A Respectable Actress

by Dorothy Love

  “Objection, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor.

  “Overruled.”

  Philip nodded to the judge. “Now, Mr. Avery?”

  The officer took the paper. “‘The lead ball enclosed herewith was taken from the Southern Palace Theater on the afternoon of Sunday last, in the presence of Mr. Sinclair, Miss Hartley, and Officer McGee.’” He looked up at Philip. “What are you trying to prove?”

  “That this ball was overlooked in your initial search of the theater.”

  “So? That don’t prove it had anything to do with this case. It coulda been there for ages.”

  “Or it could have been fired that very evening and been overlooked. Isn’t that possible?”

  The officer thrust the paper at Philip. “You can say whatever you want, but I did my job, and we got the right person on trial here. Just ’cause she’s pretty and more famous than God Himself don’t mean she ain’t guilty as sin.”

  CHAPTER 19

  JANUARY 31

  THE NIGHT SEEMED ENDLESS. INDIA LAY ON HER LUMPY cot in her cell, alternating between wakefulness and dark, terrifying dreams. She woke, stiff and gritty-eyed, to a sliver of sunlight creeping across the floor and the hollow clanking of metal in the corridor. She lay quietly for a moment, waiting for her thoughts to clear. Yesterday, after Officer Avery read the note from the sergeant into the record, she had allowed herself to hope the judge might dismiss the charges against her. But it hadn’t happened. Instead, Mr. McLendon had abruptly rested his case. Today, Philip would present his witnesses, and then her fate would be in the hands of the jury.

  An officer unlocked her door and hurried her, along with three other women, through their morning ablutions. India splashed water on her face and hands and combed out her hair, grateful for the gift of the rosewater. Amazing how such small niceties mattered, when one was deprived of almost everything.

  “Come along,” the officer muttered when the last of the women had taken her turn at the washbasin. “We don’t want your ladyships’ breakfasts to get cold.”

  The morning meal consisted of lukewarm grits and a hard biscuit washed down with weak coffee. India managed a few bites before her stomach rebelled. She set aside the tray and paced her cell, six steps up, turn, six steps back.

  The woman in the cell across from her watched with an air of amusement. Cupping her hands around her tin coffee cup, she offered India a gap-toothed grin. “First time in, sweet pea?”

  “I’m not a criminal.”

  A burst of laughter and then: “Of course you aren’t. Ever’body in here is innocent.”

  India ignored the woman and tried to estimate the time. Court would convene at eight. Surely it was now past seven, and someone would come for her at any moment. She dreaded what was to come today, but if she didn’t get out of here soon, if she couldn’t see the sky and feel the sun and wind on her face, she would die.

  “Say,” the woman went on. “I know you. I heard the officers talkin’ about your case last night. They say you’ll hang for shooting the beloved Mr. Sterling.” She slurped her coffee and tossed the cup aside. “Not that he didn’t deserve it. From what I hear anyway.”

  India balled her fists and concentrated on taking one breath, then the next.

  “You got a good lawyer?”

  India was spared further conversation when the officer who had escorted her yesterday morning returned. “Ready, Miss Hartley?”

  He unlocked the door and took out his shackles. “I’m sorry about this, but there’s a passel of reporters outside, and rules is rules.”

  Wordlessly she held out her hands, and the manacles closed around her wrists. Outside, the officer halted while the police wagon was brought around. The reporters surged toward her, calling out questions. A photographer stepped behind the camera he had set up near the entrance. India was not about to stand stock still while a photo was processing. She turned abruptly. The officer boosted her into the police wagon, and they returned to the packed courthouse.

  Philip was already in his chair at the table. He rose and clasped both her hands as the manacles were removed. “India. How are you? Did you sleep at all?”

  “A little.” She rubbed her wrists and surveyed the crowd. She recognized several faces from yesterday. But Mrs. Mackay was not among them. “It wasn’t the most restful night I’ve ever had.”

  “Did they give you any breakfast?”

  “Grits and biscuits. I wasn’t very hungry.”

  “When was the last time you ate an actual meal?”

  She shrugged. If the woman at the jail was right, and she was to die, what difference did it make?

  His amber eyes searched her face. He looked tired too. And worried. “You can’t starve yourself to a not-guilty verdict.”

  “I’m too frightened to eat.”

  He offered a gentle smile. “Today it’s our turn. And we have a good chance. A very good chance.”

  “All rise,” the court clerk intoned, and everyone stood.

  Judge Bartlett swooped in, his black robe billowing like bats’ wings. “Court is in session. Are you ready, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “I am, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. McLendon?”

  The prosecutor bowed. “All set, Your Honor.”

