The arts of power and its minions are the same in all countries and in all ages. It marks its victim; denounces it; and excites the public odium and the public hatred, to conceal its own abuses and encroachments.

~Henry Clay

Chapter Seventeen

Allison hovered near the entrance to Helga’s dining room which had been turned into a courtroom. Drake’s questions to the prospective jurors were all the same: “Did you fight in the War Between the States? Did you know anyone who fought for either side? What are your political leanings?”

Any man who claimed to be a Republican was immediately recused. Any man who said he fought for the Union was recused. At one point, Ryan Bayless, the lawyer named as the prosecuting attorney, pushed away from the table. “Dear God, at this rate the whole county is going to be recused.”

Drake smiled. “Not the whole county, but at least those who still carry a grudge against the Democrats and the Confederacy.” After three days of interviewing jurors and negating five of them, and having four of those Drake approved of recused by the county prosecutor, the trial finally started.

Bayless started his opening argument by claiming that A.J. was a rootless drifter, that he had lost any moral compass a long time ago when he enlisted in the Confederate forces, and that he shot the three men he was accused of killing in cold blood. Bayless stated that A.J. was a threat to the community and when the trial was over, he would prove to the satisfaction of the jury that not only was A.J. guilty of the cold-blooded murder of three men, but that he deserved to hang.

Allison wasn’t certain that A.J. heard a word Bayless said. He sat as if carved of marble. Listening to Bayless made her want to jump from her seat and accuse him of being a liar and then march across the dining room turned courtroom floor and slap him.

When Bayless finished his opening argument, Drake sat for a moment, apparently looking over his notes. Every head finally turned to him and Allison realized Drake had waited until he held them in the palm of his hand. He stood, stepped out from behind the table, and made his way with deliberation to the twelve men seated behind a short railing. “Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury, and my esteemed opponent…let me see if I have this straight. Major A.J. Adams has been accused of cold-blooded murder, and it is claimed that he committed such a heinous crime because he has no moral compass, that his morality was destroyed when he took an oath to his country to defend her, and he is capable of murder because he is a rootless drifter. Do I have that right?” Without waiting for an answer, Drake leaned an elbow onto the railing separating the jurors from the courtroom. “Mr. Bayless says he will prove all this beyond a shadow of a doubt before this trial is over. Let’s start with whether or not Major Adams is a rootless drifter. Until two years ago, he owned a home in Kentucky. He held onto that property, because even though the house was falling apart, his deceased wife and two young daughters are buried there. They were murdered by men wearing Federal blue, and one of those men has confessed to the crimes.”

“Your Honor,” Bayless spoke up. “I object. What does any of this have to do with the charges against this man?”

Drake didn’t straighten but he said, “Mr. Bayless opened the door when he accused my client of being a rootless drifter, of not having a moral compass, and of being capable of cold-blooded murder.”

Judge Fishe waved his hand. “Mr. Bayless, it’s opening statements. And, Mr. Adams is correct. You did open the door. Over-ruled.”

Drake dipped his head in acquiescence. “Let’s talk about honor, something Mr. Bayless claims my client doesn’t have through a lack of a moral compass. In April of eighteen sixty-five, Confederate forces opened fire on Fort Sumter. Less than a week later, a call went out to the men of the great Commonwealth of Kentucky to take up arms to defend the Confederate States of America. My client answered that call—not because he believes that any man is inferior to him, but because he believes that according to our Constitution, there are rights that the federal government cannot strip from the states. At the Battle of Tullahoma, my client was taken prisoner and sent to Johnson’s Island. Less than four months later, he was given an order to discover the whereabouts of six or seven payroll wagons, several of which had been stolen from the Federal forces. He was transported to Infernum prison.”

Allison watched A.J. The only visible sign he even heard a word Drake said was the way his shoulders tightened and his head dipped slightly. Most observers wouldn’t have noticed, the changes in his posture were so miniscule.

“I will assume none of you has heard of Infernum. Officially, it did not exist. While there, he was subject to some of the worst conditions and treatment any human being could suffer. I will not go into any detail, because of the delicate nature of some of the courtroom observers, other than to say the death rate at Infernum was as great as that cesspool in Andersonville, Georgia. When over half of those payroll wagons were recovered, Major Adams was offered the opportunity to leave that terrible place and await War’s end at Johnson’s Island. He refused, because honor—his honor—would not allow him to abandon the men under his leadership. As long as he was at Infernum, he could keep those men from the worst of the savagery aimed at them for imagined infractions. A less than honorable man would have walked away without a backward glance.”

