The oppressive heat had put Judge Edward Y. Rice in a sour mood, as did the knowledge that he was going to have to spend much of the day arguing the law with Abe Lincoln, Steve Logan and John Palmer. Lincoln may not have been able to cite the statutes by number, but he knew what the law said, and he was never too shy about reminding judges of it. Logan often reveled in a display of his own brilliance. And Palmer was a stickler for citations, precedents and the smallest details of legal history.
Judge Rice had stripped to his undergarments before buttoning the robe, trying to make himself as comfortable as possible. No one would know that though, not even his clerk. Judges had been wearing the black or dark violet robes since the passage of the Judges Rules of 1635 and no one ever wondered what was worn under it. Well, maybe they do in Scottish courts, he mused, giving rise to his first and isolated smile of the day. But here in the city of Springfield, the state of Illinois, and in the United States of America, no one paid much attention to what you wore or, as in this case, didn’t wear. Far as Judge Rice was concerned, there were three advantages to the judge’s robe: it kept you warm in the winter, cool in the summer and putting it on was like coating yourself in respect. It didn’t seem to matter what man was wearing it; it was that robe that brought with it respect.
While wearing a robe was not an absolute requirement, Judge Rice chose to wear one when sitting in Springfield, as it lent decorum to the courtroom. He believed it was the majesty of the robe—combined with a good snap of his gavel—that shut up quarrelsome lawyers when he needed them shut up. Of course out on the circuit he dressed less formally in view of the casual surroundings, as well as the reality that packing and carrying the heavy robe from town to hamlet added an unnecessary burden. And keeping it clean in those places where mud floors were more common than wood was almost an impossibility. So most judges wore whatever clothes they were carrying with them, depending on the aura of justice to cloak them with respect.
Even after all his years on the bench, the irony of courtroom life continued to confound Judge Rice. People wanted to believe that donning the robes of office and sitting behind a high desk guaranteed some kind of uniform application of the law to every courtroom, which was no more true than a sailor claiming that every storm was the same. Even he had to admit that he brought a different temperament into the courtroom every session, and as much as he tried to avoid it, there could be no doubt that those feelings were reflected in the way he ran the proceedings. Woe to the attorney who objected too vehemently the morning after Mrs. Rice had kept him up half the night suffering from the vapors. On the other hand there were those lucky men who were there when he came to court with a glint in his eye. Not that it happened too often anymore.
He stood before the mirror and straightened his robe. He lightly powdered the top of his head to prevent sweat from running down into his eyes and coughed his throat clear. It was time for work. And as he settled gingerly into his cushioned chair behind the bench and looked out at the overflowing courtroom, he knew for certain this was not going to be a good day to mess with him.
For Robert Hitt it already had been a busy morning. After his pleasant dinner with Mr. Thomas, he had returned to his room and worked deep into the night. After only a few hours’ rest he had been at the telegraph office when it opened at 6:30 a.m. to send his transcription of yesterday’s proceedings to Chicago. The telegraph operator informed him that some strange disturbance had interrupted traffic and that he could not say for sure when the long message would be transmitted. He literally scratched his head as he complained that it was the craziest thing he had ever seen; when the telegraph failed, he had turned off the power—and yet his key had continued to operate. Hitt smiled at the improbable story, and asked the man to continue his efforts in his behalf.
That unexpected interlude had given him time to enjoy the morning newspapers, and to his surprise, and pleasure, he had found himself mentioned in a broader story about the trial by the reporter with whom he had spoken.
A second story was more sensational, offering some of those “gruesome” details and speculating on which side had best made its case. But Hitt paused a minute to enjoy the mention of his name, as well as hoping that none of his colleagues, who most certainly would frown upon the attention, saw it. He read quickly through the other newspapers, which essentially reported the same events. It was easy to determine which paper favored which outcome by the size and the names in its headlines.
