by Caleb Carr
It was, as the Doctor put it, “ludicrous but singularly effective logic,” expressed by Mr. Darrow as if it were a deeply held conviction but more likely created for the particular case and town he found himself working. (This idea seemed confirmed when we found out that Judge Brown had served as an officer in the Civil War—a fact what Mr. Darrow had most likely discovered.) Mr. Picton had no similarly simple philosophical justification for rejecting jury candidates; in fact, he had no reason at all that appealed to Judge Brown’s old-school patriotism. He could only keep protesting that people’s personal feelings about politics, philosophy, or even religion shouldn’t be allowed to influence their judgment in a criminal proceeding, where guilt or innocence were determined by evidence, not beliefs. Such thinking was a little bloodless for the likes of Judge Brown, and as the shadows grew longer on the courtroom floor it began to wear on him pretty clearly, while Mr. Darrow’s deliberate attempts to appeal to the old man’s deepest sentiments—voiced, as they were, in the “plain” midwestern oratory what Mr. Darrow had obviously mastered—only seemed to grow more colorful and persuasive.
By the time all twelve seats in the jury box had been filled, there was no real way to determine which side had the upper hand in terms of the personal inclinations of the men in the chairs. But if I’d been forced to bet on it, I would’ve said that the balance was leaning in Mr. Darrow’s favor—and the fact that Mr. Moore brought word back from the Casino that night that the odds against a conviction had gone up to sixty to one seemed to bear this feeling out. For Mr. Picton, the battle would start out as an uphill one.
Still, we did have witnesses and evidence in our favor, and there wasn’t any real reason yet to believe that these wouldn’t change the opinions of even those jurors what were privately inclined to view the charges against Libby Hatch with some doubt; after all, Sheriff Dunning had started out skeptical about the prosecution’s case, but’d had his mind thoroughly changed by the grand jury proceedings. Knowing all this, Mr. Picton stayed in his office very late on Monday night, going over his opening statement (to be delivered the next morning) and also the schedule according to which he planned to reveal circumstantial evidence and call witnesses. Mrs. Hastings asked me to take some food up to the court house at about midnight, and I found Mr. Picton still going like a madman, smoking, reading, rehearsing, and once again having at the hair on his face and head like he was intent on doing himself some injury. The sight made me marvel all the more at how he was able to come across so cool and collected in the actual courtroom: I knew that there was no telling where a particular person might feel the most at ease with the world, but the difference in this case between the anxious, slightly peculiar man we knew outside the courtroom and the steady, brilliant lawyer we saw pursue the case against Libby Hatch was so extreme as to be confusing.
But confusing or not, Mr. Picton was always impressive in court, especially the following morning, when he opened the case against Libby Hatch. At ten o’clock Judge Brown gaveled the proceedings to order, and Iphegeneia Blaylock got her quick hands ready to record Mr. Picton’s statement. When the assistant district attorney rose to address the jury, there was no sign on his face of the devilish smile what had been in evidence throughout the arraignment and the jury selection: he was all seriousness, knowing, it seemed to me, that his change in mood would cause the jury to sit up and take special notice from the start. Wearing a dark suit what seemed to reinforce the idea that he’d come before them on business what he had no personal wish to pursue, Mr. Picton paced in front of the jury box for a minute or so before speaking; only when he saw the faces of the twelve men inside that box grow completely attentive and what you might call receptive did he open his mouth.
“Gentlemen,” he began, in a much slower and more melancholy way than was his habit, “you have heard the state’s charges against the defendant. But there are facts outside the indictment of which you should be aware.” Mr. Picton lifted a hand toward the defense table without looking over at Libby Hatch. “This woman has recently been deprived of her husband, a man of great bravery who earlier in life sacrificed his health to the noble causes of Union and emancipation. You must none of you think that the state is unaware of this fact, or that it would, as the counsel for the defense has intimated in the local press, disturb the mourning of such a woman simply for the sake of solving an old and troubling crime. I tell you honestly, we would not do it. Even had we the time to pursue such private, perverse agendas, the memory of a man who was one of his country’s many heroes at a critical hour would block our path, as surely as the felling of a mighty tree would block the passage of traffic on the Charlton road.”
