The Angel Of Darkness

CHAPTER 44

The frightened little girl and her family arrived at the court house during the midday recess, escorted by Sheriff Dunning and a gang of specially appointed deputies. The Doctor made sure he was at the back door to greet Clara, and judging by the look on her face when she saw the crowd what was waiting for her, it was a good thing he did: even during my old days downtown, I’d rarely seen a kid what looked so confused, so lost, and so desperate. Searching through the jungle of faces and bodies what swarmed around her family’s carriage, Clara appeared to calm down only when her golden-brown eyes locked onto the Doctor; and she fairly flew down to the ground in her rush to get to him. Some nearby newspapermen took particular interest in that fact, for reasons I didn’t quite understand until I forced myself to look at the case from the opposition’s point of view: if you were disposed to think that the Doctor was controlling and engineering what Clara said and did, then her plainly urgent need to be close to him might’ve looked sinister, indeed.

As the Westons followed Clara and the Doctor into the court house, Sheriff Dunning’s men strung themselves out across the back doorway, keeping the curious crowd outside. Then we all went up to the second floor of the building, where we sat in Mr. Picton’s office and ate some sandwiches what Cyrus had picked up from Mrs. Hastings. We tried to be as merry as we could, given the circumstances, and nobody said anything about the case; but none of it seemed to make Clara any easier in her mind. She didn’t eat anything, just sipped on a glass of lemonade what Cyrus gave her; and each time she set the glass down, her one good hand, sticky with lemon juice and sugar, wandered to either Mrs. Weston or the Doctor, who were sitting on either side of her. Not seeming to hear any of the light conversation or strained jokes what floated around the room, she just stared at each of our faces kind of blankly until it was near time for us to return to court; and then, when she thought no one was paying attention, she looked up at the Doctor.

“Is my mama here?” she asked, very quietly.

The Doctor nodded, with a gentle smile but a very serious look in his eyes. “Yes. She’s downstairs.”

Clara began to kick her feet against the legs of her chair and turned her head down to stare into her lap. “This is my Sunday dress,” she said, carefully straightening the flowery, light blue fabric with her good hand. “I just didn’t want to eat so’s it wouldn’t get it messy.”

Mrs. Weston smiled down at her. “Clara, honey, don’t worry about that. If you’re hungry-”

But Clara just shook her head, hard enough to bring the big braid in her hair round front and reveal some of the nasty scar on the back of her neck.

The Doctor lifted a hand to touch the top of her head. “Very sensible. I wish you could teach Stevie to be so sensible. His clothes are an infernal mess most of the time.”

Clara looked up at me quickly and smiled.

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I’m just a pig in a sty, nothing I can do about it.” By way of emphasis, I let a piece of roast beef from my sandwich fall onto my shirt, a move what got a scratchy little laugh out of our witness. Then she turned away, quickly and shyly.

By two o’clock we were back in our seats in the main courtroom, while the Westons waited outside with Clara. Mr. Picton had elected to open his case with testimony from the former sheriff, Morton Jones, a grizzled, tough old type who looked like he’d spent the better part of his retirement on a bar seat. Jones told of what he’d found when he’d arrived at the Hatch house on the night of May 31st, 1894, and what steps he’d taken to address the situation, including telephoning Mr. Picton. This summary acquainted the jury with the basic facts of the case, facts what Mr. Darrow did nothing to challenge; when his turn came to cross-examine the witness, he turned the opportunity down.

