Just as Judge Thomas finally shouted for order in the court, I felt Martha coming in beside me. She greeted me with a tentative squeeze of my arm, which I returned with full force. Her expression was still chastened, and she did not look at Lincoln as she settled into her seat.
The scene inside the small courtroom was the same today as it had been yesterday: the judge, attorneys, defendant, and twelve gentlemen of the jury crammed into the front of the room, while every available inch on the two rows of spectator benches in the back of the room was filled to bursting. Gazing through the open windows, though, it appeared the crowd outside was not quite as large or loud as yesterday. Not for the first time, it seemed, the thrilling promise of courtroom drama had, for some of Springfield’s citizens, been dimmed by the prosaic accretion of hard evidence.
Douglas began the day by calling several Democrats, holders of minor offices, who testified to the origins and depth of the feud between Truett and Early over the land office position. It was apparent Douglas had been thrown off his stride by the distressing news that had begun his morning. Or perhaps he was so wrapped up in the intricacies of party politics that he couldn’t help himself.
Whatever the cause, his examinations of these witnesses were stuffed with a wealth of minute, irrelevant details about political machinations. The testimony quickly became tedious in the extreme. That was my reaction, at least, and examining the faces of the jurors, confused and peevish in equal measure, I felt sure it was theirs also.
I noted with amusement that every time Douglas referred to the land office position, Truett glared over at him with a particularly aggrieved expression on his face. Even in the midst of the evidence in whose balance his life hung—unless Doctor Warren’s resuscitation efforts were to be relied upon—Truett could not help but focus on the patronage spoils to which he thought himself entitled.
Lincoln’s cross-examination of these witnesses was to the point and, I felt sure, effective. In each case, Lincoln established that disputes among party men over offices they felt should be theirs was a routine feature of political life. And, in each case, Lincoln established that the witness had no personal knowledge of the events on Quality Hill on the evening of July fourth. With those points he resumed his seat, receiving grateful expressions from the jury for his brevity.
It was late morning by the time the last of these party witnesses was finally dismissed from the courtroom. Douglas stood and announced in his grave tone, “For our next witness, the People call Henry Owens.”
Lincoln’s head shot around, and spectators both inside and outside the courtroom began chattering with excitement. What could the apothecary know of Early’s death, I wondered, and how did Douglas dare call him as a witness with the grief of his sister’s loss still fresh on his face?
Owens pushed through the gallery and took the witness chair. He stared straight ahead, acknowledging neither Douglas nor Lincoln, each of whom was not five feet distant.
“You are Henry Owens, the apothecary?” began Douglas.
“I am.” Owens sat glumly in his seat. His brow was furrowed, and the skin around his mouth, previously the embodiment of pink good health, was gray and saggy. He wore a thick black armband around his right arm.
“Right off, I should convey, sir, the sympathies I feel, and I know the judge, jury, and Mr. Lincoln share, for the recent passing of your sister.”
Owens nodded silently. His scowl did not abate.
“But you understand the course of justice, in this case justice for the departed Mr. Early, can wait for no man, however grief-filled, and to the contrary demands every man’s evidence?”
“So you have informed me, Mr. Douglas,” replied Owens, not deigning to look at him.
“Did you know Mr. Early?”
“He was an occasional customer at my apothecary.”
“A customer of what?”
“Compounds … potions … whatever he and I thought might help restore his good health.”
“What were your relations with him?”
“I hope they were good, just as I would hope my relations are good with every member of the public who chooses to make use of my expertise and the treatments and remedies I offer.”
Lincoln frowned at this. Owens might be grieving and might be testifying unwillingly, as he suggested, but plainly he was not going to let a high-profile public appearance pass without advertising his services.
“And how about the defendant in this matter, Henry Truett? Are you familiar with him?”
“Again, Mr. Truett is an occasional customer of my establishment. Less regular than Mr. Early was, I should say.”
“Now we come to the night of July fourth,” continued Douglas. “Did you attend the gathering at the Edwards house on Quality Hill that evening?”
“I did.”
“Did you encounter Early during the gathering?”
“He and I spoke for about ten minutes, early in the evening.”
“About what?”
Owens stiffened. “I wouldn’t like to reveal his confidences, especially now that he’s no longer able to speak for himself. I’ll say merely he had a number of questions about a compound I’d lately dispensed to him, and I tried my best to answer him.”
I thought back to seeing the two men argue on the Edwards lawn that evening. There had been something intensely personal about their vigorous discussion. Owens’s explanation didn’t ring true.
“Later the same evening, did you have occasion to speak with the defendant Truett?”
“I did.”
“What did you speak about?”
“He said he’d seen me with Early. I believe his words were to the effect of would I please slip some poison into the next compound I gave Early so that he, Truett, could be over and done with him.”
The crowd murmured excitedly. Judge Thomas pulled on his cigar. Truett grabbled Lincoln by the arm and hissed into his ear. The words “He lies!” could be heard throughout the cramped courtroom. Lincoln made a halfhearted attempt to get his client to be quiet.
