For three weeks, Alba, Teddy, and Harold Rollingsworth worked on Dimitri’s case, gathering information—or ammunition, as Harold liked to call it—from dawn to dusk. Meanwhile, Jochen brought packages to Dimitri upon Alba’s instruction. The packages contained fruit and pastries and cheese—all secretly injected with animal blood. It was an odious task, but Jochen had agreed to do it. And when he delivered the food to Dimitri, it had passed inspection by way of Alba’s idea: he was to offer one bloodless pastry to the guard upon each visit.
As the defense team learned that the court date had been set for December seventh, Alba grew anxious. Dimitri had begun to deteriorate in prison, and during one of her visits he claimed that the animal blood was barely sustaining his existence. His comment that it tasted nothing like human blood set her stomach roiling. She tried to banish the vision of him sliding close to a tawdry prostitute . . . bending her head to the side . . . piercing her jugular vein with his sharp fangs.
“All right, Dimitri,” she said during her final visit to him before the trial started. They were sitting across from each other in a holding room. “It’s time to go over your testimony.”
“Why must I testify?” His eyes had receded into dark spheres. “I look like hell, and I’m turning into a madman in this infernal place. My appearance in the witness box can’t possibly help matters.”
“The jury wants to hear you say that you are innocent.”
“I am innocent.” He gathered her hand across the table. Luckily, the guard in the corner had fallen asleep in his chair. “I’m starved for you, Alba. I miss the scent of your hair—and the softness of your skin. I want to feel you touching me.”
After he tugged open a few of his shirt buttons, he pressed her hand to his chest. He was thinner, but Alba could still feel the hard ridge of his muscles.
“Dimitri,” she whispered in protest.
The guard’s head came crashing forward and the action knocked him from his sleep. Alba snatched away her hand while the guard eyed them and crossed his arms.
Alba met Dimitri’s gaze. “Tomorrow I want you to stay close to me in court and be responsive to what I tell you. The most significant thing you can portray is your sensitivity to women.”
Dimitri nodded. “Who will be your opponent?”
“A barrister named George Hargraves.”
“Is he any good?”
“Unfortunately, he is a piranha.”
The possibility that Dimitri Grigorescu was the gruesome Whitechapel murderer initiated talk of the trial of the century. In turn, the frenzy disseminated into an astounding event. On the first day of the trial, cameras flashed, scribblers pushed and shoved each other furiously, and a full-blown audience of news seekers circled the building like vultures homing in on their last meal.
Inside there wasn’t a seat to be had in the gallery. Heart thrumming, Alba glanced at the curtains drawn over the windows. Luckily her request that the courtroom be darkened in light of “Dimitri’s allergy to sunlight” had been accommodated. She didn’t know if the shadows would cure the lethargy Dimitri suffered in the daytime, but she hoped for the best.
George Hargraves stood and the room quieted. He moved toward the twelve-member jury panel with a solemn expression. A large, arrogant man, he possessed a long chin disproportionate to his short forehead.
Alba sucked in a breath.
“Violence. Crime. Filth,” he began. His dark brown eyes roved over Alba as if she were a first-year law student. “These are common sights in London’s impoverished East End. Whitechapel is home to a maze of dank, dirty streets. It’s a grim neighborhood, and perhaps that is why a sadistic killer chose it as his stomping ground. Eighty-thousand people, most of them unemployed, live in Whitechapel’s rotten, reeking tenements. The residents of these slums are people with smallpox and hungry children who have nothing to eat but scraps. What’s more, Whitechapel is home to countless single mothers ill with the knowledge that they’d do anything to break free of their pathetic social station.”
Dimitri scowled as he sat beside Alba. It was obvious that he disliked Hargraves intensely. While his eyes followed the blustering barrister, she took a glance at his handcuffs. Not only did the shackles connect his hands, its chain bound him to the table. It made Alba wonder: If Dimitri were free of the cuffs, would he have the strength to evaporate into a blue mist and float out the window?
