Micah had stopped his pacing and now only stood and stared at his friend with disbelief. This was all very interesting, but it was the sort of discussion they had with a brandy or a Scotch in their hands. This kind of talk was left in the parlor. It was not taken into the real world. Certainly not into a courtroom.
Micah would not hesitate to pick up one of the heavy wrenches and use it as a bludgeon if he thought it would do any good.
“Our lives are about to become so complex that there’s a real potential for bad things to happen. Things unimaginable even for us in our own time, much less for Thoreau in his. But his ideas, some of them anyway, were right. Simplify. We’ll never simplify the world around us—I wouldn’t want to even if we could—but because we can’t, we have to simplify ourselves.” There was a stub of a cigar on the edge of the work bench. Chester picked it up and shoved it into his mouth, but didn’t light it. “If we lose track of who we are, Micah, we’ll look for only the most expedient ways to live, and we’ll stop taking stands for those doomed but righteous endeavors that make being human special. It’ll become a century populated by generation after generation of lost cynics.” He grabbed Micah around the shoulder and, with a laugh, he added, “And, God knows, we wouldn’t want that, would we? I mean, hell, there’s only room for so many lawyers in the world.”
Micah offered him a scowl.
“It’ll be all right. Don’t worry,” Chester said. He gave Micah a reassuring shake, and with his big arm still around Micah’s shoulder, he shuttled him toward the carriage house door. Come on,” he said, “let’s go inside, brew some coffee, and warm up. It’s cold as shit out here. Didn’t you notice?”
Micah tried to understand Chester’s thinking, but he couldn’t. As far as Micah could tell, the universe was divided into two categories: things that worked and things that did not. Accepting Blythe’s offer worked; going to trial, losing, and Chester’s ending up in prison did not work. No matter from what distorted angle Chester chose to view it, it did not work.
That conversation had taken place almost a month before. Now, as Micah stood in the back room of the house on First Street, he still didn’t understand.
“I wish we could make love,” Fay whispered.
That brought Micah out of his reverie. He could see a flush in the coffee-and-cream color of Fay’s cheeks. Although at night, in the dark of his room, her deeds were always pleasantly brazen, her speech never was, and he could see she had embarrassed herself. “I wish we could too,” he said.
They relinquished privacy when they set up “The Tiny Fortress,” as Jackson Clark called it. The house was small: a parlor, two bedrooms, a kitchen with a small dining area, and an enclosed back porch. During the day, Lottie and Fay would go to their café as always, and either Chester, Micah, or Jackson would stay with Polly and Cedra. At night they all stayed together. The four women slept in the two bedrooms; the men slept on mats in the parlor, and each man took a shift standing watch. Any time Micah began to question the necessity of such precautions, he remembered the slashed throat of Lester Jones.
“This is almost over,” Micah said.
“Do you think we won’t have to worry about Sonny after the trial?” Fay asked.
“Sonny’s crazy. It’s impossible to predict what he might do, but I have to agree with Chester. Once the story’s out, even though there’s not enough proof to convict Sonny of his crime against Polly, I don’t think he’ll bother her anymore. It would be too risky. If something happened to her after her testimony, even Brad Collins couldn’t turn his back on a coincidence like that.”
“Oh, he could turn his back on it all right,” Fay said, “but, you’re right. I can’t believe he would once the whole town knew about it.”
“You wouldn’t think so, anyway.” The feel of Fay next to him caused a tightness in Micah’s groin. He lifted her chin, gave her a kiss, and said, “I think I’d better drink that coffee you brought in.”
Fay straightened the collar of her dress and rubbed the back of her neck. “I miss our visits,” she said. “Visits” had become the word they used to describe her late-night trips to the back door of Micah’s office.
“I miss them too.”
“It’s all we have,” she said as she dropped into the chair in front of the table where Micah had been working earlier. In a distant voice, more to herself than him, she added, “It’s all we’ll ever have.”
She rarely mentioned their situation. Their inability to be together in the open was something they both were trying to accept. Talking about it didn’t help. But Micah knew it bothered her. It bothered him.
“Only our visits,” she said, “that’s all.”
