The Bedford cord was hanging on a nail in the dress closet at the top of the stairs during all the police searches. It remained there until Saturday evening, after the funeral and the mayor and commissioner's visit, when Emma took it out because she knew it was spoilt and needed a nail for her own dress.
She said something about why I hadn't gotten rid of the dress as yet, and that is when I took it downstairs to the kitchen.
There, I tore it into several pieces, rolled up and set in the coal closet. It was there, right in front, laying on top of the coal-filled scuttle -- not hidden in the back, or buried beneath a pile of coal.
That, in itself, should show you how incompetent and ineffectual the police searchers actually were. They searched through the house at least half a dozen times between the murders and Sunday, when I burned it. Yet, they never found its rolled up remains -- even when they, apparently, were looking specifically for that particular, blue Bedford cord dress.
Now, while I wore the pink-and-white wrapper that morning, Bridget wore a blue calico dress with a darker figure on a medium ground. Later, after I had discovered poor Abby's bloodied remains, I changed into the silk Bengaline -- a fairly deep blue with a tiny lighter pattern in it.
No matter what Mrs. Churchill said at the inquest -- which I later read -- I was not wearing the Bedford cord. How could I be? It took only a minute to walk from her house -- a matter of possibly fifteen or twenty yards -- to be with me. Since I was wearing the silk Bengaline, I could not have had time to change.
Later, that afternoon, when Bridget returned to her room, she changed into yet another blue calico dress. So, it is fairly easy to see how anyone might have gotten confused. Between the stress of the circumstances, and both Bridget and I wearing blue dresses, muddling the dresses together was not surprising. Perhaps even, it was an inevitability. After all, in the midst of everything going on, who really paid attention to what other people were wearing? I should think the most salient point was that moments after finding my father's body I had not one speck of blood on me.
I was also surprised to discover how many blue dresses were in our home. Emma testified she had gone through our clothes and discovered, of the nineteen garments stored in the second-floor landing closet, ten were blue. I had eight, Emma two, and there was a blue dress of Abby's, as well. When I sat in the courtroom and heard the trial testimony -- as always, in silence -- I did listen most carefully. I noticed Mrs. Churchill contradicted her inquest testimony, denying she ever said I had been wearing the Bedford cord dress when I called to her. The seamstress told of how the dress had been stained with paint -- a dark brown paint. Then Alice admitted, though I did burn the dress, I had made no attempt to hide what I was doing or burn it in secret.
My lead trial attorney was an ex-governor of our fair state. Mr. Robinson had been a very popular politician known for his speeches. He questioned all the state's so-called "expert witnesses" about the axes and hatchets the police found in the house and barn. But, much to District Attorney Knowlton's dismay, nary a one of them would commit themselves to positively identifying any of them as the "murder weapon." All they would say was that any one of them "might" have been the murder weapon.
Mr. Robinson actually laughed at the policeman who testified about the hatchet -- the one suspiciously covered in coal dust. After all it had been found in the coal room -- where everything was coated in coal ash and dust.
Even when the prosecution managed to slip some of the pharmacist's testimony into the trial record, Mr. Robinson questioned the pharmacist who claimed to have positively identified me as the lady who tried to by prussic acid. The interrogation forced him to admit, to the amusement of the people in court, just how he had "identified" me.
He told of how the police had positioned him outside our house, in the dark, standing in our shrubberies beneath a parlor window listening to Alice, Emma and I as we sat chatting. When Mr. Robinson asked him why the police hadn't at least let him see me -- if, after all, he was so sure of me being the woman he claimed -- he hemmed and stammered, and flushed beet red, but had no answer.
Mr. Robinson reminded the jury that out of everything the police had examined -- the axes and hatchets, my shoes and the clothes I had worn when I found Father -- they only discovered one miniscule pinhead drop of blood. And that was on the back of my petticoat, and on the inside.
Another of the prosecution's "experts" spoke of how they examined everything I had been wearing the day of the murders, and they had only been able to uncover that one spot of blood. They made much of this one, lone blood spot. Or, at least, they tried to.
But my defense counsel argued, asking how would it be possible for me to kill my father in such a brutal fashion, and escape splattering any blood on me, other than that one tiny drop?
Mr. Robinson's clear implication was that the speck of blood could only have gotten on the inside of my petticoat one way -- the most obvious way, at least for any woman of child-bearing age.
The prosecution tried to make it sound as though this might have gotten on my petticoat as I stood over Abby's body. However, even they did not have the audacity to suggest I had stripped naked to kill my father and stepmother. This was presented, rather sarcastically, by my own counsel.
Initially, the idea of me -- or anyone else, for that matter -- wandering about unclothed shocked me to my very soul. But, upon thinking on it, I came to see that anyone who could bludgeon their father and stepmother to death in such a brutal way, would probably have no scruples about parading around as naked as the day of their birth.