He noticed a brief story on the front page of the Journal that explained the difficulty with the telegraph key as well as the strange night sky the previous evening. It seemed that the sun was erupting. Astronomers had reported a series of unusual sunspots the previous few days, which had given rise to magnificent auroras while wreaking havoc with magnets. In New England people reported they were able to read newspapers by the night light. It was so bright green over the Rocky Mountains that gold miners got woken up in the middle of the night and were so confused they started making breakfast. In various areas people rushed to churches, convinced that the end of the world was at hand, although they also complimented the Lord on the magnificent colors of the end of the world. Telegraph operators across the country were struggling with traitorous keys that had decided to work or not work entirely of their own volition. Hitt silently chastised himself for doubting the telegrapher.
More pleasing to Hitt was a story that sleeping chairs had been installed in railway cars for the first time. Two nights earlier, passengers on the Chicago and Alton overnight between Bloomington and Chicago were able to stretch out and sleep as if they were in their own rocking beds.
Hitt suddenly realized he was lollygagging and strode briskly across the common to the courthouse. Fortunately, the spectators were still taking their seats when he arrived. The courtroom was even more densely packed than it had been the previous day. People had even taken seats on the windowsills, their legs hanging in midair. As he scanned the courtroom, he noticed several people who had not been present the previous day, among them two young boys and an elderly man with an antique ear horn. He went back to work, checking the same ink supply for the fourth time. Suddenly the courtroom began buzzing, and he looked up from his business as Quinn Harrison and the defense team entered the courtroom. Lincoln took off his tall hat and began spreading his papers. As before, he removed his coat and hung it on the back of his chair, then rolled up his sleeves a workingman’s distance. Logan straightened his stack on the table. Quinn Harrison, the natural excitement of the first day worn off, seemed completely lacking energy, as if he might fall to the floor in a pile if he had to stand again.
The courthouse in which Lincoln’s last murder trial took place was built for less than $10,000—although to make that possible the massive Ionic columns in front were actually made of wood and hollow inside. Lincoln was a familiar figure here and tried several hundred cases in this building.
Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum
Judge Rice gaveled the court into session. Turning to the defense, he nodded for them to go ahead, reminding them, “Now it’s your turn.”
Logan stood and summoned Benjamin Short to the stand. Short had been properly named; he was small, stout and his jowls sagged as if they might be melting in this heat wave. Short acknowledged that he kept a drugstore in Pleasant Plains and was in that store on the morning of July 16. Logan asked formally, “Do you recollect anything of an affray that took place there in which Greek Crafton and Quinn Harrison took part?” As if it might be possible to have forgotten as much as a snail’s nail about that fatal fight. Logan led him into his rambling narrative. “State when Quinn Harrison came into your store and what followed.” Fully aware this would be dramatic testimony, he added, “Reflect and take it deliberately.”
Short scratched his head, demonstrating his commitment to reflection, then recounted, “I think it was about the sixteenth of July at about half-past eight o’clock in the morning he came in. I think the mail had not come in. It was very nearly time for the mail, I remember, when Greek came in. Quinn Harrison was sitting on a stool near the door, I supposed four or five feet from the door inside I should judge. I was sitting side-by-side with him. We were looking over a newspaper, both over the same paper. We remained in that condition until Greek came in.”
His testimony almost duplicated the story he had told at the first hearing. Logan urged him to continue, asking, “What then took place? State it all.”
“Greek took hold of him the first thing I saw after he came in. He took hold of Quinn around the arms and the affray commenced. We rose up immediately, all three of us. Harrison and myself were sitting and rose up and I attempted to separate them. There seemed to be a fight. John Crafton came up. He had come into the store previously. He took hold and we went back together to the rear of the store all hands.” As he told his story, he began speaking more rapidly; his voice also rose a pitch, and he began describing the event with his hands, waving them about in a growing frenzy. “John took hold of my left arm. I was endeavoring to separate the boys.” That came almost as a plea for understanding. He tried to stop it. He tried.