Micah groped for something to say but came up with nothing.
“It’s Christmas,” Fay continued. “I guess a woman has a right to say silly things at Christmas.” She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of the large white apron she wore. She touched it to her lips, then with both hands clutched it in her lap. “I’m twenty-four years old, Micah, and I want more for us than our visits. I always feel that way, but sometimes I feel it more than others.”
“I do too, Fay.”
“I want to have your babies, but I know I never will. That makes me sad, especially at Christmastime.” She held the handkerchief up for him to see. “I’m not crying,” she said with what looked to be a forced smile, “but I got this out in case I did.”
He came to her and lifted her out of the chair. “If you want to cry, you go ahead,” he said, pulling her to him.
She lay her face against his chest and said, “I want us to have a big house with a yard and lots of children. I want a Christmas tree ten feet tall, with stacks of presents under it. I want to watch our babies crawling around that tree, shaking the presents, trying to guess what’s inside.” She looked up at him. “I want that, Micah, but it will never be.”
Micah wanted to tell her, yes, it could happen, it would happen, but he knew it could not. His only response was to pull her closer.
“I wish we could make everyone disappear,” she said. “That’s the only way we’ll ever be together is if the rest of the world would disappear.”
“Hell, Fay, if we’re going to make a wish, let’s wish they would change. Let’s wish they wouldn’t think there was anything wrong with our being together.”
She lay her head back on his chest. “No,” she said, “that wouldn’t work. There’s a better chance they’d all disappear than there is they’ll ever change.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When Jebediah Blake, Benjamin Walker’s court reporter, came onto the stage with his pencils and pad, Micah knew the long months of waiting were over.
They were in Edwin Bury’s Opera House. The courtroom’s being so small, the county was forced to rent Mr. Bury’s building every time Judge Walker came to Probity for a jury trial. There was always mumbling among the county commissioners about the need for a new courthouse whenever they received Mr. Bury’s bill. Since Bury was a wily businessman and knew there was no other place in town suitable, he did not hesitate to test the limits of the commissioners’ willingness to pay rent.
“Be ready,” Jackson said to Micah under his breath, “whenever you see Jeb, you know Walker’s not far behind.”
Micah rubbed his stomach. For days now he’d felt a sick fluttering. He knew what it was, of course. He was scared out of his wits.
At least Jackson was with him. He took some comfort in that. Micah had never had a jury trial in his life. In fact, he’d never had a trial of any kind. Knowing this, when the word got out that Chester was not going to plead guilty and the case would go to court, Jackson had come to Micah and offered him his services as co-counsel pro bono, free of charge.
Micah jumped at the offer. “That would be wonderful,” he said, not even trying to hide his relief at not having to defend Chester alone. Micah was confident in his abilities, but he knew there was much he did not know, and the assistance of someone who had been practicing la
w for as long as Jackson Clark would be invaluable.
Later Micah had asked Jackson why he wanted to help. “Three reasons,” the old man said as they sipped beer in Buck’s. “First, I like Chester Hedstrom—always have. Next, I think that abortion statute is poorly written and is bad law. And, third, but not last—” He poked Micah with his elbow. “—I want to teach that God-damned pompous ass Thomas Blythe a lesson.”
Micah pointed out how it was doubtful Thomas Blythe would be taught any lessons in this case.
“Well, then,” Jackson said, wiping foam from his mouth, “if by some miracle we should win, the humiliation alone would teach him something, and I know that you’re an honorable enough young man that you would share the credit with me for helping out.”
“And if we lose?” asked Micah.
Jackson laughed his high-pitched cackle. “I’ll remind everyone you were lead counsel, and you’ll take all the blame.”
The court reporter was a man a bit older than Micah. He arranged his pencils in a neat row, opened his pad, and stood beside his chair with his hands behind his back.
“You watch the wing over yonder,” Jackson said, nodding toward the left. “Walker’s a fella who has a fondness for the trappings of being a judge. You’ll get on his good side right off if you’re the one who sees him coming first and calls out for everyone to stand up.”