I experienced several bad moments during the proceeding. Having Father and Abby's wounds described in detail was terrible enough. Even worse was when District Attorney Knowlton inadvertently tossed an item onto the evidence table. Unfortunately, he overshot the empty space and the item caught a drape cloth, causing it to slip off and float to the floor. This revealed my parents skulls -- their bones bleached white, so every blow was brutally displayed.
Certain newspaper reports claimed I had cried out before sliding beneath the defense table in a dead faint. That was not true. It was complete twaddle. I may have let out a soft gasp. While I will admit I did feel a bit woozy, I am certain I never lost consciousness. I did lay my head upon my arms on the desk for a moment.
What I could never quite fathom was how people reacted to this. The people who said I had swooned insisted it proved my culpability. Those who alleged I had not fainted, claimed my lack of emotion showed just how heartless and unfeeling I was, proving I must be guilty. It appeared no matter what I did or said, or how I acted, I was guilty.
Yet, still, each morning I was instructed to do just as I had done every day before -- sit quietly and demurely, and allow my lawyers to deal with everything.
Chapter Fifteen
I will say the one thing that truly astonished me during the trial was the dramatic change in little Bridget. I remembered how she had howled in terror when the policemen had come to take her to the inquest for her testimony. Even after they finally made it clear they were not arresting her, she shook with fright -- her voice quaking with fear as she clutched her tatty shawl around her faded calico dress.
I had not been present at her inquest testimony, but I, like everyone else in the English-speaking world, had read the transcripts. Her testimony had been made in short, nervous answers. It also seemed the stenographer had been forced to constantly ask her to repeat her replies, or speak louder.
But now, my goodness. She strutted into the courtroom in a new and most fashionable, emerald-green dress. Now, Emma brought me all the fashion magazines, so even though I was in custody, I knew all the new styles -- and this most definitely was the newest.
It was made of a luxurious and obviously expensive fabric, and she wore a plumed hat that matched the dress perfectly. For a fleeting moment, I envied her -- me, a Borden, envious of a poor Irish immigrant girl. But, it was such a lovely outfit and, in the end, I was a woman.
The
young woman who paraded into the courtroom was not the same girl who befriended me in the house on Second Street and made me laugh and smile so often. Oh, no! This was a mature woman, serene and confident, and much more worldly than I, even though I was several years her senior.
I was amazed at the self-assured woman who took the stand. She was more confident than anyone I had ever known before -- except for my father, perhaps. She spoke her answers in a high, clear voice. She was deliberate and firm in her responses, and refused to let the Prosecutor lead her into saying something she did not mean.
I also found her testimony now most interesting. While she did not actually change anything, per say, there were very slight and subtle differences in her trial answers.
I do not know how can I explain these fine differences. At the time, it seemed not to be so much about what she said, but what she did not say, if that makes any sense at all. At one point, something amusing was said -- or at least suggested -- and she caught my eye and smiled at me.
It was then, when she looked at me so smugly, that I had been filled with the most uncomfortable feeling she had been paid for her testimony. Just something in the way Emma eyed her, while Mr. Jennings avoided her gaze, made me certain I had guessed correctly.
This was the only time during the trial I feared Emma had done something... not right. To my surprise, this grieved me more than Father’s death. For, of course I believed if she had done anything improper, she had done it for my benefit.
*****
After waiting all those many months for the trial, it really went fairly quickly. This was most fortuitous, for I had been aware for those last several months that my nerves were failing. I often found myself weeping quietly in my cell throughout the night, for no clear reason -- other than I was in prison for the murder of my parents and could be hung if found guilty.
God bless Mrs. Wright, she did her best to keep me calm. But calm was something that became more and more difficult to attain. As unlikely as it would seem, I found the hours after the trial even more stressful then the time I spent in court.
My defense team -- who had been so unwilling to consult with me before the trial -- took to visiting me every evening after court ended for the day. They would go over all that had gone on in that day -- blow by blow, so to speak.
My sister came along with them and often remained afterward as I tried to eat my supper and relax. The truth was, Emma had begun acting most odd. At the time, I thought she must look on this as "protective," but I found it suffocating and controlling. For, you see, she suddenly seemed unable to allow me to be visited by anyone without her being present.
By the end, I almost wished I would be found guilty and put to death, and be done with it all.
*****
So, one by one, my defense team poked what holes they could in the state's evidence and theories. Meanwhile, the jury sat listening to it all. At last, the day came when the jury was charged to decide my fate. I am sure that both District Attorney Knowlton and Governor Robinson waxed poetic in their final statements.
To be honest, I could not tell you what either of them said in their closing arguments. For, by that time I was almost catatonic with tension. I could barely catch my breath, my stomach roiled as if I were on a ship in a storm, and my heart threatened to burst out of my chest.
And so I sat, white knuckled, between Mr. Jennings and Governor Robinson, my soul silently screaming within me. Still, with the exception of my sweating palms -- thankfully hidden inside of kid gloves that would be ruined by the time I removed them -- I think I managed to keep up an outward appearance of composure.
*****
Once again, we were led to the matron's room’s to wait for the jury to decide my fate. I was both hopeful and anxious. I so wanted to believe I would be freed. However, I was afraid to even think it -- fearing it would somehow jinx my neck into the noose.