“We all went back together and in going back Harrison got hold of the railing that goes around the counter and was pulled loose from that. He was pulled loose from it by all the other parties, I suppose. John was pulling on me; I was pulling on Greek and pulling on Quinn. He was pulled loose, I think. I think I saw a blow struck by Greek sometime during the affray. I think it was when we had got back to the rear—the back part of the building. I did not notice where he struck him. I did not see when Harrison struck. Greek was between Harrison and me. When John Crafton took hold of me he told me to ‘Let him alone, Greek should whip him...’” He paused here, remembering now, his eyes focused on the past, then repeated but this time so softly, “‘Greek should whip him.’”
Short looked up, directly at Logan, and continued, “I don’t remember anything said when Greek came in and took hold of Harrison.” He paused again, and to his own surprise corrected himself. “Yes, Quinn told him he didn’t want to fight him and wouldn’t fight him—told him to keep off. That was after he took hold of him. Just as he took hold of him. As he took hold of him he told him to keep off, he didn’t want to fight him. He still kept hold of him.”
Logan made sure to emphasize his client’s reluctance to fight, asking, “Did you see Quinn—” always Quinn, never Peachy or Mr. Harrison, an effort to humanize him without assuming too much familiarity and a subtle reminder to the jury that their client was well-known to many in the community “—do anything except take hold of the railing?”
“No, sir! I don’t know the time the knife was stuck into Greek. I saw Greek striking at Quinn but I don’t know where he was stuck. I looked towards the door. There were some men coming and I was anxious for them to get them separated and stopped.”
“Did Quinn make any advance to him?” In other words, did Quinn take an offensive or defensive posture?
Short was clear, he made no threatening moves. “Greek took hold of him before he got up. He commenced raising just as Greek took hold of him. Greek went right to Harrison and took hold of him right straight. I think he didn’t say anything.” He shook his head. “I don’t recollect. He had his coat off. I could not say whether he had his hat off. I didn’t see him pull it off. It was possibly off when he came through the door.” Then it came to him in a snap. “He pulled it off and threw it down and made right at Harrison before he began to rise. What Harrison said was just about the time he took hold of him—about his not wanting to fight him.” Logan looked at Lincoln and sat down, while Lincoln stood.
He made a point of removing his glasses and placing them in front of him. “Mr. Short,” he began, “where was John Crafton when the difficulty commenced with Quinn?”
“He was in the back part of the building. He had been there a very short time—I could not say just how long.”
“He had been in more than once that morning?” The point Lincoln was trying to make was obvious; the Crafton brothers had been waiting for Harrison. Maybe even laying a trap for him.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he was doing there.”
“Did he say anything about having come because he expected somebody to leave money for him?”
“He did not to my recollection.”
Lincoln paused, allowing that discrepancy to harden. Then just to make certain jurors understood, he asked with mock surprise, “He did not ask you if anybody had left money with you, and finally have some talk that it might have been left with Mr. Hart?”
Short was definite about it. “I don’t recollect anything of it. I don’t recollect any talk between him and me about money at all.”
Hitt snuck a quick glance at the gallery. The spectators were fully absorbed in the questioning. He noted that Mr. Lincoln’s entire demeanor was significantly different than the previous day; his voice was stronger and carried more inflection. He picked certain words out of each statement and hit them hard. “Which counter did Quinn hold on to by the rail?”
“The east counter on the east side of the room. When Greek entered, we were sitting with our backs to the counter on the west side. Quinn held on to the counter on...” Hitt completely missed the word, indicating that with a series of dashes. “—side of the pass way. It was an iron railing. Half an inch. He caught hold of that.”
“You have not told what happened after Greek was cut?” Although this was a statement more than a question, Palmer did not object. This was considered entirely acceptable.
Short nodded. He knew what Lincoln was referring to. “After they were separated John Crafton threw some scales and some glasses and a stool at Harrison. John got cut somehow in the scrape. I did not see that. After they were separated and Quinn and Greek got apart Quinn kept pretty close to the rear of the store, I think in one corner near as I can recollect. He kept his ground and John threw at him. He asked if he had no friends here, I don’t recollect whether he said it more than once but I recollect hearing him say that once. He asked if he had no friends there.”
