“No!”
“Yes, Miss Cochran! Yes! So go ahead and print your story.” Order was restored in Jackson’s universe. Once again, he had the upper hand.
Suddenly Nellie smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. Jackson. That was my only point. And you made it very well.”
A puzzled look flooded Jackson’s face as it dawned on him that he had stepped into a trap. Nellie returned to the desk and resumed writing.
“ ‘A man is responsible for the reckless actions of an employee, and we should hold him accountable as such.’ A most succinct statement of principle. Thank you.”
She turned to Ratkin.
“I have no more questions for Colonel Jackson, Your Honor.” The room fell silent. Jackson glared at her murderously.
“You think you’re smart, don’t you, young lady?”
“No, I’m not smart, Mr. Jackson. I just don’t like thieves.” The word hung there for all to take it in.
“Mr. Shaeffer?” said Ratkin. “Your witness.”
Shaeffer stood up to contain the damage. But Jackson had had enough. In a fury, he got up and stalked out of the courtroom, leaving Shaeffer standing there flummoxed.
“I’m guessing he has no questions, Your Honor,” said Nellie. The jurors laughed.
“The witness is excused,” said Ratkin with a twinkle, looking at the empty chair and producing more laughs. “Your next witness?” he said to Nellie.
“I have no more witnesses. I see no reason to impose further on the jury’s time.”
“Mr. Shaeffer?” said Ratkin.
Shaeffer knew the jurors had made up their minds. Anything he said or did to prolong the trial would just make them angrier. It was time to minimize the damage.
“I have nothing, Your Honor.”
Closing arguments were pointless, and everyone knew it. The outcome was a fait accompli. A family had placed all of its money with the bank, the president had stolen the money, and no matter what anyone said, the bank was responsible. The logic was unassailable.
“I believe we can dispense with closing arguments, Your Honor,” said Shaeffer, rising to his feet. “The bank will acknowledge its responsibility for Colonel Jackson’s actions.”
A gasp went up in the courtroom. In the gallery, Mary Jane threw up her hands and yelled, “Glory be!” Tears welled up in Nellie’s eyes. It had been such an arduous struggle, trying to get justice after all these years. The money would not bring her father back or remove the awful memories, but at least, for the first time since she was a child, they would be out from under terrible financial pressures.
“Then I direct a verdict in favor of the plaintiff,” said Ratkin.
“Without objection, Your Honor,” said Shaeffer.
“Miss Cochran?”
“No objection, Your Honor,” said Nellie. She just shook her head. All these years they had dragged it out and then had just given up. She glanced at her mother, who was praying and giving thanks to God.
“Writ of inquiry as to damages, Your Honor,” said Shaeffer.
“So ordered,” said Ratkin. “I will direct the sheriff to begin the process.” Shaeffer sat down and began gathering papers.
Nellie was confused. “I don’t understand.”
“A defendant has the right to an independent assessment of damages,” said Ratkin.
“Isn’t that what the jury is for?”
“Not this jury. Once a plaintiff is found entitled to damages, a defendant can ask for an independent assessment by the sheriff and twelve jurors of his choosing.”
“What does the sheriff have to do with it?” asked Nellie, sensing disaster.
“The sheriff is the law enforcement officer in charge of collecting all debts.”
“But this jury just heard the case. They can decide what the bank owes us.”
“Not if the defendant asks for a writ of inquiry. The bank owes you money, Miss Cochran. That is clear. The writ of inquiry panel will determine how much they owe you.”
She could see her victory slipping away. Everyone in the courtroom could.
“Is the sheriff elected or appointed?” she asked.
“The sheriff is appointed, by the county council.”
“They pay his salary?”
“That’s right.”
Then it hit her. “Is Mr. Jackson on the council?”
“He is the chairman of the council. But the sheriff will act independently.” Ratkin turned to the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your time. You are dismissed.”
“You mean that’s it?” the jury foreman, a mill worker in his forties, asked indignantly.
“Your work is done here.”
“But what about the money that’s owed to Miss Cochran and her family?”
“That is none of your concern—”
“Of course it’s our concern. She’s entitled to it!”
