Evan Hunter - Lizzie

The newspaper reports claimed she was not handsome nor did she look particularly refined, little realizing what pain those words caused even when the criticism was tempered with the observation that there was a certain old-fashioned simplicity in her countenance and an absence of anything that implied the ferocity, at once calm and audacious, that must have moved her if the prosecution’s story was to be believed.

The prosecution’s story.

Ah, yes.

And the defense’s story.

The relating of events in what must appear but a fanciful fiction to those twelve solemn jurors, an entertainment contrived for the pleasure of men with nothing to do but while away time on a hot June day.

It was all very real and immediate to her.

Every bit of it.

But here were the generals in command again, and here again came the parade of foot soldiers to tell of their derring-do, lost in their memories of events long past, mindless of how great a loss she might suffer, depending on whether their tales were believed or not.

It is my life we are quarreling over in this room, she thought fiercely.

Mine!

My name’s Everett Brown, I’m eleven years old.

I live at 117 Third Street in Fall River. I was in Fall River on the day of the Borden murder, down there at the Borden house. Went down with Thomas Barlow. Walked down Third Street from my house, over Morgan, and down Second. I don’t know whether it was before eleven or after eleven when I left. I couldn’t say if it was nearer eleven or twelve that I left the house, because I didn’t notice the time. When I went down Second Street, I saw Officer Doherty come out of the yard, run across the street and down Spring Street.

So I went in the Borden yard.

Went into the side gate and went up along the path to the door, tried to get into the house, and Charlie Sawyer wouldn’t let us in. I asked him to let us in, but he wouldn’t. So the party that was with me, Thomas Barlow, said, “Come on in the barn, there might be somebody there.” We thought we would go up and find the murderer. I didn’t open the door, Thomas Barlow did. I don’t know if the pin was in the hasp. I didn’t open the door. We stood a minute to see who’d go up first. Who would go upstairs first. He said he wouldn’t go up, somebody might drop an ax on him.

So we went upstairs and looked out of the window on the west side, and went from there over to the hay, and was up in the barn about five minutes. Upstairs.

My name is Thomas Barlow, I’m twelve years old.

I work for Mr. Shannon, the poolroom on the corner of Pleasant and Second streets. Clean up around there and set the balls up. On the day of the murder, I wasn’t working then. I wasn’t doing anything then. I’ve been working there now about a month.

I got to Everett Brown’s house about eleven o’clock. He lives at number 117 Third Street, a little ways up from my house, it ain’t very far apart. He’d had his dinner when I got there. We left about eight minutes past eleven. I know because I looked at his clock when we left his house.

“What time is it now?” Knowlton said. “Don’t look at the clock.”

“I can’t say.”

“What time was it when you came up here to testify?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you noticed the time today at all?”

“No, sir.”

“And yet you did look at the clock just when you were going out?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And remember it was eight minutes past eleven?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you go right down to the Borden house?”

“We took our time.”

“How far was it down to the Borden house?”

“I can’t say. I never measured it.”

“Well, how many squares is it?”

“About three, I should say.”

“You walked three squares?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t stop?”

“Oh, we stopped, Fooling along, going down.”

“What do you mean by ‘fooling along’?”

“Playing. Going down.”

“What do you mean by ‘playing’?”

“He was pushing me off the sidewalk, and I was pushing him off.”

“How long do you think it took pushing him off the sidewalk, and he you?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes, I should say.”

“How do you fix that time?”

“I don’t fix it. I say it was about between ten and fifteen.”

“Wasn’t it twenty?”

“No, sir.”

“When you arrived near the Borden house, did you see any person leave the yard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who was it?”

“Officer Doherty.”

“Do you know what part of the yard he came out of?”

“I should say the front gate.”

“Where did he go to?”

“Across the road, over toward Spring Street.”

“What did you do then?”

“We went in the side gate.”

“You say ‘we’. Who?”

“Me and Brownie.”

“Well, tell us what you did now.”

“We went up to Mr. Sawyer, he was on the back steps, and asked him to let us go in the house, and he wouldn’t let us in, so we went in the barn and went right up to the hay loft.”

Lizzie understood exactly what Knowlton was attempting.

She had been warned by her attorneys that the testimony she’d given at the inquest in Fall River could — in the hands of the skillful Government team — be turned against her if the transcript was admitted in evidence. Part of that testimony detailed what she had told Knowlton about her visit to the barn. She’d said she had gone there shortly after her father returned to the house. She’d said she had remained upstairs in the barn loft for twenty minutes.

She did not need her attorneys to tell her now that Knowlton’s interest was exceedingly keen as concerned who — if anyone — had visited that barn loft before and after the murders. He had spent a great deal of time on the barn when he’d repeatedly battered her with questions last August. He seemed prepared to use the same tactics now — on a twelve-year-old boy.

She listened intently.

“How did you go into the barn?”

“Through the door.”

“Did you open the door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it locked?”

“It was... kind of a thing. Pin like.”

“Was it fastened?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What made you go into the barn?”

“Why, to see if anybody was in there.”

“Did you go anywhere else except up into the barn loft?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you look around downstairs in the barn?”

“No, sir.”

“The place you went up to was up in the barn loft.”

“Yes, sir, on the south side of the house. I went over to the front window on the west side and looked out the window. Then we went and looked in under the hay.”

“How was the heat up in the barn compared with it out in the sun?”

“It was cooler up in the barn than it was outdoors.”

“What do you suppose made that so much cooler than the rest of the country?”

“I couldn’t say. It’s always warmer in the house, I should say, than outdoors.”

“And you should think the barn loft was cooler than any place you found that day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You mean that, do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has anybody told you to say that?”

“No, sir.”

“And you went up there to see if you could see a man up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Walked around up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because it was cool?”

“No. We went up to see if anybody was in there.”

“Did you look for anybody after you got there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thought perhaps the man might be hidden in the hay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Weren’t afraid of him?”