But now it's time to resume the court proceedings and I find myself resisting.
But it needs to be done. The nun must be convicted. Otherwise how will she -- we -- go free?
For some reason I find myself thinking about the Old Testament story of Exodus.
According to one source, "The 10 plagues were a divine demonstration of power and displeasure designed to persuade Pharaoh" to free the Jews.
There was a lot of drama in those ten plagues. After all, how often does it come to pass that water turns to blood? How frequently do frogs "come into thine house, and into thy bedchamber, and upon thy bed, and into the house of thy servants, and upon thy people, and into thine ovens, and into thy kneading troughs."
How often are we faced with epidemic proportions of lice and flies, locusts and boils and diseased cattle?
When I consider the story of Exodus, I think, OK, I understand. A good story needs drama and plenty of build-up.
And then I see my own story in a new light. I see that the nun's trial is part of the dramatic build-up.
So there is no way around it. I have to write the courtroom proceedings.
So, now, I might as well stop whining and wasting time and just handcuff myself to my Mac here and...
write it. RIGHT HERE:
Old Vallejo Jail
November 13, 1883
The jailer slams his keys against the bars of the cell to wake me up the next morning. The sky is black outside the window and I can see only a crisp white curve of moon.
I sit up. "What..what time is it?" I ask, thinking it must be the middle of the night.
"It's time for you to get up," he says. "You got ten minutes before we go." He hobbles away before I can ask him where we are going.
Soon enough, I find out. He leads me in handcuffs out of the jail to the tiny blue house I've stared at for so many weeks. It sits low and tidy across the dusty courtyard and it has an inviting front porch.
When we get closer, I read a sign over the door: "Kitty's Corner Cafe." The door has a large window covered in a lace curtain and a brass bell beside it, and now the jailer rings the bell.
Even standing out here on the porch, I can smell breakfast cooking inside. Bacon. Toast.
The sky above my head is lightening up. Overhead it is turning a sugary blue.
A young woman -- her hair pulled tightly away from her face -- moves aside the lace curtain and peers out the window. She unlocks the door and without a word, the jailer, whose name is Jimmy Bean, leads me inside. The smell of food is so powerful that it makes me a little dizzy.
"Mornin' Kitty Pole," the jailer says.
"Mornin' Jimmy Bean." She points to a table in the corner by the window.
"No, now we don't mean to be bothering up your morning. And we sure do not want to be attractin' no public attention," he says.
He smells of tobacco and whiskey. I smell of so many things I wish I didn't know.
The young woman has large dark eyes and she wears a starched white apron. "What will it be Jimmy?"
"Bring the coffee right away and then fix up some eggs and bacon, toast if you will. Court's payin. Just please be quick about it."
She nods and shoots a quick dark glance at me and then leaves the room through a curtained door. She returns in a moment with two mugs of coffee. She sets one down in front of me. I stare into the cup. Suddenly I feel tears gathering behind my eyes. I realize that this is the first cup of coffee I've had -- or even smelled -- since September 13th, the day they whisked me out of the convent and into that hellish cell.
"Why are you doing this?" I whisper. Tears are falling onto the tablecloth but I am unable to wipe my eyes.
The jailer is putting a teaspoon of sugar into his coffee. "Warn't my idea ma'am. The judge's instructions. Told me to get you a decent breakfast before the trial this mornin'. No more of your fancy fainting tricks." He snorts in derision.
"Well, unless you plan to feed me with a spoon, Jimmy, I cannot do a thing with these on," I say, nodding to the handcuffs on my wrists in my lap.
He fumbles for the key and unlocks the handcuffs. I sit with my hands limp on the table. I feel like I am unable to move. But then the coffee reaches up to me.
The woman is back with two plates, heaped with food. She sets the plate before me. Scrambled eggs. Crisp bacon. Potatoes. Toast.
"Anything else you need Jimmy?" she asks.
"Yep," He scratches his stubbly jaw. "I want some a that green chile sauce if ya don't mind. That kind you serve at lunch."
I stare at the plate. The food looks so good it doesn't seem real.
"Get eatin while the gettin's good," he says. "We gotta be outta here before the breakfast crowd appears."
I lift my fork and take a small bite of the eggs. They are fluffy and light. I pick up the bacon. In the old days I would never have eaten with my fingers, especially being so dirty.
But now I am indifferent to the filth. I place a bit of the bacon on my tongue, and leave it there. I swear I'm dreaming.
The young woman brings the chili sauce back. It's green as pea soup. "You OK?" she asks me.
I look up. She's frowning down at me but in a kind concerned way. I am about to say that I can't suddenly eat a full breakfast after weeks of what I've been used to. Grey gruel. Slop. Greasy stew.
"You are a wonderful cook," I whisper. "It...it tastes...just heavenly."
She looks at me with those dark eyes. Nods. Smiles. "Glad for that," she says. And then she disappears through the curtain.
I eat most of the scrambled eggs and all of the bacon. But there isn't time for me to finish the toast. The young woman wraps it in a napkin for me. The potatoes stay behind.
She hands me the toast folded neatly into the napkin. "Thank you," I say. The jailer reaches over and snatches the toast away.
"I'll be takin that if ya don't mind," he says.
Kitty turns to me. "I am...mighty happy you came," she says. And then she nods and stares at me with those large dark eyes. "And I hope that your day... goes... your way."
As the jailer replaces the handcuffs and leads me outside into the courtyard, a shaft of sunlight shines straight into the window of the restaurant. I glance back. Kitty is standing beside the window staring at me.
Jimmy leads me back to my cell and I am greeted by the smell of the foul pail. After the delightful breakfast odors at Kitty's, the pail's stench is almost unbearable. The pail is full and like always I have to yell at Jimmy to take it away.
A few minutes before nine a.m., the Sheriff is there, and the two of them lead me to the courtroom. Deluria greets me and we take our seats. At nine sharp the judge appears. We stand and the first thing he asks is if I'm "fit to stand trial today."
For a moment I think it's me he wants to hear from. But then Deluria answers. "She is indeed, your honor," he replies.
"Well, good thing, because we need to get on with it," he says.
The jury traipses in and I stare at a motley group of twelve men -- one of them exceedingly plump, and one exceedingly short -- who file slowly into the courtroom. They do not look at me, at least not at first.
After some preliminaries, the attorneys approach the bench and ask the judge some questions.
As the prosecutor launches into his statement, his voice booms.
I've heard it all before. Or should I say, I've read it all before. The story of the murder that my cousin wrote. Practically verbatim, it comes spewing from the prosecutor's mouth.
And then he dabbles in my misdeeds and alleged scandals. My Spanish dancing. The visits to my cousin's hacienda, and the seductive way in which I would I supposedly shave my cousin's face.
He dramatizes his silly speeches by lifting one arm and jabbing his long finger in my direction. I keep looking away.
I sit there, trying not to think about coffee and scrambled eggs and bacon. And praying that Deluria will surprise me and find a way to present the truth of my case to the jury.