“We, as a society, must protect these unfortunate residents of our city,” Hargraves continued. “Dr. Drake Griffin has been on the streets of Whitechapel often. He knows them well because the East End clinics are part of his rounds. In addition, the streets are elements of his duty as a surgeon at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.”
All eyes turned to Dimitri. In response, he straightened his posture.
Hargraves paced in front of the jury. “But don’t let Dr. Griffin’s handsome, debonair appearance fool you. He has expert anatomical knowledge, just as the killer of Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Kelly displayed. This heartless murderer slit these women’s throats before he tore out their organs and disemboweled them.”
Gasps sounded from the gallery at the shocking description.
“Drake Griffin arrived in London from Wales just before the first Whitechapel murder was committed. And most importantly, gentlemen”—Hargraves looked directly into the jurors’ eyes—“he was seen going into Mary Kelly’s house on the night her body was ripped to shreds.”
He paused for dramatic effect. “Thank you.”
Alba felt like fleeing the courtroom. It was always her first instinct when a crisis arose. But Dimitri needed her. He was depending on her talent as a barrister, and she was going to prove his innocence in her own way.
“Gentlemen,” she said, standing. “Everything my colleague, Mr. Hargraves, said was true.”
Murmurs and gasps raced around the courtroom. Even Dimitri shot her a dubious look.
“It’s true that the Whitechapel District is a horrific place—and that its unfortunate residents must be protected. It’s also true that Dr. Griffin has a connection to the East End. But I say his connection to the murders is purely coincidental. It is sheer happenstance that he arrived in London when the Whitechapel killings began. And it’s pure coincidence that he made his medical rounds in the East End on the night Mary Kelly lost her life.”
She paused to verify that her statements had seized everyone’s attention. They had.
“What’s more, there is another explanation for the report someone made about my client going into Mary Kelly’s house. I present to you the possibility that Mr. Griffin is being framed.”
With that, she sat down and raised an eyebrow at Hargraves. After thrusting her a look that said, “I may have underestimated you,” he swiveled away defiantly.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The trial, which seemed to go on forever, was a terrible strain on everyone.
Alba had assumed she was well prepared, but everywhere she turned George Hargraves was there to counteract her theories. When she tried to convince the jury that the murders of Polly Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Kelly weren’t linked, Hargraves brought attention to the fact that all of them were perpetrated at night—and that they’d taken place on or close to a weekend.
Alba had countered with the fact that the murders must have been committed by someone with a steady weekday job that left them free on the weekends. In return, Hargraves fired back that the killer probably planned things that way to throw suspicion away from himself. To Alba’s chagrin, the arrogant barrister also pointed out that Dimitri had been at work on the evening of the first two murders, but that he’d left the hospital early on those nights. And when the other murders had taken place, he wasn’t at the hospital at all.
When Alba had brought up the three letters allegedly sent to the media from Jack the Ripper, Hargraves juxtaposed her notion that Dimitri couldn’t have written them because they were inarticu
late. He proposed that Dimitri was smart enough to try and confuse the authorities by an apparent lack of academics.
The witnesses didn’t aid Alba’s endeavors either. During her questioning of the police surgeon, she raised the detail that not all the murder victims were brutalized the same way. Some of the women’s faces were mutilated, some were not. Some of them had certain organs removed, while some had not. The surgeon agreed, but then disintegrated her supposition by suggesting that the killer had been interrupted. He went on to say that he believed the murders were committed by one person because the victims’ throats were cut from the left to the right—at precisely the same angle.
Exasperated, Alba watched as Hargraves pushed the defense’s case to the edge. He proved that Dimitri was right-handed, that he possessed the kind of surgical knife used in the murders, and that the cessation of the Whitechapel murders coincided with his incarceration.
Finally, the day arrived for Dimitri to take the witness stand. On a positive note, the rumors that he was a vampire had been dispelled. (How could he have sustained the lengthy trial without drinking human blood?) What’s more, the witness who’d seen him enter Mary Kelly’s house had disappeared. Still, Alba and Harold Rollingsworth huddled anxiously together in the Old Bailey as a haggard Dimitri entered the courtroom. Moving as slowly as someone who’d been drugged, he took his place beside Alba. She had never seen him look so fatigued. He could barely keep his eyes open, and despite the fashionable clothes he was wearing, it appeared that he’d been stripped of all his resolve.
