The Angel Of Darkness

CHAPTER 42

The arraignment was set for ten o’clock the next morning, and by fifteen minutes to the hour we were all gathered in the main courtroom. Mr. Picton was seated at one long table on the right side of the big chamber, beyond a low, carved oak railing what separated the gallery from the officers of the court. At a similar job on the left-hand side of the room were Libby Hatch and a well-dressed, dark-haired man who wore gold-rimmed pince-nez perched on top of his long, thin nose. No fancy glasses or expensive suit, though, could keep a look of genuine uncertainty out of Irving W. Maxon’s eyes: he kept glancing around the room like a nervous bird, as if he wasn’t sure how he’d landed in his current predicament or just what he was supposed to do about it. Libby Hatch, on the other hand-still wearing her black silk dress, but not the hat or veil-was a picture of confidence, staring at the high fruitwood bench in front of her with a face what seemed forever on the verge of breaking into the coquettish smile it so often displayed.

As for Mr. Picton, he had his watch open on the table in front of him and was staring at it, more calm than he’d been at any time since we’d met him.

The Doctor, Mr. Moore, the detective sergeants, and Miss Howard were all sitting in the first row of gallery chairs behind Mr. Picton’s table and the wooden railing; Cyrus, El Niño, and I were right behind them. We’d gotten the aborigine scrubbed down pretty good for the event, and the combination of his cleanliness and my evening clothes made him one of the most presentable people in the galleries, which since nine o’clock had been crammed full of a ragtag collection of townspeople, along with some sharper-looking visitors who’d come down from Saratoga. Sheriff Dunning was sitting at a small table just to the right of Mr. Picton, and beyond him, against the right-hand wall, was the jury box, its twelve seats empty. There was a guard standing on the other side of the room, and in front of him was the court stenographer, a proper-looking lady who went by the peculiar name of Iphegeneia Blaylock. The bailiff’s desk in front of the bench was empty, and on either side of the bench itself were two iron lamp fixtures and a like number of flags, one the American, the other the state banner of New York. Back by the front door, keeping a careful eye on who came into and out of the place and how they behaved, were the guard Henry and a slightly shorter (but, to judge by the look of him, no less powerful) uniformed man.

It was a strange experience for me, to be observing all the details of the situation from someplace other than the defendant’s chair; but the strangeness soon gave way to a feeling of relief and even excitement, as I realized that this was the place where all our recent labors would reach some kind of a conclusion in the days to come. It was like standing under the wire at the track and waiting for the horses to get out of the starter’s gate: I found myself tapping and banging my feet and hands and wishing the thing would just start. To judge by the noises around me, I wasn’t alone in said feeling, either: the talking, mumbling, and skittish laughing in the courtroom rose as every second of waiting went by, until by three minutes to ten I found I almost had to yell to make myself heard by Mr. Moore.

“What?”he called back to me, touching his ear.

“I said, have you heard anything from Canfield’s about the odds?” I shouted back.

He nodded. “Fifty to one-and I’m sure it’d be higher if someone other than Rupert were arguing the state’s case!”

I whistled, glancing at the floor; then, as an idea hit me, I looked back up. “You don’t suppose we could get any bets down through a third party, do you?”

Mr. Moore smiled but shook his head. “I already thought of that, but I promised Rupert we wouldn’t! He’s superstitious-thinks it’ll put the Jonah on his chances!”

I smiled back and nodded: any gambling soul would’ve understood exactly how Mr. Picton felt.

Just then a door in the back wall of the big room opened and the bailiff walked in, looking like he was ready to take on any and every person in the room what might have thoughts about trying to turn his court into a circus. He was another big fellow, was Jack Coffey, with the kind of steely eyes what you might’ve expected to find in a frontier barroom instead of an eastern court house; but when I caught sight of Judge Brown, I began to understand why he’d retained the services of such a beefy bailiff. So small he almost disappeared behind the bench as he walked up the little flight of stairs to take his seat behind it, Charles H. Brown had big ears what stuck out like a monkey’s, a short but full dusting of pure white hair over his head, and plenty of wrinkles in his aged clean-shaven face. But his eyes matched the bailiff’s in their determination and their open warning that he would put up with absolutely no nonsense, while the firm set of his thin, wrinkled lips and square jaw told of just how much justice he’d dealt out, over his years.

I was even more glad, looking at him, that it wasn’t me sitting in Libby Hatch’s chair.