Next onto the stand was Dr. Benjamin Lawrence, the sometime coroner. He told about how, when he’d arrived in the Hatch house, he’d found Mrs. Hatch in a state of extreme hysteria and the bloodied children laid out on sofas and a table in the sitting room. He’d given the mother laudanum to quiet her down, then set to work on the kids, quickly determining that Matthew and Thomas were dead. But Clara was still alive, though Libby and the housekeeper, Mrs. Wright, thought otherwise. Testifying that her pulse had been very faint but still detectable, Dr. Lawrence went on to say that he’d given the girl half a nitroglycerin tablet and then injected brandy into her arm to get her heart moving faster. After that, he set to work stopping her bleeding. But the wound itself was beyond his capabilities, and he’d phoned up to Saratoga to ask Dr. Jacob Jenkins, a surgical specialist, to come down as quickly as possible. Jenkins was set to follow Lawrence to the stand, but before he was through with the first medical witness Mr. Picton made sure to ask whether Libby Hatch’s hysterical state had immobilized her in any way. Not at all, Dr. Lawrence answered; when he’d gotten to the house, Mrs. Hatch had been running through each and every room at a high speed.

“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.

About halfway to the stand Clara stopped walking, as if she could feel the pair of golden eyes boring into the back of her head; then she slowly turned to take in the woman in the black dress, who smiled gently at her before suddenly putting her hands to her mouth with a gasp and sobbing just once. Looking strangely calm, little Clara said three simple words-“Don’t cry, Mama”-in a voice what couldn’t have been more grown up or more considerate; and the sound of those words struck every person in the galleries as dumb as the witness herself had been for the last three years.

Turning again, Clara climbed on into the witness box and held up her good left hand, following the procedure what the Doctor had spent long hours preparing her for. Bailiff Coffey, having been alerted by Mr. Picton, took the girl’s lifeless right hand and placed it on his Bible.

“Do you solemnly swear,” he said, softer than was his habit, “that the testimony you are about to give in this court-”

“I do,” Clara said, jumping the gun in her first outright show of nerves.

Bailiff Coffey just held up a finger, telling her to wait. “-shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” Clara repeated, her face going a little red.

“State your full name, please,” Bailiff Coffey said.

“Clara Jessica Hatch,” she answered softly. Then, at a signal from Coffey, she sat down. Clara glanced at her mother quickly again, but just as quickly turned away to look at the Doctor once more. He gave her a firm little nod, to let her know that she was doing just fine. Finally, Mr. Picton stood up to approach the witness box.

“Hello, Clara,” he said, in a careful but still chipper sort of way. The girl opened her mouth to respond, but only managed a nod, as she pulled her right hand up onto her lap. “Clara,” Mr. Picton continued, “I’d like you to tell these gentlemen”-he held a hand up to the jury box-“everything that happened on the night of May the thirty-first, three years ago. In your own words. Can you do that for me, Clara?” The girl paused, trying hard now not to look at her mother. After a few seconds she nodded. “Then please,” Mr. Picton continued, “go ahead.”

As she took a deep breath, the fingers of Clara’s left hand locked onto her numb right forearm, gripping it hard. Letting the air out of her lungs, she began her story, in that same scratchy but brave voice.

“We went to town, to buy some things. And then to the lake-”

“Lake Saratoga?” Mr. Picton asked.

“Yes. Sometimes we’d go there in the summer. To watch the sun go down. And sometimes they have fireworks. But Tommy was getting sleepy before the fireworks started. And Matthew’s tummy wasn’t so good, on account of because he ate so many butterscotches. So Mama said we’d better go on home.”

“ ‘Mama’?” Mr. Picton asked. “Clara, do you see your mama anywhere right now?” The girl nodded quickly. “Can you point to her, please?” Glancing up ever so briefly, Clara stole a look at Libby, and then bent her head back down as she pointed toward the defense table. “Let the record state,” Mr. Picton said, “that the witness recognizes the accused, Mrs. Elspeth Hunter, as being her mother, the former Mrs. Elspeth Hatch, more commonly known as Libby Hatch.” Mr. Picton drew closer to the witness box and softened his voice again. “All right, Clara. Tell me, did you want to leave the lake that night?”

The girl shook her head, being careful to keep her braid behind her. “No, sir-I wanted to see the rockets.”

“And your mama-did she want to see the rockets, too?”

“Yes. But she said we had to get Tommy and Matthew home.”

“Was she happy about that?”