I was leaning forward in my chair, not only to make sure I heard everything Mr. Picton said, but also to catch the Doctor’s reactions to it all. At the mention of poor old Micah Hunter, the Doctor started to nod, working hard to keep the expression on his face absolutely still. “Good,” he whispered. “Good—don’t let Darrow possess that subject.”
Mr. Picton paused, staring up at the ceiling. “The Charlton road …” He turned to the jury again. “We are here—reluctantly, gentlemen, never doubt it—because something unspeakable occurred three years ago on the Charlton road. An event of a kind that we, as a community, pray never to see repeated—and would, perhaps, like to forget. But we cannot. There are two graves in the Ballston Avenue Cemetery that will not let us forget it, and there is a little girl—half paralyzed and, until several days ago, stricken dumb with terror—who will not let us forget it. Her very existence has been a reminder, for these three years, of the horror that took place that night. Yet now, suddenly, she can offer us more than simply her poignant presence. Finally, after three long years during which she has endured a private torment that is beyond the imagination even of those brave men who survived the carnage of our great Civil-War, finally, little Clara Hatch can speak! And can anyone believe, gentlemen, that when she at last feels safe enough to give voice to her terrible memories, such a child could be persuaded to lie? Can any of you seriously believe that after all she has endured, this eight-year-old girl could be approached by agents of the state and persuaded to fabricate a history of what occurred on the Charlton road, where her two brothers were shot to death and she herself received a wound that her assailant clearly hoped was mortal?”
Taking a moment to stare at the jury, Mr. Picton made a visible effort to get his passions under control—an effort what I could already tell, knowing him as well as I did, was going to fail.
“The defense would have you believe so,” he went on, nodding. “Indeed, the defense would have you believe many things. They will refer you to the sworn affidavit of the woman who was then known as Mrs. Libby Hatch, and will call her to the stand to again tell her strange, unsupported story concerning a mysterious Negro assailant who attacked her children but not herself and then vanished into the night, never to be seen or detected again despite the most vigorous of searches. But the facts as the only other witness to the events of that night tells them are too simple and too clear, even in all their horror, for you to be further led down any fantastic garden paths by the defense. I am sure of that—sure, because I have heard little Clara’s version of the events from her own lips. And it is only because I have heard that fateful tale that the state brings these charges against the former Mrs. Hatch. Do not doubt that, gentlemen. Do not doubt that if Clara Hatch had not stated—in this very building, under oath and before all the frightening power of a court of law—that it was her own mother who did the infamous deed, who coldly put the muzzle of a forty-five-caliber revolver against those three small chests and deliberately pulled the trigger not once but repeatedly, until she was convinced that all her children were dead—I tell you, do not doubt that if anyone but Clara Hatch had made such an assertion, the state would never have had the temerity to bring this awful charge against this woman! No, gentlemen! We serve no ulterior motive here. We would not trifle with the mental composure, with the very sanity, of a ch
ild, simply to close the books on an unsolved crime. Better a hundred crimes go unsolved than that the state engage in such behavior! We—you—are here for a single reason: because the only person who witnessed what happened on the Charlton road that May night three years ago has come forward to tell her story. And when such a horrifying account is presented to the state, it has no choice but to reluctantly—I say it again, gentlemen, reluctantly!—to reluctantly set the machinery of justice into motion, no matter how much the ensuing events may disrupt the peace of the community, as well as the peace of each of its citizens.”
At that point Mr. Picton paused again to draw a deep breath, rubbing his forehead as if it did indeed pain him to speak about the case.
“Smart,” Marcus whispered to the Doctor. “He’s taking on Darrow’s criticisms before Darrow’s even stated them.”
“Yes,” the Doctor answered. “But watch Darrow. He has a nimble mind, and is manufacturing new avenues of attack even as Picton closes the old ones down.”
Glancing at Mr. Darrow, I could see what the Doctor meant: though he was holding himself in a pose of slouching carelessness, his face showed that his mind was working like a dynamo.