“This court is now adjourned.” Ratkin tapped his gavel and left the room. No one else moved. Nellie just sat there stunned. Shaeffer put his papers in his pouch and walked over to her.
“Congratulations, Miss Cochran,” he said and walked out, unable to suppress a smile.
Chapter Twelve
“Should we get the wagon? Or do you want to keep making an ass of yourself?”
Nellie had always hated her aunt. But she had to admit that Lucy was right. Of course the bank would never allow her to win. She should have realized that before she’d ever set foot in the courtroom.
The jurors had come over one by one and offered condolences as if it were a funeral, which in many ways it was. She was burying the last vestiges of hope. The powerful would always control the weak. That would never change. The stories she had written about women and children in factories and slums and asylums didn’t really matter. That was the stark truth of it. The inertia of the world was too great. There might be outrage for a week or two, but once the public moved on to the next story, things would remain as before. The rich would get richer; the poor would struggle and die early.
That was the real reason she had resisted working on the Emma Lazarus story, she realized. It would bring home this most unpleasant truth yet again, and she just didn’t want to face it anymore. Even if she could somehow show that Emma had been murdered, what difference would it make? The people who killed her would not be brought to justice. Pulitzer might publish a story in the World, and there might even be a hue and cry, but Hilton and DeKay and Barker would go unpunished.
She was better off writing about gardens and fashion for the Dispatch. The pay was better, and this way she would be nearer to her sisters, who could help take care of her mother. Working for the World was exciting, yes, but it was a false excitement, like trying on a dress you couldn’t afford and no one would let you wear anyhow.
“I think we’ll go to the train, Aunt Lucy.”
They arrived at the livery, a large two-story building with a balcony up top.
Nellie dreaded the thought of seeing her sisters. In their letters they had been so hopeful that their time working sixteen-hour days in the factories would come to an end. The last time Nellie had seen them, they looked so worn down, they could have passed for ten years older than Nellie instead of three and five years younger.
An attentive man in his early twenties with a thick mustache, earnest eyes, ragged suspenders, and a shirt several sizes too large jumped up from his bench outside the stable.
“May I help you?” he asked in a thick Eastern European accent.
“Yes, Hunkie,” said the aunt condescendingly. “Bring my wagon around.”
To Lucy, everyone from Eastern Europe was a Hunkie. All the Irish Catholics were micks, the Italians wops, the Jews kikes, and, of course, the few blacks in Apollo niggers. Nor did Lucy think her own ethnic group, the Black Irish, was any better. Lucy resented anyone trying to get ahead, as if managing to move up the economic ladder was proof of her own shortcomings.
The
man brought the horse and carriage around to the entrance. He had rubbed the carriage seat clean of dust and brushed off the horse. He proudly held the reins tight as Lucy climbed up to the driver’s seat.
“Well,” said Lucy, looking down at Nellie and Mary Jane, “get a move on.”
Mary Jane balked at climbing up. Nellie realized they had forgotten the footstool at her aunt’s house.
“Do you have a footstool?” she asked the attendant.
The man look confused.
“Do you have a footstool?” Lucy said with impatience.
He still looked confused. Nellie realized he didn’t speak English. She pointed to her feet and mimed climbing on to the carriage. He caught on and motioned for her to wait a moment. He hurried inside the livery and brought out a stool, setting it down for Mary Jane and then helping her into the carriage. Then he took the stool and walked around to the other side, beckoned Nellie to come over, and helped her into her seat. She smiled at his solicitous manner.
“Thank you,” she said kindly.
“You’re welcome,” he said with pleasure in a thick European accent and handed Lucy the reins. She clucked and the horse began walking. The man waved good-bye.
“Nice fellow,” said Mary Jane.
“I think the only words he knows in English are thank you,” said Lucy sourly.
“Well, if that’s the case,” said Mary Jane, “he should go far.”