“Did he make at anybody after the separation from Greek?”
“No, I think not.”
“Or at any other time?”
“No, sir, I think not. I didn’t see him make at anybody during the whole affair.”
Lincoln pushed harder at this theme—Harrison was always defending himself—asking, “As he went down did anyone push him?”
“They dragged him down,” Short said, his whole manner an accusation. They, the Crafton brothers, working together, dragged him to the ground. “He seemed to be pulling the other way. I had hold of Greek and Greek had hold of Quinn.”
“And by the general swing down that way, Quinn was dragged along down?”
“Yes, I think Quinn was pulled loose from the counter.”
For the first time, Hitt saw Lincoln’s lips quiver, as if he had started a smile but caught himself in time. Mr. Logan interrupted at that moment, also standing. “Mr. Short, when Quinn was holding on the railing was Greek behind him or facing him?”
“Facing him,” Short said. Of that he was certain. “Greek had him around above the arms. I think he was very nearly that way when he first took hold of him. He took hold of Quinn from behind. Quinn took hold of me just as he took hold of him. His back was very nearly to him in the commencement. I did not see them face-to-face at any time during the scuffle. They might have been but I don’t know whether they were or not. I didn’t see them so. It was towards the rear of the store...” Again Hitt lost some words, but wrote down what he had heard. “...when my face was towards the door if their faces were ever together.”
Lincoln asked a significant question that called for Mr. Short to state his opinion, as the fact could not be known. “Which was the larger and stronger man of the two?”
Mr. Palmer once again did not object, letting a witness have his say being the accepted practice. “I think Greek was the largest considerably if there was any difference. The strongest man also, I think.”
Logan and Lincoln sat, satisfied. Palmer stood and acknowledged with a pleasant nod the fine job done by the opposition. As he did, Judge Rice shifted in his chair, searching for comfort. The heat was beginning to fill the courtroom, but there was nothing to be done about it. “Mr. Short,” Palmer began, indicating the diagram of the store, “you observe an imperfect sort of figure here on the floor meant to represent your store. Describe it.”
“Yes.” He proceeded to repeat the explanation given previously, adding little to it beyond a guess that the store ran thirty feet deep. He also agreed he was about four or five feet from the front door when Greek entered. Palmer asked him what he was doing when Greek came in. “Looking over a newspaper,” he said. “Greek’s step on the door first attracted my attention. I suppose I stopped reading. I might have commenced again. It’s a mere matter of impression.”
Palmer had a calm and reassuring way about him as he asked his questions to the defense witness. There was no suggestion he was questioning Mr. Short’s memory of the events, rather he was simply attempting to clarify them. “Was your attention attracted to Harrison as Greek came in?”
“Yes, when he took hold of him. I think not until then. He was sitting as close to me as he could when Greek took hold of him. I think both of us were leaning against the counter. It’s about the usual height of counters. We were sitting on stools and leaning against the counter. When my attention was first attracted to Harrison, Crafton had not taken hold of him. I saw him before he took hold of him. I think Harrison was still leaning against the counter.”
Palmer was dramatically confused, wondering, “Then how did Crafton get towards his back?”
“He turned his face towards me just as he took hold of him. He turned and his side towards me,” Short said, twisting in demonstration. “He took hold of him just as he turned.”
“Then he was not leaning against the counter when Crafton took hold of him?” Palmer was doing an admirable job poking holes in Short’s testimony. Pinpricks, really, small inconsistencies, but together they weakened the fabric.
“It might have been touching him and it might not. Harrison told him just about the time he took hold of him that he didn’t want to fight him. I saw Crafton approaching. I discovered that he was approaching Harrison just as he came into the store. He went right towards Harrison.”
“Did you rise?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you apprehend any difficulty?”
“No, sir. Not until it commenced. In passing he passed along the usual passage way.”
Outside, for the first time in several days, a cloud moving in front of the sun slightly darkened the courtroom. It wasn’t nearly a promise of cooling rain, more a reminder that this heat was temporary. Palmer continued drawing his picture for the jury. “Then he was approaching you as well as Harrison when you first observed him?”
