To the wonder of court officers, the eyes of old Judge Jones reddened, and he pulled a handkerchief from under his robes to cover them. Aydlett was stunned. He wanted to object—but how did one object to the tears of a judge?
Jim Wilcox, for his part, spat his gum in a crimped piece of paper, and did not resume chewing. It did not escape notice that he looked pale for the rest of Ollie’s testimony.
“The court recognizes how difficult this must be,” said Judge Jones in a funereal tone. “Does the witness wish for a brief recess?”
“I will go on,” she said, and wiped away her tears with a glove.
“When it got to be 11:30,” she said, “I told Roy it was time for him to go. After making a cigarette and putting on his coat, he went out in the hall. I followed to let him out. When we got to the front doors, they were wide open and the little screen door was flapping. Neither Jim nor Nell were there.
“On retiring, I saw that Nell was not in bed, but I didn’t think anything of it. I went into a doze, but was awake and heard the chimes ring for 12:30. Then I realized that Nell was still not there. I got up and went into the hall, and saw my father there. I told him Nell was missing, and the search started.
“Papa went over for Jim, who came later with Mr. Dawson. He went into the parlor and took hold of the curtain while Mama came in and said ‘Jim, for my sake and your mother’s sake, tell me where Nell is.’ Jim replied, ‘I could swear and kiss the Bible that I left her on the piazza. I gave her back her parasol, and Nell said ‘I know what this means.’ I told her to go in, she would catch cold. She replied, ‘I don’t care.’ I went on over to town, leaving her leaning on the post, crying…”
The prosecution yielded. As Aydlett rose, Ollie clenched the gloves tightly in her right hand. But her anxiety was wasted: he had no intention of conducting a serious cross-examination. Holding a coroner’s feet to the fire was one thing; harrying the victim’s bereaved sister was very much another.
Aydlett did not even encroach upon her. From the remoteness of his chair, he said, “Your Honor, the defense wishes to convey its sincere condolences upon the witness in her loss. We have no intention of detaining her today.”
“So noted,” said Jones.
“Miss Cropsey, in his testimony your father William Cropsey testified as to the condition of the front hallway that last evening. Do you recall what he said?”
“I do.”
“He said that there was a parasol lying on the floor. A white silk parasol, that the defendant said he had returned to Miss Nell. He would have done so around 11:15 p.m. Do you remember seeing that parasol when you closed the front doors for the night?”
Ollie stared at him for a moment.
“No, I don’t.”
“Mr. Cropsey said he almost tripped over it. It must have been very obvious.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Aydlett. I don’t recall noticing it.”
“Thank you, Miss Olive. No further questions for this witness.”
After lunch it was the turn of Carrie Cropsey. She was also dressed in full mourning, and likewise a striking figure, but the correspondents, having exhausted their superlatives on Ollie, did not go into descriptive raptures about her.
“Miss Cropsey,” Ward began, “you are the daughter of Judge Andrew G. Cropsey of Brooklyn, New York, are you not?”
“Yes, that is true.”
“And you are a resident of that city?”
“Only when I am in school. Otherwise I live in Nanuet, New York.”
“Where are you a student?”
“I attend Pratt Institute.”
“What do you study?”
“Art and design.”
“It was Miss Nell’s intention to study there as well, was it not?”
“Yes. She very much looked forward to it. She would come to classes with me when she was in town. All the teachers and students remember her fondly.”
“To improve herself as a woman and a wife,” said Ward, “Alas, it was an ambition she did not live to realize—”
“Objection! Relevance, Your Honor?”
“Overruled. Continue, Mr. Ward.”
Carrie was invited to recount her memories of the night of November 20, which she did in terms much like Ollie’s. Her testimony became more compelling when she was asked about certain conversations she had with Jim Wilcox in the weeks before.
“When Nell stopped going out with Jim, he asked me to go with him. I didn’t know anybody else in town other than my relatives, so I went. It also didn’t sit well with me, how cold they had become with each other. Jim kept coming, so I thought at least somebody should be nice to him—”
“You felt sorry for the defendant,” said Ward.
“Well…I guess.”
Jim frowned.
“I asked him once, ‘Jim, why is it that Nell dislikes you so much?’ He answered, ‘Why don’t you tell me?’ So I said, ‘You haven’t quarreled, have you?’ He said, ‘No, but she won’t come to the door to meet me and I am going to drop her.’ And I said, ‘You mean she will drop you.’ ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said.”
“Another time, he told me ‘You’re a nice girl.’ So I asked him, ‘What’s the matter, Jim?’ He said, ‘Eavesdroppers never hear any good of themselves. Last night I was out smoking, and I heard what you all said about me—’”
“What was he referring to?” asked Ward.
“He had brought me home from the rink, and I happened to mention that I felt like I towered over him when we were in our skates. So Nell said, ‘I guess we should call him Squatty.’ And I guess we all laughed at that.”
“You guess?”
“We laughed.”
“And the defendant said he heard himself being ridiculed?”
“Yes.”
“And what was your impression of his reaction?”
