Gilded Needles (Valancourt 20th Century Classics)

by Michael McDowell

  “Surely you read the Tribune this morning.”

  Duncan nodded. Simeon had reported on the removal of all the accused woman’s belongings from Lady Weale’s house to Black Lena Shanks’s pawnshop on West Houston Street. He had noted that Black Lena Shanks, “a notorious and long-standing receiver of stolen property whose transactions are almost exclusively with the female element of the criminal population,” was the sister of Alick Kizer, the actual murderer of Cyrus Butterfield. He had gone on to describe the rest of the Shanks’s ménage: the elder, hard-visaged mute sister who was an adept at paper mischiefs—forgery; the younger pretty sister, who was one of the best-known abortionists in the city; and the two children, identical twins who—raised in such surroundings—could not help but be vicious themselves.

  “Yes,” said Duncan, “but I don’t know how Simeon’s account can help us. I saw him today, congratulated him upon a fine piece of research. He had talked to neighbors, talked to Mrs. Weale again, talked to the police. The old woman herself, Black Lena Shanks, chased him out of her shop, but at least he got a glimpse of the whole family. I congratulated him, because it would have been worse than useless to upbraid him for doing these things without my assistance. But how does the account help us?”

  “Don’t you see, Duncan? It’s the family that we wanted, the family of criminals that I postulated at the beginning of this entire affair. I’m just surprised we haven’t turned up another before this. We wanted to find out a family mired in vice, raised in criminality, and here at last they are: doubly vicious because they’re all female, doubly vicious because they run the race of so many criminal activities: if we include Maggie Kizer, we have a murderer, prostitute, fence, forger, abortionist—and we can always accuse the children of thievery. Everything but blackmail and kidnapping, in fact.”

  “Yes . . .” said Duncan doubtfully. “And where does that leave us—and them?”

  “Oh it’s simple,” said Judge Stallworth. “We merely have to bear down upon them now. Everything’s already set up for it. One of them has absconded, and one in jail already. Alick Kizer is probably at the end of the earth by now, and there doesn’t seem to be much possibility of bringing him back, so it might behoove us to implant a rumor that he’s dead, killed in an attempt to rob a bank or some such, so that we can have him out of the way. Maggie Kizer’s in jail, and I’ll make certain—well, I’ll take care of that. Her trial will be played up high enough in the papers without our having to prod. And as soon as that’s done we’ll start in on the others. As a plan, Duncan, it’s faultless.”

  Duncan nodded silent agreement with his father-in-law’s estimation.

  “Now,” said Judge Stallworth, “I did a little research of my own this afternoon, through my own files. Lena Shanks came up before me in 1865—the name had sounded familiar, I was sure of it, when I read it this morning—and I put her on the island for a number of years. The two girls, grown now of course, were made wards of the court, but were taken away directly after the trial and kept hidden. Lena’s husband was hanged in the Incendiary Plot, which was before your time, but it was the first important trial that came under me and I recall it vividly—it was just after I was elevated to the bench. So I have all these records, and you should send Lightner over to me tomorrow and he and I’ll talk of this.”

  “The Tribune of course will have its own files as well; for surely the trials were covered,” said Duncan. Though he did not relish this plan at all, he felt that some contribution was wanted, lest his father-in-law become suspicious of his implied recalcitrance.

  “Yes,” said Judge Stallworth, smiling, “exactly. For twenty years now, this family has swum beneath the notice of the police and the courts. A calculating, intelligent woman Lena Shanks must be, to have kept out of sight for so long, building herself up, building up her business with all those women. And all to be cut down because her brother picked up an opium needle off his wife’s dresser.”

  Duncan trembled, but the judge only smiled. “We’ll have everything in readiness. As soon as Maggie Kizer’s out of the way, we’ll take up another of ’em, and so on until the entire family is ground down into the dust of the Black Triangle.”

  “Oh yes,” echoed Duncan Phair, “into the dust.”