“Yes,” Short answered, but with less conviction than previously, clearly wondering if Palmer was leading him into some clever trap.
“When did you make up your mind that there was going to be a fight?”
“As soon as I discovered him taking off his coat. It was just as he stepped into the house.”
Palmer considered that long enough for the jurors to understand he was considering it. Then he asked, “Wasn’t there plenty of time for you to have placed yourself between them?”
The sarcasm of Short’s answer showed he did not appreciate the inference. “I suppose I might have put myself between them—if I had been in a pretty smart hurry.” For the first time he looked to the gallery for support. The spectators were transfixed, no support came.
“Did he walk or rush in?”
“He walked in passing.”
“Did Harrison observe him taking off his coat?”
Short pursed his lips, “I don’t know. I don’t think he said anything. I suppose the noise Crafton made drew his attention.”
“Do you know any reason why it should not?” At that moment his purpose became clear to the courtroom; he wanted to make certain the jurors understood that Harrison was not surprised and taken. In fact, Harrison was aware of Crafton’s presence and had sufficient opportunity to defend himself. Judge Rice leaned back; his morning mood already lightened. So much time in a courtroom is filled with nonsense, often his most difficult task was fighting to stay awake when overwhelmed by boredom. But watching smart lawyers do their business was still a treat for him. Lincoln, Logan and Palmer were putting on a fine show.
“I don’t know. I am very apt to look up when I hear steps at the door.”
As friendly as can be, Mr. Palmer asked the witness, “Is it not true that as Crafton came up Harrison rose to his feet?”
Short was confused, but tried sticking to his story. “He rose to his feet when Crafton took hold of him. I don’t think he did before.”
At the defense table Lincoln leaned over and whispered in Harrison’s ear. Harrison nodded vigorously. Hitt wondered if there really were necessary words spoken or if instead, this was some sort of distraction to break Palmer’s rhythm.
“Did not Crafton take hold of him just about the time he was rising?”
“About that time, he did.”
“Did you observe Crafton take hold of him as he was rising?”
Short paused once again. The timing was getting a little confusing. He tried to remember exactly how he had told it before, but he couldn’t be certain. “I don’t think I did,” he said, the conviction now gone from his voice.
“Did you observe whether Harrison’s hands were or were not about his bosom as he was rising?”
“I did not. I don’t think I observed more than his turning his face from him. He had hold of him at that time, or he was taking hold of him about that time.” He felt on firmer ground, repeating that this was about the time Harrison said loudly that he did not want to fight.
Palmer took that opportunity to remind the jurors of Crafton’s threats. “Did he say to Crafton that if he laid hands on him he would kill him?”
“I think not,” Short said, but Palmer had got his work done. That reminder could not be unheard. Short continued, “Nothing about killing or defending himself I think. I think he said he didn’t want to fight or wouldn’t fight to keep him off.”
Palmer turned his back on the witness and faced the jury as he asked, “Was the tone of his voice loud or moderate?”
“I don’t recollect.”
“Did he curse Crafton?”
“He did not.”
He turned around then and faced Short, asking, “That’s all you recollect?”
“Yes.”
Palmer then took Short through the fight again, questioning the smallest details. When Short said, “I expect I put both hands between them until John came up and took hold of one of my hands. Crafton had him drawn up close,” Palmer wondered, “Then how did you get your hand between them?”
Short was forced to back up. “They were drawn up very close but not so that I could not get my hands between them, I suppose. Crafton didn’t seem to be doing anything but holding Harrison.”
Palmer asked question after question about pushing and direction and distance, east and west and front and back, enough to confuse even the most keen juror. Occasionally he tried a tricky question, for example, “Which hand did he strike the blow with when you had hold of him?”
Short was ready for him. “He didn’t strike it then. He struck it in the rear of the store.”
“And, is it true Crafton made an effort to strike and you had hold of his arm? Was it a free blow or a blow a man would strike having his arm confined?”
