2/1/14

“You can’t solve the case, Mr. Verity.” She said suddenly, surprising me. In her eyes there was a certainty of an unbreakable sort. Still, I wasn’t quite convinced. “You can’t solve it, no matter how long you drag this out trying. You’ll never know.”

“I doubt that.” I said, with equal firmness.

“You won’t prove it.” –insistently.

“Miss Popwell, in saying as much, you’ve almost admitted to me that the defendant is innocent, haven’t you?” I asked her, checking my watch. It was too late to meet Mrs. Verity for a late tea, and the realization made me cross.

The woman’s face revealed her nervousness once again, but that same dead certainty hung in her eyes in spite of her pallor and trembling.

“You can’t prove it.” She repeated.

“Even if I can’t, how will you feel?” I conceded, studying her. “Even if I don’t manage to prove Hensley’s innocence. Let’s say he’s hanged. How will you feel?”

She closed her eyes, and I could see the struggle on her face as she tried to stop her imagination from doing as I commanded it. “How will you feel tomorrow for instance, when you read the headlines in black bold on the front of your paper as you’re eating breakfast?”

“I’ll stop my subscription.”

“And what about next month when you continue to get photographers and journalists poking around your house, pestering you with reminders of what you’ve done?”

“My house has curtains, and a lock.”

“And next year, and ten years from now, how will you feel always knowing the truth and knowing you said nothing; well, not even nothing. You’ve lied, Miss Popwell. To me and to the court and to God.”

“God will forgive me.” She said softly. I frowned, surprised by this statement.

“Will He not forgive Mr. Hensley, then?”

“Mr. Hensley is a bad man. He deserves to go to prison more than most people do.”

“Maybe so. But does he deserve to go to death row, for a crime he didn’t commit?” I lit up my cigarette, watching her reaction.

“He’s a bad man.” She said simply. More and more frustrated, I shook my head.

“You may think so, Miss Popwell, but you are not the jury and you are not the judge and you are not God.” I said stiffly, squelching the end of my cig against the ashtray on the desk.

Mary Popwell spoke softly. “God will forgive me.”