THE DAY OF THE LORD WILL BE A DAY OF DOOM

  “One evening as it was first dark, a knock called to the door, and she asked “Who is there?” The reply was “Rube,” and he wanted his jug of whiskey. The voice did not sound like Rube’s, and she hesitated as to opening of the door. But as he insisted it was Rube after his whiskey, she partly opened the door, when she saw a large strange negro there. She tried to close the door but he pushed it open with violence and rushing into the house, took a seat by the fire. She was much frightened, and not a word was said, as she walked across the room several times. Looking around the room for a weapon of defense, and at last recollected that there was a clasp-knife in her pocket hanging on the chair. Just as she laid hold of it the negro sprang upon and seized her, when she screamed, and her large dog rushed in at the door, seizing the negro by his throat. The negro finally extricated himself and rushed out the door, followed by the dog, who again laid hold of him. At last he got loose and rushed down a ravine by the house, followed by the dog, urged on by the voice of his mistress. She then fastened the door, and taking my father, then an infant, in her arms, went to the second floor, drew up the ladder, and with child in her lap and cutlass in her hand, kept watch all night at the window.” —Peter Osterhout, as told to Rev. Charles Rockwell.

David Howell sworn

By the D.A.:

Q. Did you at any time see the prisoner [James Teed] present a gun at the deceased?

A. I went to the woods in dispute between the prisoner and the deceased and saw the prisoner leaning on the breech of his gun, the bayonet stuck in the ground, and the deceased was cutting wood. The prisoner was talking harshly to the deceased about the property, and ordered him roughly to take off the cattle he had put on the premises. The deceased paid no attention but continued cutting wood. The prisoner appeared in a great passion and ordered him several times to take the cattle out and raised his gun to an aim and said “I will blow you through if you do not take them out.”

Q. Have you heard the prisoner use other expressions of malice towards the deceased?

A. I have frequently heard him speak of his losses by Mr. Jennings, but have never heard any particular expressions of enmity, except that he would be glad if the old man were dead.

Cross by Mr. Fisk for the defense:

Q. Were any other persons near when the gun was presented?

A. Two of Mr. Jennings sons were cutting timber at a short distance.

Q. Did you see at the time that the prisoner intended to shoot the deceased?

A. I did not, but thought it meant merely to frighten him into compliance with his demands. I did not know if the gun was loaded.

By Mr. Price:

Q. How long was you in the woods?

A. About a quarter hour.

Q. Are you not a very intemperate man?

The people object!

The court ordered the witness did not have to answer.

    Being an “intemperate man” myself, I know that with drink, memory can get foggy. But I can easily recollect every weapon ever pulled on me; drunk or stone sober. In my city days, I worked the door at various Lower East Side establishments—some better than others. I’ve been threatened with guns and knives, sprayed in the face with mace, and cracked ribs falling on a drunk I was struggling to toss. That’s what drove me back to carpentry. I was getting too old for the wet work. But it’s the weapon pulled on you by a loved-one that you remember best.

     When I lived in San Francisco, I had a show of blood-prints at Lyle Tuttle’s Tattoo Museum. It was 1980; the height of the coke days. I bought a couple of bottles of whiskey and a gram of coke for the opening, and nothing else. The only thing that kept me from passing out dead drunk was the coke. My girlfriend at the time was on the same regimen, and we predictably got into an argument over nothing. She stormed off. I had another drink, another bump, and continued into the liquid night solo.

The people object!

Overruled. The witness can continue.

   A group of us moved the party to another venue where Kathy Acker was doing a reading from one of her books. A rather loud and obnoxious German was heckling her in both German and English. In my twisted state, I envisioned myself much larger than I actually was, so I stuck my nose into what was really none of my business. As Kathy continued to read, not skipping a beat, the German grabbed me by the neck with his giant mitt; lifted me off the ground, shook me like a rag doll, tossing me into the audience. I drove home to Berkeley as Sunday was peeking over the horizon, feeling the way with my hand.

    My girlfriend met me at the door, not with a “welcome home honey,” but with a Philips-head screwdriver. She stuck me in the chest, screaming something like “Don’t you know what time it is?” I did then.