by Jeffrey Lent
The fellow cocked his head and a slight frown passed over his face before he composed himself. “The judge is already in his chambers.”
“So early as this?”
The man said nothing but was intently studying Malcolm. He shrugged and said, “I’ll tell the sheriff what you asked and he’ll decide what to do. It might be a while before anyone can get down to you.”
During the war he’d seen many men who held news or at least rumors of news and would speak in such a way as to convey that they did so, or to test if the bearer was not alone with that news, and so Malcolm understood this man. But all he said was, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The man regarded him a long pause as if coming to a decision and then spoke. “I’ll pass the message.” He turned and crossed toward the stairs.
“I thank you.”
The man glanced back, hesitated, and then turned again and went up the stairs. When the door opened it seemed there was a brief loud babble of voices but Malcolm could not say if it was different from any other day or if he was only noticing it for the first time. He went to the remainder of the bucket of fresh water that was brought in evenings and knelt to cup his hands and drink, then washed his hands and face best he could and combed out his hair and beard with his fingers.
He went back to the bunk and sat, his hands on his knees, as he watched the faint light grow slowly brighter in the high western windows.
He stood at the sound of the door and boot falls upon the stairs and watched as the judge was followed down by Enoch Stone. He kept his eyes on the judge, only once glancing at Stone as they came to a stop now side by side some feet from the bars. Stone’s clothing was dusty as if he’d been traveling for days and his face sagged, eyes circled dark with fatigue. Malcolm looked swiftly back at the judge, who was neat in his suit, his hair brushed down upon his shoulders and his face freshly shaven, eyes bright and alert.
The judge said, “You asked for me?”
“I did.”
“Go ahead, then.”
“May I ask a question before I get to my matter?”
“You may.”
“This man.” Without taking his eyes from the judge, he tilted his head to indicate Stone. “I never hired him.”
“He’s working in your interest.”
“I’m sure he believes as much,” Malcolm said. “But let me speak plainly. My understanding is that a man accused, such as I am, has a right to hire an attorney of his choice. Is that correct?”
“It is. Of course. Unless you can’t afford one and then the court will appoint one for you.”
“I may also act as my own attorney, is that not so?”
“Generally speaking, as judge, I try to discourage such a course. Few laymen have such knowledge of the law to undertake their own defense in a reasonable fashion. And as I said, he’s working in your interest.”
Malcolm nodded. “I can fire him?”
“I would not recommend it.”
Malcolm paused and then said, “I’ve just fought a war over the idea of one man having full and total control over another. Without that other man’s consent.”
The judge paused and considered this. Enoch Stone remained silent. Malcolm waited, not taking his eyes from the judge.
Finally Judge Gordon said, “I take your point. Is that why you asked to see me? This morning?”
“It is not. But I’d not expected him to be with you.”
“You wish to speak in confidence?”
“I do.”
The judge turned to the man beside him and said, “Esquire, I ask you to leave. We can discuss this later.”
Stone looked from the judge to Malcolm and back to the judge.
The judge said, “I have my own obligations and duties. And I’d dare say you need rest. I’ll send word when I’m ready to speak with you.” He turned back to Malcolm.
Stone paused, his face of a sudden deeply flushed. He said, “My intentions are only the best. Regardless of these sad events. Malcolm Hopeton—”
The judge interrupted: “Sir. There’s been no shortage of foolery and I’d have it stop now. As should be apparent to you as well.”
Enoch Stone regained himself, squared his shoulders and raised his chin to glance down his nose upon the caged man and lifted his eyebrows. He said, “You’ll need me yet.” Then turned on his heel away from the judge and made for the stairs.
Both the judge and Malcolm Hopeton listened to him go, listened for the door to open and shut above.
Malcolm stood silent.
The judge said, “You asked to speak with me and here I am. What would you say?”
“It’s simple in my mind but grows complicated as I try to put voice to it.”
The judge nodded. “Recall, I’m familiar with many of the details. Perhaps more than you’re aware. So speak simply and I’ll question as I need to.”
“My wife,” Malcolm said and stopped. Then went on. “I take full responsibility for my actions. I shall plead guilty to the murders.”
“We can discuss your plea and the charges presently. I believe you were about to speak of your wife.”
“She is—she was not the woman so many make her out to be.”
The judge stroked his mustache with thumb and index finger of one hand. In a deferential tone he said, “Oft times there are aspects of a person we do not know. No mother’s son is ever guilty being the most obvious example.”
“Exactly. Almost.”
“Go on.”
“I gravely miscalculated Amos Wheeler. I’d never have left her had I an inkling of his true nature. This was my first mistake.”
“You can assert that of him yet not allow the same possibility of your wife?”
“Yes. Yes, I most certainly can.” He paused and went on. “I knew her true nature. She shared all of herself with me. It’s difficult to speak of.”
“Say what you will. There is nothing formal to this conversation. I’m listening and I’ll advise. All of which falls within my purview. It’s the difference between a judge and an attorney: I not only offer judgment according to the law, but I’m charged with making the points of the law clear to all who come before me. What they do with that knowledge is their business. Unless, in my view, they’re going astray and then I reserve the right to counsel again. Is that clear to you, Malcolm Hopeton?”
