by Amy Stewart
“He’s not our Mr. Kaufman,” Norma said.
“I think he is ours after all this time,” Fleurette said. “He is our very own personal Black Hander. Most girls don’t have one.”
Sheriff Heath gave her a grave look. “You mustn’t make a joke of this.”
“We’ve been telling her that all along,” I said. I turned to scold Fleurette yet again. “Sheriff Heath and his men sacrificed their own safety to guard our house. Don’t let me hear you make light of it again, especially at the courthouse.”
She shrugged and looked out the window. I wondered if we had worked too hard to protect her. She felt so utterly secure that she seemed to believe no harm could ever come to her.
As we drove into Hackensack, it seemed that the sun had brightened the spirits of the entire town. Schoolchildren were skipping rope in the playground, mothers were out walking with their babies, and shopkeepers were lingering outside their storefronts with cigarettes. I thought I could see buds breaking on the cherry trees, but that might have been my hopeful imagination.
AT THE COURTHOUSE Deputy Morris took charge of us and led us to an empty room where we were to wait our turn. “I’m afraid they’re running behind,” he said. “But now that the sheriff’s back, I’m sure things will move along.”
Still we waited for the better part of an hour. I’d brought a book, Norma had her newspaper, and Fleurette just fidgeted and complained that no one told her to bring something to keep herself occupied.
“I’m telling you now,” Norma snapped at last. “When you go places, bring things to keep yourself occupied. There.”
After an interminable wait, Deputy Morris returned and brought us down the long paneled corridor to the entrance to a courtroom. The door was closed and a few of Sheriff Heath’s men stood guard. They looked at us nervously.
“The girls aren’t to see him,” one of the guards said to Deputy Morris.
“I thought he was finished.”
The guard shook his head. “He’s still in there yelling and pounding the table and kicking up a fuss. Never seen a man so obstinate. He’s not coming to stay with us, is he?”
Deputy Morris frowned. “I don’t want him under our roof any more than you do, but if a prison term is what he deserves, that’s what he’ll get.”
“Are you talking about Henry Kaufman?” I said. “Is he in there?”
The men looked at us in surprise as if they’d forgotten all about us. From inside the room came the sound of chairs scuffing around on the floor and men arguing in low voices. One of the guards leaned against the door.
Deputy Morris gestured down the corridor. “Ladies, why don’t we just go back and wait.”
Just then the door burst open and the guard was knocked off his feet. Henry Kaufman pushed past him, red-faced and wild-eyed, strands of hair plastered against his forehead with sweat. I was standing in front of Fleurette. Before anyone could react, he lunged at me.
“You! You’re behind this!” he roared. He rushed at me but I pushed back, shoving him against the wall just as I had the previous summer. The only reason his head didn’t hit the wall with the same satisfying crack is that two officers were already on me, tugging at my shoulders and slowing my momentum.
“Take your hands off her,” Morris shouted, which elicited a round of smothered laughter from the spectators. Henry Kaufman may have been the aggressor, but I had him pinned and the officers couldn’t pull me away from him.
For just a second, Henry Kaufman and I stared each other down. I’d been running from this man for the better part of a year, but now I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to look into the face of the person he’d been tormenting. But although his eyes were forced in my direction, there was a black emptiness to them. They could have been two cold stones for all the humanity they revealed. He may have once been a petulant and spoiled child, but he had become a drunk and deranged man, and I saw in his face little possibility of redemption. That only made me want to shake him harder. Maybe I could knock loose whatever horrible thing was wedged inside of him.
He looked around wildly when he realized that the officers had let go of my arms. They were going to let me have him. I had gathered up his collar in one hand and used the other hand to press his shoulder against the wall.
“Not a word,” I said in a low voice meant only for him. It thrilled me to have him in my grasp. I felt like a hawk about to devour a fish.
I heard a rustle behind me and looked around to see Sheriff Heath standing in the doorway, wearing an expression I could not read. No one had ever stared at me as intently as he was at that moment. He seemed to be mesmerized.
