“Did I not make myself clear?” Thayer said. “Another outburst and I will clear the gallery. Quiet. Quiet in the court. You will sit, miss, you will sit,” he said, pointing his gavel at Elizabeth.
Elizabeth took her seat and turned to William with a beseeching look.
When the gallery finally quieted, Jakob rose. “Since the defense has already conceded that a rape occurred, is it not possible to bypass any explicit questioning of the witness? Especially under the circumstances?”
“While your sensitive suggestion is admirable, Mr. Van der Veer, you must understand that in order for anyone—Mr. Harley or anyone else—to be convicted of the crime, there still has to be actual evidence presented.”
As Jakob once again sat down, Hotaling said, “Can you answer the question, Emma? Did someone do to you what I just described?”
She nodded.
“You must answer out loud.”
“Yes.”
“Can you describe this man for us?”
She opened her mouth and made a vague motion with one hand. “He was big and bald. He smelled like sawdust, like my father used to smell when he came home from work. His shirts had pleats in them. His mouth tasted like the doctor. He had a beard. Sometimes, all his words ran together.”
“Smelled like sawdust. Had a beard. Big and bald.” Hotaling gestured at Harley, the stout, bearded lumberman now slumped in his seat. “Can you tell us anything else about him?”
“No. It was always dark when he came.”
“No candles? No gaslight?”
“No.”
“You couldn’t see him?”
“No.” Emma’s mouth was working now, chewing the sides of her tongue.
“How many times did the man put his member inside you?”
Emma flinched. “I don’t remember.”
“More than once? Twice? A dozen times?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted to forget.”
“I see. Tell us, did you resist? Scream? Try to fight him off?”
“Yes, but he hit me when I wouldn’t do what he wanted.”
Thayer held aloft his gavel in stern warning, eyeing the courtroom with a steely gaze, but Emma’s revelation was met with breathless silence. Rigid lines of grief, newly impressed into the smooth young skin of her face, deepened. She yanked out a loosened strand from the rope of her braid and twined it around one finger.
“How many times did he hit you, Emma? Every time?” Hotaling said.
She stared at him, twining and untwining the one strand of hair.
“You’re a strong girl, Emma. You’re alive. Did you fight him? As much as you could?”
Her eyes glazed, and she whispered, “Yes, but it was hard. It felt like he was tearing me apart, like he was breaking me.”
A note of grim determination had set into the deep parentheses around Hotaling’s mouth and he leaned onto the railing of the witness stand with a confiding air. “You know the difference between right and wrong, don’t you? Are you sure you didn’t really want it? Weren’t you secretly excited? Weren’t you curious? Didn’t you ask for it?”
“No!” she screamed, and buried her face in her hands.
And there it was, the smear of accusation and blame hurled in courtrooms and police stations everywhere at rape victims, though this time, perversely, it was not the defense attorney doing the hurling, but the prosecution. But Hotaling had maintained that his job was to dredge up every nasty suspicion a jury might entertain and mitigate each one before the defense could manipulate those same doubts in their favor. It was the way of rape trials, he’d insisted. It was imperative to make the jury understand that Emma was a target of brutality. An unwilling participant. Prey to a predator. And unfortunately Emma was the only one who could persuade them. That certitude was a repetition of what William had said to Emma on Cape Cod, but Hotaling’s ugly manipulation of Emma’s emotions sickened William now. Elizabeth lay her hand on his forearm to forestall him from leaping out of his seat.
Hotaling let Emma hide behind her hands for a moment longer, then softened his tone and leaned forward. “Emma, you and I need to make this very clear so that the jury understands everything that happened. Look up. Look at me, now. Take your hands away from your face. That’s right. Did you fight him every time?”
Emma had gone blank-faced, and her response was desultory, dull. “Only at first.”
“Why only then?
She looked down at her hands, which she had folded on her lap. “I didn’t want him to hurt Claire. He said—he said if I did what he wanted, he wouldn’t hurt her.”
“Help me to understand. You didn’t fight so that he wouldn’t hurt your sister?”
“Yes.”
Hotaling deliberately paused and eyed the gallery. Several women were crying. There was a rustle as men, clearing throats suddenly thick with emotion, handed handkerchiefs across pew backs. After waiting for the stir to die down, Hotaling turned back to Emma. “We have only a little more work to do, you and I. Just one more thing. You got away from Mr. Harley. I want you to tell the court how you did that.”
Emma swallowed convulsively. It took a moment before she could speak. “I hit him with a shovel.”
Hotaling pulled a long-handled shovel from underneath the prosecution table. “Is this the shovel you used, Emma?”
She nodded, and he reminded her again to answer out loud.
“Yes.”
“I introduce this shovel, taken from the basement of the home of James Harley at 153 Green Street, into evidence.”
“Who took that shovel from that basement, Mr. Hotaling?” Thayer said.