“It seems generous of you.”
“The law is generous. It is lawyers with their angles, hopes, dreams, wild expectations that make the law seem a rigid thing.”
“We are gone afield from what I wished to say.”
“You summoned me intending to right a wrong. You may be correct in wishing to do so, but it’s my job to ensure you do so knowing the range of your options to achieve what you would. Let us return to the subject of your wife.”
“Thank you. I wish only my chance to stand in a courtroom and speak of her, of all she carried into my life, what we made together that apart neither of us truly had—also of the ways I failed her, countless and horrible. Right up to that final wretched morning these few short weeks past. And why I ask for no pity, save for her. There are a multitude of stories and events that must be told, in order to correct the prevailing judgment of Bethany Hopeton. That is my only wish, to do so best I can. If I fail, the failure will be my lack of eloquence. But I’ll not fail for lack of trying.”
“And so you rebuke the efforts of Enoch Stone?”
“I do not know Stone. But his effort is rooted with her father, David Schofield. A man who never knew his daughter. To that statement I can fully swear and with great certainty.”
The judge pulled his watch from his vest pocket and studied it. He replaced the watch and said, “You may be right. But let’s speak of that man later. Let me understand fully: Your sole goal is to exonerate your wife, Bethany Schofield Hopeton, from the role most all people have determined heartily belongs to her?”
“I do. I shall. I care not what it costs me. She was not that woman.”
&nbs
p; “It might cost you your life, as you plan it now.”
Malcolm paused and waited. He felt his heart beat strong in his chest. He answered, “I believe it should.”
The judge held up a hand. “Allow me to explain. What you seek, correct me if I’m wrong, is an open venue to address the prevailing view of your wife’s activities these past years, to bring your own account public, to make clear that you believe her to be a victim, rather than a collaborator, of Amos Wheeler. Am I correct so far?”
“I wish to make clear that my inaction, what I see now as a somewhat willful blindness, allowed me to pursue a course I was bent upon. Regardless, my inaction placed her in a great and terrible jeopardy. It’s of vital importance that this truth be allowed to come out.”
“Let me ask you again, because I seek to be certain of your intent: You will do this with the full understanding that it would mean your death.”
Hopeton paused. Then said, “No man seeks his own death. In fact I welcomed it after my brutal attack upon her. But it came to me that in order to have the truth be told, I must face life, to not walk mutely to the gallows but to stand alive as I might and speak for her.”
The judge nodded.
Malcolm said, “And you have allowed me to fire Enoch Stone. Who, perhaps well-meaning, was acting against the truth, in concert with Bethany’s father.”
The judge nodded again. Then said, “I know little of your relations with Mr. Schofield. But why would you suppose he’d do such a thing, if there was not truth to it?”
“I do not know him. He as much as cast her out once she found me. By her account he’d cast her out long ago. My understanding is these actions of his were a madness of another kind, one twisted by fear, some version of God, of the Lord, that blinded him to the most natural business of life. That is all I can fairly say about him; I could speak at greater length of my own experience but my only care is to shed clear light upon Bethany.”
“I do believe you speak your true convictions. Now, if you will allow me to outline the steps you must take.”
“If they don’t suit my intentions, am I bound to them?”
“You’re bound to nothing.”
Malcolm waited, silent.
The judge said, “You need an attorney. You fired Enoch Stone and for reasons I’ll disclose, that was the correct choice. You do not have acquaintance with a lawyer?”
“When I first returned from the war I’d thought of finding one. But I was attempting to set things right and I yet hoped Bethany would return to me. I already had an understanding of the truth of the matter; there was a young hired man—”
“Harlan Davis.”
“He’d informed me of most all that had happened. But to answer your question, I have no attorney. My grandfather passed the farm to me by simple quit-claim deed before his death.”
The judge nodded. “I can recommend a couple of lawyers who would stand well beside you. You will be charged with two counts of manslaughter and you will plead not guilty.”
“No.”
“Sir. Please allow me. As I said, you’re bound to nothing. If you determine to not take my advice, that’s your right.”
The judge waited then and Malcolm stood in deep frown. Finally he said, “Go on.”
“The first and most important consideration is this will allow you the venue you desire. You will be allowed to speak at any and all length. The county prosecutor will object; that’s his job. But there are other factors to be considered as well. If you plead guilty to that or any greater charge, the jury will think you insane, for, as you yourself said, no man wishes to die. And that will cloud how they hear everything you have to say. Listen to the mad fool rant, would, in my experience, sum up what most will think. You’d find sympathy, but more for you than for your wife. Do you understand that?”
Malcolm held his frown, his lips pressed tight.
The judge went on. “Juries are strange things, made of individuals but tending to flow together in a current. But there’s more to support the plea I suggest.”
“I truly only care for the truth of my wife to be known, to counter the rumors and ill talk that have circulated about her, that her father would perpetuate.”