“All rise!” boomed Bailiff Coffey from deep in his barrel chest, bringing everyone to their feet and instant silence to the room; and as he went on to announce the exact number of that session of the court, he kept glancing up at the crowd, still looking for some wise mug what might think he wasn’t in the presence of the full power of the state of New York. Holding a clipboard up in front of him, Coffey next announced the first order of business for that day: “The People of Saratoga County versus Mrs. Elspeth Hunter of New York City, formerly Mrs. Elspeth Hatch of Ballston Spa, formerly Miss Elspeth Fraser of Stillwater-on the charge that she did, on or about the thirty-first day of May, eighteen hundred and ninety-four, willfully and with premeditation murder Thomas Hatch, three years old, and Matthew Hatch, four years old, and that at the same time she did willfully and with premeditation attempt to murder Clara Hatch, five years old, all in the township of Ballston Spa.”

The charge sent a ripple of mumbling through the room, one what Judge Brown brought to an end with a sudden, savage rap of his gavel. From his cushioned leather chair-which, high as it was, still only raised him clear of the bench from the chest up-Judge Brown scowled around the courtroom.

“The court,” he eventually said, in a tough, gravelly voice, “would like to make it clear from the start that it is aware of the amount of interest the public takes in this case. But the court has never allowed public interest to interfere with the pursuit of justice, and it is not about to start at this late date. I would therefore remind those of you in the galleries that you are the guests of this court, and warn you that if you behave as anything else you will feel the court’s boot in your collective backside.” There were a lot of smiles at that, but only one man at the back of the room actually threw out a laugh-and he soon regretted taking the liberty. Judge Brown’s eyes fixed on the fellow quicker than spit, as his wrinkled, thin hand brought the gavel up and pointed it. “Remove that individual,” the judge said, “and make certain he does not again attend these proceedings.”

The guard Henry grabbed the man by the collar and, before the stunned victim had a chance to protest, got him out through the big mahogany doors.

“Now, then,” the judge went on, looking around to be sure he’d made his point. “Is the accused present?”

“She is, Your Honor,” replied Irving W. Maxon, his voice a little shaky.

“You have heard the state’s charge,” the judge went on, looking to Libby Hatch. “How do you plead?”

“If it please the court,” Mr. Maxon answered, before Libby could say anything. “We beg a few moments’ indulgence, as we are awaiting-”

Judge Brown cut him off with a big, loud sigh, one what turned into a groan as he rubbed a hand over the short white hairs on his head. “We are all of us awaiting something, counselor. I myself have spent my life awaiting a trial that is free of unnecessary delays.” The old eyes bore in on Mr. Maxon. “I am still awaiting.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon replied, his nervousness growing under the ancient stare what showered down from the bench. “If you’ll only allow me to explain-”

Just then the gentle clap of the mahogany doors closing was heard, and Mr. Maxon turned along with the rest of us to get a look at the newcomer who’d produced the sound:

Even from a distance, I could tell that it had to be Clarence Darrow, being as he so completely matched Marcus’s description of the man. Unlike lawyer Maxon, Mr. Darrow’s clothes were of an ordinary variety-just a plain, light brown suit and white shirt, with a simple tie knotted carelessly at the neck-and they looked as if he’d slept in them on the train. Though not as thoroughly sloppy as it would one day become (Mr. Darrow had only begun to establish a disheveled appearance as one of his trademarks), this look was still very different from that of the other officers of the court, as was his way of walking: slow and stooped over, a kind of loping movement what was especially noticeable given his considerable size. His hair, as Marcus had told us, was uncombed, and a lock of it hung over his forehead. The face wasn’t as wrinkled, naturally, as it would become during his years of greater fame, but it was still weathered and rugged; and the eyes had the same light color and sad, searching expression that would also become so legendary in the future. The soft mouth was pursed in a way what matched a pair of big circles under the eyes: a way what seemed to speak about the high price of wisdom bought by too much exposure to man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. As he moved down the center aisle, Mr. Darrow took in the crowd with a steady, strong gaze what was different from Judge Brown’s, but produced just as much of an effect: by the time he’d reached the railing, every eye in the place was locked on him.

It was a performance, of course; but I’d been in a lot of courtrooms, and it was one of the best I’d ever seen-good enough to let me know right away that we were in more trouble than we’d figured on being.

Clutching an old, beaten-up briefcase, Mr. Darrow signaled to Mr. Maxon, who said, “If the court will excuse me for one moment,” and rushed over. Judge Brown didn’t look happy about that, but he sat back with another sigh and waited as Mr. Maxon opened the railing of the gate and let Mr. Darrow over into the business side of the room, where he quickly shook hands with Libby Hatch.

“If it please the court,” Mr. Maxon said, smiling now.

“It does not please the court, Counselor,” Judge Brown said, sitting forward again. “Just what are you about, sir?”

“Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon went on quickly, “I should like to introduce Mr. Clarence Darrow, attorney-at-law from the state of Illinois. It is the defense’s request that the court allow him to appear, pro hac vice, as the defendant’s primary counsel.”

