by Caleb Carr
“If it please the court,” Mr. Maxon said, smiling now. “I—”
“It does not please the court, Counselor,” Judge Brown said, sitting forward again. “Just what are you about, sir?”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon went on quickly, “I should like to introduce Mr. Clarence Darrow, attorney-at-law from the state of Illinois. It is the defense’s request that the court allow him to appear, pro hac vice, as the defendant’s primary counsel.”
“Darrow, eh?” Judge Brown said. “Yes, I’ve had some communications about you, Mr. Darrow. From downstate.”
Mr. Darrow smiled humbly and chuckled. “I hope,” he said, in a deep, soothing sort of voice, “that those communications haven’t prejudiced Your Honor against me.”
The people in the galleries liked that; and so, in his own way, did Judge Brown. “It certainly doesn’t help,” he said, producing some chuckles in the crowd that he let go. “If the defendant wishes to retain out-of-state counsel, that is her prerogative. But this court does not require advice from anyone in New York City on how to conduct its affairs.”
“I understand, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow answered, smiling in a way what I had to admit was charming. “We feel the same way about New York City in Chicago.”
The crowd laughed again, but got the gavel and a scowl for it. “If it is the defendant’s true request,” the judge said, turning to the defense table again, “then the court will be pleased to allow Mr. Darrow to practice in this state, pro hoc vice.” The judge then looked to Libby Hatch, who stood up and widened her glowing eyes innocently.
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” she said, her lips curling up a little as she did. “I’m afraid I never had any Latin.”
Little whispers to the effect of “Me, neither” and “Well, of course she didn’t” circulated through the crowd, bringing another rap of the gavel.
“Pro hoc vice,” the judge explained, as gently as I’d guess he was capable of, “simply means ‘for this occasion,’ Mrs. Hunter. It grants Mr. Darrow the right to practice in New York, but only for this case. Is that your wish?”
Libby nodded gently, then sat back down.
“And does the state have any objection?” the judge asked.
Mr. Picton smiled gamely, tucked his thumbs into the vest of the crisp gray suit he was wearing, and stood up. “Not at all, Your Honor,” he said, moving out beside his table and seeming even shorter, more wiry, and quicker up against Mr. Darrow. “The court knows of Mr. Darrow by reputation, and if the defense contends that adequate counsel cannot be found in Saratoga County, then, while we may not share their assessment of our native talent, neither can we think of any reason why Mr. Darrow should not be permitted to serve.”
The audience wasn’t in much of a mood to find anything Mr. Picton said funny—but they couldn’t help a few proud, satisfied smiles at his statement.
Mr. Darrow also smiled, in a gracious sort of way; but his face went straight when, looking over toward Mr. Picton, he caught sight of Marcus. Quickly recovering, he made a quick motion what said he took his cap off to the detective sergeant for his clever bit of research work. Marcus smiled and saluted back as Mr. Darrow said, “I thank the honorable district attorney. And I must say I’m impressed by his efforts to learn all about my—reputation.”
Mr. Picton, having seen the little exchange what’d taken place between Mr. Darrow and Marcus, grinned. “Mr. Darrow inflates me, Your Honor. He is perhaps unaware that I am only an assistant county prosecutor, District Attorney Pearson being, as yet, unwilling to quit his very fine suite of offices.”
Putting on a puzzled face what was so extreme as to make it plain that he actually knew exactly what Mr. Picton’s rank was, Mr. Darrow scratched at his head. “An assistant? Well, I beg the state’s pardon, I’m sure, Your Honor—I’d assumed that in a capital case as fraught with importance as this one the state would’ve wanted its senior officer to represent the people.”
“As Your Honor knows, here in Ballston we enjoy as few temperate weeks as do the citizens of Chicago,” Mr. Picton answered. “And we did not wish to deprive Mr. Pearson of any of them. Since I was the investigating officer in this case, we felt safe entrusting it to my meager talents.”
Judge Brown was nodding his head and looking a little annoyed. “If you two gentlemen are finished needling each other,” he said, “I’d like to see if we can’t get a plea in this matter before noon. Mr. Darrow, the state having no objection, you are permitted to serve as primary counsel for your client in this court. I hope you don’t regret the trip. Now, then, Mrs. Hunter, you have heard the very grave charges against you. How do you plead?”