  Chapter 23

  Maggie’s trial was set for March 6, ten days after her arraignment; Judge Stallworth considered that this would be ample time for Simeon Lightner and his son-in-law to blazon the case in the Tribune, but not so long a delay that the public would grow restive. But the judge was vexed that Duncan, always with one excuse or another, would not come near the Tombs while the murderess—or accomplice to murder—lay incarcerated there.

  During this unhappy interval Simeon Lightner, who was frequently at the prison, daily provided details to the readers of the Tribune of Maggie Kizer’s conduct, appearance, and unsociable habits: how she refused to speak to reporters, to priests, to warders, to anyone in fact but a little boy who visited her twice a day with a small basket over his arm. The boy, evidently a simpleton, came from no one knew where, replied to no interrogatory with anything like sensible speech, and seemed to vanish as soon as he stepped out between the fat Egyptian columns of the Tombs. At first it had been assumed that this was Maggie’s own child, but Simeon Lightner provided the news that it was rather her nephew, by name, Rob Shanks, resident on West Houston Street.

  Early on the Monday morning set for Maggie’s trial, Duncan Phair visited Judge Stallworth in his chambers in the Criminal Courts Building, the enormous red brick and terra-cotta structure adjoining the Tombs. The judge’s office was an unhappy sort of dark room far removed from his court—the fine apartments were distributed among the Democrats, while the few Republican judges and officials were relegated to the higher floors, to the noisy corridors, to the single-windowed or leaky chambers.

  Duncan told his father-in-law that important business necessitated his spending the morning in City Hall. He would be unable to attend the proceedings against Maggie Kizer.

  “Why can’t Peerce take care of it?” demanded the judge. “That’s why you took him into partnership, to handle such matters.”

  “George has developed a stomach catarrh, Father. It really is necessary that this business be conducted today.”

  “This trial won’t take so much of your time,” said Judge Stallworth, obviously displeased with Duncan, “I don’t understand why you must rush off.”

  “Peerce left some very important business undone that must be attended to at once,” replied Duncan lamely, and when his father-in-law’s silence seemed to demand a better excuse, Duncan went on: “. . . contracts that want the signatures of all the Aldermen, and it’s rare enough we can get them all in the city at once, much less in the same room. . . .”

  Judge Stallworth eyed his daughter’s husband intently. “I don’t believe you,” he said evenly.

  Duncan looked away in confusion.

  “You’ve been deliberately avoiding this place since that woman was arrested. You’ve refused to have anything to do with this entire business, even though I have pointed out to you time and again the necessity of our being in control of it. Now I’m weary of your excuses and I demand to know why you prevaricate with me. Tell me quickly,” he said, adjusting his robes, “for I’m due in the court in a quarter of an hour.”

  Duncan Phair knew that his lies had only been tolerated by his father-in-law; there was no real deceiving of the old man. For a time, Judge Stallworth had accepted the false excuses, but now his policy was altered, and Duncan had no choice but to submit with the truth.

  “Cyrus Butterfield was a lawyer—” began Duncan.

  “That is hardly news,” said Judge Stallworth.

  “But he was not the only lawyer who had the acquaintance of Maggie Kizer.”

  “Ah,” said Judge Stallworth coldly, “she had a weakness for the professio
n then.”

  “It was coincidence, I believe. The lawyers were not acquainted with one another—at least not in their identity as . . . as intimates of Maggie Kizer.”

  “And the other lawyer,” said Judge Stallworth, with a bitter smile, “was some friend of yours.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was a close friend. A very close friend, perhaps. Was yourself, perhaps.”

  “Yes,” replied Duncan.

  “For what period of time did the murderess enjoy your acquaintance, Duncan?”

  “Eighteen months—about that.”

  “It has been a fond—a merry acquaintance?”

  “Quiet, discreet. She is a remarkable woman.”

  Judge Stallworth repeated his son-in-law’s words, without expression. “ ‘Quiet, discreet. She is a remarkable woman.’ ”

  Duncan Phair shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Maggie doesn’t know who I am,” said Duncan. “That is to say she knows only my first name. She does not know that I am a lawyer—she certainly does not know that I am in any way involved with her prosecution, through you, I mean. She knows only that . . . that I have deserted her.”