“He seemed amused. But I could tell it bothered him.”
Ward yielded to Aydlett.
“Miss Cropsey, you spent a considerable amount of time with Jim Wilcox, did you not?”
“I did. Second only to Nell, I’d reckon.”
“Second only to Nell. And in all that time together, did you gather any impression of him as anything other than a gentleman?”
“Never less than a gentleman.”
“Did he evince any personal cruelty? Anything that would convey that he was capable of serious crimes?”
“Well…he had a certain set to himself. He would never shrink from an argument. He sometimes talked about fights he’d been in.”
“Did these stories strike you as anything more than youthful high-spiritedness?”
“No, never.”
“And did he ever express animosity toward Miss Nell?”
“Animosity, no. Of their falling out, I would say he was more sad than angry.”
“More sad than angry. Thank you, Miss Cropsey. No further questions.”
Tuesday the 18th was dedicated to matters of space and time. That Jim had murdered Nell relied on the presumption that he had opportunity to do so, given where and when he was physically present. Leonard Owens, acquaintance of Wilcox and engineer on the packet boat Ray, was called.
“What is your relationship with Mr. Wilcox, sir?”
“We’ve known each other for a few years.”
“Would you say you know him well?”
Owens tossed his head. “About as well as anybody I don’t sail with.”
“Can you describe what happened on the night of November 20th?”
“We landed at the Norfolk & Southern dock sometime after eleven on the 20th,” he said. “It was 11:30 when Sherman Tillery and I left the boat. Captain Bailey didn’t want to go, but told us to fetch a half-pint of whiskey. We went to Barnes’ barroom on Poindexter Street and bought the whiskey, and also cigarettes. We were abreast of the Wilkins house when we saw someone coming. It was Jim Wilcox. We met near the Ives’ place.”
“How long were you with the defendant?”
“A few
minutes. After that, I went home. The clock was striking midnight when my wife let me in.”
“So when would you say you left Wilcox?”
“About ten to midnight.”
“So you were with the defendant from sometime after 11:30 until 11:50?”
“Yes, sir.”
The defense took its turn.
“Mr. Owens, you and Mr. Wilcox have not been strangers to the barrooms of this city, have you not…?”
Aydlett was leaning in, his tone comradely. Owens perked up.
“You could say that.”
“You might even say you boys have gotten up to some trouble now and again, haven’t you?”
“Now and again.”
“Have you ever seen my client fighting mad? Angry in any way?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say he’s a violent man?”
“Well, no. He didn’t make a habit of getting into scraps. But Jim wasn’t one to hang back when the times demanded.”
“What was he like on those occasions?”
“He would get all red in the face. And he’d seem to blow up to twice his size. In fact, we’d call him ‘old puffer fish’ because of that.”
“Is that a fact?” exclaimed Aydlett, as if they were swapping stories in a tavern. “So you would say you’re pretty familiar with old Jim when he’s fighting mad?”
“I’d say so.”
“Ever known him to kill anyone?”
“Of course not.”
“All right, then. Please think back to the night of the 20th, Mr. Owens, and answer carefully: did the defendant behave unusually when you saw him?”
“No.”
“Was he out of breath? Excited? Angry? Puffed up twice his size? In hot blood in any way?”
“No.”
“Were his clothes in disorder? Were they wet?”
“Not so much as I noticed.”
“It is the prosecution’s view that my client had committed a horrible crime just a few minutes’ previous to your encounter with him. He had supposedly attacked a young woman he had courted for some three years—a woman he knew well, if not intimately. The child of a fine Christian family that had trusted him with her honor. He supposedly attacked her in cold blood, striking her over the head, and then dumped her body in the river. He committed capital murder—his first, in fact. Would you say his conduct at the time supports that contention?”
“Objection!” stood Ward. “Witness is not on the jury.”
“Prosecution just established that my client was well known to the witness,” said Aydlett. “His opinion is germane.”
“Overruled. The jury will hear the answer, but bear in mind that it is only the witness’ opinion.”
“He behaved as usual,” said Owens. “He did not seem out of sorts in any way.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
As Len Owens stepped down he glanced at the defense table. Wilcox gave him a little salute with his right forefinger, to which Owens blanched.
Next up was Ollie’s gentleman caller, Roy Crawford. He was a tall man, with legs so long he had to angle them in the witness box. Dressed up in bow tie and ill-fitting suit, he was nervous, barely able to make replies in distinct fashion.
“Mr. Crawford, at what time did you leave the Cropsey residence on November 20?”
“A little after [inaudible]…”
“Can you repeat that, please?”
“I said, a little after 11:30.”
“And were Miss Nell or the defendant on the porch when you departed?”
“There was no one.”
“Did you see them in the front yard, or on the road?”
“No.”
“So whatever might have happened between the two had to have happened before 11:30. Would you say that is correct?”
“I suppose.”
Asked Aydlett: “Mr. Crawford, when you left the house, did you notice anything lying on the hallway floor, or on the piazza?”
“I did not. But I [inaudible]…”
“What was that?”
