If only I could wake up and find that life was the way it used to be.

I think the most difficult part for me was knowing that this was more than a trip south; it was an attempt to start over . . . without Momma. Once we landed in Mobile, I knew I'd be facing a new home, a new church, and a new school that fall. The thought of scaling such a mountain of change was overwhelming. My world as I knew it had been scrambled beyond recognition, and I approached the future with profound apprehension.

The summer of 1978 was hard on me and my brother. Adjusting to life without Momma and without friends was no small task for two high-energy kids. I missed the bike rides with Missy to our secret fort in the woods. She was my confidant, and now she, too, was gone. Thankfully, my grandparents and Aunt Dot were our primary caretakers. We were blessed to have such a loving family surrounding and supporting us at this time. Still, I had to deal with the reality that my life would never be the same.

During that first summer without Momma, Danny and I went to see her family in Louisiana. Grandpa and Grandma Welch had been devastated when they heard that their precious daughter had been killed. Making matters worse was the fact that she was shot right in front of their grandchildren.

Momma's brother, Ed, and his wife, Shirley, along with Momma's sister, Sue, and her husband, Walt, were shocked and enraged that their sister's life had been s.n.a.t.c.hed from them. The Welches were a close-knit family, and now one of them was gone. Danny and I were all that was left of Momma.

As we walked through their front door, my grandma could not contain her emotions any longer. She wrapped her arms around us and cried from the depths of her broken soul, from that place in a mother's heart where love knows no end. She said she didn't understand why my mother had prayed so hard to have children and yet G.o.d had allowed her to be taken away from them.

I had some of the same questions.

The piano that Momma had played for so many years sat in the living room, untouched and silent. Her fingers would never again grace the keyboard to entertain family and friends. Its music was replaced by the sound of our grandmother crying. Wanting to be strong for her, I tried to remember all the things people had said to me at Momma's funeral. Maybe some of those words would bring comfort to her and Grandpa.

During our visit, Grandma Welch took us to the cemetery to see Mother's grave. Danny and I sat on the little white bench placed there by my grandparents. The grave site was beautiful. The black marble trim and the white rocks that surrounded it made me think Momma would be pleased to know her parents had put so much thought into remembering her.

Momma's gravestone had an oval-shaped picture of her smiling on it. To see the smile and twinkle in her eyes brought me comfort. It was as if she were telling me that she was happy and safe with Jesus and that no one could hurt her or threaten her ever again.

As I had feared, I felt as nauseous the first day at my new school as I had on the airplane. Walking to my third-grade cla.s.s, knees threatening to buckle beneath me, the unbearable thought of a new teacher and cla.s.smates was more than I could take. If I could just make it to my desk and sit down, maybe I'd be okay.

I had to fight the sensation of throwing up again.

It didn't take long for the gossip to spread through the hallways. I'd overhear the other students at school whispering things like, "Did you know she actually saw her mom get shot?" . . . "Yeah, and did you know her mother died?" . . . "I heard her dad was shot, too. Poor kid saw the whole thing."

Beyond the rumors and knowing glances, there was the practical matter of my schoolwork. Momma had always helped me with my homework, and now she was gone. Daddy was on a regimen of painkillers and nerve medication, so there was little he could do to tend to my needs.

I didn't want to be at this school. I didn't feel as if I fit in. I was the "new kid"-the outsider from North Carolina. The other kids all knew each other, and I had no motivation or desire to break into their well-established circles.

The best part of the school day was when Grandpa Nichols picked me up from school in his old green truck. Riding home with Grandpa was a safe place. I knew he understood my pain, and I had no fear that he was whispering behind my back. As I opened the door to the truck and threw my schoolbag on the floor, he would greet me with a warm smile while extending his hand, which held his daily treat: a peppermint. At least my school day ended with something sweet-candy and a quiet ride home.

When we'd get home, Daniel would be there waiting for me to return from school. He was the only thing that didn't change in my world. Daddy was different now. He was a broken man. He seemed lost and disoriented. That is why I especially loved being with my little brother, except for the fact that he kept asking for Momma. His pleas were especially difficult at night.

