, but he is not a murderer.
He didn’t really look like a murderer—he didn’t look like the enemy. His wife Edna Mae, his children, most of the Dunphy relatives she’d seen did not look like the enemy. Except for two or three of the glaring men they did not look vicious, or malevolent, or evil, or psychopathic; even the girl with the smirking mouth whose eyes fixed boldly and defiantly on Jenna’s face did not seem so very different from girls her age Jenna might see in Ann Arbor, high school girls, middle school girls, girls at the Ypsilanti mall, girls trailing after their families at Walmart, Target, Home Depot, girls embarrassed of their ill-kempt mothers.
A girl very different from her daughter Naomi. A girl who might (Jenna supposed) have intimidated Naomi, if they were at the same school.
Gus would recognize the Dunphys: lower-income working-class or welfare citizens of the sort who might well be his community health clients. Very easy to imagine Edna Mae Dunphy pleading with Jenna Matheson in the Ann Arbor Legal Aid office in which she’d once worked, in desperate need of legal advice.
Please help us! My husband—my children’s father—made a terrible mistake and got involved with the Army of God—they sent him out to kill, and he killed . . .
But Jenna did not want to think of the Dunphys like this. She shifted in her seat, and looked away from Edna Mae Dunphy’s wan impassive face. The Dunphys were the enemy, she could not bear to contemplate them otherwise.
LIKE DIRTY WATER it swept over her. A wave of visceral horror that left her dazed, exhausted and gagging.
As soon as she was alone. Where no one could observe the widow.
As soon as she could flee the Broome County Courthouse. Flee even the well-intentioned, the sympathetic who wanted only to grasp her hands and hold her trapped in the effusion of their attention—Please accept our condolences, Mrs. Voorhees! We were all so shocked, such a terrible thing, never before in Muskegee Falls which is a friendly place, the world will have such an erroneous impression of our community . . . Alone in the privacy of her hotel room in which she was staying for the duration of the trial.
In Muskegee Falls she’d insisted upon staying in a hotel, not in someone’s home. Many people had graciously invited her to stay with them but Jenna had declined all invitations. She had not the energy to talk with people, even to listen to people talk to her. She had not the capacity to be commiserated-with, continuously; and she could not bear being told for the ten-thousandth time that her husband had been a wonderful man, a generous man, a courageous man, a selfless man, a beloved friend, colleague who was terribly missed.