Alex Cross's Trial

thought Maxwell Lewis looked as confident as ever, but I saw signs that he was flustered. He was forgetting to slouch casually against the railing of the jury box. He was standing at attention and speaking a little too quickly. His countrified Clarence Darrow lilt had all but vanished. Moody had rattled him.

    “This is, to say the least, a most unusual bit of testimony, Miss Cross.”

    “Why is that, sir? You-all said they came there with a search warrant. You said they showed it to us. All I’m saying is… well, that’s exactly what happened.”

    She was lying. I knew it for sure. I was with Abraham in the parlor that night, and I knew nobody came to the door with any warrant. All had been quiet, there was a clatter of horses, then the Raiders started shooting at anything that moved.

    Maxwell Lewis put on an uncomfortable smile. “All right, they showed you the warrant,” he said. “And then what happened next?”

    Suddenly I knew where Moody was going with this, why she was lying. What she was hoping to demonstrate with her lie.

    Damn! It was brilliant! Why hadn’t I thought of it?

    But of course, if I had thought of it—if I’d even asked her to do such a thing—I could have been disbarred.

    As it was, she was on her own.

    “Well, sir,” she said to Lewis, “I was looking over the warrant, you know, and I said, ‘I still don’t think y’all have the right to do this. But if that’s what the paper says, I reckon we’ve got no choice but to let you come on in.’ ”

    “You said that?” Lewis turned to the jury, hoping they would share his skepticism.

    None of them even noticed. Their eyes were on Moody. She had them under her spell, and they were finally listening.

    “Yes, sir, I did, and I no sooner got the words out of my mouth than a bunch of ’em rode up on their horses and started shootin’ and yellin’ and everything. Just like Papaw said.”

    “If we can,” Lewis said, “let’s return to the issue of the search warrant.”

    “Yes, sir,” said Moody, as proper and polite as I had ever heard her.

    “Now, who showed it to you?”

    “Mr. North was the one holding the paper,” she said. “And Mr. Stephens was with him.”

    “You are absolutely certain they presented that warrant to you?”

    “Well, yes, sir, I mean—that’s what happened. Just like y’all said. Don’t you believe me?”

    She looked the very picture of confounded innocence.

    Maxwell Lewis turned to my father and shrugged.

    My father spoke from the bench in a dangerous growl: “Moody Cross. You have sworn to tell the truth in this court. Do you understand that?”

    “Oh, I certainly do, Your Honor, that’s just what I’m doing,” she said. “For the life of me, I can’t figure out why me telling the truth has got y’all so confused. It’s almost like you’re angry at me.”

    She even had the nerve to smile. I thought, Don’t get carried away now, don’t go too far. You’ve got them right where you want them .

    Before she took the stand, Moody and her grandfather had been uncooperative liars, uppity Negroes, troublemakers. Agitators defying a legal search warrant. Now they were innocent citizens who had agreed to a search of their premises and then, without warning, were unfairly and savagely attacked. For no reason at all.

    Chapter 115

    THE MOMENT MOODY stepped off the witness stand, my father declared a recess until Monday.

    I followed Moody, L.J., and Jonah down the steps of the courthouse into a barrage of questions accompanied by that acrid gunpowdery smell of flash powder exploding. Moody moved through that crowd of newsmen like a ship slicing through a wave, holding her head up, walking straight ahead.

    We brushed off the last pesky reporters and walked three blocks to the Stringer house. We waited until we had Moody in the War Room before anyone spoke.

    “What did you think you were doing?” I asked. “You got up under oath and told the biggest, fattest lie in the history of Mississippi. And all the time grinning like a fool!”

    She was grinning like that now. “I tried to keep the smile off my face,” she said.

    “Why didn’t you tell us you were going to do that?”

    “’Cause if I had, you’d have told me not to do it. This way I could scare the devil out of that Loophole Lewis, and your daddy the judge, and Phineas Eversman, and everybody else who was in on the lie.”

    “But you lied in order to counter their lie,” I shouted. “That’s perjury!”

    “So what?” she said. “You fight fire with fire. Lewis can’t