  Judge Bartlett sipped from a glass of water. “Very well. Mr. Sinclair. You may proceed.”

  Philip began by describing for the jury India’s childhood in the theater, the death of her mother immediately following India’s birth, and then the loss of her aunt when India was ten. In the absence of live witnesses, he read a few of her theater notices praising her talent and the letters he’d solicited from her friends in Philadelphia and New York. He stressed that she had never before been charged with any crime. One by one, he handed the letters to the clerk, who then passed them to the judge.

  Judge Bartlett flipped through them and set them aside. “These seem to be in order. Duly witnessed and so forth.” He looked down at Philip. “Have you any live witnesses, Counselor?”

  Philip nodded. “The defense calls Colonel Joshua Culpepper.”

  India turned with everyone else to watch as a tall, bearded man, shoulders squared, his back ramrod straight, walked down the aisle. The clerk swore him in.

  “Colonel Culpepper,” Philip began. “You served in the Confederate army, I believe.”

  “I did indeed, sir. With the Chatham Artillery.”

  “Artillery. So you’re an expert in weaponry.”

  “Some say so, yes.”

  Philip walked over to the table where the evidence lay in view of the jury and picked up India’s gun. “I wonder if you can identify this weapon for the jury.”

  The colonel barely glanced at it. “That, sir, is a .44 Colt revolver.”

  “You’re familiar with it, then.”

  “Of course. It was one of the most popular revolvers made during the war. There are thousands of them still in use, I expect.”

  “Can you explain for the jury how this weapon works?”

  “It uses black powder as a propellant. You need a percussion cap to provide ignition for the
ball.”

  “By the ball, you mean the round lead ball that is propelled from the barrel when the weapon is fired.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Is this a weapon that’s quick and easy to load?”

  The colonel shook his head. “Anybody who uses one can tell you it takes time, a steady hand, and considerable strength to do so. And it’s cumbersome to reload. Heaven knows we paid a price for that on the battlefield.”

  “I see. Does the Colt .44 use any other type of ammunition?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Colt tried converting to metal cartridges a couple of years ago, but the results were quite disappointing. And in any case, a metal cartridge wouldn’t fit a .44 manufactured ten years ago.”

  Philip returned to the table, picked up the bag containing the ammunition he’d found at the theater. “Colonel Culpepper, this ball was taken from the theater two days ago. In your opinion, could it have been fired from Miss Hartley’s Colt .44?”

  The colonel studied the bullet. “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Philip strolled to the table and poured himself a glass of water. He sipped it and took his time returning to the witness stand. “Dr. Adams has testified that in his expert medical opinion, Mr. Sterling’s wound was likely caused by a metal cartridge. But you are quite sure Miss Hartley’s weapon could not have fired such a bullet. Is that correct?”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Mr. Sinclair. These days, metal bullets most likely come from a Remington .44.”

  “Could you explain to the jury why this is so?”

  “Metal cartridges come from more recent weapons, such as an 1868 breech loader. Remington has converted almost exclusively to metal cartridges.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They can be loaded faster than lead balls. They are less likely to misfire and are considerably more accurate.” The colonel shrugged. “It’s too bad we didn’t have these during the war. Things might have turned out differently.”

  Judge Bartlett banged his gavel. “Just stick to the facts, Colonel. This is not the time or place to debate the outcome of the war.”

  Philip clasped his hands and paced for a moment, his head down. Returning to the witness, he said, “Let me be sure I understand your testimony. You have testified that the lead ball found lodged in the wall at the theater and entered into evidence could have come from Miss Hartley’s weapon.”

  “Yes. Or one exactly like it.”

  “And you have just told us that Colt .44s are less accurate and more likely to misfire than a Remington using a metal cartridge.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “As an expert in weapons and ammunition, Colonel, would you say it’s possible that Miss Hartley’s gun discharged a wild shot that missed Mr. Sterling altogether and lodged instead in the wall, where it was overlooked by the investigating officers?”

  “Objection!” Mr. McLendon rose from his chair. “There is absolutely no evidence that anyone except the defendant fired a weapon that night. Mr. Sinclair is engaging in wild speculation that can only confuse the jury.”

  “On the contrary,” Philip shot back. “I’m trying to show that there is more than reasonable doubt that—”

  “Gentlemen!” Judge Bartlett banged his gavel, silencing them both.

  “All right.” The judge sat back in his chair. “Now, do you have any more questions for this witness?”

  “No further questions.”

  Judge Bartlett raised his brow at the prosecutor. “Mr. McLendon?”