So I sat, surrounded by my attorneys, friends and Emma, and waited. It is a fact that time seems to cease when you are waiting for something. Sitting there in that room, waiting for the decision of the jury, was no different.
I waited, doing my best to sit quietly and tried to think of something else -- anything else. However, the truth was, there was nothing else to think of. So in the end, I sat and listening to the clock on the mantle, wondering if it was counting down the minutes of my life or of my death. For in reality, I felt that, either way, the sands of my own life’s hourglass were trickling through my fingers.
And, not surprisingly, the time seemed interminable to me.
Thankfully, I was not forced to wait very long. We filed back into the courtroom and took our places. It was there I waited to see if I was to be hanged for the murder of my father and stepmother.
The jury only took an hour to decide my fate. Over the years, I have wondered whether this showed their confidence in my innocence, or did it indicate they did not consider my innocence or guilt worthy of their time.
My attorneys surrounded me while Mr. Jennings gave me an encouraging squeeze of the hand, and a pleasant and calming smile. The judges came in and took their seats without so much as a glance in my direction.
A hush went out -- throughout the courtroom, the courthouse, and the street. It electrified the air like a lightning bolt… and we all sat anticipating its accompanying clap of thunder.
I truly did think this at the time. I felt as though time had stopped, but what struck me as so very odd was it seemed everyone around felt the same way.
The jurors entered the room and stated they were prepared to announce the verdict. I looked at them -- these twelve men -- so similar to my poor dead father in so many ways. The difference was that Father had loved me, and I did not know if these men even cared about me -- about whether I lived or died.
As I had lain in bed in my cell the night before, it had occurred to me that by joining the jury, those men had attained an importance most of them could never have expected to achieve. I wrestled with this -- contemplating whether it would make them evaluate the evidence put before them carefully, or would they be caught up in the circus my trial had become.
I had not paid much attention to them before. I had hesitated studying them because I did not wish to make them uncomfortable -- but I also did not want to really see them -- these deciders of my fate. Now, I looked into each wrinkled and whiskered face. I tried to determine what it was they had decided. But, alas, I was not able to discern what they decided would become of me. They remained mysterious, aloof, and indefatigable.
I waited as the verdict was read. At the moment I was declared not guilty, I took a great gulp of air and collapsed back down into my chair, sobbing. I was free!
Mr. Jennings and Mr. Robinson, and all of the people who had supported me for those many long months, crowded around me.
I was hugged, patted and kissed by friends and strangers alike. Finally, they took me back into Mrs. Reagan’s room one last time. When the carriage finally was able to fight its way through the tumultuous crowd, we were ushered out between rows of policemen.
I discovered we were not to go home, though. Our friends, the Holmes', were hosting a celebratory dinner party at their home for me. Of course, it was all very "cloak and daggers," and we had a devil of a time shuffling about in the crowded streets until we became lost among all the other closed carriages driving around.
Later, I learned Mr. Jennings had arranged for us to vacation on the Cape in a rented house. Several of the journalists apparently had carriages waiting for them, for they quickly followed and maintained a close pursuit of us for quite a while on our way to it. I distinctly remember this wild ride, and being dizzy from the roundabout route the driver took to escape our pursuers. We did not head for the countryside -- my friends, and my, first taste of freedom in nearly a year -- until the drivers were sure we were no longer followed.
I was incredibly happy to be out and about, but did not forget my time in captivity easily. From that first afternoon of regained freedom, I wo
uld never take for granted the ability to simply walk outside without asking permission of anyone, or being accompanied or even watched.
Freedom should be appreciated. The awful truth of the matter is that most of us don’t realize this until we lose it -- until we are no longer free. It was a something I would never again treat with cavalier disregard.
I must say Emma was most quiet through all of this. She had made her little bird-like smile when the jury announced its decision. However, it changed into her sour-milk face before we even reached the matron's room.
Mr. Jennings and the others congratulated one another for the successful conclusion of my trial, while I took in my first, sweet breaths of fresh, free air. Yet, through all of this, Emma sat still and mute. I had taken hold of her hand as soon as we were both safely ensconced within the carriage. Even though I had seen Emma nearly every day of my confinement, I had longed to be with her again. I had missed my dear sister, and thought she had missed me. Now, she seemed remote -- removed from all of us.
At first, I put this to the fact that she, too, had been under a great strain -- perhaps even more so than I. But, in the aftermath of what eventually happened, I realize I should have seen she was not only surprised by the verdict -- she was displeased.
Of course, now I see she was willing to put up the $5,000 reward because she knew no one would come forward. She never expected she would need to fulfill her generous offer of sharing Father’s estate, for the simple reason that she was confident I would be convicted.
The realization of all this, when it eventually came out, would devastate me. But at the time of my acquittal, I was ignorant of all of what was to come. All I knew was, I was free.
Sisterly Love: The Saga of Lizzie and Emma Borden Page 9
