In the Forest of Harm

Atlanta, Georgia, 2000 "Indian bitch!" Calhoun Whitman, Jr., uttered his first words in court as he lunged over the defense table. "Motherfucking squaw!" Mary Crow did not flinch as Whitman rushed toward her. Jurors scrambled backwards in the jury box while Whitman's defense counsel leapt from his chair and threw himself at his client. Though Whitman was a slender young man, he had quick reflexes and astonishing strength. Even with the beefy attorney clinging to both his legs, Calhoun Whitman, Jr., writhed like a rattlesnake toward the prosecutor's table. The two bailiffs who normally dozed on either side of the bench jolted forward. With a flurry of grunts, curses and the final sick thud of a skull striking the floor, the three men pinned the just-convicted murderer at the foot of the witness stand. An instant later both bailiffs had their service revolvers pressed against the base of Whitman's brain. "Oh, my God!" Mrs. Calhoun Whitman, Sr., shrieked over the babble. "They're going to shoot him!" "Order!" Judge Margaret McLean slammed her gavel on the desk. The sharp rap was swallowed in the din that enveloped the courtroom. "I will have order in this court!" She banged the gavel as if she were hammering nails. "Officers, put that man in cuffs and irons!" "Oh, nooo..." Mrs. Whitman sobbed as one bailiff cuffed her son's hands behind his back while the other kept both his foot and pistol wedged against Cal's neck. Mary Crow sat motionless as the bailiffs snapped the leg irons around Cal's ankles and wrestled him to his feet. When everyone in the courtroom had retaken their seats and her heart had stopped its own rhumba in her chest, Mary stood up, as was customary, for Judge McLean to address the accused. "John Calhoun Whitman, Jr., a jury of your peers has found you guilty of one count of sexual battery and one count of murder in the first degree upon the person of Sandra Dianne Manning. You will be sentenced by this court on Friday, November third, in accordance with the criminal code of the State of Georgia. Until that time, you are remanded to the custody of the State." Judge McLean scowled down at the strikingly handsome young man who now stood gasping before her in his torn Armani suit. "Take him away." The two bailiffs grabbed Cal Whitman by his manacled arms and hustled him toward the door, his leg irons rattling like a cascade of dropped change. When they passed in front of the prosecutor's table, Cal locked his knees and elbowed both officers. "Stupid whore!" he raged at Mary, his blond hair falling into his face. "Cherokee lesbo cunt! You're gonna pay for this!" Then he threw back his head and spit. Everyone gasped. A milky wad of saliva curved through the air, then plopped on Wynona, the small gray soapstone figure of an Indian goddess that Mary kept on her table at every trial. As his spit dripped from the little statue, Cal's pretty mouth stretched in a triumphant, mocking grin. "Out of those spike heels, you're just a skinny piece of brown cooze!" Mary felt her face grow hot. She despised men like Whitman, men who played rough with women and then expected their money or their power to put things right. She pressed her hands flat on the desk and leaned toward him, knowing the warm scent of her perfume would linger in his memory as an ever-present reminder of the day she hung him. "Have a good time in jail, Cal," she murmured, not bothering to hide the pleasure in her voice. "I hear a few of the larger inmates are looking forward tBissell, Sallie is the author of 'In the Forest of Harm' with ISBN 9780553582703 and ISBN 0553582704.