“Darrow, eh?” Judge Brown said. “Yes, I’ve had some communications about you, Mr. Darrow. From downstate.”

Mr. Darrow smiled humbly and chuckled. “I hope,” he said, in a deep, soothing sort of voice, “that those communications haven’t prejudiced Your Honor against me.”

The people in the galleries liked that; and so, in his own way, did Judge Brown. “It certainly doesn’t help,” he said, producing some chuckles in the crowd that he let go. “If the defendant wishes to retain out-of-state counsel, that is her prerogative. But this court does not require advice from anyone in New York City on how to conduct its affairs.”

“I understand, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow answered, smiling in a way what I had to admit was charming. “We feel the same way about New York City in Chicago.”

The crowd laughed again, but got the gavel and a scowl for it. “If it is the defendant’s true request,” the judge said, turning to the defense table again, “then the court will be pleased to allow Mr. Darrow to practice in this state, pro hac vice.”The judge then looked to Libby Hatch, who stood up and widened her glowing eyes innocently.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” she said, her lips curling up a little as she did. “I’m afraid I never had any Latin.”

Little whispers to the effect of “Me, neither” and “Well, of course she didn’t” circulated through the crowd, bringing another rap of the gavel.

“Pro hac vice,”the judge explained, as gently as I’d guess he was capable of, “simply means ‘for this occasion,’ Mrs. Hunter. It grants Mr. Darrow the right to practice in New York, but only for this case. Is that your wish?”

Libby nodded gently, then sat back down.

“And does the state have any objection?” the judge asked.

Mr. Picton smiled gamely, tucked his thumbs into the vest of the crisp gray suit he was wearing, and stood up. “Not at all, Your Honor,” he said, moving out beside his table and seeming even shorter, more wiry, and quicker up against Mr. Darrow. “The court knows of Mr. Darrow by reputation, and if the defense contends that adequate counsel cannot be found in Saratoga County, then, while we may not share their assessment of our native talent, neither can we think of any reason why Mr. Darrow should not be permitted to serve.”

The audience wasn’t in much of a mood to find anything Mr. Picton said funny-but they couldn’t help a few proud, satisfied smiles at his statement.

Mr. Darrow also smiled, in a gracious sort of way; but his face went straight when, looking over toward Mr. Picton, he caught sight of Marcus. Quickly recovering, he made a quick motion what said he took his cap off to the detective sergeant for his clever bit of research work. Marcus smiled and saluted back as Mr. Darrow said, “I thank the honorable district attorney. And I must say I’m impressed by his efforts to learn all about my-reputation.”

Mr. Picton, having seen the little exchange what’d taken place between Mr. Darrow and Marcus, grinned. “Mr. Darrow inflates me, Your Honor. He is perhaps unaware that I am only an assistant county prosecutor, District Attorney Pearson being, as yet, unwilling to quit his very fine suite of offices.”

Putting on a puzzled face what was so extreme as to make it plain that he actually knew exactly what Mr. Picton’s rank was, Mr. Darrow scratched at his head. “An assistant? Well, I beg the state’s pardon, I’m sure, Your Honor-I’d assumed that in a capital case as fraught with importance as this one the state would’ve wanted its senior officer to represent the people.”

“As Your Honor knows, here in Ballston we enjoy as few temperate weeks as do the citizens of Chicago,” Mr. Picton answered. “And we did not wish to deprive Mr. Pearson of any of them. Since I was the investigating officer in this case, we felt safe entrusting it to my meager talents.”

Judge Brown was nodding his head and looking a little annoyed. “If you two gentlemen are finished needling each other,” he said, “I’d like to see if we can’t get a plea in this matter before noon. Mr. Darrow, the state having no objection, you are permitted to serve as primary counsel for your client in this court. I hope you don’t regret the trip. Now, then, Mrs. Hunter, you have heard the very grave charges against you. How do you plead?”

Looking to Libby Hatch, who was staring up at him anxiously, Mr. Darrow nodded. Then Libby stood again, folded her hands before her, and said, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”

A wave of whispers went through the courtroom, bringing a bang from Judge Brown’s gavel. “Very well,” he said, scowling around the room again. “Now, Mr. Picton, as to the matter of-” The judge paused as he noticed Mr. Picton staring at Mr. Darrow with a puzzled face, one what was about as genuine as the bigger man’s had been just a few seconds earlier. “Mr. Picton? Are you mesmerized, sir, by the learned counsel from Illinois?”

Shaking himself, Mr. Picton turned to the bench. “Hmm? Oh! I am sorry, Your Honor. I confess I wasn’t aware that the defense had completed its plea.”