“Officer Farrell, a policeman in the Fourth Precinct, who found the sisters.”
“You will later authenticate this, or any testimony related to this will be stricken. Is that understood?”
“I plan to authenticate with my next witness. Now, Emma, why did you hit Mr. Harley with this shovel?”
“I wanted to get away.”
“When did you hit him?”
“When the bells were ringing.”
“The night of the flood?”
“Yes.”
“I want you to come down here and show us what you did.”
The bailiff shambled over to offer Emma his hand, but she shimmied off the chair by herself. Hotaling handed her the shovel and backed away.
“Go on, Emma, now. Show us,” he said.
Emma heaved the shovel up over her head and then swung it downward with surprising force. Its tip struck a corner of the bench and a wedge of mahogany flew through the air and skittered past Hotaling’s feet. A titter of excitement trilled through the gallery as Emma lost control of the shovel and it clattered to the floor. The judge smoothed the collar of his robe and without resorting to his gavel waited for the crowd to quiet.
“Mr. Hotaling,” Thayer said. “In the future, please ask the permission of the court before you execute such an exciting display. Emma, you may return to your seat, unless Mr. Hotaling wishes to excite us all further?”
Hotaling handed the shovel to the clerk and Emma traipsed back to the witness chair. She seemed to have taken new energy from this physical exertion, as if the demonstration, awkward as it was, had unleashed the belief that her ordeal would soon end.
“Emma, where did you strike Mr. Harley?”
“In the neck.”
“Was Mr. Harley hurt?”
“I don’t know, but he fell down and he didn’t get up.”
Hotaling said, “Will the defendant please rise and show the jury the scar on the back of his neck?”
Jakob indicated to Harley to stand. A sheepish Harley rose and untied his necktie, unbuttoned his shirt, and pulled aside his collar to reveal the curved angry ribbon of a scar.
“Show the jury, Mr. Harley,” Thayer said.
Harley had not looked at Emma and he did not look at her now as he scuffed to the jury box and the jurors craned their necks to get a good view.
“Thank you,” Hotaling said. “You may return to your seat. Now, Emma, did you think you had killed him?”
Emma again eased her braid over one shoulder and nervously played with the loose hair at its end.
“It’s all right,” Hotaling said. “You can tell the truth.”
“Yes.”
“That is a kind of fighting to the death, isn’t it?”
Her eyes took on a livelier expression, understanding him now. “Yes.”
“Then what happened after that?”
“Claire and I ran upstairs and out of the house.”
“Where did you go?”
“I don’t know. Down an alley. Across a street.”
“Then what happened?”
“We slept for a while, I think. Officer Farrell woke us and put us in a wagon and took us to our house.”
“To your parents’ home?”
“Yes.”
“But they weren’t there, were they?”
“No.”
“Where did he take you next?”
“To Aunt Mary and Uncle William and Auntie Amelia’s house,” she said, looking up at Elizabeth. “They all took care of us.”
Elizabeth nodded at Emma as Hotaling declared Emma to be Jakob’s witness, and Emma, believing herself excused, scrambled down from the chair and ran toward Elizabeth and William, but the bailiff, newly nimble, caught her around the waist and said, “Not yet, missy. Not yet.”
Stricken, Emma burst into tears.
—
For several minutes, the sound of muffled weeping infiltrated every corner of the otherwise silent courtroom. The bailiff had used the break in between questioning to open one of the windows, and the restless murmuring of the crowd outside drifted in.
“Emma,” Judge Thayer said. “Do you need to be excused for a minute?”
Emma hung her head and covered her face with her hands. She did not look up or answer. William sprang to his feet and tapped Hotaling’s shoulder, but before Hotaling could even turn, Jakob rose from his place, took the handkerchief from William’s hand, and put it unfolded into Emma’s. She buried her face in the linen. The courtroom clock read three. Emma had been on the stand for an hour.
“Do you wish to be excused for a moment?” Thayer said again.
“Would I have to come back?”
Thayer regarded her from the full height of the great mahogany bench. “Didn’t someone explain this to you? That both lawyers have to ask you questions?”
Emma nodded.
“All right then. Now it is Mr. Van der Veer’s turn to ask you questions. But Mr. Hotaling might want to ask you something else when he is done, and then Mr. Van der Veer might need to again.”
“I want it to be over.”
“I understand. It will be, soon.”
She made no reply. Someone coughed. The sun went behind a cloud, casting a welcome shadow into the courtroom.
Thayer nodded to Jakob to begin, and he approached the stand, a kindly bent to his long, lean frame.
“Hello, Emma,” Jakob said. “Do you remember me? We met once, and I asked you several questions. Do you recall that?”
It was impossible to tell whether or not she did. She appeared removed now, shell-shocked, not really seeing him or anyone.
Jakob linked his hands behind his back. “Emma. I am Mr. Van der Veer. Do you remember me? We talked before.”
She looked up and nodded.