You see, Daniel slept in my bed after the shootings. I would sleep on my side with my left arm draped over him until he fell asleep. I was an eight-year-old trying to comfort a three-year-old. Many nights he cried for Momma. I was frustrated that I had no easy answers for him. Back when Momma was alive, he was so attached to her that he would scream when she walked out of the room after putting him to bed. Now she was gone, and there was no way he could be with her no matter how hard or how long he cried.

I tried my best to console him during those restless nights. I'd say, "Danny, Momma's in heaven. Don't worry, we'll see her when we get there." That wasn't good enough. He'd say, "Then I want to go to heaven right now right now and see her. I want Mommy!" After a while he'd settle down, whimpering his way to sleep. This went on for some time. Then he started wandering back and forth between Daddy's room and mine. After several months he decided to stay with Daddy-I guess he felt safer with at least one parent. and see her. I want Mommy!" After a while he'd settle down, whimpering his way to sleep. This went on for some time. Then he started wandering back and forth between Daddy's room and mine. After several months he decided to stay with Daddy-I guess he felt safer with at least one parent.

I don't remember when Daniel stopped crying for Momma. In a way it was a relief because it hurt me to see him asking for her. But it was deeply painful for me, too. I was old enough to understand that she wasn't coming back, at least not in this lifetime. I knew I had to say good-bye to Momma, our town, my friends, and my childhood.

In August 1978, five months after the shooting that claimed the life of my mother, Daddy and I headed back to Sellerstown for the murdertrial. I had such mixed emotions about returning. I was thrilledthat I'd get to see Missy, Aunt Pat, and some of my old friends, but I dreaded the thought of staying at our old home under the watchful eyes of Mr. Watts. Thankfully, we were invited to lodge with Eddie and Johnnie Sellers, who lived up the street from the parsonage.

On Sunday, August 6, Daddy preached his farewell sermon at the Free Welcome Church in Sellerstown. The church family had been supporting us since the shooting, and while Daddy appreciated their generosity, he knew it was time to move on. He was encouraged to see the church thriving in his absence, and after he finished his message, he formally resigned as their senior pastor.

On Monday, August 7, the murder trial began. The proceedings were held before the Superior Court of Bladen County in Elizabethtown, North Carolina, and lasted for five days. The twelve members of the jury were selected on Monday and Tuesday; eight men and four women plus two alternates would sit in judgment of this dark chapter in our lives.

The jury was seated on Wednesday afternoon. They would ultimately have to decide whether Harris Williams was guilty of three things: * felonious breaking or entering with the intent to commit the felony of a.s.sault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill, inflict serious bodily injury, or the felony of murder* a.s.sault with a deadly weapon with intent to kill or inflict serious bodily injury* murder in the first degree When asked by the judge how Harris Williams would plead, his attorney, Ray H. Walton, entered a plea of "not guilty" on all charges.

Since Daddy and I were the first two witnesses scheduled by the state, we had been summoned to appear at the courthouse that afternoon. Approaching the two-story brick building, I felt as if I were Dorothy approaching the great and powerful Oz. My heart started to flutter inside my chest as I climbed the eight concrete steps up to the gla.s.s front doors.

Once inside, it took a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim overhead lighting. Long, cold corridors with marble halfway up their walls stretched out into the distance. Although my shoes weren't red ruby slippers, they echoed against the polished terrazzo floors as we walked to the elevator. We rode to the second floor, where we were directed to sit on an uncomfortable oak pew outside of courtroom number 219 until the bailiff called for us. Daddy took the stand at 3:25 p.m. When finished, he sat just behind our lawyers.

From my viewpoint, waiting was the hardest part of testifying. Sooner or later, just on the other side of the twin oak doors leading to the courtroom, I'd have to face the man who shot my momma. Swinging my legs back and forth like a pendulum, I tried to work off some of the nervous energy building inside me.

While I wanted to give a good testimony for Momma's sake, Idreaded the prospect of being in the same room with the shooter. Ididn't relish the thought of him looking at me while I answered questions. In spite of my growing anxiety, I knew it would be a first-cla.s.s disaster if I got sick, as I had on the plane.