“That sounds a little petty,” Micah said. Even Judge Pullum hadn’t taken that sort of thing very seriously.
“Walker’s not a petty man, I don’t think, not about the important things, anyway, but he can be burdensome if your manner doesn’t set right with him.”
Micah looked into the stage’s left wing. Though where they sat was well lit, the wings were dark and it was difficult to see. Brad Collins stood off stage at the edge of the darkness. He was wearing a black suit and blended into the shadows, but Micah could tell where he was by the large white Stetson he held in front of him. The hat caught the light from the stage and stood out in the gloom.
Bury’s Opera House, by opera house standards, was not a large place. There were only fifty seats in the audience, but they were all full, and spectators lined the walls and overflowed into the lobby.
The stage itself, though, was as fine as anything in Cheyenne or Casper. It was large and well constructed. It boasted thick velvet curtains. Upstage, a desk had been placed on an eight-inch-high pedestal. That would serve as Judge Walker’s bench. Next to that sat a large oak chair for the witnesses. In front of the bench was a small writing table for the court reporter, and downstage were two larger tables for the prosecution and the defense. Stage-right, lined up in two rows of six, sat the jurymen. Micah didn’t remember them looking as stern on Monday, when they were chosen to serve, as they looked now.
Micah peeked around Jackson to the prosecution’s table. Both Thomas Blythe and Earl Anderson were elegant in their expensive suits and vests. The shine on Blythe’s shoes was nearly blinding in the bright stage lights.
“Watch for the judge, now,” Jackson said.
Micah looked left into the darkness of the wing. He stared past Collins and searched for some sign of movement.
The silence in the room was eerie. It seemed unnatural to have this many people in one place and have it be so quiet. It made Micah even more nervous than he already was, which surprised him. As he felt his innards churn, he didn’t think it was possible to be more nervous than he was.
The lack of movement in the room was also strange. Blythe and Anderson sat at their table, their hands folded, their eyes locked on the stage-left wing. Chester sat beside Micah like a rock. Jackson, the jury, the spectators, everyone could have as easily been pictures painted on canvas as real human beings. It was as though time had ticked to a standstill while the universe waited for Benjamin Walker to step onto the stage.
But then Brad Collins looked down at his hat, flicked something from the brim, and in a chorus, Earl Anderson and Thomas Blythe shouted, “All rise!” And the silence was shattered as every person in Bury’s Opera House came to his feet.
With a majestic demeanor, Judge Walker ascended his bench, glanced down at Blythe and Anderson, bestowed upon them a quick nod, and said, “You may be seated.”
As they resumed their chairs, Jackson made a sound like he was sucking something out of a tooth and whispered to Micah, “Damn, boy, you gotta be fast.”
Benjamin Walker was a man in his late fifties who had read for the bar in Denver while supporting himself—in a meager way—as an actor. He possessed a rich baritone voice that had no difficulty reaching the “cheap seats” in the rear of the house.
“Court is in session,” he said as he slipped his spectacles on. “We are here today in the matter of the State of Wyoming versus Chester Hedstrom, M.D.” It was clear that the judge was speaking to the record as much as he was to the parties and spectators. He looked down at Jeb Blake, the court reporter, and said, “The date today is December 26, 1900. Court has been in recess since two o’clock on the twenty-fourth. A jury has been duly impaneled, sworn, and is now sitting in the box prepared to try this cause.”
Walker turned his gaze upon the jury. “Dr. Hedstrom is charged, gentlemen, with the performance of an illegal abortion. I’ll instruct you as to the specific law in this matter at the end of the evidence and before you retire to deliberate, but suffice it to say that in this state performing any abortion is a crime except when the health of the mother is at stake.”
He turned to the prosecution’s table. “With that, we will hear the state’s opening statement. Mr. Anderson, you’re the county attorney. Will you be making the opening?”
“No, sir, Judge. I will defer to Mr. Blythe.”
“Very well, Mr. Blythe, you may proceed.”
Blythe rose and started for the lectern that had been placed in front of the twelve jurors. As he crossed, he acknowledged Micah.