In the calmest voice I could muster, I said, “Sheriff Heath, has he given you your writing sample?”
He blinked in surprise and then smiled slowly. “He has not, Miss Kopp. He’s been uncooperative.”
I looked down at Mr. Kaufman, who was squirming under my grip. “Go and do what the sheriff says,” I said. “I’ll be waiting right here.”
I gave him another hard push against the wall and shoved him toward the doorway. The sheriff clasped him on the shoulder and guided him back into the courtroom, then shot one last strange, still look at me before closing the door.
Once inside, we could hear Mr. Kaufman yell, “What’s going to be done about that? I want charges brought up against that lady.”
The deputies gathered around the door to hear.
Mr. Kaufman growled something unintelligible, and Sheriff Heath replied, “Now, who would ever believe that you’d have any trouble fighting off a lady, Mr. Kaufman?”
HENRY KAUFMAN did make a handwriting sample that day. When the door opened and Sheriff Heath indicated that all was well, I let Deputy Morris lead us away so we wouldn’t run into him again. At last it was our turn to sit in the courtroom with the sheriff and write out our copies of the letters. I hadn’t seen the letters since I had turned them over to him. It was unsettling to read them again, and even more unsettling to write out the very words that had been used to threaten us.
If you don’t pay we will fire your house. We know your horse and wagon.
We will trap you or burn you.
Have you ever been to Chicago? We believe a girl of your talents would find a nice place for herself with no trouble at all.
Fleurette’s hand shook a little as she wrote that line. I watched her face as she bent over the paper and I thought about all the hours Norma and I spent teaching her to write her letters. She copied out poems and stories, wrote notes to her uncles in Brooklyn, and composed messages for Norma’s pigeons to carry. Mother taught her to write in French. Francis showed her what little he remembered of musical notation. As I watched her, I couldn’t help but see the little girl she used to be, concentrating on her studies, not a nearly grown woman cooperating in a criminal investigation.
AS WE WALKED DOWN the courthouse steps with Deputy Morris, we met a guard holding a prisoner by the arm. It was George Ewing in shabby brown overalls. His limp was worse as he hobbled up the stairs.
I moved to put myself between him and Fleurette, and spun her around to face away from him. He’d threatened to kidnap her. I didn’t even want him to see her.
Deputy Morris hurried us past him, but it was too late. Mr. Ewing shouted after us, “Is that you? Constance Kopp? And your sister?”
I froze and gripped Fleurette so she wouldn’t move.
The guard shoved him through the courthouse door, but he fought to keep it open and kept shouting at me. “Miss Kopp! Don’t let them send me to Trenton! Don’t make me go back!”
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and looked at Deputy Morris with astonishment.
“I’m sorry about that, Miss Kopp. They shouldn’t have brought him through this way. He’s not supposed to see any of you.”
In as calm a voice as I could muster, I said, “What was that about going to Trenton?”
Deputy Morris shrugged. “I don’t know. He went in for a hearing yesterday about his senten
cing. He doesn’t want to go back to state prison. I guess he thought he was going to serve his time here.”
“What’s the difference?” I said.
“Oh, the state prison’s terrible. Foul, dark, cold, overrun with rats and lice. Nobody wants to go to state prison.”
“There’s an easy way to stay out of prison,” Norma said. “Don’t break the law.”
49
“PLEASE DON’T TELL ME that yet another man is writing threatening letters,” Sheriff Heath said when I was admitted to his office the next day. “I haven’t the manpower to keep the criminal element away from the Kopp sisters.”
“I had an idea about George Ewing,” I said.
He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “Why not? No less than five of the finest legal minds in Bergen County have already reviewed the case, and several of our lesser minds have considered it as well. What’s your idea?”
I said nothing but waited for him to remember his manners.
“Pardon me, Miss Kopp. Please. Go ahead.”