Looking to Libby Hatch, who was staring up at him anxiously, Mr. Darrow nodded. Then Libby stood again, folded her hands before her, and said, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
A wave of whispers went through the courtroom, bringing a bang from Judge Brown’s gavel. “Very well,” he said, scowling around the room again. “Now, Mr. Picton, as to the matter of—” The judge paused as he noticed Mr. Picton staring at Mr. Darrow with a puzzled face, one what was about as genuine as the bigger man’s had been just a few seconds earlier. “Mr. Picton? Are you mesmerized, sir, by the learned counsel from Illinois?”
Shaking himself, Mr. Picton turned to the bench. “Hmm? Oh! I am sorry, Your Honor. I confess I wasn’t aware that the defense had completed its plea.”
“You find their plea inadequate, Mr. Picton?” the judge asked.
“It isn’t for me to find it so, Your Honor,” Mr. Picton answered. “I only thought that some sort of—defining phrase might be attached to it. ‘By reason of something-or-other’—that sort of thing.”
The judge stared down hard at him. “Mr. Picton—you and I have done too much business in this room over the last few years for me to be unaware of what you’re up to. But there’s no jury here for you to vex with your suggestions yet, and I won’t tolerate any playing to the galleries. Mr. Darrow is a qualified attorney who does not appear to suffer from any impediments of speech. If he wished to qualify the defendant’s plea in any way, I’m sure he would have. Do you wish to so qualify the plea, Mr. Darrow?”
“Certainly not, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said, in dark earnest. “The plea is a simple, straightforward, and absolute ‘Not guilty.’”
“Clear enough,” Judge Brown replied. “In future, Mr. Picton, the state can keep its assumptions, as well as its hopes, to itself.” Mr. Picton just smiled and bowed. “Now,” the judge continued, “as to the matter of bail—”
“Bail?” Mr. Picton blurted out, getting a groan and another scowl from the judge.
“Yes, Mr. Picton,” the old man said. “Bail. You are familiar with the practice?”
“In a case like this, I fear I am not, Your Honor,” Mr. Picton replied. “The defendant is accused of the worst sort of violent assault on her own children, one of whom barely escaped with her life and is currently the state’s principal witness. Does the court seriously intend that the state should, even for a moment, countenance the possibility of bail in this matter?”
“The court intends that the state should follow the rules of criminal procedure, whatever the offense!” Judge Brown bellowed back. “I warn you, Mr. Picton—do not make any more efforts to get on my bad side so early in this trial! As you well know, it’s a big place, my bad side, and once on it you may have trouble finding your way back over again!”
Mr. Picton tried not to smile, and nodded with what you might call pronounced respect. “Yes, Your Honor. I ask the court’s pardon. The state earnestly directs the court’s attention to the severity of the crime with which the defendant is accused, and the danger that might be posed to the state’s principal witness should the defendant be freed. We ask that bail in any amount be denied.”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow countered, looking shocked, “my client is a respectable woman who endured the greatest tragedy that can be inflicted on a member of her sex: the savage murder, before her eyes, of two of her
own children, and the attempted murder of a third—”
“I beg the learned counsel’s pardon,” Mr. Picton answered, with a hefty dose of sarcasm. “I was not aware that the issue had already been decided so conclusively. I thought that we were gathered together in this room to determine what, in fact, happened to the defendant’s children.”
Still scowling, Judge Brown nodded. “I’m afraid I must agree with the state here, Mr. Darrow. The burden may be on them to prove their allegations, but until they’ve failed, I cannot accept your assertion that Mrs. Hunter has endured any such tragedy, and I must ask you not to further inflame what is already a very emotional matter by making such statements. You have a request regarding bail?”
“We do, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow answered. “If, indeed, my client is guilty of violence against children, it’ll be the first that this or any other state knows about it. Besides being a devoted mother, she’s been a governess and a nurse to many children other than her own, and in that capacity has often behaved as heroically as she did on the night in question. We ask that you recognize that she is no threat either to the state’s witnesses or to the community and that, given the delicacy of both her sex and her nature, you post a reasonable bail, to prevent her languishing in the county jail for the duration of what may be a protracted proceeding.”