  Judge Stallworth said nothing, and Duncan, however distressed by this forced revelation, had to continue: “Otherwise she would surely have sent word to me. That is why I have so studiously avoided coming near this place. It would have been disastrous if she saw me by chance.”

  The judge regarded him balefully. “I’m so pleased,” he remarked scornfully, “that you have seen fit to honor me with this confession. If all is not yet lost, it’s not for your want of blundering. In the first place, Duncan, it is axiomatic that a respectable man should take as his mistress a respectable woman.”

  “Maggie is above all—”

  “Respectable women do not have husbands in Sing Sing. Respectable women are not addicted to opium. Maggie Kizer may be cheerful, well-mannered, knowledgeable on a hundred subjects; she may execute excellent Berlin-work and possess a fine hand—but she is not, finally, respectable.”

  “No,” Duncan acquiesced.

  “Leave,” said the judge curtly, “leave this building immediately. The woman will be brought over from the Tombs in a very few minutes. The landlady has been called as a witness and will arrive shortly. I take it you are known to her as well. It is imperative that you be seen by neither. Therefore, leave.” James Stallworth stood, and Duncan, without another word, slipped out of the judge’s chambers.

  In the corridor outside, Duncan Phair glanced through a grimy window at the incongruous “Bridge of Sighs”—elegant replica of the famous Venetian span—that connected the stolid Criminal Courts Building with the dismal Tombs. At that moment Maggie Kizer was being led across it by two guards. Her erect figure, elegant carriage, and handsome distinguished face seemed very much in keeping with the delicate stone tracery of that unhappy bridge, over which the most dangerous and degenerate criminals of the city had passed; but in contrast, the men that accompanied her were stooped and beetle-browed Hibernians. In another moment, that criminal queen and her cretinous attendants would step through into the same hallway in which Duncan now found himself.

  Duncan allowed himself a few seconds to gaze on Maggie Kizer—he knew that it would be the last time that he would ever see her—before he hid himself behind a square column. Maggie would be escorted down a side staircase and introduced into a small airless room behind Judge Stallworth’s court where, on a hard wooden bench, she would wait with the other murderers, thieves, and “victims of ’ficial delinquency” whose trials were scheduled for that day.

  He waited a few moments to give Maggie and her guards time to descend out of sight; and in that time Judge Stallworth emerged from his chambers. He saw Duncan standing there, leaning against the peeling column, but his glance might have fallen with as little concern and pity upon a scrofulous beggar in the street.

  Judge Stallworth’s courtroom was the most modestly appointed of the half-dozen within the Criminal Courts Building. It was small, with polished oak furnishings and tall narrow windows looking out on a blank wall of the Tombs. Whitewashed walls were adorned with darkened portraits of men no one could identify.

  A quarter of an hour before the court was called, there was much activity in the room. Clerks and minions were setting up for the day’s business, three Negroes were washing the floor of the jury box, which was heavily stained with tobacco juice, while the jury impaneled for the week stood about making introductions and exchanging jokes at the expense of every nationality but the Irish. Lawyers talked among themselves and cast sidewise glances at the jurors.

  The reporters who were present because of Maggie Kizer talked of circulation and pay and perks and the notorious injustice of editors, while the newspaper artists drew caricatures of the reporters, the lawyers, the jurors, the minions, and one another.

  There was a small crowd of idle spectators—those who had come not for gain, or because compelled by law, but only because of their interest in seeing the female dope fiend who was responsible for the death of a man the newspapers called “one of the city’s most beloved and respected citizens, as well as one of its foremost legal minds.”

