Mrs. Rhodes' Day in Court

Mr. Morgan say, "The defense calls Miss Wilma Rhodes." I don't move. I know he talking 'bout me, but I keep telling him that I'm married. Just 'cause my husband good and dead don't mean he can disrespect our union by calling me “Miss.” Plus, I'm old enough to be his granny, and I been cute all my life. Stand to reason I had a husband at some point. 

He look down at me like he mad. I cross my arms and stare right back. He know better by now. All this time we been meeting and preparing. He know who I am. Trial or no trial, he gon’ learn. 

The judge say, "Is your client in the courtroom, Mr. Morgan?" He trying to be funny. I been here every day of these proceedings, and he see me plain as day.

But Mr. Morgan say, "Yes, Your Honor. She's sitting right here with me wearing this beige blouse." He had to bring up this ugly shirt. The only reason I’m wearing it ‘cause he say it look good to the jury. I protest. I say, “It ain’t me.” But he say, “Good! We want the jury to like you.” Then I say, “Everybody who know me like me. I’m the most likable person I know.” But he don’t pay me no never mind, and say my black dresses and bone necklaces taint the jury perception of me. And since I don’t think burning at the stake would look any better with my complexion, I shut up and put on this shirt.

"Ma'am," the judge say to me. "Mr. Morgan called you to the witness stand."

"He ain't called none of me," I say. "I done told that boy over and over again that I'm a married woman, and he insist on being disrespectful. Well, two can play like they ain't got no sense."

The jury laughing now, and Mr. Morgan turn all red-faced. The judge bang that little hammer and say, "Order! Order!" But I can tell he want to laugh, too, but he important, so he don't.

"Mr. Morgan," he say when everybody stop sniggling. "Please recall your first witness."

Mr. Morgan look at me all pleading like and say, "The defense calls Mrs. Wilma Rhodes." I smile big and sweet at him. Then I get up from that chair and march right on over to the witness stand.

The security guard ask me do I swear to tell the whole truth, and I say, "Course I do." I may go to hell, but it won't be for lying. 

Mr. Morgan say, "Miss, I mean Mrs. Rhodes." I'm glad he corrected himself 'cause I was about to read him right then and there. "The prosecutor claims that you are a practicing witch. Is that how you would describe yourself?"

"It ain't," I say. Mr. Morgan warned me not to add no more than a direct answer to the question posed, so I stop right there. He seem pleased. Then he say, "How would you describe yourself?"

"I'm a healer," I say.

The room go to mumbling, and the judge bang again and say, "Order!" I feel like I should explain myself, but Mr. Morgan cut me off.

"How do you heal, Mrs. Rhodes?" 

"Well," I say. "That depends on what’s ailing you."

"Will you please give us an example?" Now I know we rehearsed what he want me to say, but I got a better, more timely example.

"Sure," I say. "Take this judge here. He got a sho nuff case of jock itch. Now, if he come to me, I'd tell him..."

The room erupt, but I don't see nothing funny. Jock itch serious business, not just for the man himself but for whoever lay with the man, too. And a man as important as a judge ought to know how to stop his junk from itching once and for all. But he go to banging some more, and Mr. Morgan go to apologizing. So I just sit there waiting so I can give my testimony like we practiced. 

"Mr. Morgan," the judge say. Now he all red-faced, too. "Control your witness." 

I turn and face him to give him what for, but Mr. Morgan grab my hand like he begging me not to say nothing 'bout that controlling me comment. The last man who thought he could control me good and dead. But the way Mr. Morgan rubbing on my hand let me know I should not say that. So I don’t.

"Mrs. Rhodes," he say, trying to smooth things over 'cause now I'm mad, too. "In general, not about anybody specific in this room today, how do you heal?"

I say, "In general, I figure out what's wrong with somebody, and I tell them what they can do to make it right. If they do it, they healed. If not, they not."

"Thank you, Mrs. Rhodes," he say with a sigh of relief. "Do you currently or have you ever practiced dark arts as part of your healing?"

"No."

"Do you currently or have you ever conjured spirits as part of your healing?" 

"No."

"Do you currently or have you ever cast spells as part of your healing?"

"No."

"Is there any reason for anyone, including our prosecutor here, to believe you to be a witch now or at any other time in your life?"

"No."

Mr. Morgan then say, "That's all for now, Your Honor."

I go to stand up 'cause I forgot 'bout the other lawyer asking me questions. Mr. Morgan motion for me to sit down, so I do.

"Mrs. Rhodes," the other lawyer say. "You testified that you have never employed the dark arts, conjured spirits, or cast spells as part of your so-called healing. Is that right?"

I hate when people talk to me like I'm dumb. And I really hate when they make light of my healing. If I wasn't sitting in court, I'd...

"Is that right, Mrs. Rhodes?"

"Yes, that's what I said." Then he say, "But what about your husband?"

"What about him?" I say. I don't know what he getting at, but I don't like it. My husband may be good and dead, but he still my husband.

"Didn't you use magic on your husband?"

"I did no such thing!" I say. 

"The police found this magic spell in your lair," he say before Mr. Morgan object.