“In a moment, gentlemen,” Mr. Picton continued, “you will hear just what evidence the state will present and what witnesses it will call, along with what you may expect to learn about this matter as a result. But as you listen, a question will linger in the back of your minds. And lest that question cause your attention to the details of evidence to wander, I feel I must address it now. All the evidence and all the witnesses in the world will not stop you from wondering how—how could a woman be guilty of such a crime? Surely she would have to be mad to commit such an act. But the woman before you has no history of madness, nor does the defense seek to portray her as being mad. Neither were her children born out of wedlock, the other explanation most commonly cited for ‘prolicide,’ the murder of one’s own offspring. No. Thomas, Matthew, and Clara Hatch had a home, a father whose name they bore, and a mother whose mind was and is wholly sound. And so, you will ask yourselves, how could this happen? Time and the rules of procedure prevent me from arguing the state’s theory of how at this juncture—the evidence must do that. I ask now only that you be aware of the reluctance of your own minds to countenance even the possibility that such an argument may be proved true. For only if you confront your prejudices, just as those of us who have investigated this case have reluctantly—yes, I repeat it again, reluctantly!—confronted ours, can justice be served.” Pausing once more to make sure the jury’d gotten this point, Mr. Picton sighed deeply and then went on. “As to the matters of means and opportunity, the evidence will show …”
Here our friend launched into a detailed but quick-paced review of every bit of circumstantial evidence we’d collected, moving from that recital into a discussion of what his other two principal witnesses—Mrs. Louisa Wright and the Reverend Clayton Parker—would have to Say about Libby Hatch’s possible motives for committing the crime.
“Well, Moore,” the Doctor whispered as all this was going on, “he’s doing quite a job. Even I almost believe he’s reluctant to pursue the case.”
“I told you,” Mr. Moore answered, nodding as he watched Mr. Picton, “he was born for this kind of thing.”
“It’s a strange reversal,” Miss Howard added. “He sounds more like an advocate than a prosecutor.”
“That’s the trick,” Marcus said. “He knows Darrow’s going to argue in the negative, so he assumes the positive. He’s defending his witnesses and his case, even before they’re attacked. Very smart—should take a lot of the wind out of Darrow’s sails.”
“I wish I believed that,” the Doctor whispered.
We all turned our attention forward again as Mr. Picton brought his discussion about the evidence what the prosecution would present to a close. He returned to his table, almost as if he was getting ready to sit down; but then, pausing like he’d just thought of something he wasn’t sure he should bring up, he held a finger to his lips and approached the jury box again.
“There is one more thing, gentlemen. The court and the state have raised no objection to the accused’s being represented by out-of-state counsel. It is her right, and the counsel for the defense is an accomplished attorney. I should like you to remember that. A very accomplished attorney. In his years of practice he has represented the interests of clients humble and mighty, of great corporations and lunatic assassins. What brings him, you might reasonably ask, to our little town, so far from the teeming city of Chicago, and to this case in particular? The state cannot pretend that there are not forces at work here—for the accused, during her years of residence in New York City, found employment with some of the most powerful people in that metropolis. And they, perhaps naturally, seek to aid her in this, her hour of need. And so they have reached out of state for the assistance of, as I say, a very accomplished attorney. That is their affair. But you should be aware of this much: in the process of becoming so accomplished, the counsel for the defense has learned a thing or two about juries. He has learned about how they think, how they feel, and how they view the terrible responsibility of deciding a fellow human being’s fate in a capital case. Yes, you will doubtless hear a great deal about your responsibility, when the counsel for the defense makes his opening remarks.”
For the first time Mr. Picton smiled, ever so briefly, at the twelve faces before him. “But what is your responsibility, gentlemen?” he asked, his face going straight again. “To weigh the evidence and the testimony which will be presented to you by the state, as well as the defense. Nothing less—and nothing more. The counsel for the defense will ask you to believe that he does not intend to work upon your emotions and your natural sympathies, only that he wishes to present to you as clear and honest an argument as possible, so that if you decide that this woman is guilty the responsibility will be yours and yours alone. But, gentlemen, our jury system has been centuries perfecting a means of ensuring that no one man would ever feel that he held the fate of another in his hands in imitation of the Almighty. Your responsibility is only to weigh what is presented to you. It is the responsibility of the counsel for the defense and the responsibility of the state to adequately prepare and communicate their arguments. If you find the accused not guilty, then the responsibility is not yours—it belongs to the state. To me, gentlemen. And what is true of one side is true of the other. You are not the Inquisition of old, commissioned and empowered to arbitrarily decide the fate of a fellow human being. If you were, then indeed, you should bear the responsibility for what happens here. But that is not your commission. Your task is simply to listen—to the evidence, the witnesses, and the voice of doubt that is inside each of you. If I cannot silence that voice to a reasonable extent, then you must decide against the state. And believe me, gentlemen, it is the state that will bear that responsibility.” Mr. Picton turned and glanced at Mr Darrow as he added, “That, at any rate, is the way things are done in the state of New York.”
