Final Resting Place

by Jonathan F. Putnam

  “I expect Abraham would disagree,” I said. “I’ve often heard him say that without an impartial jury, it’s pointless for him to argue his client’s brief.”

  “Have either of you seen Abraham in court before?” asked Martha.

  Thomas shook his head. Johnston gulped down his last bite and said, “I don’t see what the fuss is about.”

  “What do you mean, Johnnie?” asked his stepfather.

  “You and Ma always go on about how impressive Abe is for reading about the law. As near as I can tell from this morning, all that reading has done is give him the right to stand in front of the judge and dance a jig while spouting some jibber-jabber.” Johnston took a swig of beer and spit onto the ground. “Shoot, I can do all that myself, if anyone’d be interested in watching.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Thomas Lincoln. “There’s a lot more to it. Like it or not, there’s plenty Abe’s learned that you ain’t cut out for.”

  Johnston tried not to flinch at this blow. But it was impossible to miss the sag of his shoulders as he turned, kicked at a stone in the street, and slunk away.

  CHAPTER 31

  Lincoln and Douglas, both, had a lot more dancing and jibber-jabbering to do before jury selection was complete.

  The venire process lasted all day Wednesday and into Thursday morning. With intense thrusts and parries, the two lawyers battled over the fitness of would-be jurors one by one. Both men seemed to be following some sort of complex internal logic in choosing when to advance and when to retreat. Along with the rest of the spectators, I found it impossible to divine what that logic was, but it was hard not to be impressed by their determined efforts in front of the increasingly belligerent judge. It was like watching two masters play a game whose rules remained obscure and whose score was unknown: you could readily admire the skill of the players without understanding the full dimensions of their art.

  By midday on Thursday, a jury of twelve men was seated. I knew all of them, at least by sight. They comprised a mixture of farmers and merchants along with a single professional, a doctor from a neighboring village. Six were Democrats, five Whigs, and the twelfth had, as far as I knew, never cast a vote nor expressed a political preference of any sort. Lincoln seemed satisfied enough with the lot, although looking at Douglas I perceived an infernal smile on his lips as well. All twelve jurors would have to agree on the verdict.

  After opening statements, Douglas called his first witness: Sheriff Hutchason. The hulking lawman made his way toward the front of the room. With the seating of the jury, the small courtroom had contracted even further. The judge’s bench had been pushed to the right-hand corner of the room, and twelve chairs for the jury had been squeezed into the left-hand corner. Lincoln and Truett sat immediately in front of these, their knees almost touching the knees of the closest juror, while Douglas sat in similar proximity to the judge’s bench on the other side of the room. A single chair for the witness was placed between them.

  Those few portions of the yellow-pine planked floor that remained visible were covered by the stains of expectorated tobacco juice.

  The judge had ordered Matheny to open the windows all the way, and he now directed Hutchason to keep up his voice such that the swollen crowd outside on the street would not miss his testimony.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” replied the sheriff in his booming voice.

  “I believe the jury are familiar with the basic facts,” began Douglas abruptly, before Hutchason fully settled himself upon the witness chair, “so let’s get straight to the heart of the matter.”

  The sheriff gestured for the lawyer to proceed.

  “Jacob Early was killed on the night of July fourth while standing on the Edwards estate on Quality Hill.”

  “Correct.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “Early was hit by a single shot, directly in the forehead. Death was immediate.”

  “At what time, during the evening, was Early shot?”

  “It was during the display of fireworks Edwards arranged. About eleven o’clock at night, I’d judge. And I find the timing of the shooting significant.”

  “Why is that?”

  “It’s apparent the shooter used the noise of the exploding works to cover the sound of his gun’s discharge. So the timing shows intention. It shows malice aforethought, as you lawyers like to say. Someone planned to shoot Mr. Early and planned it carefully.”

  The large crowd murmured with satisfaction. The story thus far possessed the appealing qualities of a good yarn, one they’d be pleased to retell around their hearths next winter.

  “Now, did anyone see the person who fired the fatal shot?” asked Douglas.

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “Then tell the jury how you went about determining who did it.”

  Hutchason shifted on his chair to face the jury, who were only a few feet away. Each man on the panel listened attentively.

  “The first thing I looked into,” said Hutchason, “was motive. Who wished Early ill? I considered business associates, neighbors, tenant farmers—everyone. But I kept coming back to Mr. Truett.” The sheriff nodded toward the defendant, who was sitting directly opposite him. “Every man in town knows about their feud over the land office position, I suppose.”

  “Had that feud already turned violent prior to the night of July fourth?” asked Douglas.

  Hutchason nodded. “At Spotswood’s smoking room, about a week before the shooting, Mr. Truett confronted—”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” called Lincoln, springing to his feet. “My brother Douglas has not established the sheriff was present at Spotswood’s on the night of this incident, and the evidence would show he was not. Sheriff Hutchason lacks any foundation for the testimony he was about to give.”

  “Don’t you have another witness to put this in through, Douglas?” asked the judge.

  “I think it’s common knowledge what transpired that night,” protested Douglas. “Mr. Lincoln was there, as was his confederate Mr. Speed”—I startled upon hearing my name—“and any number of other men. Does Mr. Lincoln genuinely want me to process all of them in here to testify?”