“You find their plea inadequate, Mr. Picton?” the judge asked.

“It isn’t for me to find it so, Your Honor,” Mr. Picton answered. “I only thought that some sort of-defining phrase might be attached to it. ‘By reason of something-or-other’-that sort of thing.”

The judge stared down hard at him. “Mr. Picton-you and I have done too much business in this room over the last few years for me to be unaware of what you’re up to. But there’s no jury here for you to vex with your suggestions yet, and I won’t tolerate any playing to the galleries. Mr. Darrow is a qualified attorney who does not appear to suffer from any impediments of speech. If he wished to qualify the defendant’s plea in any way, I’m sure he would have. Do you wish to so qualify the plea, Mr. Darrow?”

“Certainly not, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said, in dark earnest. “The plea is a simple, straightforward, and absolute ‘Not guilty.’ ”

“Clear enough,” Judge Brown replied. “In future, Mr. Picton, the state can keep its assumptions, as well as its hopes, to itself.” Mr. Picton just smiled and bowed. “Now,” the judge continued, “as to the matter of bail-”

“Bail?”Mr. Picton blurted out, getting a groan and another scowl from the judge.

“Yes, Mr. Picton,” the old man said. “Bail. You are familiar with the practice?”

“In a case like this, I fear I am not, Your Honor,” Mr. Picton replied. “The defendant is accused of the worst sort of violent assault on her own children, one of whom barely escaped with her life and is currently the state’s principal witness. Does the court seriously intend that the state should, even for a moment, countenance the possibility of bail in this matter?”

“The court intends that the state should follow the rules of criminal procedure, whatever the offense!” Judge Brown bellowed back. “I warn you, Mr. Picton-do not make any more efforts to get on my bad side so early in this trial! As you well know, it’s a big place, my bad side, and once on it you may have trouble finding your way back over again!”

Mr. Picton tried not to smile, and nodded with what you might call pronounced respect. “Yes, Your Honor. I ask the court’s pardon. The state earnestly directs the court’s attention to the severity of the crime with which the defendant is accused, and the danger that might be posed to the state’s principal witness should the defendant be freed. We ask that bail in any amount be denied.”

“Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow countered, looking shocked, “my client is a respectable woman who endured the greatest tragedy that can be inflicted on a member of her sex: the savage murder, before her eyes, of two of her own children, and the attempted murder of a third-”

“I beg the learned counsel’s pardon,” Mr. Picton answered, with a hefty dose of sarcasm. “I was not aware that the issue had already been decided so conclusively. I thought that we were gathered together in this room to determine what, in fact, happened to the defendant’s children.”

Still scowling, Judge Brown nodded. “I’m afraid I must agree with the state here, Mr. Darrow. The burden may be on them to prove their allegations, but until they’ve failed, I cannot accept your assertion that Mrs. Hunter has endured any such tragedy, and I must ask you not to further inflame what is already a very emotional matter by making such statements. You have a request regarding bail?”

“We do, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow answered. “If, indeed, my client is guilty of violence against children, it’ll be the first that this or any other state knows about it. Besides being a devoted mother, she’s been a governess and a nurse to many children other than her own, and in that capacity has often behaved as heroically as she did on the night in question. We ask that you recognize that she is no threat either to the state’s witnesses or to the community and that, given the delicacy of both her sex and her nature, you post a reasonable bail, to prevent her languishing in the county jail for the duration of what may be a protracted proceeding.”

With the crowd-and those of us in the first two rows especially-waiting anxiously, Judge Brown rocked back in his chair, almost disappearing behind the bench. He stayed there for a minute or so before sitting forward again.

“The court appreciates Mr. Darrow’s remarks concerning the gender and character of the defendant,” he said slowly. “But it also notes that she is charged with a capital crime of a particularly violent and passionate nature. We regret any discomfort it may cause, and shall instruct Sheriff Dunning to make every possible provision to ensure that Mrs. Hunter’s stay in this building will be, if not a pleasant, then at least a bearable one. But bail itself is denied.”

That set the crowd mumbling again, and the judge went to work with the gavel. “I remind our guests of my earlier remarks!” he said. “And I assure them that they were in earnest!” With quiet restored, Judge Brown looked at the two tables below him. “We will reconvene on Tuesday morning at nine o’clock for the purpose of beginning jury selection. But before we go, let me once more emphasize something to both sides in this case: the court is aware of the feelings aroused by this matter, and urges both of you to refrain from any blatant appeals to emotion or popular sentiment. It won’t do either cause any good, and may injure your purposes beyond repair. Court is adjourned!”