“Stay with me, Dimitri,” she whispered. “This shall be over soon.”
Just then, Teddy burst through the courtroom door and hastened to his father and Alba.
“I have something on Jochen Rhessa,” he whispered to them. “We must ask for a delay and bring him in to testify.”
Alba bolted out of her seat and addressed the Honorable Oliver Wentwood. “My lord, I must ask for a delay.”
Wentwood, who had grown even more portly since Tabitha Crowe’s trial, braided his hands over his huge belly. “May I ask your reason, Miss Spencer?”
“New information has come to light that shall aid in my client’s defense, my lord. If you grant us time this morning, we will present you with solid evidence this afternoon.”
Wentwood conversed with the other judges in a low tone. Then he nodded in concurrence. “You have piqued our interest, Miss Spencer. You shall have a four-hour continuance. But I daresay you’ve set high expectations for yourself.”
“Understood, Your Honor.” She watched the bailiff take Dimitri away and she couldn’t help but wonder if he would survive the rest of the trial. She wondered the same for herself. Her nerves were shot and her lack of sleep was catching up with her, yet she knew her troubles paled in comparison to Dimitri’s.
Stay strong.
Teddy helped her pack her papers inside her case. “Jochen is being held at Scotland Yard. I obtained a warrant for his arrest last night.”
“On what charge?” she asked.
“He was seen in the East End on the night of Mary Kelly’s murder.” Teddy took in a breath. “In fact, he stepped out with Kelly’s neighbor and friend, Dotty Malone. This Malone woman just came forward. She claims that Rhessa beat her—and she thinks he is capable of more than that.”
Alba could taste victory on her tongue. She and Teddy made their way to the brick compound and asked to see Jochen. When Jochen was thrust into an interrogation room with them, Alba wrinkled her nose. She could smell liquor on his breath from across the table.
“Miss Zpda,” Jochen began. He looked desperate and confused. “Why are you here? Can you help me?”
Alba glanced at Teddy, who gave her an encouraging nod. “As you know,” she said, “I’ve been defending Dimitri. If the truth does not come out, he will hang for a murder he didn’t commit.”
It seemed to dawn on Jochen that they were there to interrogate him, and he became edgy. “Did that bitch talk?”
“Bitch?” Teddy repeated.
“Dotty Malone.”
“Jochen.” Alba scowled. “Miss Malone told the police that you were with her in Whitechapel on the night Mary Kelly was murdered.”
“That whore doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”
“Dotty Malone was a friend and neighbor of Mary Kelly, Jochen.” She paused. “What aren’t you telling us?”
His fleshy eyelids drooped and he slumped forward. He didn’t say anything for a very long time.
Teddy leaned forward. His hulking shoulders formed an intimidating silhouette. “Rhessa. A man you’ve known for many years is about to face the gallows. If you tell us the truth now and testify in court, you might be granted some leniency.”
Jochen’s bloodshot eyes darted from Teddy to Alba. “I didn’t kill Mary Kelly. You have to believe me. Putting me on the witness stand will do Dr. Griffin no good.”
“Damn it!” Teddy pounded on the table. “You’ll face the jury right now and you will tell them exactly what happened on the night of November ninth whether you like it or not!”
Jochen’s forehead formed deep ridges. “Who are you exactly?” he asked.
Teddy sat back and glared at Jochen from beneath the rim of his beaver hat. Suddenly, he looked uncomfortable. “I am part of Dimitri’s counsel. And I’m his former friend.”
Alba pulled in a breath. “We shall see you in court shortly, Jochen.”
“I will have nothing to say!” Jochen’s voice echoed behind Alba and Teddy as they exited the tiny room. Feeling more lighthearted than they’d been in days, they traveled back to the Old Bailey.