Returning to his table, Mr. Picton sat down with a heavy breath, then took out his watch, placed it before him, and fixed his eyes on it.
Judge Brown studied Mr. Picton for a few seconds, with a look that combined annoyance with what you might call grudging respect; then he turned to the table on the other side of the room. “Mr. Darrow? Would the defense care to make its introductory remarks now, or will it wait until the opening of its own case?”
Mr. Darrow stood up slowly, giving the judge a small smile as the usual lock of hair fell over his forehead. “I’ve just been considering that question, Your Honor,” he said, his voice sounding deeper and smoother than ever. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any advice for me?”
The crowd chuckled quietly, causing Judge Brown to grab his gavel; but they got themselves settled before he had to start rapping it.
“This doesn’t seem quite the time for levity, Counselor,” the judge said sternly.
Mr. Darrow’s smile disappeared
, and all the lines in his face seemed to grow deeper with worry. “No—no, it isn’t, Your Honor, and I apologize for sounding that way. The defense will go ahead and open now, with your permission.” Slowly moving out from behind his table, Mr. Darrow walked at a very slow pace over toward the jury box, his shoulders hunched like those of a man what’s carrying a painful burden. “My apology was sincere, gentlemen—sometimes confusion can cause inappropriate behavior. And I’ll admit that the state has confused me mightily, and not just about this case. Mr. Picton seems to know an awful lot about me—seems to know just what it is that I have to say to you, and what words I’ll use to say it. I know I’m not a young man anymore, but I didn’t think I’d gotten quite so old and set in my ways.” The men in the jury box smiled out to Mr. Darrow, who returned the look briefly. “He makes me sound like a pretty dangerous character, doesn’t he? Why, if I were in your spot right now I’d be good and on my guard, ready for the big-city lawyer who’s going to—how did the state put it? To ‘work upon your emotions and your natural sympathies.’ Quite a job, to get twelve grown men to dance like puppets all at once—and I’ll admit to you, gentlemen, I’m not up to it. Especially not when I’m so confused…”
Putting a hand to his neck, Mr. Darrow rubbed it hard, squinting his eyes as he did. “You see, the state seems to want you to believe that they would just as soon’ve let this case alone—that there they were, going about their own business, when suddenly along comes a little girl, along comes Clara Hatch, bursting at the seams to tell her story of what happened on the Charlton road on May the thirty-first, 1894. Well, gentlemen, the truth is a little different. The truth is that after the—the nightmare, the unimaginable tragedy on the Charlton road, my client, Clara Hatch’s mother, was left in such a devastated state that she knew she couldn’t care for a girl whose needs would be as extreme as Clara’s. So what did she do? She agreed to let two good, kind citizens of this town, Josiah and Ruth Weston—most of you know them—care for her daughter while she went off to secure a new future for the both of them, so that they might escape the horrors of the past. She fully intended to return for Clara, when the day came that she was well enough to leave the Westons’. Until recently, she thought that day was still a long way off. And then she received word that Clara had recovered the ability to speak—received it from Sheriff Dunning, who’d come to New York to arrest her. For what, apparently, was the first thing that little Clara said, after her three years of torturous silence? That her own mother had shot her. This tormented, terrified girl one day resumes communicating with the world—a momentous enough event on its own—and without urging, she offers the state an explanation of her tragic experience, one that doesn’t match a single detail of the story that was accepted by everyone in this county as true three years ago, but that does happen to name a culprit for the crime that the state can easily lay its hands on!”