I sat down across from him. “When he shouted at us on the courthouse steps yesterday—”
“Yes, I’m very sorry about that. We have a passageway for bringing prisoners from the jail to the courthouse, but they were doing some work there. They shouldn’t have brought him around without checking to make sure you’d gone home.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “But he said he didn’t want to go back to prison in Trenton.”
Sheriff Heath shrugged. “Of course he doesn’t want to go to Trenton. It’s the worst prison in the state.”
“He likes it better here?”
“Well, it’s clean, the food is edible, and we wash their clothes once in a while. We don’t treat them like pigs in filth. And you know, he got beat up in Trenton. That wooden leg makes him a target.”
“Then why don’t you make a deal with him?” I said.
He didn’t say a word, but I could see him considering the idea.
“Offer to let him serve his term here in Hackensack as long as he agrees to tell the truth,” I said. “Make him promise not to claim responsibility for crimes he didn’t commit.”
The sheriff looked up at the ceiling. “It’s not a bad thought,” he said. “We haven’t been able to come up with anything to offer him. It didn’t even occur to us that he expected to serve his time here. Now that he knows he’s going back to Trenton, maybe he would be more willing to negotiate.”
“Is that something you can do? Can you fix it so he stays in Hackensack?”
He jumped to his feet. “I think so. We’re still waiting for the sentencing, but we have a good judge on the case. The question is whether we can get Ewing to go along with it. Perhaps you could convince him, Miss Kopp.”
I gripped the sides of my chair. “Me? Why should I talk to him?”
“He’s been asking about you. He seems to be genuinely sorry for what he’s done. Don’t worry—there will be steel bars between you. You’ll be completely safe. This time I actually can promise you that.”
“Right now? But I . . .”
“Unless you haven’t the nerve,” he said, flashing one of his rare smiles.
“Of course I have the nerve,” I muttered.
I followed him out of his office and down a corridor I hadn’t seen before, into a narrow room furnished only with a row of white chairs. Along one wall was a series of small metal doors, each the size of a cupboard.
“My guard is bringing Mr. Ewing down now,” the sheriff said. “I’ll do most of the talking. Don’t answer any personal questions.”
I nodded and took a seat. He continued, “Just try to win him over and encourage him to tell the truth. Remind him that he’ll be out soon and there’s no need to claim responsibility for someone else’s crimes.”
Just then the cupboard door slid open, and I was faced with a row of metal bars and, behind them, a sleepy and surprised George Ewing.
He broke into a smile when he saw me, exposing those crooked front teeth. “Miss Kopp! I didn’t think it’d be you!”
Sheriff Heath leaned around so Mr. Ewing could see him and said, “George, Miss Kopp asked especially about coming to visit with you.”
The prisoner nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. He had an innocent and earnest air about him. He seemed like the kind of man who could easily be talked into wrongdoing. He was pale and gaunt, with newly shorn hair and a clean shave. His eyes were ever so slightly too far apart, and his lips trembled when he spoke, giving him a kind of stutter.
He turned back to me, leaning into the bars of the window and speaking to me in a near-whisper. “Miss Kopp. Miss Kopp. Don’t let them send me back there. Can’t you say a word to the judge? Nothing too terrible happened to you and your sisters, did it? Just a bunch of threats, but you girls are all right, aren’t you?”
Sheriff Heath raised his hand to stop him. “George, Miss Kopp came to me this morning with a fine idea. I wonder if you’d be willing to consider it.”
He looked back and forth at us with suspicion. “I don’t usually like it when the sheriff has an idea.”
“I think you’ll like this one,” Sheriff Heath said. “What would you say if I went to the judge and asked him to let you serve your sentence here in Hackensack?”
He leaned forward and grabbed the bars. “You would do that? Sheriff, you would do that for me?”
“I think I—”
But Mr. Ewing wouldn’t let him continue. “You know, I’ve been in a dozen jails in New Jersey, and there is not a one as fine as yours, Sheriff. I’ve been telling the other men. Some of them have never been to jail before, so they don’t know how good they have it in here, Sheriff. It’s a fine place, sir, it really is, and it would be an honor to serve my sentence here. I thank you, sir, for the invitation. I accept. I do. I accept.”