Nellie agreed. With that kind of energy and eagerness to please, the man would go far. She thought back to the immigrants at Castle Garden. They had such courage, risking their lives to make a weeks- or months-long journey in wretched conditions to a place where they knew no one, had no money, and couldn’t speak the language. And the whole system was set up against them: thieves, con men, bureaucrats, and angry nativists awaiting them on their arrival. Still they came, by the hundreds of thousands, fueled by nothing but hope for a better life. Nellie understood why Emma had fought for them.
How did she do it? Nellie wondered. Where did she get the hope, the faith that she could actually change things? Yes, Emma came from wealth, but that didn’t protect her from the enemies she was taking on, the parasites at Castle Garden or the hateful heir to the most successful department stores in America. The chances of prevailing in any of those situations had seemed impossible, but Emma had persevered—more than that, she’d actually succeeded. Emma saw an injustice and was willing to fight it, whatever daunting forces lurked on the other side. Nellie admired that so much. She didn’t have that kind of fortitude. Oh, she had worked hard to get a job in New York and managed to land the Bellevue story and a position on the World staff, but she had been fighting discouragement the whole way and had nearly given into it dozens of times. If Emma ever felt discouraged, she certainly never succumbed to it.
Suddenly Nellie didn’t feel quite so alone. The struggles to work in a man’s world or to fight a bank that cheated her family had been so lonely. No one really understood what that was like, not even Ingram. But the trails Emma had tried to blaze were every bit as rugged as Nellie’s. In her own eyes, Nellie fell short by comparison, but at last she had a guide, a beacon, someone who would have understood all she had to go through.
For the first time, Nellie saw why this assignment was so important to Pulitzer.
They had killed her, and letting Emma Lazarus die without getting to the bottom of what happened was like letting her die by the side of the road and then walking away. Emma, above all people, was entitled to a proper burial, and that meant exposing how she’d died. Justice would not come easily. Her murderers would almost certainly not be brought to legal justice. They were too powerful, too well-protected. But they might at least be brought to social justice.
She couldn’t wait to go back to New York.
Chapter Thirteen
The sensible next step, Nellie knew as she rode the train back to New York, was to take Ingram’s suggestion and get hold of a piece of Emma’s clothing, verify that the death was a murder, link DeKay definitively to the crime, and then link DeKay to Hilton. But after the travesty in the Apollo courtroom, Nellie was too angry with powerful men like Henry Hilton to be patient and methodical. She wanted to confront Hilton and let him know she knew exactly what he had done to Emma and that she wouldn’t rest until the rest of the world knew it as well. It was a foolhardy and even dangerous approach, which she rationalized by thinking it might pressure Hilton into making a mistake. The nub of it, though, was she wanted to punch the bully in the nose and show she wasn’t afraid of him.
Arranging to see him, however, would not be all that easy. Hilton loathed the press. With unending ridicule, both Republican and Democratic papers would point out how he had colossally mismanaged and bungled the immense fortune he’d inherited and lost more money than all but a handful of men in history had ever earned. As a result, Hilton had essentially closed off all communications with the fourth estate. He particularly despised the World and Joseph Pulitzer, for the additional transgression of trumpeting one of the sensational crimes of the century, a crime that had brought pain and embarrassment to Hilton and the family of A.T. Stewart.
It was a story well-known to anyone who worked at the World, alluded to often in the newsroom. On June 2, 1878, two years after Stewart’s funeral, the body of the department store magnate suddenly disappeared from its two-story crypt, with only a ransom note for an undisclosed sum in its place. “The Missing Corpse Grave Robbery” generated twelve-point banner headlines for days and became the talk of the entire country. The public found the story of “the lifeless body of the richest man in American history, held for ransom by common thieves” abhorrent, sacrilegious, and, needless to say, riveting. A massive hunt for the corpse ensued, with the New York City police force and Pinkerton detectives pursuing every possible lead twenty-four hours a day. Then suddenly, two weeks after the corpse-napping, Hilton announced that the body had been found and returned to its grave, and the search was called off. No one was ever arrested and no ransom sum ever disclosed, and Hilton refused to say anything more on the matter.