With the crowd—and those of us in the first two rows especially—waiting anxiously, Judge Brown rocked back in his chair, almost disappearing behind the bench. He stayed there for a minute or so before sitting forward again.
“The court appreciates Mr. Darrow’s remarks concerning the gender and character of the defendant,” he said slowly. “But it also notes that she is charged with a capital crime of a particularly violent and passionate nature. We regret any discomfort it may cause, and shall instruct Sheriff Dunning to make every possible provision to ensure that Mrs. Hunter’s stay in this building will be, if not a pleasant, then at least a bearable one. But bail itself is denied.”
That set the crowd mumbling again, and the judge went to work with the gavel. “I remind our guests of my earlier remarks!” he said. “And I assure them that they were in earnest!” With quiet restored, Judge Brown looked at the two tables below him. “We will reconvene on Tuesday morning at nine o’clock for the purpose of beginning jury selection. But before we go, let me once more emphasize something to both sides in this case: the court is aware of the feelings aroused by this matter, and urges both of you to refrain from any blatant appeals to emotion or popular sentiment. It won’t do either cause any good, and may injure your purposes beyond repair. Court is adjourned!”
Another bang of the gavel, and we all got to our feet, as Judge Brown made his way back down to the door behind the bench and then disappeared through it. As soon as he was gone, the room roared to life with conversation and comment again, particularly once Sheriff Dunning and Bailiff Coffey had guided Libby Hatch out through a side door what led directly down to the cells in the basement of the building. Mr. Darrow gave her some words of encouragement on her way out, and she did her very best to look humble and grateful; but in her eyes, again, was that flirtatious, seductive glitter what she seemed unable to keep from flashing at men she’d only just met. After she’d gone, Mr. Darrow began to talk with Mr. Maxon, a conversation what Mr. Picton interrupted by marching himself straight over to their table and loudly declaring, “Well, Maxon! So you’ve got yourself some help. I’m not sure how I’d take that if I were you, though I suppose when the assistance comes from a man as thoroughly acqainted with as many areas of the law as Mr. Darrow, you can’t object!” He thrust out his hand. “Mr. Darrow, my name’s Picton.”
“Yes, I know,” Mr. Darrow answered, shaking Mr. Picton’s hand with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm and eyeing him in a way what was more than a little condescending. “You see, I’ve heard about you, too, Mr. Picton, though I’ve got to say that my information came through slightly more”—he cast an eye over at Marcus—“straightforward channels.”
“Well, great men do as they will, lesser men do as they must,” Mr. Picton answered lightly. “Where has Vanderbilt got you staying, Darrow? Somewhere comfortable, I trust—not that Ballston has many luxuries to offer. But perhaps you’ll let me provide you with the odd meal at my house, if you find you need it.”
At the mention of Mr. Vanderbilt, Mr. Darrow looked at Mr. Picton in a way what went past condescension toward outright annoyance. “I will hand it to you, Mr. Picton, there don’t seem to be many aspects of this situation that’ve escaped your attention. Or does all of Ballston Spa know the details of Mrs. Hunter’s arrangements for her defense?”
“Oh, good God, no!” Mr. Picton answered with a laugh. “And I wouldn’t tell them if I were you. Judge Brown’s attitude toward the citizens of our downstate metropolis is, I assure you, quite typical of the residents of this county. But you don’t have to worry about me telling anyone—wouldn’t be sporting, would it?”
It was pretty easy to see that Mr. Picton was doing his best to irritate Mr. Darrow, and that he was succeeding. “I’m not sure ‘sporting’ is a word I’d care to use in connection with a case as tragic as this one,” Mr. Darrow mumbled back. “And I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you up on your offer, as I’ll be staying at the Grand Union Hotel in Saratoga. We’ll be organizing our efforts from there.”