Another bang of the gavel, and we all got to our feet, as Judge Brown made his way back down to the door behind the bench and then disappeared through it. As soon as he was gone, the room roared to life with conversation and comment again, particularly once Sheriff Dunning and Bailiff Coffey had guided Libby Hatch out through a side door what led directly down to the cells in the basement of the building. Mr. Darrow gave her some words of encouragement on her way out, and she did her very best to look humble and grateful; but in her eyes, again, was that flirtatious, seductive glitter what she seemed unable to keep from flashing at men she’d only just met. After she’d gone, Mr. Darrow began to talk with Mr. Maxon, a conversation what Mr. Picton interrupted by marching himself straight over to their table and loudly declaring, “Well, Maxon! So you’ve got yourself some help. I’m not sure how I’d take that if I were you, though I suppose when the assistance comes from a man as thoroughly acquainted with as many areas of the law as Mr. Darrow, you can’t object!” He thrust out his hand. “Mr. Darrow, my name’s Picton.”

“Yes, I know,” Mr. Darrow answered, shaking Mr. Picton’s hand with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and eyeing him in a way what was more than a little condescending. “You see, I’ve heard about you, too, Mr. Picton, though I’ve got to say that my information came through slightly more”-he cast an eye over at Marcus-“straightforward channels.”

“Well, great men do as they will, lesser men do as they must,” Mr. Picton answered lightly. “Where has Vanderbilt got you staying, Darrow? Somewhere comfortable, I trust-not that Ballston has many luxuries to offer. But perhaps you’ll let me provide you with the odd meal at my house, if you find you need it.”

At the mention of Mr. Vanderbilt, Mr. Darrow looked at Mr. Picton in a way what went past condescension toward outright annoyance. “I will hand it to you, Mr. Picton, there don’t seem to be many aspects of this situation that’ve escaped your attention. Or does all of Ballston Spa know the details of Mrs. Hunter’s arrangements for her defense?”

“Oh, good God, no!” Mr. Picton answered with a laugh. “And I wouldn’t tell them if I were you. Judge Brown’s attitude toward the citizens of our downstate metropolis is, I assure you, quite typical of the residents of this county. But you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone-wouldn’t be sporting, would it?”

It was pretty easy to see that Mr. Picton was doing his best to irritate Mr. Darrow, and that he was succeeding. “I’m not sure ‘sporting’ is a word I’d care to use in connection with a case as tragic as this one,” Mr. Darrow mumbled back. “And I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you up on your offer, as I’ll be staying at the Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga. We’ll be organizing our efforts from there.”

Mr. Picton frowned at that one. “Hmm,” he noised. “Well, I wouldn’t let that bit get out, either-people in Ballston don’t have much more use for Saratoga than they do for New York. They figure it’s just a playground for rich strangers and their hired hands.” Mr. Darrow’s eyes went wide with shock at that slap, but Mr. Picton just kept chattering away. “I hope you don’t mind my being so free with advice, but I really do want to make sure that we keep the field as level as possible. Well, good-bye, Maxon-best of luck. And Darrow, if you change your mind about that meal, you will let me know, won’t you?”

By way of reply Mr. Darrow rumbled something under his breath as he walked out through the gate in the railing with Mr. Maxon. Passing by our rows of seats, Mr. Darrow took our group in with a cold glare; but then, recognizing the Doctor’s face, he caught himself and turned around to approach the front row of chairs with a more friendly air.

“It’s Dr. Kreizler, isn’t it?” he said, the deep voice now becoming very genial. The Doctor shook the hand what Mr. Darrow offered. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Doctor, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

“I will,” the Doctor answered, studying the lawyer as he smiled engagingly. “Thank you, Mr. Darrow.”

“Tell me, sir,” Mr. Darrow went on, “is it true that you’re acting as an adviser to the prosecution in this case?”

“That fact surprises you?” the Doctor asked.

“I’ll admit that it does,” Mr. Darrow answered. “I wouldn’t have thought you the kind of man to get involved in satisfying the state’s desire to punish whatever person they could actually catch, just so that they can write an end to this mysterious tragedy.”

“Is that my motivation, Mr. Darrow?”

Shrugging his big shoulders, Mr. Darrow said, “I can’t think of any other. And I’ve got to say, such behavior doesn’t sound like you. But maybe I’ve formed a wrong impression. Or maybe you’ve got your own reasons for doing business with the state of New York.” Seeing the Doctor’s eyes go a little wider at this barely disguised reference to the investigation into the Kreizler Institute’s affairs what was still going on in New York, Mr. Darrow smiled. “Whatever the case, I hope we’ll get a chance to talk at some point. Outside of court, I mean. I’m being wholly honest when I say that I admire what you do. What you-generally do. Good morning.”

The Doctor nodded once, still smiling. “Good morning to you, sir.”