“Well.” The judge cleared his throat and again stroked his mustache, studying briefly one well-polished boot tip, then looked again upon Malcolm. “Allow me to conclude in my own fashion. The hired boy, Harlan Davis. He also would testify to the events that transpired while you were at the war. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s already told me what he saw that unfortunate morning.”
“I was insane then.”
“Not a term you should use. Tell me. Did Amos Wheeler employ that derringer pistol upon you?”
“No. I’m sure Bethany was terribly frightened just by riding in. I can’t imagine what they were thinking but Amos Wheeler believed he could talk himself out of anything.”
“I’m too well familiar with the Wheeler family and their particular belief that whatever the world held, was theirs by simple right of existence. So she fired the gun.”
“I can’t see how such action, even undertaken in fear of the moment, would encourage people to believe my account of her. I fear you are going afield with this notion of yours.”
The judge sighed and said, “After he came and spoke with you, Dr. Ogden came to my chambers.”
Malcolm gazed blank upon the judge, then dropped his chin to his chest and covered his face with his hands.
“It is a terrible business,” the judge said softly, kindly. “But, you see, in order for people to believe you, they need to understand all of it. As much as you can stand and perhaps a good bit more. But, as you imply, you cannot save her from all that, now. You can only save how you understand her, and how people judge her. Which is your intent, is it not?”
Malcolm raised his head and gazed silent upon the man before him. Then made the smallest of nods.
The judge said, “Unraveling the truth, to find justice, is seldom anything but a messy and hurtful business. But it is a fight worth fighting. An ordeal worth undertaking. Don’t you agree?”
Malcolm waited silent. The only answer he could give.
The judge said, “This afternoon, after you’ve had an opportunity to mull all this, I’ll send down a lawyer to speak with you. Peter Marks is his name and he’s a good man. If you agree to have him represent you, he’ll not attempt to turn you into a monkey to his organ grinder as some lawyers do, but listen carefully to you at every turn. You could not ask for more.”
“I have to think about all this.”
“You do. And now, I regret to inform you, two days ago your father-in-law, David Schofield, took his own life.”
Malcolm paused, then closed his eyes, rubbed his forehead and cheeks with both hands, his breath sharp and shallow.
“He’d spoken with Enoch Stone the evening before,” the judge said. “He’d voiced doubt about his testimony against his own daughter’s character. Stone says he could not determine if Schofield was speaking from shame or self-blame. He also claims he had no idea David was so untethered.”
Malcolm was quiet a time, studying those high windows beyond the judge’s left shoulder, then looked at the judge and said, “I hated him for the self-doubt he bestowed upon his daughter. And now, I only pity him, for all he lost.”
The judge took a respectful pause and then said, “And so my final words to you this morning. I leave you where I began. How you plead? The choice is yours.”
He went and sat on the bunk. After a time, aloud, he cursed God. Then he thought, It’s nothing to do with God, it’s what men do in the name of God, in their craze of wanting to be known and loved by God.
Of what they fear.
Sixteen
They were awake in the pale pearl light of dawn and she stepped from the bed and crouched by the hearth to stir ashes to find coals, adding a handful of sticks to set the coffeepot to boil. He watched her squatted thus, studying the knobs
of her shoulders and shoulder blades protruding as if wings might break through her skin, the slender waist and spread of her hips, the knots of her spine down her back, her long bunched crouching thighs, the muscles of her calves and her dirty bare feet. Aware he was etching her to memory.
She came back to the bed to wait the coffee. From the woods came the mewls of doves, the staccato drill of a woodpecker, a plaintive phoebe and the harsh snarls of a crow threading through the trees. He reached for her and she came against him to kiss his mouth and fondle his hair and then rolled away and said, “No, sweet boy, we’re done with that. This is the new day before us, now.”
He flopped back and a hiss of air escaped his lungs, pent up and irksome and he knew it wasn’t fair but couldn’t help himself.
She heard something of this and followed after him, pushing the one blanket free and moving down along him as she placed one finger gently upon his lips to still his words and then did the one thing she hadn’t these past days, the one thing he’d someway feared and knew she knew the reason why; and so after a few minutes he relaxed against the bed and took her hand in his and lifted it free of his mouth and held it and rested his other hand within her hair.
They drank coffee and then walked in the broken sunlight to the pool, where they washed with a slip of hard soap, small bubbles of froth spewing away, the smell of flowers rising from their skin. They sat a short time on the pebble beach that caught the early sun and so dried and neither spoke. Returning to the cabin, she stopped and told him to wait and walked off into a grove of young woods down a slight ravine and came back leading a black horse with a saddle thrown loose upon his back.
She cut the last of the bacon into thick slabs and fried it in its own grease, and they ate that with the last of the bread and several cups of bitter coffee each. When they were done eating she took the tin cups and plates, the spider, and the coffeepot and tossed them off into the brush beyond the chestnut trees. Now he was only watching and she went about her work without explanation or comment.
She had a set of saddlebags of good size that she placed upon the table and opened one side. She laced herself into a corset, pulled on stockings and bloomers, and then dressed in the riding habit she’d been wearing when he first came upon her. A couple of times during this she glanced at Harlan but said nothing.