When the commotion died down, Douglas continued, “And how did you respond to him?”
Owens looked discomfited. “What do you mean?”
“When the defendant Truett made the remark you just recounted, about poisoning Early, did you say anything in return?”
“Not that I recall,” said Owens. He looked over at Truett and then away. Immediately, Truett began whispering in Lincoln’s ear again, but his manner this time seemed more in the nature of excitement. Lincoln bobbed his head as he listened.
Sensing danger, Douglas hurried to move on. “The fireworks, sir. At the end of the evening, were you present for the display of fireworks Edwards arranged?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Where, exactly, were you when the fireworks began?”
“All of the guests had been in the drawing room, where Edwards made some brief remarks. He then announced there would be works. This caused quite a stir, and so everyone rushed outside all at once for viewing.”
Owens paused, and Douglas said, nodding, “Go on.”
“The main door to the room, leading to the entrance hallway and the front of the house, became quite clogged with persons trying to leave. There is a rear door from the room as well, leading through the kitchen to the rear of the house, and a number of us ended up taking that route to the outside.”
“You say a number of us. Do you recall any persons in particular who exited to the rear of the Edwards house along with you?”
“Henry Truett was among them,” said Owens confidently. “He was a few feet in front of us as we filed out.”
Truett did not react. I realized I’d never questioned him about his precise movements leading up to the fireworks display, and I hoped Lincoln had.
“You said ‘us.’ Who were you with as you left the house at that time?”
“My sister Margaret.” Owens dropped his head and ran his fingers along his mourning band.
Douglas paused
to give Owens a moment to mourn before asking, “What happened next?”
“We wanted to see the works, of course, and Edwards had indicated they would be shot off from below the front of the house. So we proceeded along the back perimeter of the house and around a clump of bushes, and then we turned the corner, heading toward the front drive.”
“What, if anything, happened next?”
Owens opened his mouth but closed it without speaking. His features tensed. He seemed to be having some sort of unspoken argument with himself.
“Mr. Owens?” prompted Douglas.
“I … I don’t recall.”
A sudden change overtook Douglas. He had been meandering about the room during his examination, but he now stomped his foot and charged right up at Owens, his fists clenched, as if he meant to assault him. The gallery took in its breath sharply. Douglas stopped only inches from the witness; the standing Little Giant and the seated witness, sitting up straight with his shoulders thrust back defiantly, were practically nose to nose. Their eyes locked.
“What … happened … next?” asked Douglas with unmistakable menace. When Owens did not immediately respond, Douglas added, “Mr. Owens, we’ve discussed this before, outside the courtroom. All I want is for you to repeat for the jury what you’ve told me previously. What happened next?”
Owens blinked. His shoulders slumped and his belly sagged. “I saw him,” he said, in barely a whisper.
“You need to speak up,” commanded Douglas. “And explain yourself. You saw whom? Doing what?”
“I saw Truett,” said Owens softly. His posture remained deflated. “I saw Truett pulling his pistol from his belt. And—”
A great clamor of excitement arose from the street outside. “String ’im up!” shouted a coarse voice. Inside the courtroom, the gallery started talking all at once. The judge spit out his cigar and pounded his gavel for order. Truett rose from his chair, looking as if he couldn’t decide whether to attack Owens or Douglas first. Lincoln, who had the advantage of close to a foot and fifty pounds on his client, grabbed him under the arms and restrained him.
The courtroom was in an uproar. Then, slowly, the judge’s pounding and the clerk’s shouting for order came to the fore. Sheriff Hutchason, who had been standing guard off to the side, came over to ensure Truett did not leave his seat again.
“Silence!” shouted the judge. “Silence!”
Eventually, silence did prevail. The judge nodded at Douglas and Douglas in turn at Owens.
“Please continue, Mr. Owens,” said Douglas.
Owens stared straight ahead. “Like I said, I saw Mr. Truett pulling his pistol and checking it to make sure it was loaded and primed. And then I saw him striding forward toward the front of the house, with the pistol held at his side, like so.” Owens demonstrated, using his hand as the would-be pistol. “And then the works began.”
Owens took a deep breath. “And then,” he continued, “after the works had ended, after all the noise and smoke was gone, I saw Mr. Truett running back to where I’d been. And I saw him taking his pistol and flinging it toward the bushes. There isn’t a doubt in my mind that he shot Early.”
The courtroom and street exploded again, and this time it was many minutes before order was restored. Through it all, I kept my eyes trained on Lincoln. There was a calm, even confident expression on his face as bedlam raged all around.
CHAPTER 34
Eventually, the judge was able to call for the lunchtime recess. Lincoln beckoned me over. “Didn’t your sister make a sketch of the Edwards grounds?” he whispered. I nodded. “Good. Have her bring it to me upstairs as soon as you can. And one more thing: find me a farmer’s almanac.” And then he vanished.