Mr. Darrow followed Mr. Maxon to the mahogany doors, where they were immediately buttonholed by Mr. Grose and a few other newspapermen who’d come down from Saratoga.

“Clever man,” the Doctor said, watching Mr. Darrow hold court with the journalists in a way what showed that the Chicago lawyer was very at home with the process.

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Picton said, coming over to join us. “A clever, sanctimonious prig, wrapped up in the broadcloth of the people.” Turning to pack up his briefcase, Mr. Picton laughed once, hard. “One of the easiest kinds of people to irk!”

“You were certainly doing your best, Rupert,” Mr. Moore said, with a shake of his head. “Do you want to spend this trial bickering with the man?”

“I’m sure the Doctor will agree, John,” Mr. Picton answered, sticking his unlit pipe into his mouth. “That when a man is perpetually irritated he’s far more likely to make errors of judgment than might otherwise be the case.”

“Yes, I thought that was your purpose, Mr. Picton,” the Doctor answered. “And you achieved it admirably.”

“Oh, nothing to it,” Mr. Picton answered, tucking his briefcase under his arm. “Lawyers like that, as I’ve told you, generally think they have nothing to learn from Jesus Christ himself when it comes to being saviors with a mission. Annoying them is like falling off of a log, really. Well! The opening’s gone well, but I’d like to regroup and go over our next set of steps, if it’s all right with you, Doctor.” Taking out his watch again, Mr. Picton checked it. “We can talk in my office, if you like.”

“Of course,” the Doctor answered, leading the way up the aisle and around the little group of newspapermen who were still throwing questions at Mr. Darrow and Mr. Maxon. They tried to pull Mr. Picton aside, too, with questions what were pretty predictable: wasn’t the state’s charging Libby Hatch an act of desperation, what possible motive could a mother have for killing her own kids, wouldn’t such a woman have to be insane-all that sort of stuff. But Mr. Picton was ready for it, and very handily talked his way through the group without saying anything of importance, all the while referring them back to Mr. Darrow, who, he was sure, would have much more interesting things to say than any humble assistant county prosecutor.

Once up in his office Mr. Picton told the rest of us that his main concern at that point in the affair was to figure out just what kind of citizens would make the best jurors for the case, and to assemble a set of questions what would separate such people from the rest of the candidates who would be called in. He asked the Doctor’s opinion on this matter, and got a quick answer: poor men, the Doctor advised, preferably farmers, would be the best prospects-men who led tough lives, and whose families were well acquainted with hard times. Such characters would best know just how easily personal conflicts and money concerns can lead to violence, even in a family what seems happy and peaceful on the outside: they likely would’ve seen or at least heard of women going after their own kids when things got especially discouraging or frustrating, and wouldn’t have your more well-to-do man’s opinions about the purity of female motives and actions. Mr. Picton said that he was relieved to hear all this, as it matched his own opinions perfectly; the trick now would be to find ways to identify such men without tipping Mr. Darrow off to the fact that he was doing it.

As for the Doctor, his main concern was still preparing Clara Hatch for what was to come: now that we’d actually met Mr. Darrow, it was easy to see that he’d be clever enough to find many ways to trip Clara up and make her seem not so much a liar as a confused little girl who didn’t actually remember the real facts of what’d happened to her, but had been fed a story by the prosecution. It was likely, the Doctor said, that Mr. Darrow would make this attempt in the kindest and friendliest manner possible, and that Clara would be tempted to play along with him as a result. So she would have to be carefully taught that even a person who seems pleasant and respectful might be out to lay traps for you: a fact what she certainly knew from experience, but might not have fully developed in what the Doctor called her “conscious mind.”

The Doctor would be doing double duty through the weekend and on into Monday, for while he’d spend his days getting Clara ready, he’d spend his nights interviewing Libby Hatch and assessing her mental condition. Having been through this procedure with the Doctor myself, and having watched him perform it on others, I knew generally what would take place in Libby’s basement cell: there’d be few or no straight inquiries about the murders, just a series of random questions about the woman’s childhood, her family, and her personal life. Libby was required by law to cooperate with him, though such didn’t mean that she couldn’t at least try to manipulate her answers so as to confuse the Doctor. But I’d seen much more hardened criminals try the same thing with him and fail pretty badly: it didn’t seem that Libby’d stand much of a chance, even with all her cleverness. Still, I knew it would be a pretty interesting little set of encounters, and I hoped that I’d have time to listen in on some of it.