“No, sir. She was kind of-mad. She got kind of mad, sometimes.”

“Did she say anything that let you know she was kind of mad?”

Clara nodded once again, though reluctantly. “She said what she wanted didn’t matter-didn’t ever matter. That she always had to take care of us instead of doing what she liked.”

“Did she tell you what she would’ve ‘liked,’ exactly?”

Clara shrugged-or at least, her one good shoulder did. “I figured she meant seeing the rockets.”

Letting the girl take a few breaths to steady herself, Mr. Picton waited before saying, “Now, then, Clara-you got into your wagon to go home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did your mother do anything, being as she was so angry?”

Clara’s face went puzzled. “She didn’t spank us or anything, if that’s what you mean. She just told me to get the boys into the wagon, and then we left.”

“Told you?” Mr. Picton asked, moving over to the jury and plastering a look of surprise on his face. “She didn’t put the boys into the wagon?”

“She tried,” Clara answered. “But Matthew started to cry. So she just told me to do it, and went down to the water to wash her face.”

Mr. Picton looked at the jury what you might call meaningfully. “Did she often ask you to take care of the boys?”

Nodding, Clara looked down at her hands again. “Mm-hmm. It was my job.”

Mr. Picton nodded, still studying the jury, who were starting to look as wide-eyed and confused as Sheriff Dunning had when he’d come out of the grand jury hearing. “I see,” Mr. Picton said. “That was your job… and once the boys were in the wagon?”

“Then Mama came up from the water, and we started to drive home,” Clara answered; but the words weren’t as strong as they had been to that point.

Mr. Picton, hearing the change, came back over to her, and stood so that his body blocked Clara’s view of Libby, and vice versa. “But you didn’t get home, did you, Clara?”

Seeming relieved that her mother was out of sight, Clara shook her head with more certainty. “No, sir.”

“And why not?”

Another deep breath and another look at the Doctor, and Clara went on, “We drove back through town, and we were on the road home-”

“The Charlton road?” Mr. Picton asked.

Clara nodded. “All of a sudden Mama drove the wagon over under a big tree, off the road. It was dark by then, and I didn’t know why she stopped. It was scary, on that road.”

“And where were you sitting, at that time?”

“I was in the back, holding on to Tommy so’s he didn’t bother Matthew-he was asleep by then.”

“Matthew was?”

“Yes, sir. And I didn’t want Tommy to wake him up so’s he’d start crying about his stomach again. It bothered Mama. I asked her why we stopped. She didn’t say anything for a few minutes, just sat up on the bench, staring at the road. I asked her again, and then she got down and came around to the back of the wagon. She had her bag in her hand. She said she had something important she needed to tell us.”

Hearing Clara’s voice start to trail off again, Mr. Picton said, “It’s all right, Clara. What did she tell you?”

“She said that she’d stopped… she’d stopped…”

“Clara?”

The girl’s eyes’d gone glassy, and for a minute my heart sank, thinking that she’d shrunk back into the horrified silence what’d gripped her for so long. I saw the Doctor’s jaw set hard, and I knew that he was worrying about the same thing. We both started breathing again, though, when Clara near-whispered:

“She said that she’d seen our dada.”

Judge Brown leaned over, cupping one of his big ears with his hand. “I’m afraid you’ll have to speak up a little, young lady, if you can,” he said.

Looking up at him and swallowing hard, Clara repeated, “She said that she’d seen our dada. She said he told her he was with God. She said that he told her God wanted us to be with Him, too.”

Mr. Picton nodded grimly, glancing to the jury box. “For the jury’s information, Clara’s father, Daniel Hatch, passed away on December the twenty-ninth, 1893-approximately six months before the night in question. The cause was a sudden”-here Mr. Picton turned around to look at Libby-“a very sudden, and unexplained, attack of heart disease.”

“Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said, standing up as quick as he could, “this kind of innuendo-”

“Mr. Picton,” the judge agreed, nodding to Mr. Darrow and then looking at the assistant district attorney, “I’ve warned you-”

“Your Honor, I suggest nothing,” Mr. Picton said, his eyes going wide and innocent. “The plain truth is that every medical man in Ballston Spa examined Daniel Hatch during his illness, and could find no explanation for his condition.”

“Then say that,” Judge Brown replied. “Half-truths are not better than lies, sir. Continue with your questions.”

Mr. Picton turned to Clara once more, letting his voice go soft again. “And what did you think that your mama meant, when she said that your dada told her that God wanted you to be with Him?”

Clara’s left shoulder shrugged again. “I didn’t know. I thought she meant that-that someday-but…”

Nodding, Mr. Picton said, “But that wasn’t what she meant, was it?”

Clara shook her head, this time hard enough to move the braid; and as the scar on the back of her neck became visible, I noted that one or two of the jurors caught sight of it, and silently pointed it out to the others. “She opened her bag,” Clara said. “And she took out dada’s gun.”

“Dada’s gun?” Mr. Picton asked. “How did you know it was your dada’s gun?”

“He kept it under his pillow,” Clara answered, “and he showed it to me once. He told me never to touch it, unless somebody bad was in the house. Somebody who was stealing, or… Mama left it there after he died.”

The girl’s voice trailed off, and her face began to get frightened: frightened in a way what even looking to the Doctor didn’t seem to help. Knowing that he’d reached a very dangerous point, Mr. Picton moved in closer to ask, “What happened then, Clara?”

“Mama, she-” Clara’s head began to shiver a little, and the left side of her body followed. Wrapping her good arm around herself, she worked hard to go on: “Mama came up into the wagon. She woke up Matthew and told me to give Tommy to him. So I did. Then she looked at me again. She told me it was time to go see Dada and God. That it would be a better place, and we had to do what God wanted.” Tears filled the girl’s eyes and started to roll down her face, but she never really cried as such, just grabbed herself tighter and tried to keep going. “She touched me with the gun-”

“Where did she touch you, Clara?” Mr. Picton asked. The girl pointed to her upper chest, finally letting out just one choking sob. “And then?”

“I remember she pulled the trigger, and there was a big bang-but that’s all,” Clara answered, getting a better hold of herself. “I don’t remember anything more. Not until I was in my bed at home.”

Mr. Picton nodded, letting out a deep breath of his own. “All right, Clara. It’s all right. We can talk about something else now, if you want.” Clara wiped her face with her hand and said, “Okay.” After giving her a couple of minutes, Mr. Picton asked, in a louder voice, “Clara-do you remember Reverend Parker?”

“He-he gave the services at our church. And he came out to visit Mama and Dada sometimes.”

“And what did he do when he came out to visit?”

“He’d come to dinner,” Clara answered. “And sometimes he’d go for walks with Mama. Dada didn’t like to go. He said the air was bad for him.”

“Did your mama ever take you or the boys along?”

Clara shook her head. “She said it wasn’t our place.”

Mr. Picton reached into the box to touch the girl’s left arm, looking very relieved. “Thank you, Clara,” he said. Then he added, not caring whether it was loud enough for anybody else to hear him, “You’ve been a very brave young lady.” Turning to walk back to his table, Mr. Picton then stood and looked at the judge and the jury. “The state has no more questions for this witness, Your Honor.” He sat down, leaving Clara exposed to the full power of her mother’s eyes.

Libby had reacted to her daughter’s testimony very much the way that the Doctor had predicted she would: first she’d tried quiet tears and hand-wringing, then she’d bobbed her head around, trying to get Clara to look at her. Then, when Mr. Picton stepped in to make sure Clara couldn’t see her, the tears and head bobbing had stopped, and she’d settled into still silence, while her eyes filled again with that cold, hateful glare.

But had the jury been able to see that? Or was it only the few of us what knew her full history who’d been able to read Libby’s face?