Mr. Picton frowned at that one. “Hmm,” he noised. “Well, I wouldn’t let that bit get out, either—people in Ballston don’t have much more use for Saratoga than they do for New York. They figure it’s just a playground for rich strangers and their hired hands.” Mr. Darrow’s eyes went wide with shock at that slap, but Mr. Picton just kept chattering away. “I hope you don’t mind my being so free with advice, but I really do want to make sure that we keep the field as level as possible. Well, good-bye, Maxon—best of luck. And Darrow, if you change your mind about that meal, you will let me know, won’t you?”
By way of reply Mr. Darrow rumbled something under his breath as he walked out through the gate in the railing with Mr. Maxon. Passing by our rows of seats, Mr. Darrow took our group in with a cold glare; but then, recognizing the Doctor’s face, he caught himself and turned around to approach the front row of chairs with a more friendly air.
“It’s Dr. Kreizler, isn’t it?” he said, the deep voice now becoming very genial. The Doctor shook the hand what Mr. Darrow offered. “I’m a great admirer of your work, Doctor, if you’ll permit me to say so.”
“I will,” the Doctor answered, studying the lawyer as he smiled engagingly. “Thank you, Mr. Darrow.”
“Tell me, sir,” Mr. Darrow went on, “is it true that you’re acting as an adviser to the prosecution in this case?”
“That fact surprises you?” the Doctor asked.
“I’ll admit that it does,” Mr. Darrow answered. “I wouldn’t have thought you the kind of man to get involved in satisfying the state’s desire to punish whatever person they could actually catch, just so that they can write an end to this mysterious tragedy.”
“Is that my motivation, Mr. Darrow?”
Shrugging his big shoulders, Mr. Darrow said, “I can’t think of any other. And I’ve got to say, such behavior doesn’t sound like you. But maybe I’ve formed a wrong impression. Or maybe you’ve got your own reasons for doing business with the state of New York.” Seeing the Doctor’s eyes go a little wider at this barely disguised reference to the investigation into the Kreizler Institute’s affairs what was still going on in New York, Mr. Darrow smiled. “Whatever the case, I hope we’ll get a chance to talk at some point. Outside of court, I mean. I’m being wholly honest when I say that I admire what you do. What you—generally do. Good morning.”
The Doctor nodded once, still smiling. “Good morning to you, sir.”
Mr. Darrow followed Mr. Maxon to the mahogany doors, where they were immediately buttonholed by Mr. Grose and a few other newspapermen who’d come down from Saratoga.
“Clever man,” the Doctor said,
watching Mr. Darrow hold court with the journalists in a way what showed that the Chicago lawyer was very at home with the process.
“Oh, yes,” Mr. Picton said, coming over to join us. “A clever, sanctimonious prig, wrapped up in the broadcloth of the people.” Turning to pack up his briefcase, Mr. Picton laughed once, hard. “One of the easiest kinds of people to irk!”
“You were certainly doing your best, Rupert,” Mr. Moore said, with a shake of his head. “Do you want to spend this trial bickering with the man?”
“I’m sure the Doctor will agree, John,” Mr. Picton answered, sticking his unlit pipe into his mouth. “That when a man is perpetually irritated he’s far more likely to make errors of judgment than might otherwise be the case.”
“Yes, I thought that was your purpose, Mr. Picton,” the Doctor answered. “And you achieved it admirably.”
“Oh, nothing to it,” Mr. Picton answered, tucking his briefcase under his arm. “Lawyers like that, as I’ve told you, generally think they have nothing to learn from Jesus Christ himself when it comes to being saviors with a mission. Annoying them is like falling off of a log, really. Well! The opening’s gone well, but I’d like to regroup and go over our next set of steps, if it’s all right with you, Doctor.” Taking out his watch again, Mr. Picton checked it. “We can talk in my office, if you like.”
“Of course,” the Doctor answered, leading the way up the aisle and around the little group of newspapermen who were still throwing questions at Mr. Darrow and Mr. Maxon. They tried to pull Mr. Picton aside, too, with questions what were pretty predictable: wasn’t the state’s charging Libby Hatch an act of desperation, what possible motive could a mother have for killing her own kids, wouldn’t such a woman have to be insane—all that sort of stuff. But Mr. Picton was ready for it, and very handily talked his way through the group without saying anything of importance, all the while referring them back to Mr. Darrow, who, he was sure, would have much more interesting things to say than any humble assistant county prosecutor.