  Trials in the Criminal Courts Building, and especially those over which Judge James Stallworth presided, were known to be speedy affairs, and even cases of the utmost complexity were rarely carried into a second day. Certainly none of the lawyers or reporters had any thought that Maggie Kizer would be cleared of the charges against her. Judge Stallworth was not known for leniency in his treatment of defendants, either in the course of a trial or in sentencing, and the reporters and lawyers were apprised of what was not commonly known: that the judge’s son-in-law had assisted the Tribune in its exploitation of this crime. The woman had not a chance.

  “Well,” said one cynic, deliberately within hearing of Simeon Lightner, “it just about amounts to conflict of interest, if you ask me what I think about it. Old man ought to withdraw from the case.”

  “Won’t, though,” replied another, and glanced slyly at Simeon, “too good a case, Tribune’ll make fine copy of all this. Old Stallworth would probably lead her up to the gallows himself if he wasn’t ’fraid of tripping on his own gown.”

  Simeon, who had no love for Judge Stallworth and suspected his son-in-law’s disinterestedness, did not see fit to object to these snide remarks. His interest in this trial was great, but he doubted whether it would be so cut-and-dried as the other reporters evidently considered it. In the first place, Simeon had been present at the arrest of Maggie Kizer, and knew her for no common prostitute. She would prove a more troublesome defendant that some doltish painted trollop from Hudson Street. Also, her beauty was much in her favor, and juries, despite overwhelming evidence, despite the exhortations of ireful judges, had been known to acquit certain women of outstanding physical attractions.

  Simeon’s attention was drawn to the entrance into the courtroom of Black Lena Shanks and her granddaughter—Simeon recognized the plainly dressed child as the twin of the boy who visited Maggie Kizer in prison each day. Lena wore a tight black jacket and a red and black plaid skirt. She walked slowly and with the aid of a silver-tipped cane. They moved into the row of seats just behind Simeon. He turned a little to study them.

  It was Ella who most drew his attention. She sat perfectly still and composed, though her eyes darted everywhere, and more than once caught and held his gaze. The child was unlike any offspring of the lower classes that Simeon had ever come across. Those young Tartars were pawing, mischievous, braying, grimy devils; but though this young girl might well be a devil, she was so well behaved as to seem, at first sight, coyly demure.

  Simeon plucked his tablets from his pocket and read through the notes that he had collected on the Shanks family. Some of what he had learned about the family was too dreadful to appear in the Tribune. He looked around and
stared at the fat woman on the row behind him; examined her thin black hair, her black beetling brow, her lusterless black eyes, and concluded that he had much rather be closeted with three knife-wielding prostitutes than with an unarmed Lena Shanks.

  The clerk of the court announced the entrance of the judge. All the court stood, and Simeon watched as Black Lena Shanks rose tardily and with seeming reluctance, bearing down upon her cane for support. The little girl, standing beside her grandmother, turned, smiled slyly at Simeon, and tugged at her side curls in a suggestive but uninterpretable fashion.

  Chapter 24

  Judge James Stallworth cast his chilling blue gaze over the courtroom, waved the clerk of the court into silence, and seated himself without ado behind the bench. He closed his eyes and waited patiently for all the machinery that was to grind Maggie Kizer into the dust to start itself up.

  Before, her conviction had been a thing that was merely of service to the Stallworth family, but now it had become a matter of necessity. Judge Stallworth did not look at the defendant, he remembered her well enough from the arraignment. He had no further curiosity for the woman who had so charmed his son-in-law, and no compunction either.

  The case was announced, the prosecution rose on its bandy legs and declared that the state was ready to prove that Maggie Kizer had been an accessory to the crime that had deprived an unexceptionable citizen of his invaluable life. During this brief perfunctory harangue, Maggie Kizer sat immobile and expressionless beside her state-appointed attorney.

  Rather than this speech, the jury had made Maggie Kizer its study—a process accompanied by some few whispers, giggles, low-voiced observations, and eye-rollings; which all amounted to a cautious solicitude on account of her beauty and bearing.

  The judge, seeing that the jury was inattendant to the prosecutor’s speech, urged him on sarcastically: “Yes, yes, the man is quite dead, and we are all inconsolable mourners of his inestimable soul.”