But much of the press, especially the World, refused to let the story die. Had Hilton actually paid the ransom? Had the grave robbers been found, and if so, why hadn’t they been arrested? Was the entire matter a hoax, to distract the public from Hilton’s enormous business losses? Through it all, Hilton remained silent, and the more he stonewalled, the greater and more outrageous the speculation. He pleaded with the press to leave Stewart’s family alone, but Pulitzer knew he had a compelling story on his hands and refused to drop it, doubling and even tripling the number of reporters assigned to it. In front-page editorials, Pulitzer even wondered if Hilton had simply taken an unclaimed body from the Manhattan morgue and placed it in the Stewart crypt to put an end to the matter and free himself from exorbitant ransom demands. When Hilton, through a friendly publisher, attacked the World’s speculations as “malevolent,” Pulitzer demanded to know exactly how much had been paid to “the purported thieves”—the World always referred to the story’s grave-robbers as “purported” or “so-called”—and called upon Hilton to produce them. The public devoured the coverage, and the World sold more papers relating to “The Missing Corpse Grave Robbery” than any other story in the entire nineteenth century. Hilton became so outraged at the coverage that he brought a criminal libel suit against Pulitzer—which, of course, only prolonged the controversy and sold yet more copies of the World. (The charges were dismissed. The World headline the next day: “Court Finds for World, Hilton Can’t Find Corpse.”)
As a reporter for the World, it would be next to impossible for Nellie to meet with Hilton if she identified herself, particularly regarding a story on Emma Lazarus, and given his reclusive life and layers of security, even more difficult for her to talk her way in with a false identity. But she was absolutely determined to see him, and she knew exactly how she would approach him if she ever got the chance. Hilton, like most men with power, en
joyed ignoring rules. It was a sign of special status that he could get away with things no one else would dare try, that his money and connections could transcend accountability. One reason Hilton hated Pulitzer so much was that he had no sway with Pulitzer; this immigrant son of a Jewish mother had held his feet to the fire with the corpse-napping, against all common decency. Emma Lazarus had treated him the same way. Nellie sensed that if she could get Hilton going on this subject, he might build a head of steam so great that he’d edge into bragging about poisoning Emma—which would only make the story that much more convincing and sensational.
But how to get in to see him? She considered possibilities the entire train ride back from Pittsburg, discarding each one as either too transparent or too shabby to win her a visit with the man who had sued the World and its publisher. Finally, as they approached the massive railroad yard of New York’s Pennsylvania Station, she came up with an idea. It wasn’t perfect, and she could use it only once, but it would get her face to face with Henry Hilton.
She hurried to the World’s archives and found exactly what she wanted. Not long after inheriting A.T. Stewart’s money, Hilton had constructed one of the largest and most lavish mansions in America, Woodlawn Park, outside of Saratoga Springs. Although the property was already among the grandest in New York State, Hilton immediately added six hundred acres of surrounding land and stocked it with expensive show animals, including sixteen prize-winning stallions upon whom nothing was spared. “They have their own private train car, which takes them from the door of the home stable at Saratoga to all the principal horse shows,” wrote the Times. “They are rubbed and fairly polished by expert grooms, and their beds are immaculately clean straw.” Hilton enjoyed owning horses so much, he expanded his stock farm to dozens of Holstein and Guernsey cattle, Southdown sheep, poultry, and purebred dogs.
The house itself was extraordinarily elaborate. Its entrance included an eight-foot-high marble statue of Hiawatha created by the legendary Augustus Saint-Gaudens. The grounds had fifteen thousand trees and nearly as many bushes. (Hilton entertained thoughts of a flower garden to rival that of Versailles, but roses made him sneeze, so he kept it at a more modest level.) When first completed six years before, the grounds had been mentioned, though not reviewed, in New York’s newspapers. Since then, however, much landscaping had been added, and the gardens were now fully mature. For once, Nellie’s experience as a garden reporter would come in handy. She approached Hilton’s office in Manhattan and, using the name Elizabeth Cochran, told them she wanted to write a story on Woodlawn Park’s handsome gardens ten years later. They wired back the same day that Mr. Hilton was amenable to the story and would be delighted to show Miss Cochran the gardens himself the following day.
The New Colossus Page 12