“Good morning, Mr. Blythe,” Micah said in return, but he was shocked and embarrassed to hear the raspy quiver that came out. Christ, he thought, I feel like a deer being stalked by a cougar.
Micah was not sure how he felt about Thomas Blythe. It was clear Jackson Clark and Cedra both held a deep dislike for the man, and Micah could see why. Blythe was everything they said he was: a self-important, pompous ass. On the other hand, Micah believed Blythe was an honorable man, at least within the framework of Blythe’s own definition of the term. Blythe would represent his client to the fullest. He would grant quarter if it was in his client’s best interest to do so; if it was not, there would be no mercy.
When Micah had gone to Blythe’s office to tell him that Chester would not accept the plea agreement, Blythe had shown surprise and what Micah believed to be genuine disappointment. After their discussion of the matter, Blythe walked Micah to the door. “You realize, don’t you, Micah, what this means? The specific terms of the agreement were my idea. I wanted to make the offer so lenient Dr. Hedstrom would not dream of refusing. Since he has chosen to do so, however, I must change my approach. If this goes to trial, I will do everything within my ability to see that there is a conviction and that the doctor serves as much time in prison as the law will allow. It’s not at all what I want to see happen, but I have agreed to take this case, and I have my reputation as a trial lawyer to consider.” Micah said something to the effect that he would expect nothing less, and quickly left. He couldn’t help thinking, though, that now they were worse off than they had been before. Before, their opponent had been an incompetent Earl Anderson. Now their opponent was a determined Thomas Blythe.
“Your Honor,” Blythe began, “counsel, gentlemen of the jury.” He paused, stared toward some spot in the near distance, and took in a deep breath. It was a quick gesture that communicated solemnity and the seriousness of the task he was about to perform. “Every case at bar,” he said, “is a story involving real people. Real, flesh-and-blood people the same as all of you. The same as myself and Mr. Anderson. The same as young Mr. McConners there and Mr. Clark
. We are all human beings. We shiver when we are cold. We perspire when we are hot. We love our children. We love our homes. The vilest criminal who has ever walked the face of the earth is also human. He was once a child. He had the innocence of a child. He had the ability of a child to love without condition. He had the hopes of a child.
“But occasionally as he grows something happens to that child. Sometimes it’s the evil of the adults around him that turns that child astray. We have all seen it. It’s an ugly thing, and it creates an ugly thing.
“Other times there can be a bad seed in a child that is present at the moment of his birth but takes time to grow before it manifests itself. That, gentlemen, can be ugly too.”
Blythe moved to the side of the lectern and took a half-step closer to the jurors. In a soft and reasonable voice he said, “But evil does not always come in an ugly package. Sometimes—oftentimes—it comes cloaked in finery. Sometimes it possesses wit and charm. Evil is not always an affliction of the low and the base. It is also capable of afflicting the high and the seemingly virtuous. That, my friends, is the situation we have before us.”
He stepped in front of the lectern and shoved his hands into his pockets. A hint of a smile played at the edges of his mouth. “Those of us who have lived in small towns all our lives know the speed at which news can move from one place to another. I can still remember where I was when I first heard that Dr. Hedstrom had been charged with this horrible crime.” He stopped and held up a finger. “By the way, I want you to remember those words, gentlemen: horrible crime. Because, as you will see, this is in fact a horrible, horrible, crime. A death has occurred here. It was the death of a nameless victim, but a painful, violent death has occurred. We must not ever allow ourselves to forget that.”
He placed his weight on his left leg and assumed a casual stance. “But, as I was saying, I was in my own house when I heard the news. It was noon, and Ethel was serving some of her famous chicken.” He patted himself on his still small but burgeoning abdomen. A number of the jurors chuckled. “Ethel had spent her morning perusing the shelves at the local millinery, which, as we all know, is a much more expedient source of information than the local newspaper.” More jurors chuckled. “I was biting into a drumstick when she said, ‘Thomas, isn’t it awful about Dr. Hedstrom?’ And she proceeded to tell me the story of what had occurred. And I assure you, gentlemen, the slightest breeze wafting through the open window could have knocked me over after I heard the horrid tale my good wife told.”
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