“Have I ever told you, Sheriff,” continued Lincoln, “about the man who couldn’t shoot a squirrel from ten feet?”
A faint smile came to Hutchason’s lips. Like many of the men present, he’d heard his share of Lincoln’s fairy tales. I glanced over at Lamborn, but the prosecutor showed no sign of objecting. Even in the midst of a trial, there was little choice but to play along. Lincoln would be determined to make his point one way or another.
“I don’t think so,” the sheriff replied.
“I heard it a good while ago,” continued Lincoln, nodding happily to himself. “Back when I lived in New Salem. I wager it’s true. If it’s not, well, shame on me. It’ll serve either way.” Casting a glance around the rapt courtroom, Lincoln nodded to himself, crossed his arms, and gave a crooked smile. A weaver of stories, fully in his element.
“It goes like this. A man is walking along in the woods, hunting varmint. He’s been at it all day with no luck. Nothing to shoot. Finally, he sees a squirrel on a tree trunk, maybe thirty, forty feet distant. At last! So he shoulders his rifle, aims, and bang, the gun goes off. The man’s knocked back a bit by the force of the gunpowder, but when he recovers his balance, he looks and the squirrel is still there.”
Lincoln glanced at the sheriff. “Are you with me so far?”
Hutchason nodded.
“Good. So my hunter, he walks a little closer, loads in a new wad and a new ball, takes aim again, and fires. Bang. Looks up and it’s still there. Again gets closer. He fancies himself a good shot, and he’s getting angry. Can’t be more than fifteen feet away now. No way he can miss. Bang. It’s still there. Closer still, within ten feet. Bang. He can’t believe it. The squirrel is still there on the tree trunk, right in front of him.”
The gallery and the jury alike were alive with whispered speculation about how the tale would end.
“By now,” Lincoln continued, “the man is right next to the tree. Can’t even shoulder his gun to shoot it because the barrel would knock into the trunk. The squirrel’s right there in front of him on the tree trunk, and the man reaches out his hand to touch the critter, because it ain’t moving more than an inch or two as he looks at it, even with him being so close. He reaches for it, and—” Lincoln came to a dramatic pause. “It’s not there.
“Now, Sheriff, what do you reckon was going on?”
Hutchason shook his head. From the back corner of the courtroom, a voice shouted, “A louse!”
Lincoln swung around with a smile. “I guess I told you this one before, Jeb. I’m mighty grateful you didn’t spoil it before now.” He turned back to Hutchason.
“The man drops his gun and feels all around the tree with both hands, but he can’t touch the squirrel. He still sees it, right there in front of him, but he can’t touch it. He begins to fear he’s going mad. Eventually he draws back his hands and rubs his eyes. In the process, he dislodges the louse that had crawled out of his hair and attached itself to his eyelashes. And the squirrel disappears.”
Shouts of laughter bounced around the room. “Sometimes,” Lincoln said over the outcry, “we see things as we want to see them, rather than things as they are. Would you agree with that, Sheriff?”
Lincoln resumed his seat before the lawman could answer.
CHAPTER 29
Conkling’s examination was unmemorable by comparison, and the sheriff was soon excused from the witness chair. The judge called for lunch, and the crowd scattered on the village green to eat and drink and swap opinions about the morning’s proceedings. Then the clerk bellowed that court was resuming, and the gallery resumed their places.
“For our next witness,” announced Lamborn, as the spectators were still quieting down, “the People call Henry Trailor.”
The entire crowd took in its breath and stared as the accusing brother entered the courtroom and wound his way through the cluttered gallery. Henry Trailor wore a blue-jeans suit and a broad scowl. If he felt any remorse at the prospect of condemning his brothers to the gallows, neither his face nor his bearing gave any sign of it.
Henry settled into the witness chair. His coal-black eyes roamed the courtroom, looking at everyone except his brothers, who, in the cramped surroundings, were staring at him intently from a distance of less than five feet. The room was utterly silent. It was as if everyone had stopped breathing at the sudden arrival of the long-awaited fraternal confrontation.