Looking terribly alone without Mr. Picton nearby, Clara turned her eyes downward once more, and started moving her lips silently. Seeing the near desperation on the girl’s face, the judge leaned over toward her. “Clara?” he said. “Are you able to go on now?”

With a start Clara looked up at him. “Go on?” she asked softly.

“The defense must question you now,” the judge answered, with just about the only smile I ever saw him exhibit during the trial.

“Oh,” Clara answered, like maybe she’d forgotten. “Yes. I can go on, sir.”

The judge sat back, looking to the defense table. “All right, Mr. Darrow.”

During the whole of Mr. Picton’s examination of Clara, Mr. Darrow’s hands’d been folded in front of his face, so that it’d been pretty tough to tell what he was thinking or how he was reacting. But when he stood up for his cross-examination, all the deep worry and occasional outrage what we’d seen him exhibit to this point seemed gone, and his features became open and relaxed in a way what Clara pretty obviously considered a relief.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said, gently smiling and moving toward the witness box. But he moved at an angle what made it impossible for Clara to get any more looks at the Doctor: life is never more tit-for-tat than when you’re in a courtroom. “Hello, Clara,” he said as he got closer to her. “I know this isn’t easy, so I’m going to try to get you out of here as soon as I can.” Clara just dropped her eyes as an answer. “Clara, you say the next thing you remember is waking up in your house, is that right?” At another nod from the girl, Mr. Darrow went on, “But I don’t guess you thought you’d had a bad dream, did you?”

“No,” Clara answered. “I was-hurt…”

“Yes,” Mr. Darrow said, fairly oozing sympathy. “You were hurt pretty bad. And you’d been asleep for a long time, did you know that?”

“They told me later-the doctors did.”

“A long sleep can make people confused sometimes. I know if I sleep too long, I sometimes don’t even know where I am or how I got there, when I wake up.”

“I knew where I was,” Clara said, softly but firmly. “I was at home.”

“Good girl,” the Doctor whispered, craning his neck in an effort to get a look at her but not wanting to be obvious about it.

“Of course you were,” Mr. Darrow said. “But did you know everything else? I mean, as soon as you woke up, did you remember everything else?”

As if she couldn’t help herself, Clara again glanced over at her mother, who had her hands folded on the defense table like she was pleading for something, while her eyes’d filled with tears. Seeing this, Clara bobbed her head back down like she’d been jerked with a rope, and said, “I remember Mama screaming. And crying. She said that Matthew and Tommy were dead. I didn’t understand. I tried to get up and ask her, but the Doctor gave me some medicine. I went back to sleep.”

“And when you woke up the second time?”

“Mama was next to my bed. With the doctors.”

“Did your mama tell you anything?”

“She said that we’d all been attacked-by a man. A crazy man. She said he’d killed Matthew and Tommy.” Tears now slowly streaming down her face again, Clara added, “I started to cry. I wanted to see my brothers, but Mama said-I couldn’t ever. Ever again…”

“I see,” Mr. Darrow told her. Then he pulled a handkerchief-one what was a lot neater than the clothes it’d been concealed in-out of his breast pocket. “Would you like to use this?” Clara took the white piece of linen and wiped her face. “Clara, how long after that did your mama go away?”

“Soon. I think. I don’t know, not for sure.”

“But was she with you all that time before she left?”

Clara nodded. “Her and Louisa-our housekeeper. The doctors, sometimes, too. And Mr. Picton visited.”

“I’m sure he did,” Mr. Darrow said, looking over at the jury. “And what did your mama tell you before she went away?”

Stealing another look at Libby, Clara answered, “That she had to go find us a new place to live. So we didn’t have to live in that house. It was too sad, she said-Dada was dead, and Tommy and Matthew, too. She told me she’d find a new place, and come back to take me away when she did.”

“And did you believe her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you usually believe your mama?”

“Yes. Except-”

“Except-?”

“Except when she got mad sometimes. Then, sometimes, she would say things that-I didn’t believe her. I don’t think she meant them, though.”

