“Yes, Your Honor, I’d like to mark four photographs for identification, Defense Exhibits Twelve to Fifteen.”

I gave the first to Cutlip to examine.

“Do you recognize the people in that picture?”

“Where’d you get this?”

“Just answer my question. Do you recognize the people in that photograph?”

“That’s my sister and her husband and them two girls.”

“They look pretty happy there don’t they, a happy family?”

“Sure they was. Why not?”

“How old were the girls there?”

“Seven maybe. Tommy died when they was eight.”

“Tommy Prouix?”

“That’s right.”

“Where was he from, this Tommy Prouix?”

“New Orleans. I met him down there in a bar. He was a wild-eyed Cajun looking for work. Told him there was lumber mills up West Virginia way that was hiring. He drove up, stayed with my sister till he settled, and then settled down with her.”

“And this next picture, can you tell us what that is?”

“That’s me and my sister and the girls.”

“When was this taken?”

“After he was kilt, when I was forced to move in.”

“You were forced to move in?”

“They needed something in that house, they needed a man. The girls had that Cajun blood in them and they was running wild, and Debra, my sister, she never really recovered from Tommy’s dying.”

“And she asked you to come back.”

“I was traveling like before when I heard Tommy was dead. I came for the funeral, saw what was happening, and stayed. Them girls, they needed a firm hand, and so I did what I could. I found a job that paid decent in a local slaughterhouse and I cut down on my drinking so they’d have money for clothes and such.”

“And you provided the discipline they needed.”

“Yes I did.”

“The firm hand.”

“That’s what they needed. I know I needed it, and my daddy never flinched. Never once. Them girls needed it, too, especially Hailey.”

“And like your daddy, you never flinched.”

“No, sir.”

“And so you laid your hands on them.”

“When I had to. Never so it hurt, just so they’d know what they done was wrong.”

“The girls, do they look happy in that picture?”

“It’s hard to tell. I suppose they was happy enough. They was eating regularly, I know that.”

“Let me show you another photograph.”

“Where did you find these pictures? Where did you find that letter?”

“The same place, Mr. Cutlip, both in the same place. Do you recognize the two girls in that photograph?”

“It’s Roylynn and Hailey.”

“Your two nieces. How old are they there?”

“I don’t know. Fifteen or so.”

“They look very much alike in some respects. Can you tell them apart?”

“Well, it’s not too hard. Hailey was always the one dressed like a slut.”

“Was this picture taken before or after Roylynn tried to kill herself?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“Why did your niece, Roylynn, try to kill herself when you were in the house?”

“She ain’t the one that was murdered.”

“Please answer my question. What was going on in that house that caused Roylynn to want to die?”

“Nothing. She was crazy, is all. She still is. Was mental all her damn life.”

“What was going on in that house, Mr. Cutlip?”

“They needed a firm hand, is all.”

“What was the dark secret of that house, Mr. Cutlip?”

“There was no secret. We was just like everybody else.”

“This last picture, Mr. Cutlip, who is that?”

“Where’d you get this?”

“It was with all the others.”

“She kept all this crap?”

“Is that Jesse Sterrett?”

“I suppose.”

I stepped up to the witness box. Cutlip flinched, but all I did was take the pictures. “I’d like Defense Exhibits Twelve to Fifteen placed in evidence.”

“Objection, relevance.”

“Overruled. Exhibits so entered.”

One by one I showed them to the jury, the “before” and “after” pictures of the family, the pictures of the twins, and, finally, the picture of the sad, serious Jesse Sterrett. I handed this last to a woman in the front row, and as she examined it, I said,

“Another letter. I’ll mark this Defense Exhibit Sixteen. Look it over closely, Mr. Cutlip. Do you recognize it?”

“No.”

“You ever see it before?”

“No.”

“You sure, Mr. Cutlip? It’s got a jagged line through it, doesn’t it, as if someone wanted to cross it out?”

“Yeah, so?”

“I want to show you the picture of Guy Forrest you crossed out this morning. I want you to compare the cross-out lines. Are they great large Xs, Mr. Cutlip?”

“No.”

“They’re like Zs, aren’t they? Both of them.”

“Yes.”

“They look alike, these Zs, don’t they, as if they were made by the same hand?”

“Maybe they do.”

“Your hand.”

“Maybe it is.”

“Objection.”

“This is a letter from Jesse Sterrett to your niece Hailey, written on the day of his death,” I continued, over the objection. “Read the first paragraph of that letter, Mr. Cutlip.”

“Objection, Your Honor. This has gone too far. There is no foundation for this or the other letter presented.”

“I think there is, Mr. Jefferson,” said the judge. “Mr. Cutlip earlier identified the author of the letters as Jesse Sterrett. He has now admitted that the zigzag mark on the letter is possibly his. The jurors can compare the mark on the picture of Mr. Forrest with the mark on the letter to see if they find a match. There is a sufficient foundation laid for Mr. Carl to continue with this line.”

“Again we take exception.”

“Exception noted. Continue, Mr. Carl.”

“Read the first paragraph, Mr. Cutlip.”

“I got nothing more to say.”

“Read the first paragraph.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Read it.”

He glanced at the judge, who was staring down at him with no pity. He squirmed in his seat and began to read. “’I am so angry I could strangle a porcupine, and scared too, so scared, impossibly scared. I love you so much, want you so much, but now I have learned that secret you’ve been hiding, my anger burns least as bright as the love.”’

“What was the secret, Mr. Cutlip? What was Hailey’s secret?”

“There was no secret.”

“In the letter Jesse tells Hailey either he will run away with her or he will take out his anger on the man who inflamed it. He says there will be blood, no doubt about it. He tells Hailey it is up to her. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“Now read the last paragraph.”

“No.”

“Tell the jury where he planned to meet Hailey to figure it out.”

“No.”

“The last paragraph.”

“Read it, please, Mr. Cutlip,” said the judge.

“’I’ll be at the quarry tonight, I’ll be waiting for you. If you trust me enough to come I’ll dedicate my every waking hour of the rest of my life to making you happy, I will. I swear. But if you don’t come, if you won’t run away with me, then I’ll do it the other way. I’ll do what I need to do to protect you and whatever consequences that come my way I’ll bear gladly because I’ll be bearing them for you. Tonight, I’ll be waiting. Tonight.”’

“And he was at the quarry, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t know.”

“He died there that night at the quarry, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know.”

“And only two people knew he would be there, Hailey and the man who intercepted the letter, the man who tried to cross it out with a zig-zag-zig as clear as a signature.”

“He was going to steal her away from her family.”

“And that’s why you killed him.”

“I didn’t.”

“And that’s why, just a few days later, you left Pierce for good.”

“I told you, it just happened like that.”

“No, it didn’t, Mr. Cutlip. You told us an untruth. It was only after meeting with the Reverend Henson in the church that you left, wasn’t it? After he threatened to disclose everything, wasn’t it?”

“That’s a lie.”

“He’s here, just outside the courtroom, the good reverend. He remembers everything.”