MR. STANSBURY WASN’T MY LAWYER OF CHOICE INASMUCH as he was the only lawyer I could choose. However, he’s given no cause for complaint. Shortly after the new year, we signed a contract, and the old wolf got straight to work. Within days, the necessary documents were mailed. Two weeks later, we received notice that my grievance was under review, and at the end of February, the Patent Commissioner approved my infringement suit and set a court date for May 5.
The news catapults my spirits, but Mr. Stansbury swiftly returns me to earth. “Understand, Miss Knight,” he says, tapping the hearing notice on his desk. “Getting this was a crucial step, but it only gives you the right to enter the ring. The actual fight’s yet to come.”
I sober up at once. “Right, of course.” After everything that’s happened, I know better than to count my chickens before they’re hatched.
“If Mr. Annan’s got any brains at all, he’ll hire his own counsel, and you know we lawyers can be a wicked bunch,” he continues. “They’ll do their damnedest to discredit your claim. That means poking holes in your testimony wherever they can.”
“And we do the same to his.”
“Maybe.”
When I return a perplexed look, he explains, “Mr. Annan holds a patent. That in and of itself credits him with the wherewithal to have invented the machine on the date of his patent application, which was …” Mr. Stansbury searches his notes. “April 3, 1869. If he attempts to establish an earlier date of invention, that we can poke holes at. But even without presenting a shred of additional evidence, he can still win. That is because your capabilities have not been established.”
I grimace. “So it’s possible for him to win without doing a thing, but I must prove I have the know-how to build a machine.”
“The burden is actually twofold,” says Mr. Stansbury, raising two fingers. “We must convince the court that, one, you have the ability to invent, and two, you were actively developing your machine before Annan. And the tricky thing is, Miss Knight, even if you’re telling the complete, unadulterated truth, a cunning adversary can turn your testimony against you. That is why we cannot walk in unprepared. Have you brought the items I requested?”
“Yes.” I open the shopping sack on my lap and place my 1868 and 1869 diaries on Mr. Stansbury’s desk. “My machine sketches and notes are on the daily entry pages, and the memo pages in the back I used to track the materials I bought.”
“Excellent,” says Mr. Stansbury, placing the diaries in a marked portfolio. “I’ll review them, and we’ll discuss how to present the contents at our next meeting. Moving on, the hearing is scheduled to begin May 5, and the names of those offering testimony must be submitted two weeks prior. As I explained before, we want witnesses who are sympathetic, but they must be credible and able to appear in court. Have you given it thought?”
I nod. “My roommate and my machinist already volunteered.” Actually, it’s more accurate to say they demanded to come. “They’re both in Boston, so they won’t have trouble getting to the courthouse.”
Mr. Stansbury scans a sheaf of notes. “From what you’ve said previously, Miss MacFarland witnessed the machine’s construction at your residence since its inception. However, she doesn’t have any mechanical knowledge, does she?”
“Er, no. Will Abbott does, though.”
“But you engaged his services in May ’69. Nearly two months after Annan submitted his application to the Patent Office.”
When my face falls, Mr. Stansbury quickly adds, “I’m not rejecting them. Your roommate’s testimony will be valuable in establishing your inception date, and Mr. Abbott’s in establishing your mechanical competence. However, an additional witness who can testify to your mechanical abilities while you were in Springfield would significantly fortify your case. Ideally”—he flips through his notes—“one who was present at that machine competition at Columbia Paper in ’68.”
“There is someone,” I say hesitantly. “My neighbor, Ida. She’s a factory hand in my old division, and she saw the contest. I’ll ask if she can come, but even if she can’t, I’m sure another hand can.”
I wanted to avoid making additional trouble for the West Workroom workers, but it appears there’s no way around it. At least with everyone pitching in, whoever testifies won’t be overly burdened by travel costs.
“A factory hand would suffice, but we could make a stronger case with …” Mr. Stansbury peers at his notes. “Ah, here’s the name. Frank Niebuhr.”
I give a start. “Frank?”
“Why not?” says Mr. Stansbury. “You were rivals for that contest, true, but you must’ve parted on good terms if he paid your way to Boston like you said.”
“He did do that,” I say, wondering if that qualifies as parting on good terms. I hadn’t mentioned to Mr. Stansbury that I’d avoided Frank afterward.
“Mr. Niebuhr wasn’t merely a coworker, he was a fellow mechanic. He attempted to automate the same process you did. That lends greater credence to his assessment of your skills and your machine than a factory hand.”
“That is true,” I admit. “But Frank’s no longer at Columbia Paper. He left for Maryland last year. I’m not sure where he is now.”
“Do you have acquaintances who might know?” Mr. Stansbury asks, undaunted.
“Probably.” Frank left the factory, but his Oak Creek buddies are still there.
Mr. Stansbury pauses. Leveling his gaze at me, he says, “Miss Knight, it appears you have reservations about Mr. Niebuhr. Are you concerned he’s predisposed against you? That he might testify in a manner that would damage your case?”
“What? No! Frank is honest to a fault. He’d never lie. It’s just …” I fidget, a mix of emotions squirming in my chest. “Even if I track him down, I can’t be sure he’ll come.”
Mr. Stansbury raises an eyebrow. “Is that all?”
His stare pries open my soul, and the truth comes out. “I … feel ashamed. He paid my fare to Boston so I could patent. Instead, I got mired in this.” I gesture toward the court notice. “I feel like I wasted his money, and I don’t know how to face him.”
“I see,” says Mr. Stansbury, steepling his fingers. “Well, clients have final say regarding witness selection, so the choice is ultimately yours. However, as your attorney, I strongly counsel you to include Mr. Niebuhr. As to whether he’ll come, my rule is to always ask and let the individual decide. People can be surprisingly accommodating sometimes.”
“Right,” I murmur.
“As to your second point, humble pie is never pleasant, but ask yourself this. Does the embarrassment of that train fare outweigh the cost of my fee? Mr. Niebuhr’s testimony might be key to your victory. If you forgo it out of pride only to suffer loss, not only will you have squandered Mr. Niebuhr’s generosity, but also the five hundred dollars you paid me.”
My breath hitches. Mr. Stansbury’s right. I need all the help I can get, and I can’t afford to be picky or proud about it.
Resigning myself to a large helping of humble pie, I say, “I’ll figure out where Frank is then.”