On June 3, in the middle of the trial, Mollie was called away.
Her younger daughter with Ernest, Anna, whom a relative had
been raising since Mollie became seriously ill, had died. She was
four years old. Little Anna, as she was called, had not been well of
late, and doctors had attributed her death to illness, because there
seemed to be no evidence of foul play. But for the Osage every
death, every apparent act of God, was now in doubt.
Mollie attended the funeral. She had relinquished her daughter
to another family so that she would be safe; now she watched as
Little Anna, in her small plain box, disappeared into the grave.
There were fewer and fewer Osage who knew the old prayers for
the dead. Who would chant every morning at dawn for her?
After the burial, Mollie went straight to the courthouse—the
cold stone building that seemed to hold the secrets to her grief and
despair. She sat down in the gallery by herself, not saying a word,
just listening.
On June 7, several days after the death of his daughter, Ernest
Burkhart was being escorted from the courtroom back to the
county jail. When no one was looking, he slipped a note to the
deputy sheriff. “Don’t look at it now,” he whispered.
Later, when the deputy unfolded the note, he discovered that it
was addressed to John Leahy, the prosecutor. It said simply, “See
me tonight in the county jail. Ernest Burkhart.”
The deputy passed the note to Leahy, who found Burkhart in his
cell pacing restlessly. He had deep circles around his eyes, as if he
hadn’t slept for days. “I’m through lying, judge,” Burkhart said, the
words rushing out of him. “I don’t want to go on with this trial any
longer.”
“Being with the prosecution, I’m in no position to advise you,”