“State your name, please,” began Lamborn.
Henry straightened his back and thrust his potbelly forward. “Henry Trailor.”
“Your occupation.”
“Farmer. And builder.”
“And you are the brother of the accused, William and Archibald Trailor?” Lamborn gestured at each defendant as he called their names, but Henry Trailor’s gaze remained fixed on his questioner.
“I am.”
“Did you know a man named Flynn Fisher?”
“Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“An acquaintance of my older brother William’s. They’d served together near Detroit in the late war against Great Britain. In the past couple of years, Fisher had begun to work as a contractor on the canal. William suggested we all go into business together. He explained his idea to me, and it sounded like a good one.”
“What happened to your business venture?”
“Our plan didn’t come out like we hoped.” Henry turned to the jury and added, “Once the Canal Board ran out of money, nothing seemed to move forward.” Many of the jurors bobbed their heads with comprehension. The failure of the state’s internal improvements scheme and its widespread effects were well known to everyone present.
Attorney General Lamborn deftly took Henry Trailor through the story I’d heard him confess to Big Red: Fisher’s request to borrow 100 dollars from William before their scheme had realized any profits; his threats when William refused the loan; William finding Archibald and Henry on the night of the gala at the American House to tell them that something had to be done.
“What happened then?” asked Lamborn. The gallery was quiet, listening carefully.
“William said we should teach Fisher a lesson for trying to betray us, and Archibald agreed right away. So we all went to the inn where Fisher was staying and said we wanted a word. He was getting ready for bed, but he finally agreed to come outside.”
“Did the four of you talk outside the inn?”
“We started to, but there were a few persons about, and William was nervous they might be listening. He suggested we all head out of town, towards an old millpond, where we could talk without being overheard.”
“Before we go further down that path, can you explain the relationship between William and Archibald?”
“William’s the oldest. He’s used to being in charge. And Archibald is used to doing what he’s told. He’s illit—he’s less educated, less schooled, than we are.”
There was a murmuring in the courtroom, over which Lamborn said, “What happened when you got to the millpond?”
“William told Fisher we wouldn’t stand for his treachery. Fisher said he’d done nothing wrong. They went back and forth like that for a good long while.”
“And then?”
“At some point Fisher said he’d had enough, and he started walking back towards town. William told Archibald to stop him. Archibald and Fisher struggled, and then Archibald got a good hold of him. There was a discarded length of rope near us on the ground, and William told Archibald to tie Fisher to a tree, with his hands behind his back, to make sure he didn’t go nowhere.”
The jury and the gallery were listening to Henry Trailor’s narrative with rapt attention. I strained to take the measure of his brothers. William was glaring at Henry defiantly. But Archibald had slumped down in his seat, his chin tucked to his chest and his cheeks hollow. It was almost as if he was giving up the fight to defend himself. I wished I could rush forward and give him courage, just as he had given me courage in the middle of the Sudden Change.
“What happen
ed next?” Lamborn was asking.
“We walked a bit aways, to discuss what to do next. I suggested we let Fisher go. We’d given him a good scare. I thought that was enough. But William said we needed to do more. Said we had to shut him up for good.”
“Henry’s got to be lying,” Martha whispered from beside me. “I’ll bet he was right in the middle of the assault on Fisher.”
“Maybe so,” I replied, “but that’s not going to help Archibald one wit. His guilt or innocence is at stake, not Henry’s. If the jury concludes Archibald was involved in Fisher’s death, the fact that his brothers were also involved doesn’t lessen Archibald’s guilt.”
“And then?” prompted Lamborn.
“Fisher was still making noise, crying out, and William told Archibald to go make sure he couldn’t shout for help. William gave Archibald a rag and told him to gag him with it. Archibald did as he was told and came back, and the three of us argued about what to do next. That’s when it happened.”
“What happened?”