At 4:10 p.m. the bailiff ushered me into the stuffy courtroom packed with about a hundred adults. The judge sat in a high-back chair to my right, flanked by two flags. Although he appeared sympathetic as he looked down on me from his mahogany perch, I didn't have one friend there to lean on for moral support. Not my brother. Not Missy. Not even Billy Wayne. This, of course, was no place for children.

Settling into the witness stand, I caught a glimpse of Daddy sitting in the front row. With a wink, he smiled at me. My heart leaped. Drawing strength from his presence, I forgot about my fears. Sitting upright like a doll in my red and white pinafore, I folded my hands and rested them on my lap.

When District Attorney Lee Greer approached me, I felt as if I could actually hold it together long enough to get through the proceedings. I had met Mr. Greer before the trial for a briefing and found him to be genuinely heartbroken over our situation. In a way he was like a kind, grandfatherly figure. I trusted him.

After being sworn in, Mr. Greer said, "Now, Rebecca, you see that thing69 in front of you there? Honey, if you will speak into that, I think perhaps everyone can hear you. Get that close to your mouth. Little lady, what is your name?" in front of you there? Honey, if you will speak into that, I think perhaps everyone can hear you. Get that close to your mouth. Little lady, what is your name?"

"Rebecca."

"And what is your last name?"

"Nichols."

"And, Rebecca, how old are you?"

"I'm eight."

"Do you go to school?"

"Yes."

"Honey, what grade are you in?"

"The third."

"Do you make good grades in school?"

"Yes."

"Do you go to Sunday school?"

"Yes."

"Do you go every Sunday?"

"Yes."

"How about church?"

"Yes."

"Rebecca, do you know who Jesus is?"

"Yes."

"Who is Jesus?"

"G.o.d's son."

"Rebecca, do you know what a lie is?"

"Yes."

"What is a lie?"

"It's . . ." I looked at the ceiling to search for the right words.

"It's what?"

"It's not the truth," I said with a smile.

"Well, is it a bad thing to tell a lie?"

"Yes."

"All right. Rebecca, now, I show you this pipe here," he said, holding out his well-worn red pipe for me to examine. "If I said this pipe was gray or was black, would I be telling the truth?"

"No."

"If I said the pipe was red, would I be telling the truth?"

"Yes."

"Then if I said this pipe was black, what would I be telling?"

"A lie."

"Now, Rebecca, why shouldn't one tell a lie?"

Although that was an easy question, I didn't answer at first. I knew perfectly well why we shouldn't lie. I mean, my daddy was a pastor, and I had spent my life in church. But this wasn't a church service. Somehow talking about church stuff in a courtroom didn't make sense to me.

Mr. Greer smiled as if thinking about another way to ask the question. He cleared his throat and said, "Did they teach you in Sunday school that to tell lies is a bad thing?"

"Yes."

"What did they say it is to tell a lie?"

"Wrong." I knew it was also a sin, but I wasn't clear how much the lawyer wanted to know about sin.

"Wrong?"

I nodded.

"All right. Now, if little boys and girls tell the truth and mind their parents and are good, if they die where would they go?"

"To heaven."

"And if little boys and girls are bad and tell lies and are mean, when they die where would they go?"

"To h.e.l.l."

"All right, honey. Now, do you know Mr. Williams?"

"Yes."

"Where is he?"

They told me I would be safe.

They told me just to tell the truth.

And in my pretrial briefing, they told me I'd have to identify my mother's killer. The time for that had come. But now, with Harris Williams sitting beside his lawyers at a table not more than twenty feet from the witness stand, how could I be sure I was really safe?

What would prevent him from coming after me?

Then again, I had to tell the truth. Biting my bottom lip, I summoned the resolve to identify the man who took everything I loved away from me-even if it might provoke him to anger. I pointed diagonally across the room. As I did, the faces of the jury focused on the defendant. Harris looked up, and our eyes met for a long moment before he diverted his gaze.

I remembered to breathe.

"All right, honey. Now, did you see him on March the 23rd?"

"Yes."

"Where did you see him?"

"At my house."

"And do you live with your daddy?"

"Yes."

"And that's Rev. Nichols, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"When you saw Mr. Williams, what was he doing?"