  “How about one of them?” replied Lincoln with an edge to his voice. The crowd on the street outside started to chatter. I heard one or two indistinct shouts. The excitement the gallery had been waiting for these past two days had finally begun to materialize.

  Douglas spread out his stubby arms impatiently. “Your Honor,” he began, “I hardly think an experienced, national judge would find such witnesses necessary for the common ground we’re talking about here.”

  Judge Thomas took a long pull on his cigar and nodded. “I see your point. The objection’s overruled.”

  “But, Your Honor—” began Lincoln.

  “The objection’s been overruled. Please proceed, Mr. Douglas.”

  Lincoln shot a concerned glance at me, and I grimaced in response. It was going to be an uphill climb at every step for Lincoln, facing the combined forces of the judge and Representative-elect Douglas.

  “Remind the jury about the confrontation at Spotswood’s,” Douglas was saying to Hutchason, “and, as a service to my brother Lincoln, please confine yourself to undisputed facts regarding the incident.”

  Douglas gave Lincoln a particularly unctuous smile while Hutchason recounted Truett’s arrival at Spotswood’s that night, the verbal confrontation with Early, and the fight that ensued.

  “Did Truett draw a pistol on Early that evening?” asked Douglas.

  “He did.”

  “Was it discharged?”

  “Not that evening, it wasn’t.”

  “Are you, Sheriff, familiar with the pistol owned by Mr. Truett?”

  The sheriff nodded. “I’ve seen Mr. Truett pull it on more than one occasion. There was a time—”

  “Objection,” called Lincoln. “We shouldn’t have testimony here about other, unrelated events.”

  “That wasn’t my intention,” sai
d Douglas smoothly, before the judge could respond. “Let me redirect the witness.” To Hutchason: “You say you’re familiar with Mr. Truett’s pistol. Please describe it.”

  “It’s a belt pistol. Silver barrel, walnut stock, about yay long.” Hutchason held his hands six inches apart.

  “After Mr. Early was shot on the night of July fourth, did you search the grounds of the Edwards estate for the weapon that fired the fatal ball?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And I found Mr. Truett’s belt pistol under a mulberry bush. At the side of Edwards’s house. He must have discarded it there—an attempt to hide it, I suspect.”

  The crowd buzzed with excitement at this testimony. Douglas opened a leather pouch and carefully took out a silver-barreled pistol. “Is this the weapon you found, Sheriff?” he asked.

  Hutchason made a show of inspecting the piece and nodded. “You see, I scratched ‘H.H.’ and ‘7/7’ with my knife into the butt, right there.” He indicated with the tip of his little finger.

  “Is this the same weapon you know to be owned by the defendant, Mr. Truett?” asked Douglas.

  “I believe it to be so, yes.”

  Douglas took the gun and handed it to the nearest juror. “While the jury has a look,” he continued, “let me put a new query: after you found the gun, did you ask Mr. Truett if it was his?”

  “I did. When I showed it to him, he tried to grab it from my hand and said, ‘Where’d you find that?’ Something like that, if not exactly those words. I repeated my question, ‘Is this yours?’ but he refused to answer. Wouldn’t open his mouth again. Just stood there, his arms folded, staring at the gun.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff Hutchason. That’s all I have, Your Honor.”

  Douglas retreated as Lincoln rose to his feet. But instead of resuming his seat, Douglas wandered back to the gallery, greeting a few men with firm handshakes as he walked past them. Douglas proceeded to where the usual prosecutor, the Democrat David Prickett, was watching the proceedings from a chair in the back corner. The Little Giant gave a small hop and settled himself comfortably onto Prickett’s lap, his feet dangling several inches above the floor, like an oversize child seeking out the comfort of his father. He even threw his arm around Prickett’s neck, from time to time whispering in his ear.

  No one present batted an eye at this, as Douglas habitually watched the testimony in court from the lap of another man. Perhaps he merely sought a better view, given his short stature. Regardless, the behavior would have seemed odd in the extreme if practiced by anyone else. Coming from Douglas, it was merely one more eccentricity of a thoroughly peculiar man. Given the force of his personality and his ever-greater political successes, people weren’t about to start questioning his habits now.

  “Afternoon, Sheriff,” began Lincoln casually. I knew Lincoln considered Hutchason a friend and a good man, and I suspected Lincoln hoped to score some points on Truett’s behalf without badgering the sheriff unduly.

  “Mr. Lincoln,” replied Hutchason with an assured nod.

  “You described for Mr. Douglas the steps you say you followed in trying to determine who fired the shot that killed Mr. Early.”

  “Correct.”

  “You say you considered motive. Then you considered the weapon. Then you went looking for a weapon and found it. And then, based on all of your investigations, you concluded Mr. Truett was the murderer. Do I have that right?”

  Hutchason weighed this in his mind before replying, “Just about.”

  Lincoln nodded. “In reality, Sheriff, you first took Mr. Truett into custody on the very night of July fourth, indeed, very shortly after you yourself first arrived at Quality Hill. Isn’t that the case?”