“After Archibald had gone to gag Fisher, the noise quieted down. Soon, there was no noise at all. William went to check on him, and he came back to us, his face white as paper. ‘He’s dead,’ is all he said.”
“Dead how?”
“Suffocated. William said Archibald had pushed the rag in Fisher’s mouth too far, prevented him from breathing. I went to see for myself. It was awful. His body was slumped against the trunk. Limp. Eyes goggled and face red. Like he’d been trying to get rid of the gag but failed.”
A swell of emotion rushed through the courtroom and the street outside. There were angry shouts and jeers. Several men muttered loudly that the gallows would be too gentle a punishment for the Trailors, that only drawing and quartering would serve the demands of justice. Sheriff Hutchason took a protective step toward his prisoners, and he stared out at the crowd with clenched fists and a warning gaze. The judge shouted for order.
“What happened next?” continued Lamborn over the simmering crowd.
“We wanted to get out of the area as soon as we could, so we left the body under a bush there. William said he’d come back later and take care of it. Bury it somewhere, I assumed.”
“Did he?”
“I don’t know. I took off for my home near Bloomington that very night. I didn’t want to stick around the scene of the murder, or my brothers, any longer than I had to.”
My heart started beating faster. This testimony was directly contradicted by what Miss Flannery had seen: Henry and William slipping out of town together later that same night. That would make her a crucial witness, possibly enough to start the unraveling of Henry’s entire tale. I tried to catch Lincoln’s eye, but he was still focused on the witness.
“Finally, Mr. Trailor,” Lamborn was continuing, “let me ask you this. Do you feel any remorse being here today and testifying against your brothers?”
Henry paused, and the gallery leaned forward expectantly. It was exactly what many of them would have asked had they been given the chance.
“Of course I do,” Henry responded at last. “I grew up alongside William. Always idolized him as my older brother. And when Arch came along … William and I near as anything raised him ourselves.” He swallowed and looked Lamborn straight in the eye. “But I witnessed my brothers kill a man. I didn’t want to testify against them. I don’t want to be here today. But when you and the mayor told me I had to … what else could I do?”
The crowd murmured sympathetically, and the gentlemen of the jury whispered among themselves as Lamborn took his seat. It was, I thought, an effective end to the examination. Even with the one contradiction I had spotted, I feared Henry’s testimony would have a devastating effect. Archibald was in serious jeopardy.
The judge called for a short recess to allow the jury to stretch its legs. Looking around the courtroom, I saw Belmont leaning against the back wall. He nodded at me. Why was the banker still in town, I wondered, now that the gold transfer had been completed? Before I could head over to ask him, James Conkling rose for his cross-examination.
Conkling cleared his throat and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Mr. Trailor, I represent your brother William Trailor.”
Henry screwed up his eyes and stared at Conkling, taking his measure. Henry nodded to himself. I guessed he’d concluded the slightly built lawyer posed little threat.
“Your testimony, I believe, is that when you all got out to the area by the millpond, Mr. Archibald Trailor restrained Mr. Fisher against a tree. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“How, exactly, did he restrain him?”
“He tied his hands together behind his back, then pressed him against a tree trunk and secured him with several loops of the rope.”
“And Archibald’s actions prevented Mr. Fisher from moving?”
“That’s right.”
“If Archibald hadn’t secured Fisher in place, Fisher could have simply gotten to his feet and run away, isn’t that the case?”
Martha tugged at my arm and hissed, “But he testified William was the one who told Archibald to tie him up!” Lincoln had the same thought, because he shot Conkling an aggrieved glance and rose to his feet, saying, “Objection, Your Honor, I believe the testimony—”
“This is my examination,” said Conkling curtly.
“Your brother counsel is right, Mr. Lincoln,” said the judge, putting down his pipe. “Any questions you have, you’re free to raise during your cross-questioning. The objection is overruled.”
“Let me ask the question again,” said Conkling. “But for the restraint imposed by Archibald, Fisher could have gotten to his feet and run, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And if he had run away, he’d still be alive to this day, correct?”