Again, Short was on the mark. “I could not say as to that. I have no recollection of the time or place when I let go his right arm.”
Hitt’s graphospasm made itself known as a throbbing ache in his thumb. He picked up a thinner pen, trying to move the resting point on that thumb enough to hold back the pain. That was the most he could do about it.
Palmer continued snapping questions at Short, leaving him as little space as possible to relax his thoughts. “Who was nearest Greek when he was in the corner where he was stabbed?”
“I suppose, John. We were all close together. I was not pushing him when he was stabbed. I don’t know whether I had hold of him or not. I don’t remember seeing him leaning over the boxes.”
As Hitt took down the words, he wondered if the jurors also speculated on the quality of Short’s memory. There seemed to be a lot of forgetting: I could not say. I have no recollection. I don’t know. I don’t recollect. I don’t remember. The steno man supposed he should not be surprised that Short’s memory, which had been so detailed only moments earlier under Lincoln and Logan, had lapsed dreadfully under Palmer’s withering questioning.
Palmer’s cross-examination was impressive, as he managed through his questions to raise doubt about the accuracy of Short’s memory while suggesting quite a different interpretation of the facts. “Did you notice that Harrison had hold of Crafton at that time (of the striking)?”
“No, sir, I did not. I could not state their position when they got to the south counter because I was not looking that way.” Short made it clear that he did not see Quinn stick Crafton, telling Palmer, “I was looking towards the door. I don’t recollect the transaction after I broke loose. I have no very clear idea about it after that.”
Palmer asked Short why he failed to stop the fighting.
“I suppose if I had laid out all my strength I might. I didn’t try very hard. I thought we could get them to stop without it.”
Palmer had moved his case forward small steps at a time. Lincoln and Logan had permitted that without interruption as it did not bear on their fundamental contention. But finally Palmer took a step into hostile territory, asking, “Did you see any sign of any particular danger to anybody or regard Harrison as in any danger of any immediate injury?”
For the first time, “Objection!” Lincoln and Logan rose as one. This went right to the heart of their case. If Harrison sensed no danger, he would not have reason to strike out with his knife. Neither lawyer stated the reason for their objection, as it was not necessary in that courtroom, but clearly this question called for the witness to state his own unqualified opinion. Most times opposing attorneys would allow it, but this went to the crux of their defense. It was a risk they could not take.
Judge Rice agreed. “Sustained.”
Palmer asked a few more questions: Could Short have stopped the fight, did Short see the knife, did he know who owned the knife? Short could not know if he might have stopped it earlier, he saw the knife but “I did not examine it. I never had it in my hand.”
Palmer gave the witness over to Lincoln to tidy up. “Do you know whether Quinn, when holding on the counter, held on with both hands or only one hand?”
“I think he held with both hands.”
“I believe you said you had seen Quinn with that knife that day. When was it?”
“After the affair was over, or pretty well through. I think the first I saw of the knife was when the missiles were being thrown—when John was throwing. I never saw Quinn have a knife at any other time.”
Lincoln smiled then. “Thank you, Mr. Short.”
As Short stepped down, Robert Hitt quickly flexed his fingers and leaned back. Lincoln and Logan were huddled together in discussion. Judge Rice took a sip of water and stretched his arms behind his back as far as they might go, hoping for a bit of relief from the nagging lumbar pain.
Mr. Short walked through the courtroom with his head down, glancing at the jury. Hitt noted it often was possible to determine from that short walk how a witness believed he had fared in his testimony. A man holding his head high, looking at the gallery, perhaps even smiling, clearly believed he had done well for his side. A man walking with his head down, avoiding eye contact, felt poorly. Once, in an assault trial, Hitt had seen a witness whose testimony had been shredded pause and glare directly at the prosecutor; an obvious threat. But in this instance Mr. Short’s walk seemed noncommittal.
Hitt wiped beads of sweat from his brow and while doing so chanced a look at Mr. Lincoln. He was not a man who allowed any show of emotion, but Hitt thought he detected the edges of his own satisfied smile.