“I daresay that sod will make a persuasive witness on the stand,” Teddy said. “He’s ugly and disheveled and looks as though he’s suffered a ghoulish past. The jurors will believe he’s capable of extreme violence.”
Alba had studied Jochen’s appearance as well, but she’d come to a different conclusion about it. “There is only one problem with the way Jochen looks. His description doesn’t match the majority of witness testimonies. Most say the Ripper was tall and elegantly dressed.”
“But,” Teddy said as they elbowed their way through the swarms of reporters, “there is one witness who places a stranger with Rhessa’s stocky build and hair color in the vicinity of Elizabeth Stride’s murder.”
“I don’t know if that sole description will be enough.”
Twenty minutes later, they rejoined Harold Rollingsworth at the semicircular defense table. “Thank God you’ve come back,” the elder Rollingsworth said in a low tone. “The natives are getting restless.”
Alba shot a look at the judges—and at the twelve jury members who sat below them on tiered benches. From this distance she couldn’t tell if they were agitated or not.
Where are my spectacles?
Teddy handed her a paper containing relevant facts about Jochen. Alba murmured a thank-you as she quickly scoured them. Then she handed the paper back to him. The side door opened and Dimitri was brought in. Saying a silent prayer, she watched Jochen enter the courtroom directly behind Dimitri. Anxiety climbed up her throat. It was a good thing Teddy was questioning Jochen since she might be too emotional.
Will he do an effective job?
“Jochen?” Dimitri whispered harshly to Alba. “He is your new development? What has he done?”
“Miss Spencer.” Lord Wentwood’s sharp tone prevented her from answering him. “You may question your emergency witness.”
Jochen had made himself slightly more presentable, but his appearance still bordered on the rough and slovenly. He climbed into the witness box and removed his deerstalker cap. As he was being sworn in, he raised one beefy hand and scowled at the sea of people before him.
Alba stood. “My colleague, Barrister Rollingsworth, will be questioning Mr. Rhessa, your lordship.”
“Very well.”
“Mr. Rhessa.” Teddy greeted Jochen as he approached the witness box.
To Alba, Jochen’s face lo
oked fuzzy from this distance, but she strained her eyes to make out the details of his expression.
“Please state your present post of employment,” Teddy instructed.
“I have been hired as a butler for Dimitri Gri—I mean, Dr. Drake Griffin.”
“Gentlemen of the jury.” Teddy raised an eyebrow. “I must backtrack for a moment. Drake Griffin was born in Romania. His given name is Dimitri Grigorescu. He legally changed it when he began to study medicine in the United Kingdom.”
Murmurs of surprise filtered through the courtroom.
Jochen grasped the railing in front of him with disdain. “I’ve been nothing but a loyal servant to Dr. Griffin.”
“The jury will decide that, Mr. Rhessa. Now, when did you first come to London?” Teddy asked.
He concentrated. “It was the end of August, it was.”
Teddy held up the sheet of paper he’d shown Alba. “Mr. Rhessa, according to your landlord at the Shires, a tenement in Whitechapel, you arrived in London on Wednesday, August 29, 1888.” He paused. “Do you know when the first gruesome East End murder took place?”
“N-no.”
“On Friday, August thirty-first.”
“That doesn’t prove anything!” Jochen fired back.
Alba stole a glance at Dimitri. He looked completely torn up.
“I propose to you, Mr. Rhessa, that during your brief stay in Whitechapel, you got to know many of the unfortunates there. Is that a fair statement?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“I may not know much about prostitutes,” Teddy said, “but I know that many of them try to have normal romantic relationships outside of their work.”
“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“Did you try and court these prostitutes, Mr. Rhessa?”
Jochen’s face turned scarlet. “There’s no crime in that.”
“I’m suggesting that you tried to have a romantic relationship with these prostitutes, but that they refused you,” Teddy said.
“You’re wrong,” Jochen growled.
Teddy strode to the front of the witness box and held Jochen’s gaze. “Would you consider being refused by a prostitute humiliating, Mr. Rhessa?”
Snow White and the Vampire (The Cursed Princes) Page 20