“I imagine so, yes.”
“Now,” continued Conkling, after he’d paused to allow the testimony to sink in, “I believe your evidence is that William came to find you and Archibald on the night in question to tell you about Fisher’s treachery.”
“Yes,” said Henry.
“At what time, in the evening, was this?”
Henry rubbed his belly while he thought. “About ten at night, I reckon. Maybe a bit later.”
“Are you aware of what Archibald had been doing, earlier that same evening, before William came to get the two of you?”
“Yes, he was—”
“Objection!” shouted Lincoln, jumping to his feet. “Objection. Lack of relevance. And prejudice.”
“Your Honor,” replied Conkling, “the testimony is highly relevant to the facts in dispute. I intend to prove—”
“Your Honor!” cried Lincoln, glowering at Conkling. “May I be heard? In private. Before my brother spills out the subject matter under advisement.”
The judge pulled on his pipe and contemplated counsel, while the gallery whispered excitedly about what fact Lincoln could be trying to keep from the jury. “Counsel may approach the bench,” the judge said at last. He looked doubtfully at the tiny open space beside his perch and then at the first row of the gallery, crowded nearby. It was hard to see how the lawyers could argue the point without being overheard.
“May I suggest,” said Lincoln, “that the court and counsel go upstairs to my chambers? We can have a private bench conference there.”
“You truly believe the issue is of such importance, Mr. Lincoln, as to require an interruption of the proceedings?” asked the judge.
Lincoln affirmed it was. The judge reluctantly consented, and the three lawyers and the judge threaded their way through the gallery and out the door. We could hear the stairs creaking as they retired upstairs to No. 4. In the meantime, the gallery’s speculation about the nature of the objection grew to a fevered roar.
“This isn’t good,” said Martha, taking in the scene.
“It certainly isn’t. I’m sure the last thing Lincoln wanted to do was to give the evidence added attention by creating a fuss. But Conkling’s maneuvered
him into it.” I shook my head. “And to think I believed Conkling was too passive to give Archibald an effective defense. I misjudged him severely.”
“Do you know where Archibald was earlier in that evening?” Martha asked.
I nodded.
“Where?”
I shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t think I should …”
Martha punched me in the arm. “You can say the words ‘lewd house’ to me, Joshua. I’m not a child. I haven’t been for a long time.”
Before I could respond, we heard the litigants coming back down the stairs. From the expression on Lincoln’s face, less aggrieved than it’d been when the group walked out, I guessed he’d achieved at least a partial victory. The chattering crowd fell silent.
“You may proceed, Mr. Conkling,” said the judge, once he’d resumed the bench, “consistent with my ruling.”
Conkling cleared his throat. “To your knowledge, Mr. Trailor, had your brother Archibald been drinking alcohol that evening?”
Henry nodded. “They served us as much whiskey as we wanted. It’s all part of the same price.”
A number of men in the crowd chuckled knowingly. Lincoln started to rise up to object, but the judge motioned him down and said to the witness, “Please try to answer the question posed and nothing more, Mr. Trailor. The question is, had Archibald been drinking?”
“Yes, he had.”
I let out my breath. This couldn’t have been going worse for Archibald if it had all been plotted out ahead of time.
“And have you been around your brother Archibald, in the past, on occasions on which he’d become intoxicated?” continued Conkling.
“Yes.”
“In your judgment, was Archibald intoxicated on the night of Fisher’s murder?”
“Very.” A course of low laughter ran through the audience. In the front of the room, Archibald’s head hung low. The judge called for order.
“Now I’ve heard it said, Mr. Trailor, that your brother Archibald has a reputation for peacefulness in some quarters. In your experience—”
“Does he?” interrupted Henry, his surprise apparently genuine. “That hasn’t been my experience of him.” Several members of the crowd laughed nervously at the naked animosity on display.
A House Divided Page 20