Such seemed unlikely, though, seeing as the rest of us weren’t going to be exactly idle in the few days left before the start of the trial. The Isaacsons-joined, now, by Mr. Moore, who’d use any excuse to get back up to the gaming tables in Saratoga-put themselves to the job of finding out what witnesses and experts Mr. Darrow was planning on calling, along with trying to predict as much of his trial strategy as they could. Miss Howard was still determined to find somebody who, if not actually related to Libby Hatch, knew about her childhood, and it looked like I’d have to continue to give her a hand with the search, at least until Tuesday. This fact didn’t exactly set me up, as it seemed to me that by now we were definitely chasing ghosts. I would’ve much preferred to go along to Saratoga with Mr. Moore; but I knew how important Miss Howard’s task was, and I tried to accept the assignment with as much good humor as El Niño showed at the prospect of continuing to play bodyguard to “the lady” who’d been his original benefactor in our group.

But good intentions and keeping your nose to the grindstone don’t always pay off, and by the weekend we hadn’t turned up anything what would’ve passed for useful information. It began to look almost as if there’d been some deliberate attempt to wipe away any trace of Libby’s existence. Our travels eventually took us pretty far north, around the southern shores of Lake George and into the edge of the Adirondack forest; and though the countryside got nothing but more beautiful, the towns also got nothing but smaller and less frequent, until it took the better part of the day just to reach them and most of the evening to get back home. One thing, at least, was for sure: if Libby Hatch had truly been born and raised in a town in Washington County, then neither she nor her family had gotten out and around much-assuming, of course, that she hadn’t killed the lot of them off years ago, an idea what began to haunt my thoughts more and more on those long, useless trips from village to village. For her part, Miss Howard didn’t seem to like the idea of continuing to look for a needle what might not even be in our assigned haystack any more than I did; and I knew that she also shared my desire to sit in on some of the Doctor’s interviews with Libby Hatch. But she kept me and El Niño on the job, knowing that any clue to Libby’s past what might be used in court would mean a lot more than our being entertained by the battle of wits what was taking place under the Ballston court house.

We did get nightly reports about those meetings, though, as we sat around Mr. Picton’s dining room table for what, given all our activities, usually turned out to be very late suppers. During the first of these meals the Doctor explained that Libby’s attitude toward him had been typically changeable: she’d started with expressions of deep injury, as if the Doctor-someone whom Libby’d expressed admiration for when they first met-had done her some kind of deliberate hurt by trying to lay not just the Linares kidnapping but the deaths of the kids she’d had care of in New York and the murders of her own children at her door. Such was a smart position for her to start from, the Doctor told us: whether consciously or unconsciously, Libby was trading on every person’s secret horror of accusing a mother of horrible crimes toward the children she is supposed to watch over, and on society’s hopeful belief that what Miss Howard called the “myth of maternal nurturing” was in fact as solid and reliable as the Rocky Mountains. But once it became clear that the Doctor wasn’t going to let his own uneasiness overrule his intellect, Libby had quickly moved on to what was, for her, an equally familiar role: the seducer. She’d begun to coyly tease the Doctor about what secret longings and desires must be hidden underneath his detached, disciplined exterior. This, of course, also got her nowhere, and so in the end she’d been forced to rely on the last of her most accustomed behaviors: anger. Throwing the victim and temptress acts aside, she’d become the punisher, and sat petulantly in her cell, giving the Doctor short, resentful answers to his questions-many of them, he could tell, outright lies-and punctuating the statements by telling him how sorry he’d be one day for ever tangling with her. But what she didn’t realize was that this change in attitude itself gave the Doctor just what he was looking for: Libby’s ability to analyze what he was trying to do and come up with a series of different but carefully planned responses was evidence that, as he’d always suspected, no serious mental disease or brain disorder was dominating her behavior. The very fact that she knew enough to come up with wily, dishonest answers to his inquiries-all of them designed to serve a larger purpose-was proof that she was as sane as anyone.

This was all very interesting stuff, and Miss Howard and I continued to wish that we could’ve been there to see some of it; but no one envied the Doctor’s becoming the specific object of Libby’s hatred, given how many examples we’d uncovered of how she dealt with people-young or old-who frustrated her designs. I’ll confess that the more I heard about the assessment process, the more I began to worry about the Doctor, until I finally asked him if he was making sure that there was somebody present during the interviews who could prevent the woman from doing him any sudden, unexpected physical harm. He answered that yes, the guard Henry was outside Libby’s cell every minute that he was inside it, paying careful attention to all what went on.

