QUITE A FLIRT

MUCH TO THE PUBLIC’S DISAPPOINTMENT, Alice did not stay long. Her lawyers, still eager to control her story, would have preferred that she never enter the courthouse at all that day. Gantt and Wright almost certainly forbade Lillie’s attorney, a junior at their own firm, to call Alice to testify at his client’s habeas corpus hearing. Alice’s lawyers hoped to make it to the final verdict without ever having their client utter a word in public.

Unfortunately for them, Alice’s presence in court that day was necessary for the defense’s motion. The Ward family had entrusted Freda’s collection of love letters to the state, and it had become a real point of contention. Gantt and Wright had already sent several requests to the attorney general’s office, but they refused to furnish the letters until the trial. But Alice’s lawyers were desperate to see them now, not when their client’s lunacy inquisition finally arrived. At best, a surprise would leave them scrambling, and at worst, it would determine whether or not their client would hang.

As the New York Times predicted, prosecutor George Peters countered the motion by making his own request “for an order requiring the defense to permit him to inspect certain letters in their possession, which he would very much like to get a peep at.”⁶⁵ But Peters was not particularly interested in seeing the defense’s letters. He was, in fact, far more concerned by the level of interest the defense had in his letters, which he kept locked away in the attorney general’s office.

Peters was a respected prosecutor with personal experience when it came to crimes of passion: His own father, Dr. George Peters, Sr., had murdered Confederate major Earl Van Dorn for supposedly having an affair with his wife. But nothing in Peters’s background, or the ample evidence he believed proved Alice was sane and should be tried for murder, seemed to help him with this case. He was overextended in his current post, and far too reliant on young, relatively inexperienced assistants.⁶⁶ The battle for public opinion had already exposed his office’s weaknesses, and so Peters, eager to gain back some advantage, strenuously argued against the defense’s request for the letters. And for once, he was met with some success. Judge DuBose was uncharacteristically swift in granting him the right to keep all letters sealed until Alice’s lunacy inquisition.

After their motion was denied, throngs of disappointed journalists and curious observers watched the entire Mitchell family, including Alice, of course, file out of the newly expanded courtroom. They had come no closer to seeing Freda’s letters, nor had the public seen or heard anything noteworthy from the murderess herself. And it would be months before they would see her again, not until winter and spring had passed, and summer was in full bloom.

COMPARED TO THE MITCHELLS, the Johnsons were of modest means. But they had the good fortune to live near “one of the most promising young men at the bar,” as the Commercial put it. The Johnsons had become well-acquainted with their young neighbor, Malcolm Rice Patterson, and at just the right time: Had they attempted to procure his services just a few years later, he surely would have been too busy to take on their case.⁶⁷ Patterson was a Southern Democrat steadily climbing the political ranks; by 1907, he would be the Governor of Tennessee.

Patterson came from an old Memphis family of great prestige. His father, Colonel Josiah Patterson, had been a formidable Confederate commander during the Civil War, and went on to be a representative in the Tennessee State legislature, a candidate for governor, and a member of U.S. Congress. He had joined his father’s law firm, Gantt and Patterson, and it behooved him to work closely with Gantt himself on such a high profile case.

He was tasked with convincing Judge DuBose that Lillie had made the innocent mistake of getting into Alice’s buggy on the wrong day. Lillie had no prior knowledge of Alice’s intention to murder Freda, and she was unaware of what was happening even as the crime was being committed. Lillie’s entire focus that afternoon, Patterson would argue, was not on revenge against Freda or loyalty toward Alice, but most immediately on her young nephew, who was in her care. Lillie was a family-oriented young woman who belonged back at home with her loved ones, not in jail with a murderess who everyone knew—because Patterson’s own law firm repeatedly told them—was insane.

Newspapers tended to portray Lillie as a vulnerable, deferential young woman. There was much talk of her public displays of “nervous prostration.” She was understood to fare poorly under even the slightest emotional strain, and the case was believed to have greatly exacerbated her condition, leaving her visibly pale, exhausted, and physically weak. Her father or brother was usually by her side when she stood or walked, and as close as possible when she sat in court or was returned to her cell, should she be suddenly overcome by these most unfortunate circumstances. It was suggested that she suffered from “female hysteria,” a catchall diagnosis for women who appeared faint and nervous; symptoms included insomnia, sexual desire, and shortness of breath. This affliction—which is no longer recognized by physicians—was used to describe almost any undesirable emotion. In court, it would work in Lillie’s favor.

And she would need every advantage she could get. The grand jury had, after all, indicted Lillie. Even the press, who doubted her involvement in the murder, remained unsure as to whether or not she was a good, pious girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, or a “fast,” perverse girl who might as well remain in jail with Alice, lest she start consorting with the chaste daughters of Memphis in her friend’s absence.

In the courtroom, the public learned about Lillie’s less than virtuous behavior. The rumors that she flirted with streetcar conductors were not going away, nor was this immodest behavior the end of the story.⁶⁸ Like Alice, Freda, Jo, and presumably many of the students at Miss Higbee’s, Lillie had answered ads placed by young men in the matrimonial papers. During an era when courting options were limited, there were publications, like San Francisco’s Matrimonial News—which had originally catered to lonely men who ventured West during the Gold Rush—that were entirely dedicated to putting single people into direct, and often unsupervised, contact. Although the young ladies of Memphis had access to such periodicals, they were more likely to use the local paper’s classified sections, where bachelors placed advertisements.