“Well, that’s not all there is to it, George,” he said.
Mr. Ewing let go of the bars and sat back. “What else is there, Sheriff? Do I gotta pay rent? What’s the catch?”
Sheriff Heath suppressed a smile. “If I could get rent from each of you, I’d have a much easier time with the Freeholders. No, George, what I need you to do is to stop taking credit for Henry Kaufman’s crimes. Just tell the truth about what you did, but don’t go around taking responsibility for the rest of it. Henry Kaufman’s got to be punished. You need to help us with that.”
Ewing filled his cheeks with air and blew them out, then raised his hands in a sign of bewilderment. “I don’t know what you mean, Sheriff. Why would any man claim responsibility for a crime he didn’t commit?”
“Because he was being paid to do so,” I suggested.
“Paid?” George Ewing said, leaning forward in surprise. “You can get paid for that?”
“Or threatened. Did Henry Kaufman threaten to come after you if you didn’t confess to the whole thing?”
He looked down at his hands and mumbled, “Something like that.”
I leaned over and whispered in the sheriff’s ear. “Can’t we put him on a train as soon as he’s served his time?” Sheriff Heath glanced at me and nodded.
“Listen, George. You just do your part. Tell the truth about this every time you’re asked. You might be called to testify at Henry Kaufman’s trial. Just tell them what really happened, and I’ll keep you right here in Hackensack and make sure no harm comes to you. I’ll even put you on a train when we set you free.”
“You will?” he said.
Sheriff Heath nodded. “I’ll drive you to the train station myself. I’ll see that you get on safely. Where would you like to go, George?”
He sat back in his chair and let out a long breath. “Oh, boy, sheriff. I’m going to have to think about that. Can I let you know later?”
Sheriff Heath grinned. “You can let me know in six months, George.”
AFTER GEORGE EWING WAS LED AWAY, the sheriff stood and called for the guard to let us out. “I have to say, Miss Kopp. That was the best break
we’ve had a long time. I might even go talk to John Ward. With this kind of leverage, maybe we can get a confession out of Kaufman.”
“Who’s John Ward?” I said, following him down the corridor.
“Kaufman’s lawyer. You’ve seen them together.”
I stopped. “Ward? Are you sure that’s his name?”
Sheriff Heath turned around and frowned at me. “Of course that’s his name. I’ve known John for years. I serve divorce papers and eviction notices for him. Although why he got mixed up with a man like Kaufman—”
“Then we’ve got him,” I blurted out.
“Who?”
“Just—that’s it. We’ve got him.”
50
SHERIFF HEATH DROVE ME HOME and waited while I ran inside for the envelope. I’d hidden it in a bureau that we’d moved from my room to Mother’s to barricade the windows. I stood looking at that bureau, a curiously dark, hand-painted piece of Viennese artistry, and thought how strange it was that its latest purpose had been to shield us from bullets.
I rushed down the stairs, saying not a word to Fleurette, who was at her sewing machine, or to Norma, who was completing some kind of small carpentry project in the washing room. The sheriff pulled away as soon as I was back in the car. “Wait,” he said. “Let me see it.”
He stopped in the middle of the road and took the envelope from me. There, in Henri LaMotte’s faint handwriting, was the lawyer’s name: Ward.
“I can’t believe I missed this,” he said. “These are the same photographs you showed me before?”
I nodded. “I didn’t know who Ward was until you told me.”
Without a word, he handed the envelope back to me and lifted his foot from the brake.
THE LAW FIRM OF WARD & McGINNIS kept a suite of rooms in the Second National Bank on Colt Street, one of those monstrous brick and limestone affairs with every sort of column, dormer, tower, and Corinthian flourish known to the stone-carvers of the previous century. It had survived a fire that burned most of the city when Fleurette was a little girl, and traces of black soot were still lodged in the crevices of its scrollwork, giving it the appearance of a building that had been drawn in artist’s charcoal.