"That question is prejudicial, Your Honor."

The judge say, "Sustained. Reframe the question, Counselor." And he do.

"The police found this in your home." He was holding up one of my healing papers. 

"Yeah, so."

"So you admit this belongs to you."

"Yes, that is mine." 

"Do you admit that this is a spell?"

"No, I do not!"

"This is not a spell, Mrs. Rhodes?"

"Objection! Asked and answered, Your Honor."

"Sustained. Move on, Counselor."

"Can you read the title on this page?"

"Yes." He look at me, and I wait.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" I say. 

"Can you read it?"

"Yes! I already said that!" Now I wish I can object.

"Your Honor," the other lawyer say like he got a right to be frustrated with me.

"Mrs. Rhodes. He's asking that you read the title." 

"He didn't say that. He say, ‘Can you?’ And I can. He should have said, ‘Will you please read the title?’ And I would have. You don’t need no law degree to know that.” I reach out my hand for the paper he holding. He bring it to me and I say, “How to Stop a Cheating Husband.”

More mumbling at that, but I don't say nothing like Mr. Morgan taught me.

“If this is not a spell, Mrs. Rhodes, then what is it?”

“Directions,” I say.

He sigh then say, “What’s the difference between a spell and directions?”

“A spell illegal,” I say. “Directions not.”

The judge laugh with everybody else now, but I don’t get too cocky. Mr. Morgan warned me ‘bout that. 

“Your Honor, Mrs. Rhodes is making a mockery of this court.”

“I’m doing no such thing!” I say. “I’m just answering your questions.”

“Continue, Counselor,” the judge say.

“With regard to your husband, did you follow the, um, directions on this paper?”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was the result, Mrs. Rhodes?”

“He didn’t cheat no more.” With everyone laughing, it was hard for me to hear the other lawyer’s next question. The judge did some hammering, and all was still again.

“Mrs. Rhodes, isn’t it true that you killed your husband with these, um, directions?”

“No. That is not true at all. These directions stop cheating. They don’t do no killing.”

“But isn’t it true that after following these so-called directions, your husband died?”

“Now, that is true, but…” That other lawyer got loud and started to overtalk me so I couldn’t explain. I was trying to say that just because something happened after an earlier something does not mean that the second something was caused by the first. But he and the judge got together on that one and wouldn’t let me.

“Mrs. Rhodes, have you ever given these directions to other women?”

“Sure,” I say.

“And what was the result?” 

“I have a 100% success rate,” I say.

“You’ve killed some of the men whose wives have come to you. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Rhodes?”

“No. It isn’t.”

“It isn’t? Where is Mr. Crawford?”

“Dead.”

“And Mr. Plymouth?”

“Dead.”

“Mr. Treadwell, Mr. Urban, Mr. Jarvay Jones, Mr. Rodney Jones, and Mr. Rutledge? Where are they, Mrs. Rhodes?”

“Dead, dead, dead, dead, and dead,” I say. I sneak a look over at the jury, and I can tell it ain’t looking good for me. They all counting the dead. With my Leland, that’s eight, and beige shirt or not, I look witchy to them. It’s quiet for a while before the other lawyer begin again.

“That’s a lot of dead husbands whose wives simply followed directions you gave them, Mrs. Rhodes.” He didn’t ask a question, so I don’t say nothing. Mr. Morgan taught me that.

“That’s it for this witness,” the other lawyer say.

“Redirect, Your Honor?” Mr. Morgan say.

The judge tip his head, and Mr. Morgan come close.

“How many wives have you given these directions to over the last five years, Mrs. Rhodes?”

“469,” I say. 

“How many of those 469 wives have come to you saying that their husbands are still cheating?”

“Zero,” I say.

“How many of those 469 wives have requested refunds?”

“Zero,” I say.

“How many of the seven other women whose husbands happened to die blame you for their deaths?”

“Zero,” I say.

“How many of those eight deaths can be directly connected to the directions you gave to stop husbands from cheating?”

“Zero,” I say.

“How did your Leland die?” 

“His floozy stabbed him,” I say.

“What about Mr. Crawford?” 

“His mistress fed him chicken fried in peanut oil. He was allergic.”

“And Mr. Plymouth?”

“He was shot by his other woman’s husband.”

“And what happened to the rest of those eight men, Mrs. Rhodes?”

I tell him ‘bout each one, and that jury liked me more and more. When it was all over, I was free to go home. Like nothing ever happened.

But that judge come knocking on my door the next morning wanting to know how I know ‘bout his itchy junk.

“My Leland told me,” I say.

“Your dead husband told you about me?”

“Yes, the dead always talking to me.”

“But I thought you testified that you don’t conjure spirits.”

“I don’t,” I say. “They come to me on they own. And Leland say he know your wife. His junk was itchy when he knew her, too. But he ain’t get that from me.”

Well, the judge was hotter than cat piss, but he still buy some cream from me anyway. Then he come back ‘bout a week later and ask me ‘bout directions to stop his wife from cheating. 

“Sure thing,” I say, but I don’t offer him the premium upgrade.