“I see,” Mr. Darrow said, turning his body away from her without moving from his spot on the floor. “So-the last things you now remember about that night on the Charlton road are your mama touching you with a gun, then pulling the trigger-and after that there was a loud noise?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t remember it when you woke up?” Clara shook her head. “And you can’t remember anything about what happened to Tommy and Matthew?”

“I didn’t-I didn’t see-what happened.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“And so your mama went away, and you went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Weston-is that right?” Clara nodded. “And did you remember anything about what happened that night during the time you lived with them?”

“Not-” Here Clara worked very hard, pretty obviously to remember something. “Not so’s I could talk about it. Or show it. Only so’s I could see it. In my head.”

Mr. Darrow spun quickly to the girl, causing her to start a bit and try, without success, to look at the Doctor. “That’s quite a mouthful, for a little girl. Not so’s you could talk about it or show it, but so’s you could see it in your head. You think of that all by yourself?”

Clara looked down quickly. “It’s the way it was.”

“Did you think of that all by yourself, Clara?” Mr. Darrow repeated. Then, without waiting for an answer, he moved in closer. “Or isn’t it in fact true that Dr. Kreizler led you to see it that way, and told you to use those words when it came time to tell the story in court?”

Mr. Picton was out of his chair like the seat was lined with hot coals. “Your Honor, the state protests! We asked for special treatment of this witness, and what do we get? Leading and badgering!”

Before the judge could answer, Mr. Darrow was holding up a hand. “I will withdraw the question, Your Honor, and try to make my questions more palatable to the state.” Again smiling at the witness, Mr. Darrow asked, “Clara, when did you first start to remember what happened that night? I mean, remember it so that you could talk aboutit?”

Clara shrugged, her face looking even more worried after the short but sharp exchange between the lawyers. “Not too long ago, I guess.”

“Before you met Dr. Kreizler?” Clara reluctantly shook her head. “After you met Dr. Kreizler?” Clara didn’t move. “Or was it when you met Dr. Kreizler?”

Mr. Picton was up again. “Your Honor, with all due respect, which question does the learned counsel from Illinois wish the witness to answer?”

“Sit down, Mr. Picton,” Judge Brown replied. “The counsel for the defense is within his rights.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said. “Well, Clara?”

“I never forgot,” the girl answered, more tears coming as she did. “I never forgot, not really.”

“And what didn’t you forget? You never knew what happened to Tommy and Matthew, that’s fine, you’ve told us that. So you couldn’t and don’t remember it. But what did you know that you didn’t forget?”

“I never-” Looking up at the bench pleadingly, Clara said, “I don’t know what he means.”

“I mean, Clara,” Mr. Darrow went on, being a little firmer now, “what was it that you know that you never forgot, and what was it that you know that you forgot and only remembered not too long ago?”

Her body shaking once, Clara finally let out a sob as she looked from the judge to Mr. Darrow, and then tried to peer around the lawyer at the Doctor, who, for his part, was also desperately attempting to get himself into position to be seen by her.

“What the devil?” the Doctor whispered. “He’s deliberately attempting to confuse her-”

“I don’t understand!” Clara said again, openly crying now.

“Clara,” Mr. Darrow went on, “it’s very simple-”

“It’s not!” the girl cried. “I don’t understand-”

“Which is which?” Mr. Darrow said, surprising everyone in the room by letting his voice get stern, even a bit harsh. “What did you always know, and what did you forget but remember not too long ago, perhaps at about the time that you met Dr. Kreizler-and perhaps when you met Dr. Kreizler? Clara! You must-”

“Stop it!”a voice called out, silencing both the lawyer and the mumbling what had started in the galleries. The entire room turned to the defense table, where Libby Hatch was, like her daughter, in tears. “Leave her alone!” she shouted at Darrow. “You can’t treat her like this, not with what she’s been through. If she doesn’t remember, then she doesn’t! Stop browbeating my child! Stop it-stop!” Throwing her face into her hands, Libby collapsed onto the table as the crowd started to hum like a hive again, causing Judge Brown to smash his gavel down.