As for the detective sergeants and Mr. Moore, their attempts to find out what Mr. Darrow was up to in Saratoga were about as fruitful as our group’s efforts to learn about Libby’s past-until Saturday, that is. That night, as the rest of us sat in Mr. Picton’s dining room listening to the Doctor talk about his most recent interview with Libby, the three of them showed up later than usual, their mood considerably better than it had been when they’d left the house that morning. It seemed that they’d finally gotten a break, in the form of a private investigator who’d been working for Mr. Darrow in New York: Lucius knew the investigator, and when the man had shown up at the Grand Union Hotel to give his report to Mr. Darrow, the detective sergeant had intercepted him and pumped him for quite a bit of information-without, of course, saying that he was working for the opposing side. Though the investigator hadn’t offered a lot of specifics, his general comments had been enough to confirm that Mr. Darrow was indeed trying to find out everything he could about the Doctor’s current activities and situation in the city, including the troubles he’d run into after Paulie McPherson’s suicide. None of this was all that shocking: we’d guessed from the beginning that Mr. Darrow would use the Doctor as his way of attacking our case against Libby Hatch. But what you might call a passing reference what Lucius made to something else that the investigator’d told him caused the Doctor considerably more concern.

“Oh, by the way,” Lucius said, smiling up at Mrs. Hastings as she put a big plate of food down in front of him. “He’s got an alienist of his own coming to do an assessment of Libby.”

Mr. Picton suddenly looked puzzled. “Really? I wonder why. He’s already made it fairly clear that he doesn’t intend to pursue an insanity defense.”

“True,” the Doctor said, “but when the prosecution plans to bring in testimony about someone’s mental condition in a case like this, the defense generally feels the need to answer in some way. In all likelihood Darrow will use the opportunity to show just how distressing the deaths of the children were to Libby, while at the same time demonstrating that she’s a fully competent person, balanced enough to look after not only her own children, but those of strangers, as well. Your colleague didn’t happen to mention the alienist’s name, did he, Lucius?”

“Mmm, yes,” Lucius answered, as he attacked the home cooking what we’d all grown very devoted to since our arrival in Ballston Spa. He began to search his pockets with one hand, refusing to put down his fork. “I wrote it down somewhere… ah.” He pulled a small piece of paper from inside his jacket. “Here-White. William White.”

The Doctor stopped chewing his food suddenly, and looked up at Lucius with concern. “William Alanson White?” he asked.

Lucius checked the paper again. “Yes, that’s right.”

“What’s the matter, Kreizler?” Mr. Moore said. “Do you know the man?”

“Indeed,” the Doctor answered, pushing his plate aside. Then he slowly got to his feet and picked up a glass of wine.

“A problem?” Mr. Picton asked.

The Doctor’s black eyes turned to the window and stared out into the night. “A mystery, certainly. White …” Giving the matter a few more seconds thought, the Doctor finally shook himself and came back to the conversation. “He’s one of the best of the younger generation-a brilliant mind, and highly imaginative. He’s been working at the State Hospital at Binghamton and has done some fascinating work concerning the criminal mind-the criminal unconscious, in particular. He’s become a skilled expert witness, too, despite his comparative youth.”

“Is he an enemy of yours?” Marcus asked.

“Quite the contrary,” the Doctor replied. “We’ve met many times, and correspond frequently.”

“That’s strange,” Miss Howard said. “You’d think that Darrow would want to get someone openly hostile to your theories, if he’s bothering to bring in anybody at all.”

“Yes,” the Doctor answered with a nod, “but that’s not the strangest part, Sara. White and I do tend to share low opinions about this country’s penal system and its methods of discouraging crime and caring for the mentally diseased. But we generally disagree on the definition of mental disease itself. His classifications tend to be far broader than mine, and he includes more criminal behavior in his categorization of ‘insane acts’ than I could ever do. Because of this, when he serves as an expert witness it is almost always for the purpose of demonstrating that a given defendant is somehow unbalanced, and therefore not legally responsible for his-or her-actions.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Picton noised. “Which would seem to lead back to the idea that Darrow may be holding on to some sort of an insanity card, in case he needs to play it later. Although I wouldn’t think him so stupid.”

“Nor would I,” the Doctor agreed. “The insanity defense, when introduced midway through a trial, is rarely effective-few juries fail to recognize a change in plea as an act of desperation.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Moore said, looking blankly from the Doctor to Mr. Picton, “what do you suppose Darrow’s up to?”

The Doctor just shook his head slowly. “I don’t know-and that fact disturbs me. Indeed, there is much about our opponent that disturbs me.” Pacing by the window, the Doctor rolled his wineglass in his hands. “Did you discover when White is to arrive?”

“Tuesday night,” Lucius said. “After the trial’s begun.”

“Leaving me little time to confer with him,” the Doctor answered, nodding again. “Yes, it’s the smart move. But what in God’s name is it that Darrow wants him to say?”

We’d learn the answer to that question soon enough; and it, like almost everything else about Mr. Darrow, made it easy to understand just why he would one day become the greatest criminal defense lawyer the country has ever seen.