Caleb Carr - The Angel Of Darkness

“Almost as if she had some purpose, would you say?” Mr. Picton asked.

Dr. Lawrence was about to agree, but Mr. Darrow shot up. “I must object to that, Your Honor. The question calls for a speculative answer from the witness, who cannot have known what was in or on the former Mrs. Hatch’s mind.”

“Agreed,” Judge Brown said with a nod. “I’ve warned you, Mr. Picton-no suggestions. The jury will ignore the state’s question.”

Sitting forward again, I heard Dr. Kreizler mumble, “As if they could.” Then I saw him hide a smile with his hand.

Mr. Picton had a few final questions for Dr. Lawrence: had he been in attendance at the Hatch house when Mrs. Hatch had given birth to her three children? Dr. Lawrence answered that he had indeed. And what had been Mrs. Hatch’s condition after her third labor? Revealing a bit of information designed to prepare the jury for Mr. Picton’s intended claim that Libby in fact resented her kids (and one what also matched our speculations from early in the case), Dr. Lawrence said that young Tommy’s birth had been difficult, and left his mother unable to bear any more children. Mr. Darrow challenged the relevance of this information and by way of reply Mr. Picton sat down, turning the witness over to his opponent. But once again, the counsel for the defense passed up his chance at cross-examination.

He did the same with Dr. Jenkins: after Mr. Picton had gone over said witness’s recollections of treating Clara Hatch-taking special care to make the jury understand that there was no connection between the bullet wound the girl had received and the fact that she hadn’t spoken in three years-it was time for the defense to take over. But Mr. Darrow just stood briefly, said, “We have no questions at this time, Your Honor,” and then sat back down.

A few comments made their way through the galleries at that, and Judge Brown began to rub the white hair on his head, looking a bit disturbed. “Mr. Darrow,” he said slowly, “I realize that you have a different way of doing things out west-but I trust you still follow the same basic rules of procedure in a criminal trial?”

Mr. Darrow smiled and stood back up, chuckling what you might call self-consciously. “I thank the court for its concern. The simple fact is, Your Honor, that the defense has no argument with the state concerning what happened immediately after the shootings. At least, not so far as these witnesses are concerned.”

The crowd seemed to find that information reassuring; as for Judge Brown, he nodded a few times and said, “Very well, Counselor. Just so long as you’re aware of what’s happening.”

“I do my best, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow replied, sitting again.

The judge turned to Mr. Picton. “The state may call its next witness.”

Mr. Picton stood up and took a deep breath; and I could see the Doctor’s hand tighten on the arm of his chair until his knuckles went white.

“Your Honor,” Mr. Picton said, “the state has an unusual request to make at this time.”

Judge Brown’s little eyes did their best to open wide. “Indeed?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The state’s next witness is Clara Hatch. Clara is just eight years old, and she has not seen her mother-her blood mother, that is-in more than three years. The citizens of Ballston Spa”-here Mr. Picton threw a look around the room that I could’ve wished’d had a little more of what they call the common touch -“are as charitable and considerate in such matters as those of any community, I have no doubt. But given these special considerations, the state would like to ask that the galleries be cleared for the duration of Clara Hatch’s testimony.”

“Hmm,” Judge Brown noised, tugging at one of his monkey ears. “Ordinarily I don’t care for closed trial sessions, Mr. Picton. They smack of the Old World to me. But I do concede that you may have a point. What about it, Mr. Darrow?”

Standing up even slower than was his usual practice, Mr. Darrow began knotting his forehead up. “Your Honor,” he said, as though it was very difficult for him. “Like the court, we do concede that this is a special witness, who needs to be treated carefully. But-and I say this with very mixed feelings-the prosecution has already stated that this little girl is its primary witness. And she has already appeared before one closed court, that being the grand jury. Now, as I say, I’m sympathetic to the sensibilities of a child, but-Your Honor, my client is on trial for her life . Whatever her age, if this girl’s words are going to put her mother in the electrical chair, well, then, I think she ought to be able to say them in front of the same audience and under the same duress as every other witness who’s going to appear here.”

The galleries, for their own selfish reasons as much as anything else, began to rumble in agreement; but the judge didn’t hesitate, this time, to let them have it with his gavel. “The court is aware,” he said, looking around coldly, “of our audience’s prejudice in this regard-so let’s have no more comment, or I will clear this room, and quickly, too!” Pausing to see how long it took the people in the galleries to obey him (only a few seconds), the judge then looked to Mr. Picton again.

“The court appreciates the state’s concerns,” he said. “And I can assure you that, if I so much as hear a pin drop in the galleries while this girl is testifying, I will satisfy the state’s request. But until that happens, I’m afraid consideration toward the defense must remain paramount. The girl is understandably nervous-but I daresay the accused is nervous, too. Bring on your witness, Mr. Picton.”

Mr. Picton frowned and held out his hands. “But, Your Honor-”

“Your witness , sir,” the judge repeated, sitting back in his chair.

Sighing once, Mr. Picton dropped his arms. “Very well. But I will feel free to remind the court of its pledge regarding the behavior of the galleries, should that behavior interfere with my witness’s composure.”

Judge Brown nodded. “If you can find fault with our guests’ behavior before I do, Mr. Picton, I should be very surprised. But please feel free to let me know if it happens. Now-get on with it.”

With another deep breath, Mr. Picton looked over at Iphegeneia Blaylock. “The state calls Clara Hatch.”

Turning to the big mahogany doors, Mr. Picton nodded to the guard Henry, who opened one door and said, “Clara Hatch,” in a low but firm voice.

And in they came: the little girl in the simple summer dress, her left hand holding her right, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who looked like they were being scorched by the burning stares of every pair of eyes in the room. The folks in the galleries were mostly people the Westons had known for years; but at moments like that, years of knowledge and friendship can be knocked down and trampled by the greater pressures of confusion, suspicion, and plain and simple fear.

Once again, Clara searched out the crowd before her with quick turns of her little head; and when she found the Doctor’s face she stayed locked on it, as if he were a lighthouse that might guide the little ship of her life back into safe port after it’d weathered the storm what lay beyond the oak rail at the end of the aisle. And as she looked at the Doctor, I turned to look at Libby Hatch: the girl’s mother-her “blood mother,” as Mr. Picton had cleverly put it-saw that Clara’s eyes were fixed on the Doctor, and the pleading, loving expression what the woman had managed to shoehorn into her features in hopes of appealing to Clara quickly soured into an expression of jealousy-and hate. But once the little girl was guided onto the other side of the rail by the bailiff, Libby managed to get her face rearranged yet again; and though it wasn’t quite as affectionate as it had been before, it was still closer to that mark than anything I’d ever seen her exhibit to date.