Caleb Carr - The Angel Of Darkness

Here our friend launched into a detailed but quick-paced review of every bit of circumstantial evidence we’d collected, moving from that recital into a discussion of what his other two principal witnesses-Mrs. Louisa Wright and the Reverend Clayton Parker-would have to say about Libby Hatch’s possible motives for committing the crime.

“Well, Moore,” the Doctor whispered as all this was going on, “he’s doing quite a job. Even I almost believe he’s reluctant to pursue the case.”

“I told you,” Mr. Moore answered, nodding as he watched Mr. Picton, “he was born for this kind of thing.”

“It’s a strange reversal,” Miss Howard added. “He sounds more like an advocate than a prosecutor.”

“That’s the trick,” Marcus said. “He knows Darrow’s going to argue in the negative, so he assumes the positive. He’s defending his witnesses and his case, even before they’re attacked. Very smart-should take a lot of the wind out of Darrow’s sails.”

“I wish I believed that,” the Doctor whispered.

We all turned our attention forward again as Mr. Picton brought his discussion about the evidence what the prosecution would present to a close. He returned to his table, almost as if he was getting ready to sit down; but then, pausing like he’d just thought of something he wasn’t sure he should bring up, he held a finger to his lips and approached the jury box again.

“There is one more thing, gentlemen. The court and the state have raised no objection to the accused’s being represented by out-of-state counsel. It is her right, and the counsel for the defense is an accomplished attorney. I should like you to remember that. A very accomplished attorney. In his years of practice he has represented the interests of clients humble and mighty, of great corporations and lunatic assassins. What brings him, you might reasonably ask, to our little town, so far from the teeming city of Chicago, and to this case in particular? The state cannot pretend that there are not forces at work here-for the accused, during her years of residence in New York City, found employment with some of the most powerful people in that metropolis. And they, perhaps naturally, seek to aid her in this, her hour of need. And so they have reached out of state for the assistance of, as I say, a very accomplished attorney. That is their affair. But you should be aware of this much: in the process of becoming so accomplished, the counsel for the defense has learned a thing or two about juries. He has learned about how they think, how they feel, and how they view the terrible responsibility of deciding a fellow human being’s fate in a capital case. Yes, you will doubtless hear a great deal about your responsibility, when the counsel for the defense makes his opening remarks.”

For the first time Mr. Picton smiled, ever so briefly, at the twelve faces before him. “But what is your responsibility, gentlemen?” he asked, his face going straight again. “To weigh the evidence and the testimony which will be presented to you by the state, as well as the defense. Nothing less-and nothing more. The counsel for the defense will ask you to believe that he does not intend to work upon your emotions and your natural sympathies, only that he wishes to present to you as clear and honest an argument as possible, so that if you decide that this woman is guilty the responsibility will be yours and yours alone. But, gentlemen, our jury system has been centuries perfecting a means of ensuring that no one man would ever feel that he held the fate of another in his hands in imitation of the Almighty. Your responsibility is only to weigh what is presented to you. It is the responsibility of the counsel for the defense and the responsibility of the state to adequately prepare and communicate their arguments. If you find the accused not guilty, then the responsibility is not yours-it belongs to the state. To me , gentlemen. And what is true of one side is true of the other. You are not the Inquisition of old, commissioned and empowered to arbitrarily decide the fate of a fellow human being. If you were, then indeed, you should bear the responsibility for what happens here. But that is not your commission. Your task is simply to listen-to the evidence, the witnesses, and the voice of doubt that is inside each of you. If I cannot silence that voice to a reasonable extent, then you must decide against the state. And believe me, gentlemen, it is the state that will bear that responsibility.” Mr. Picton turned and glanced at Mr. Darrow as he added, “That, at any rate, is the way things are done in the state of New York.”

Returning to his table, Mr. Picton sat down with a heavy breath, then took out his watch, placed it before him, and fixed his eyes on it.

Judge Brown studied Mr. Picton for a few seconds, with a look that combined annoyance with what you might call grudging respect; then he turned to the table on the other side of the room. “Mr. Darrow? Would the defense care to make its introductory remarks now, or will it wait until the opening of its own case?”

Mr. Darrow stood up slowly, giving the judge a small smile as the usual lock of hair fell over his forehead. “I’ve just been considering that question, Your Honor,” he said, his voice sounding deeper and smoother than ever. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any advice for me?”

The crowd chuckled quietly, causing Judge Brown to grab his gavel; but they got themselves settled before he had to start rapping it.

“This doesn’t seem quite the time for levity, Counselor,” the judge said sternly.

Mr. Darrow’s smile disappeared, and all the lines in his face seemed to grow deeper with worry. “No-no, it isn’t, Your Honor, and I apologize for sounding that way. The defense will go ahead and open now, with your permission.” Slowly moving out from behind his table, Mr. Darrow walked at a very slow pace over toward the jury box, his shoulders hunched like those of a man what’s carrying a painful burden. “My apology was sincere, gentlemen-sometimes confusion can cause inappropriate behavior. And I’ll admit that the state has confused me mightily, and not just about this case. Mr. Picton seems to know an awful lot about me-seems to know just what it is that I have to say to you, and what words I’ll use to say it. I know I’m not a young man anymore, but I didn’t think I’d gotten quite so old and set in my ways.” The men in the jury box smiled out to Mr. Darrow, who returned the look briefly. “He makes me sound like a pretty dangerous character, doesn’t he? Why, if I were in your spot right now I’d be good and on my guard, ready for the big-city lawyer who’s going to-how did the state put it? To ‘work upon your emotions and your natural sympathies.’ Quite a job, to get twelve grown men to dance like puppets all at once-and I’ll admit to you, gentlemen, I’m not up to it. Especially not when I’m so confused…”

Putting a hand to his neck, Mr. Darrow rubbed it hard, squinting his eyes as he did. “You see, the state seems to want you to believe that they would just as soon’ve let this case alone-that there they were, going about their own business, when suddenly along comes a little girl, along comes Clara Hatch, bursting at the seams to tell her story of what happened on the Charlton road on May the thirty-first, 1894. Well, gentlemen, the truth is a little different. The truth is that after the-the nightmare , the unimaginable tragedy on the Charlton road, my client, Clara Hatch’s mother, was left in such a devastated state that she knew she couldn’t care for a girl whose needs would be as extreme as Clara’s. So what did she do? She agreed to let two good, kind citizens of this town, Josiah and Ruth Weston-most of you know them-care for her daughter while she went off to secure a new future for the both of them, so that they might escape the horrors of the past. She fully intended to return for Clara, when the day came that she was well enough to leave the Westons’. Until recently, she thought that day was still a long way off. And then she received word that Clara had recovered the ability to speak-received it from Sheriff Dunning, who’d come to New York to arrest her. For what, apparently, was the first thing that little Clara said, after her three years of torturous silence? That her own mother had shot her. This tormented, terrified girl one day resumes communicating with the world-a momentous enough event on its own-and without urging , she offers the state an explanation of her tragic experience, one that doesn’t match a single detail of the story that was accepted by everyone in this county as true three years ago, but that does happen to name a culprit for the crime that the state can easily lay its hands on!”