  Hutchason shifted slightly in his chair. “That’s true.”

  “And that was before you found the pistol in the bushes?”

  “Correct.”

  “According to the date you scratched into the gun, you didn’t recover the gun until three days later, on the seventh of July, is that correct?”

  “It is.”

  “In fact, you arrested Mr. Truett before you conducted any part of this investigation you described to Mr. Douglas—isn’t that the case?”

  “I did it for his own good,” said Hutchason. “A mob had grabbed ahold of him. I didn’t want them to string him up before he could be tried through the regular legal process.”

  “It was a mob of men who first decided Mr. Truett must be the guilty party. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “And this mob were the ones who first took Mr. Truett into custody?”

  “You could look at it that way, yes.”

  “And you decided to accept, uncritically, the passions of the mob in charging Mr. Truett rather than conducting your own independent investigation.”

  “Objection!” called out Douglas from his perch on Prickett’s lap.

  “Sustained.”

  “I don’t agree with the way you’re putting it,” insisted the sheriff. “I took possession of Mr. Truett in the first place to protect him from the mob. But I was convinced then and remain convinced now that he killed Mr. Early.”

  “You mean…” Lincoln began, but he cut himself off and looked down at the sheaf of papers in his hands. Truett stared at him. Several members of the jury whispered to each other. Lincoln had scored a partial point about the sheriff’s investigation, I thought, but Hutchason’s steady demeanor had prevented him from advancing very far.

  “Let’s talk about the gathering on Quality Hill,” Lincoln began again. “It’s well known Early was shot in the midst of a large gathering, a party Ninian and Mrs. Edwards threw to mark the Day of Independence.”

  “Correct.”

  “And how many persons in total attended the party, do you know?”

  “I believe the number was in excess of one hundred.”

  “And since the fireworks were held as the culmination of the evening’s festivities, would you agree it’s a fair assumption that most if not all of those one hundred persons remained on Quality Hill at the time of the shooting?”

  Sheriff Hutchason thought about this for a moment before answering. “That’s probably fair.”

  “And, at least in theory,” continued Lincoln, “any one of those hundred or more persons could have been the assailant who shot Early, correct?”

  “But my job wasn’t to investigate theory,” protested Hutchason. “I was interested in the actual facts.”

  “Did you question each and every one of those one hundred persons in the course of your investigation?”

  “Not all of them. But—”

  “Did you consider the motivation each and every one of those hundred persons might have for wishing Early dead?”

  “I didn’t consider it necessary.”

  “How many of those hundred persons had business dealings with Early, dealings that might have gone awry?”

  Hutchason pondered this question, looking, I thought, for some way to limit the damage Lincoln was inflicting. “I don’t know the exact number,” said the sheriff eventually. “If there were any at all.”

  “Any at all? But surely many of the men present would have dealt with Early at the land office.”

  “I’d probably agree with that,” said Hutchason, frowning.

  Lincoln nodded to himself and strode around the small open space in the front of the courtroom, giving time for the concessions to sink in. Several jurors were whispering to each other. Turning to the back of the room, I saw Douglas and Prickett doing the same, looks of consternation on each man’s face.

  “Let’s talk about the pistol,” said Lincoln, after he had let as much time pass as possible. “As I understand your testimony, you’re certain this is the one you found at the Edwards estate, because you scratched your initials and the date into it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not certain this pistol was actually owned by Mr. Truett. All you can say is that you’v
e seen Truett with a similar gun at some point in the past, correct?”

  “I’m not sure I follow you,” said the sheriff, his eyes darting over to Douglas before returning to rest on Lincoln.

  “That’s a common sort of belt pistol, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I’m not sure I would.”

  “If I told you my friend Mr. Speed sells an average of two or three models just like this every month at his store to the citizens of Springfield, would you have any reason to doubt it?”

  Lincoln indicated toward me as he put this question, and nearly everyone in the courtroom turned to stare. I heard some of the persons outside on the street jockeying for a view as well. I felt my ears reddening. In fact, I had never said anything of the sort to Lincoln, and I doubted I sold that many similar belt pistols in the course of an entire year.

  “If Mr. Speed said that, then I’d have no reason to disbelieve him, I suppose,” the sheriff was saying through an upturned mouth.

  “Now, am I right you arranged for the fatal ball to be retrieved from Mr. Early’s remains so it could be examined?”

  Sheriff Hutchason looked at Lincoln with surprise. “No, that’s not right.”

  “And—what? You didn’t order the extraction of the ball?”

  “No.”

  “Well, have you subsequently examined the ball that was removed from the remains?”

  “No, I haven’t,” replied Hutchason with evident sincerity.

  “Who did, then?”

  Hutchason shrugged helplessly. Lincoln glanced at me and then back at Douglas, who was looking on serenely. I thought I understood what was happening. Lincoln couldn’t make his point—my discovery—that the ball didn’t fit the pistol without a witness who was knowledgeable about both the pistol and the ball. Hutchason had testified about the pistol, but since he had no knowledge of the ball, Lincoln couldn’t cross-examine him about it. I wondered whether Douglas had purposely kept the ball away from Hutchason, precisely in order to thwart Lincoln’s examination.