“The defendant will get herself under control!” he ordered. “And so will the galleries! Mr. Darrow-the court would like to know-”

“If it please the court, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said quickly. “The defense will forgo the remainder of its questions to this witness. Under the circumstances, we ask for an adjournment until tomorrow morning.”

The noise of the crowd grew louder at that, and the judge set to rapping away. “Silence! I won’t have another sound!” As his order began to take effect, the judge set his gavel aside, looking very displeased. “The witness is excused,” he called. “And court is adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning-at which time I’d better see some radically different behavior, or I will close these proceedings!” A final rap, and Bailiff Coffey moved to help Clara-who was weeping heavily now-down out of the witness box. Mr. Picton rushed over to lend a hand, but the little girl’s tormented eyes were fixed on her apparently devastated mother.

“Don’t cry, Mama!” Clara called once more as she was led away. But her tone was very different, now: all the grown-up quality was gone, and the desperation in her words was underlined by the weight of her sobs. “Don’t cry, it’s going to help you! It’s supposed to help you, they told me-”

Libby Hatch never looked up. Sensing what was happening, the Doctor moved quickly for the gate in the railing; but when Clara saw him, her anguish only appeared to get worse, and she ran past him down the center aisle to Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who rushed her out of first the room and then the building.

The judge had already departed; and as the jury moved to do the same, Mr. Darrow got Libby to her feet and moved her in the direction of the side door down to her cell. But before either she or jury had exited, she began to wail, “She doesn’t remember! She doesn’t remember, how can you expect her to, she’s just a child! Oh, my poor Clara, my poor baby!”

At that Mr. Darrow turned to the jury box, looking uneasy; but the sight of their confused faces seemed to reassure him, and he gave the guard who’d been standing behind Iphegeneia Blaylock the okay to take his client on downstairs.

With things finally settling down, Mr. Picton made his way over to the Doctor. The look what they exchanged indicated nothing good, and I certainly didn’t have any trouble understanding why. The rest of our group crowded round, also looking deeply troubled; only Mr. Moore was scratching his head.

“Well,” he said, “if you ask me, Vanderbilt’s throwing his money away. Imagine trying to bully an eight-year-old girl like that! Darrow must be crazy! Hell, even her own mother-” Then he suddenly stopped: watching the rest of our faces, he finally realized what we’d already grasped. “Dammit!” he seethed quietly, with a stamp of his foot. “I hate being the last one to get these things! He planned the whole scene, didn’t he?”

“Son of a bitch,” Marcus said, more amazed than angry. “He took an unmitigated disaster for his client and turned it into a possible advantage.”

“And she played her part perfectly,” Mr. Picton said regretfully. Then he turned to Mr. Moore. “Men like Vanderbilt do not maintain their stations in life by making stupid choices, John.” He hissed once and slapped at the railing. “What the hell does Darrow care if people think he’s callous, if at the same time he can make the jury believe that Libby genuinely loves her daughter, and wouldn’t do anything to hurt her?”

I looked up at the Doctor, whose face had gone a little pale. He turned to stare at the mahogany doors, as if he thought Clara might come back into the room; but all he saw, all any of us saw, was the crowd filing out, some of them turning back to give our group what might politely be called very unsympathetic glances. Feeling for his chair, the Doctor swayed back and then sat on it, his features suddenly going very ashen: the kind of ashen they’d gone, I realized with some dread, when he’d gotten the news about Paulie McPherson.

As I stood there watching him, I felt a little tug at my arm, and turned to find El Niño giving me a grave look.

“Señorito Stevie,” he said, trying not to be heard by the others, “this is not a good thing.”

“No,” I answered, “it ain’t.”

The aborigine considered that, and then nodded, straightened his white silk tie, and put his hands to his hips. “This man Darrow-you are certain I should not kill him?”

“Actually,” I answered, shaking my head, “I’m beginning to wonder…”