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36
Back Porch
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and they were finally getting to hear the juicy stuff
Deputy Meeks’ testimony concluded with his description of “surveiling” the shadowy figure from the Delchamps parking lot to his home, the search of same, and the fruits of the search: a four-toed aluminum walking cane with pruning shears diabolically attached to one toe, and a meticulously maintained journal detailing three hundred and twenty-one tire assaults.
Now leading by at least twenty lengths (he thought), Mr. Thibideaux announced that he had no further questions.
Mr. McClelland’s cross examination of the good deputy was, “Just where in that parking lot was this listing yellow Cadillac parked?”
“Where? Oh, right there where some folks put them wire buggies. Right there between them plastic knobs in the pavement.”
"Oh. No further questions.”
Now, “Your Honor, the prosecution rests,” can’t really be stretched into twenty-five syllables, but Mr. Thibideaux tried. He then settled into his chair with the aura of a newly crowned monarch.
Mr. McClelland’s deferred opening remarks:	“Please listen
carefully to what ya’ll are about to hear. And remember, ya’ll are the sole judges of the truth.”
He then called to the stand Mr. Loren Satterfield.
The jurors watched as the accused carefully stood at counsel table. They saw the smallish gentleman square his shoulders, lift his chin, and with the aid of a wooden cane which seemed to embarrass him, stride (short strides, yes, but he didn’t shuffle) proudly across the polished parquet courtroom floor toward the witness stand.
There were no stray fingers on the rail of the jury box as Mr. Satterfield, pale blue eyes and wire rimmed glasses fixed straight ahead, made his way. The four-toed snipping cane was safely on display on the evidence table, but why take changes? Arms prudently crossed, the jurors heard a firm “Yessir” as to whether Loren swore to tell the truth, and they
observed an old-trunk frayed but un-seedy dignity in the gentleman who then took the stand.
The jury quickly learned the name, address, marital status (widower), and occupation (“history teacher, retired twenty-two years, now”) of Loren Satterfield. Then came the juicy stuff
There were objections from Mr. Thibideaux, and there were prods from Mr. McClelland, but essentially Loren was able to present his story as clearly and as succinctly as he had presented history to four decades of students.
He recounted discovering MAUGIE not merely encroaching upon but brazenly invading the territory in the Delchamps lot reserved for the return of his grocery cart, an offense mirroring scores of prior similar outrages. With chagrin, he described how victory in the battle First MAUGIE had been thwarted by his impulsive, poorly conceived opening salvo.
Lauren then described the evolution of his final tactics. “Slashing tires, scratching paint,” he said. “I can’t do things like that, even to thoughtless jerks. I’d already tried notes. They don’t work. What I wanted to do was to chain shopping carts to jerks’ cars, but I couldn’t afford hundreds of locks and chains. Anyway, cars today don’t have door handles or chrome bumpers.”
“So,” prompted Mr. McClelland, passing the slipping cane to his client, “you came up with this?” Jurors
instinctively returned fingertips to armpits.
“Yessir,” Mr. Satterfield proudly responded. ‘It took effort, but the thing works pretty good. See, these shears wired underneath one of these toes are barely noticeable, and this catgut fishing line is dum near invisible. Anyway, most people look away from old folks with walking canes.”
Demonstrating, Mr. Satterfield pulled on the dum near invisible fishing line. “Snick!” snapped the jaws of the shears. The jurors’ toes curled.
Then, "Mr. Satterfield, on the night you were arrested, were you aware that police were present in the Delchamps parking lot?”
“Yessir.”
“Then why, if..”
“MAUGIE.”
“MAUGIE?”
“Yessir, it was MAUGIE again. Same yellow Cadillac, same spot as the first time. So I had to chance it. I had to win the battle of Second MAUGIE. Mistake, maybe, but I’m betting old MAUGIE parks right from now on.”
“Hmm,” mused Mr. McClelland. “One last point. This journal you kept,” and he handed the document to Loren. “Does it break down by month the three hundred and twenty-one, ah, ‘lessons’ you administered during the course of your, ah, campaign?”
“Of course.”
“What is this break down?”