Allison slid her gaze to Harrison. The marshal nodded minutely with Drake’s assessment. She sucked her breath in. It wasn’t about the gold. It had never been about the gold. It had been about protecting men who would be needed to rebuild a shattered and crippled country.

“As to shooting those men in cold blood, that is a blatant lie and I will prove it. When this trial is over, you will know—beyond all reasonable doubt, as the law requires—that my client never shot anyone in cold blood.”

Drake straightened off the railing and walked with a measured tread back to his seat. Allison saw the look Bayless sent both of them. He looked as if he been told his favorite dog had died. She tilted her head to study the jury. All twelve men had their gaze locked onto the table with Drake and A.J.

Bayless stood to call his first witness. “The county would call Allison Webster to the stand.”

A.J. jerked his head up. Allison shrank back into her seat. Drake never even batted an eye. “Your Honor, the prosecution cannot call Miss Webster, as she is now Mrs. A.J. Adams. They were married the day before the alleged incidents occurred.”

A murmuring filled the courtroom, a low rumble. Fishe banged his gavel, calling for order. He looked right at Allison. “Is this true, ma’am?”

“We shared our vows on that day, yes.” Allison prayed her voice hadn’t wavered. As far as it went, it wasn’t quite a lie.

“Sounds married to me,” the judge ruled. “Next witness, Mr. Bayless.”

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor complained, “the witness wasn’t even sworn in.”

Fishe sighed, and even though Allison didn’t know this man from Adam, she recognized the same body language she had seen so many times from her father when he attempted to humor her or Alice. “Are you telling me the truth, ma’am?”

Allison drew a deep breath to steady herself and repeated, “A.J. and I shared vows the day before those three men tried to kill me, your Honor.”

“YOUR HONOR!” Bayless was turning a bright red and he tugged at the celluloid collar that appeared to be choking him.

“You opened that door, Mr. Bayless, when you argued the witness hadn’t been sworn in.” Fishe banged his gavel. “Next witness, sir.”

Bayless was even more shaken than before. He took a moment to tug on the lapels of his frock coat before he heaved a sigh. Bayless called Wilbur Davidson, the town’s undertaker, and Drake objected, as the man had very little formal training in anatomy or ballistics. Fishe over-ruled him, adding, “You’re welcome to object if the questioning veers into any area where you believe our undertaker isn’t an expert.”

“Thank you, your Honor,” Drake said, already scribbling notes on the paper in front of him.

Bayless asked if the undertaker had brought in the bodies and if he had been able to identify them. The undertaker said he did and then elaborated on the answer in that he had been told who they were by the man who had sent him out there in the first place. “He told me who they were.”

“Objection. Hearsay.” Drake never even looked up from his notes.

“Sustained. Wilbur, you brought three bodies in but if you hadn’t been told who they were, you wouldn’t have been able to identify them?” the judge asked.

“That’s right.”

Bayless asked, “Could you ascertain how those men died?”

“Yes.”

Bayless waited. When nothing further was forthcoming, he asked, “How did they die?”

“Lead poisoning.”

A ripple of laughter moved through the courtroom and even Allison had to smile. Drake looked at his brother and grinned. He then leaned an elbow onto the table and propped his chin in his palm, as if riveted by the undertaker’s testimony.

“Please be a bit more specific.”

“They was all dead from gunshot wounds. One of them was shot once in the shoulder and then in the chest. Another was dead from one shot to the head. The last one had two bullets in the back.”

“Are you certain about that?”

“I ain’t no expert on anatomy, but I do know my fronts from my backs.” Wilbur sounded offended that his credentials were being so questioned. “He had two bullet holes in his back.”

“Did you remove the bullets from those bodies?”

“Yep.”

“Could you ascertain the calib—”

“Objection.” Drake still had his chin propped in his palm.

“Sustained,” Fishe stated. “Even I have to admit that’s beyond your expertise, Wilbur. Let’s try this. Were they large or small caliber rounds?”

“Large. They weren’t no varmint rounds.”

“Is that less objectionable, Mr. Adams?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you.”

Bayless looked from Fishe to Drake and then lastly to Wilbur. “I have no further questions.”

Judge Fishe gestured to Drake. “Your witness, Mr. Adams.”

Drake shook his head. “I have no questions for this witness.”

Bayless then called the sheriff to the stand. Allison felt her stomach knotting with the glare he leveled at A.J. She had no doubts he would as soon shoot A.J. as anything else.

“Pete, did you go out with Wilbur to bring those dead men back to town?”

“Sure did.” The sheriff shifted his weight on the chair. “It wasn’t pretty.”

“Objection.” Drake sat up straight, now.

“You can object all you want, Mr. Fancy Lawyer, but them dead bodies wasn’t pretty. Your Reb client butchered them.”