“All right then. I’m going to ask you a question. Do you remember that you promised to tell the truth?”
Emma’s gaze searched the room, again seeking out William and Elizabeth, and this time she found them and did not look away. “Yes.”
“Here is my first question. It’s very important.” Jakob turned then and surveyed the gallery and with this hesitation compelled the courtroom to train its collective gaze on him. “Can you tell us about that medal you’re wearing?”
The hint of a smile crossed her face and she wiped her face with William’s handkerchief, now bunched in one hand. “Uncle William gave it to me. He said I was very brave.”
“And so you are. Now I have another question. Did Mr. Harley ever hurt you?”
“No. He never hurt us. Not once.”
Emma’s quiet assertion provoked no outburst, though spectators craned their necks to get a glimpse of Harley, who looked more cornered than exonerated. Despite the opened window and the brief respite from the sun, it had grown ever warmer, and now people were fanning themselves with their gloved hands.
“If Mr. Harley didn’t hurt you, then who did?” Jakob said.
“The Other Man.”
“Can you explain to me about this other man? I’m a little confused.”
Emma bit her lips and then wiped them with the handkerchief. “Claire and I called Mr. Harley the Man, and the other man the Other Man.”
“So,” Jakob said. “Before, when you were describing being hurt to Mr. Hotaling, were you talking about Mr. Harley, who you call the Man, or were you talking about the Other Man?”
Emma braced herself against the seat of the chair. Her mouth was working again, the muscles in her cheek churning away as she chewed the edges of her tongue.
“The Other Man.”
A murmur ran through the courtroom, and Thayer frowned, silencing everyone.
“So it was the other man who hurt you and not Mr. Harley?”
“Yes.”
“Is the other man the one whose words slurred together, the one who tasted like the doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Where did Claire go when the other man hurt you?”
“Mr. Harley took Claire upstairs.”
“And that was when all the things you told us about before happened?”
Emma ducked her head. “Yes.”
“Since you ran from the cellar, have you ever encountered the other man on the street or anywhere?”
“No.”
“Is he here?”
She shrank again back into the chair, her expressionless gaze focused straight ahead. “I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you know?”
“I never saw him. It was always dark.”
“You couldn’t see his face?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“No.”
“Just a couple of questions more, Emma. Did you hit Mr. Harley on the back of the neck because he was the man who hurt you?”
She blinked and shook her head. “No. I just wanted to get away.”
“That is all. Thank you, Emma.” Jakob returned to his table and sank into his seat.
Thayer raised his eyebrows at Hotaling. “Redirect?”
“Emma,” Hotaling said, not bothering to rise. “You were away from home and afraid. Maybe you didn’t want to believe that the man who was kind to you and your sister was in fact the same man who was hurting you.”
“That is not a question, Mr. Hotaling,” Thayer said.
“I’ll repharase. Isn’t it possible, Emma, that it was too difficult for you to believe that Mr. Harley—who fed you and took care of you—would also hurt you?”
“But he didn’t.”
“But it was dark, wasn’t it? How could you tell?”
She shook her head. “I just could.”
“Perhaps Mr. Harley returned after he took Claire upstairs?”
“No.”
“Tell us what you did when the man was attacking you.”
She looked up, uncomprehending.
“What I mean is, what did you think about, during the attacks?” Hota
ling said.
“I went away.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shut my eyes and pretended I was somewhere else.”
“You pretended that you were somewhere else? Then how could you notice anything?” Hotaling paused, waiting for her to answer, letting her nonanswer speak for itself. He said, “Nothing further.”
William looked at Elizabeth, who answered his grave glance with one of her own.
Thayer sought out Jakob, who held up three fingers, indicating he would ask three questions.
“Emma?” Thayer said. “Mr. Van der Veer needs to ask you something else. Just a few questions. And then it will be over. Then you can leave. Do you understand?”
Emma wiped one cheek with the flat palm of one hand, the handkerchief having been wetted through. She turned toward Thayer and nodded.
Jakob rose, but stayed at his table. “Where were you in the house when Mr. Harley took Claire away?”
“Downstairs. In the cellar.”
“And where were Mr. Harley and your sister?”
“Upstairs.”
“And then the other man would come downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“I want to ask you just a few more questions, all right?”
Emma nodded.
“You said before that you went away when the other man was with you. That you pretended you were somewhere else?”
She regarded him warily, conscious that she had stumbled before. “Yes.”
“But could you hear anything?”
“Leading the witness,” Hotaling said.
“I’ll allow.”
Emma’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Footsteps.”
“Upstairs? Heavy ones?”
“Yes. And Claire’s, too.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
“So, there had to be two men, didn’t there, one man upstairs—Mr. Harley—and one downstairs—the person you call the Other Man—because you always heard footsteps?”
Emma uttered a breathless, relieved Yes. Jakob turned to the jury, to make certain they registered Emma’s bright certitude.
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