“I said, I wasn’t exactly looking. I was saying goodbye to Miss Olive.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
Visibly relieved, Crawford edged his way off the stand.
“Better watch out for that Cropsey bunch, Roy!” shouted Jim.
Judge Jones pounded the gavel. “Order! The defendant will shut his mouth unless spoken to! Understood?”
“It is, Your Honor,” said Aydlett, his hand on Jim’s shoulder.
These were the first and last words Jim Wilcox uttered at his trial.
The morning’s last witness was H.T. Greenleaf. As he took the oath, a map of the south side of Elizabeth City was brought out and erected on a stand.
“Mr. Greenleaf, you are a civil engineer, are you not, and engaged in that business for thirty years?”
“Yes sir, more or less.”
“Are you familiar with the topography of the land in front of the Cropsey residence?”
“Yes sir. Surveyed all along there and been there a great many times.”
“Mr. Greenleaf, what does that map represent?”
“The shore of the Pasquotank River, Riverside Avenue and the Cropsey house; Hayman’s Shipyard, the pier running out from the railway into the river, cypress trees and site where the body was found. The fish house and all…”
“Objection! The defense has not have the opportunity to confirm the accuracy of this exhibit.”
“It is part of public records, Your Honor,” replied Ward.
“Overruled.”
“Exception.”
“Noted. Continue, Mr. Ward.”
“How many feet from the Cropsey residence to the front gate?”
“It is 66 feet from the last step to the gate. On the street.”
“How many feet from the edge of the street to a point in front of the river there?”
“From the north side of the street, down a little path directly from the house is 112 feet to the river shore. The whole distance from the steps to the river is 211 feet.”
“How far is it from the little gate in front of the Cropsey house to the Ives’ place?”
“About 2,700 feet.”
“Did you ever walk it?”
“Yes sir, both ways.”
“How long would you figure it took you?”
“Walking quickly, it would take about eight minutes. Walking slowly, ordinary gait, it would take about ten minutes to ten-and-a-half.”
“Where on this map does Wilcox live?”
“It is labelled number eight, there.”
“How far is it from the Cropsey gate to his house?”
“It is 4,500 feet. From the Ives House, 1,800 feet, or 600 yards.”
“That is shorter than the distance from the Cropsey place to the Ives’.”
“That is correct.”
“So it should take less than ten minutes to walk it, at an ordinary pace?”
“I would say so.”
“Mr. Greenleaf, the previous witness has testified that Wilcox did not appear near the Ives’ place until after 11:30. According to several other witnesses, he went out on the piazza with the victim at 11:05. That leaves twenty-five minutes unaccounted for. Given the short distance between the Cropsey house and the river, would you say there was adequate time for Wilcox to have been at the river bank and still met Mr. Owens at 11:30?”
“Yes. More than enough time.”
“Can you imagine any circumstances where a grown man would take twenty-five minutes to walk from the Cropsey place to the Ives’?”
“An able-bodied man? I cannot.”
“Thank you, Mr. Greenleaf. Your witness.”
Aydlett strode to the map.
“Mr. Greenleaf, you say it takes about ten minutes to walk from here…to here. Have you ever done that walk in the dark?”
“No. But I doubt it would make much difference. There was a bright moon that night.”
; “The defendant left the dining room at 11:05, but there is no evidence he left the porch until after 11:30, when Roy Crawford departed. In that time he had a conversation with Miss Cropsey. Can you tell the jury how long that conversation lasted?”
“I cannot.”
“So in fact it must be less than twenty-five minutes unaccounted for, if their conversation lasted any time at all.”
“I suppose that follows.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
“Redirect, Mr. Ward?” asked the Judge.
“We have nothing further, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Your next witness?”
Ward leveled his eyes at Abraham Lincoln.
“Your Honor, the prosecution rests.”
An outbreak of whispering shivered the room. Jones pounded his gavel until there was silence.
“Very well. Defense may call their first witness.”
“Your Honor, the defense moves for dismissal.”
“On what grounds, Mr. Aydlett?”
“The prosecution has patently failed to provide any direct evidence of my client’s guilt. No motive. No murder weapon. To call the prosecution’s case ‘wholly circumstantial’ is an insult to circumstances!”
There were chuckles all around, especially from the press box.
“Motion denied,” said Jones.
“In that case, Your Honor…the defense rests.”
Jones’ gavel could do nothing against the tumult that followed. The judge had to sit and wait for a lull in the uproar. The reporters wrote feverishly, writing variations of their headline:
‘JIM WILCOX WILL NOT TAKE THE STAND IN HIS OWN DEFENSE.’
Jones bid counsel to approach the bench.
“Ed, I hope this isn’t a poor attempt at a mistrial,” he whispered.
“It is not, Your Honor.”
“What about that boatload of witnesses you promised?” asked Ward.
“Your Honor, prosecution knows the intensity of feeling against my client, or anybody who might defend him.”
“The defense exaggerates,” replied Ward. “My own wife has sympathy for the accused.”
Ella Maud Page 17