“Your Honor, I want the last statement stricken from the record.”

“Pete, that’s enough.” Fishe turned to the sheriff. “Just answer the questions. You don’t need to elaborate. There are ladies in the courtroom. There isn’t a court recorder, so I can’t strike the last comment, but I will instruct the members of the jury to disregard that statement.”

“Pete, could you tell how those men died?” Bayless asked.

“Yep. They was shot in cold blood.”

“Objection! Your Honor, please…”

“Pete, I’m going to say this one last time. Just stick to answering the question. And, before Mr. Adams asks, I will instruct the jury to disregard the last statement again.”

“No, Your Honor, thank you. Please, leave it. I will follow up.”

Allison shivered with the ice suddenly in Drake’s voice. A.J. still maintained the stillness of a marble statue. The only movement she saw from him was the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed.

Bayless looked to Drake, as if trying to puzzle through what he was going to do with the sheriff’s statement that he asked not to be disregarded. He finally said, “I have no further questions.”

Drake pushed himself to his feet, and glanced around the courtroom for a moment. He sent a quick, reassuring smile to Allison that did nothing to ease the knots in her stomach. “Sheriff, were you at the scene when the shooting took place?”

“You know I wasn’t.”

“Is that a yes or no, sheriff?” Drake closed the distance, until he stood over the aging sheriff.

“That’s a no. I wasn’t there.”

“Then how can you state as a fact that those men were shot in cold blood?”

“‘Cuz all their guns was in a pile next to that dead horse he left out there and the shells had been ejected.”

The guns…the ones A.J. left. Allison clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking. Harrison moved just enough to cover her hands with one of his and squeezed. She glanced up at him and he gave her the same reassuring smile Drake had.

“And, could you tell if those guns had been fired or not?”

The sheriff didn’t answer. Drake pushed him. “Did you smell the barrels, to see if they had been fired recently? Did you break open the cylinders, to see if there was powder residue? Did you look to see if there were shell casings?”

The sheriff kept his silence. Drake moved in closer. “Did you do any of those things?” When the sheriff still didn’t answer, Drake demanded, “Your Honor, please instruct the witness to answer.”

“Pete, answer the question. Did you check those guns or look for casings?”

“Judge, I know that man killed those three in cold blood. Be just like a Reb.”

Fishe pounded his gavel. “Pete, either you answer me when I ask you, or I’ll hold you in contempt, and won’t that look right nice, the sheriff locked up in his own jail for contempt? We are not going to refight the Civil War, either. Now, did you or did you not check those guns to see if they’d been fired recently?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Drake pounced. “So, you have no way to determine why or exactly when those men were shot, do you, sheriff?” Before the sheriff could respond, Drake added, “I have no further questions.”

As Drake walked back to the table, the judge banged his gavel again. “This court is in recess until two this afternoon.” He stood and shouted, “Helga, you can start serving dinner, now.”

A.J. walked from the courtroom which was quickly becoming a dining room again. Allison followed him, with Harrison and Drake right behind her. At their suite, A.J. let himself into the room and sank into a chair. He dropped his head into his hands, staring at the floor.

Allison crept over to him and sat on the arm of the overstuffed chair. Without a word, she slid an arm around his shoulders and dropped her cheek against his head. He twisted on the seat, caught her around the waist and pulled her fully into his embrace.

“Drake and I are going to the dining room for dinner. I’ll see if I can get a tray sent here for you two,” Harrison said from the doorway.

“Good luck with that,” A.J. said.

Once the door closed, Allison asked, “Are you all right?”

A soft chuckle broke from him. “As all right as I can be in the circumstances. It’s interesting to see my life portrayed in such diametric opposites.”

“I’m worried about you,” she admitted, drawing her hand down his arm. “You don’t move and…”

“Old habits die hard.” A.J. leaned back in the chair, pulling Allison onto his lap. He dropped his head to the chair back. “I just shut my mind off and go somewhere else. When I was at Infernum, I went back to Clayborne. Now, I’m back on a train remembering every word we said to one another.”

“You mean like ‘Go sit somewhere else?’”

He laughed fully this time and Allison felt the tension draining from him. “Yes, that conversation, too. I’m glad you didn’t do what I told you to do.”

“I honestly couldn’t. I would have fallen into your lap if I had tried to walk on that moving train.” She concentrated on his hand cradling her head to his shoulder, and his chest rising and falling with each breath.

“Much to my deep disappointment, I might add.”

A knock on the door interrupted anything Allison planned on saying. She pushed herself off his lap, walked to the door, and opened it. The sheriff stood outside, a silver platter loaded with food, balanced on a heavy revolver pointed directly into her stomach.