  The prosecutor strolled over to the witness stand, his hands in the pockets of his smoke-colored trousers. “About this lead ball that was so conveniently discovered at the theater on Sunday afternoon. Can you tell how long it might have been lodged in the wall where Mr. Sinclair just happened to find it?”

  Colonel Culpepper blinked. “Well, of course there’s no way to tell for sure, but—”

  “Thank you, Colonel. Now. Would you say that a person who owns a gun generally is acquainted with the feel and heft of the weapon?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “So in the case of the defendant, even in the dark, she would reasonably be expected to recognize that the weapon in her hand was her own.” The prosecutor looked over at the jury, a smug expression on his face.

  “Not necessarily.”

  India watched in hopeful disbelief as the prosecutor paled at the unexpected answer.

  “Not necessarily, Colonel?”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Very well. That’s all.”

  “Judge?” Philip approached the bench. “Since Mr. McLendon has opened up this subject, I’d like to ask the colonel here another question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Philip approached the witness box. “Colonel, I wonder if you would explain the answer you just gave the prosecutor. If I understand you correctly you have testified that my client could have picked up the weapon in question thinking it was the prop the theater manager had provided, and not recognized it as her own. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Except for the kind of ammunition they use, the Colt and the Remington are nearly identical. They each weigh just under three pounds. They each have an overall length of approximately fourteen inches. And they each have an eight-inch barrel.” The colonel leaned back in his chair. “Good gravy, Mr. Sinclair. In the dark like that, I doubt if even I could have told the two apart.”

  “Objection to that last observation, Judge,” said the prosecutor.

  “Sustained.”

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Philip said. “But I’d like to request a meeting with you and Mr. McLendon in chambers.”

  “You mean now?”

  “If it please the court.”

  “Very well. We’ll be in recess for half an hour.”

  Philip glanced at India as he and the prosecutor left the courtroom. She couldn’t read his expression, but she couldn’t help feeling the colonel’s testimony surely would sway the jury.

  An officer appeared at her side, arms crossed, as if he needed to remind her not to flee. “You need anything, miss?”

  “Some more water?”

  He signaled to another officer, who hurried away and returned momentarily with a pitcher of fresh water. The minutes crawled by. India drank her water and ventured a look at the jury. Some looked anxious, some weary. Others looked annoyed at the delay.

  At last the door to the judge’s chambers opened, and the three men came in. One look at Philip’s face and India knew that whatever legal ploy he’d tried had failed.

  The judge resumed his seat and tapped the gavel again. India flinched. “Gentlemen,” the judge began. “Mr. Sinclair has requested an immediate acquittal based upon reasonable doubt arising from the testimony of Colonel Culpepper. And while I see his point, I’m inclined to let the jury do its duty and decide the merits of this case. Mr. Sinclair, have you any other witnesses?”

  “No, Your Honor.”r />
  “Then make your case, and let’s get on with this.”

  Philip studied his notes. Took a long sip of water. He gave India’s shoulder a quick squeeze before crossing the courtroom to face the men who would decide her fate.

  “Gentlemen. You have heard, in absentia, from many people acquainted with Miss Hartley’s life and work. You have heard that she is a beloved mistress of her craft and a woman who brings delight to audiences all over the world. You have heard that she came here to Savannah to begin a tour of the finest theaters across the South. Theaters willing to pay her a great deal of money.”

  Someone in the gallery coughed. Skirts rustled. A door opened and closed.

  “Murder is the result of fear,” Philip went on. “Fear of losing money or love or position, fear of not getting what you want. Fear of losing what has been hard won. Miss Hartley has none of that fear. She enjoys the abiding affection of her public, the loyalty of her friends. In short, contrary to the emotional testimony of Mr. Sterling’s . . . companion, India Hartley had no reason to kill a man she’d just met.”

  He paused, and India saw that he was assessing the effect of his words on the jury. The two men nearest her sat with heads down, but the others stared at Philip, their faces impassive. The room had gone still. The judge, the reporters, the spectators in the gallery sat rapt. Perhaps if her very life were not hanging in the balance, she, too, would have found his summation as fascinating as any play.

  Philip went on. “Now, a beloved citizen of Savannah has been taken from our midst, and society demands that someone must pay. But that someone should not be India Hartley. You have heard testimony that Mr. Sterling may have had a heart condition that contributed to his demise. You have heard from Dr. Adams that in his opinion, Mr. Sterling’s wound was caused by a metal cartridge. A cartridge that could not possibly have been fired from Miss Hartley’s gun. A gun that uses only lead bullets identical to the one found in the theater. A gun that the police assures us is in fact the murder weapon, because they quit looking for evidence too soon.