I relayed Lincoln’s first request to Martha, who nodded and, glad for some way to help the cause, hurried off to her room to retrieve her map. For my part, I pushed through the swirling, excited crowds on the streets to my store. We carried several different brands of almanacs, which were always popular sellers with their mixture of weather and astrological forecasts, civic information, and homespun advice for the farm and kitchen. Usually we sold out of them early in the year, but I thought I’d recently seen one on a back shelf.
Sure enough, after digging through several piles of accumulated debris, I found it: a salmon-colored copy of “Poor Richard’s” New Farmer’s Almanac for the Year of Our Lord 1838. An ink drawing of the smiling Benjamin Franklin, bespectacled, calm, and wise, graced the cover. Slipping it into the pocket of my frockcoat, I retraced my journey through the lunchtime crowds to Hoffman’s Row and mounted the stairs to No. 4.
Martha had returned before me, and she and Lincoln were standing above her hand-drawn map of the Edwards property, which was spread out on Lincoln’s square table. I handed Poor Richard to Lincoln, who took him eagerly and flipped through the pages until he found one of interest, which he examined briefly, nodding, and then dog-eared.
“It’s set,” said Lincoln, more to himself than either of us.
“What’s set?” asked Martha.
“You’ll see in a bit. Now if I can just find the notes I made for the rest of the examination.”
Lincoln riffled through the loose papers in his immediate vicinity, looked underneath Martha’s map, then walked around the table, bent over at the waist and scanning the cluttered surface, muttering to himself all the while.
“The divan?” I suggested, pointing to the reclining chair where Stuart liked to read his law papers on the rare occasions on which he was in the office.
Lincoln walked over and sorted through the packets of papers that completely obscured the surface of the sofa. “No.”
“Your pockets?” said Martha.
Lincoln felt through the pockets of his trousers and then retrieved his frockcoat where he’d discarded it on the floor near the door and felt through those pockets as well. “No … Blast it all…”
“I know—your hat,” I said suddenly.
“Aha!” Lincoln strode over to the bookcase against the far wall, on top of which he’d set his stovepipe hat. He felt inside the band of black velvet running above the brim and pulled out a sheet of foolscap folded over many times. “You know me well, Speed,” he murmured as he spread the sheet out and read it over. “Yes … all set.”
Half an hour later, Judge Thomas called the court back to order. Henry Owens resumed the witness chair, wearing the same insolent expression he’d worn during his direct testimony. As Lincoln stood up, he straightened the black armband on the sleeve of his frockcoat. Owens watched him closely.
“Brother Owens,” began Lincoln.
“‘Mister’ will do fine, thank you,” replied Owens stiffly.
Lincoln nodded and wandered over to one of the open windows, which he gazed out. He took a deep breath. Turning back toward the witness, he said, “You and I have always had cordial relations, Owens. Is that a fair statement?”
“It is.”
“How about between you and Mr. Douglas?”
Owens shrugged. “Don’t know that I’ve had any relations with Mr. Douglas, until the question of testifying in court arose.”
“And since that question did arise, how would you characterize your relations with Douglas now?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” called Douglas from the back of the courtroom. He was watching Lincoln’s examination from his perch on Prickett’s lap again. “Lack of relevance.”
“I’ll withdraw the question for now,” said Lincoln, “though we may have cause to return to it later.” Turning back to the witness, he said, “I want to ask you about your conversation with Mr. Truett on the evening of the Edwardses’ party. Your testimony, I believe, was that Truett said in jest to you something to the effect of maybe you should consider poisoning Mr. Early.”
“I don’t think it was a joke,” replied Owens.
“Well, did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you consider poisoning Early?”
Owens blanched. “Did I
consider … of course not. What sort of question is that?”
“Isn’t the truth, Mr. Owens,” continued Lincoln, “that the joke, if it was a joke, actually went the opposite direction? Which is to say, it was you who suggested to Mr. Truett the idea of poisoning Early?”
“What?”
“You and Early feuded, didn’t you? You disagreed with the way he handled your business at the land office.”
Owens stared wildly from Lincoln to Truett—who was nodding vigorously—and then back again. The crowd outside began to talk among themselves. “I deny it,” Owens said loudly.
Lincoln looked back calmly. “You do admit you talked with Truett and the subject of poisoning Early came up, is that correct?”
“As a joke,” sputtered Owens.
“Now you’re saying it was a joke?”
“No—Yes—You see … if I said anything of the sort it was a joke. If—if he—Truett—said it, then my testimony is he was serious.”
Several members of the gallery tittered. Owens glanced at Douglas, who was glowering in the rear of the courtroom, and then back at Lincoln. The jury was looking on with skeptical expressions, and Judge Thomas chewed his cigar with consternation. Lincoln walked about as much as the cramped courtroom permitted, forcing Owens to twist in the wind of his own words.
At length Lincoln returned to his chair and took up the map Martha had drawn. After showing it to Douglas and the judge, he handed it to the witness. “Do you recognize this,” Lincoln asked, “as an approximate map of the Edwards house and grounds?”
Owens frowned at the map, turning it this way and that. “I suppose,” he said. “A crude one.”
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