Under the pseudonym Jessie Rita James, Lillie exchanged flirtatious letters with, as the New York Times called them, “callow youths.” The letters were themselves relatively harmless, but the press and prosecution called her propriety into question. Why, they asked, had she kept her identity a secret? Why had she kept the correspondence hidden? Knowing that her mother would certainly disapprove, Lillie had taken care in concealing her actions, relying on her brother’s downtown office to funnel correspondence. No one was suggesting that Lillie had met these men in person, but the matter was clear. She consistently engaged in an unseemly activity—which could have easily crossed into the realm of true scandal—and she had demonstrated a capacity for subterfuge. Lillie had taken dangerous risks and lied unabashedly. Were those not the traits of a person who acted as an accessory to murder?

Even if Lillie was not legally culpable for the bloody events of January 25, in the eyes of the nation, Alice was as a cautionary tale. Freda’s murder illustrated that any young woman’s misdeeds, no matter how slight, could quickly turn into the worst and most vicious form of immorality.

Lillie’s continued loyalty to Alice only encouraged such speculation. Much was made of the cell Alice and Lillie shared, but no one seemed to care whether or not there was another option. There were only two private rooms in the jail, and the other one was occupied by a man who was also charged with murder; she could have been grouped together in a communal cell with women of ill repute, who were being held on charges like larceny, or far worse. Still, they wondered, why would an innocent woman agree to share a confined space with an admitted murderess, especially one with “unnatural” proclivities?⁶⁹ If Lillie was engaged in this type of behavior, even under such public scrutiny, then what, the paper insinuated, would she do when nobody was watching?

Her relationship with Alice, one that long predated the murder, was clearly at the heart of the matter. Alice longed for a life outside of what the domestic sphere offered her, and could not be controlled by family or social norms. She had openly rebelled against the rules of society—and Lillie had been just mere feet away during most of it.

The most compelling evidence against Lillie was not her proximity to the crime scene, but rather her assistance on a number of Alice’s prior spy missions, including an expedition just a week before the murder. Alice had asked Lillie to join her in confirming her suspicion that Freda was lying about her departure date, and she had obliged, accompanying Alice onboard a Golddust-bound steamer. This suggested, the prosecution argued, that Lillie knew of Alice’s machinations, and was indeed an active participant.

But, of course, Lillie knew very little about Alice and Freda’s relationship. Yes, she had witnessed the aftermath, when the Wards suddenly and inexplicably severed ties with both Alice and Lillie, but by the time she discovered the case, it was already front page news. When she boarded that steamer, Lillie was working under the mistaken assumption that they were simply seeking answers about the sudden rupture. In a letter to Jo—which went unanswered—she sought the very information that everyone, the Wards and Alice alike, had been keeping from her.

During her habeas corpus hearing, Attorney General Peters presented the letter as evidence and argued that it established Lillie’s motive: She was angry and hurt, he reasoned, and that was why she helped Alice, or knowingly neglected to stop her from committing her ghastly deed.

The letter threw Lillie’s attorney for a loop, but Patterson was quick on his feet, and used the evidence to draw a distinction between Lillie’s confusion and Alice’s focus. Lillie’s behavior might appear untoward, he allowed, but even by contrast, it was hardly as odious and vile as Alice’s actions. They were all gathered in the newly expanded courtroom, after all, because of a singular lunatic named Alice Mitchell. But in order to make his case, Patterson would have to call Jo Ward, the letter’s recipient and Lillie’s old chumming partner, to the witness stand.

JO WAS QUESTIONED TWICE by both the defense and the prosecution. They struggled to bend her testimony to fit their versions of the story, all the while trying to remain sufficiently reverent of a family in mourning. They had to be especially careful when it came to Jo, a traumatized witness to her own sister’s gruesome murder. Jo was stricken with grief, and she dressed the part, taking the stand in a heavy, head-to-toe black mourning dress. The public sympathized with her loss, and further pitied the Ward family for having to rely on public representation, while the Mitchell family could hire powerful lawyers.

It also helped that Jo was considered quite pretty and, even under such trying circumstances, demure and charming, always exhibiting the utmost propriety. Even after she was ordered, in the gentlest of terms, to lift her veil, she hesitated, much to the approval of the courtroom. And when her handsome face was finally revealed, she kept her head bowed, and avoided eye contact with male spectators.

Jo conceded that her old friend Lillie had always possessed a “gentle nature”—even after Ada had abruptly ordered an end to their close relationship. Jo also confirmed that, on the day her sister was murdered, she had not seen Lillie anywhere near the scene of the crime; not then, nor earlier, when she, Freda, and their friend Christina Purnell had quit Mrs. Kimbrough’s for the riverboat landing.

Jo’s account of the murder was exactly what the courtroom had been waiting to hear—and luckily for the defense, it was a story in which Lillie made no appearance.

What first drew my attention to the cutting was Miss Purnell’s screaming, and as she screamed I turned around . . . Miss Mitchell was right at my sister then, and was nearly cutting her. She was cutting at her, and I struck her with the umbrella. She turned to me and said: “I’m going to do just exactly what I wanted to do, and I don’t care if I do get hung.”

After she said that, she jumped up and flew up the levee, running very fast . . . She had blood on her face and on her hands, with a great deal on one side.⁷⁰

Having established his client’s absence from the scene of the murder, Patterson moved on to background questions. The packed crowd in the courtroom sat in rapt silence, preparing for what they knew would come next: the highly anticipated account of the same-sex love affair between Alice and Freda.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jo, followed by the prosecution, objected to Patterson’s line of questioning. It was distracting. It was irrelevant. It was indecent. But Judge DuBose disagreed, and permitted Patterson to continue.

“Is it not a fact that your sister forbade your having anything to do with, or writing to Miss Johnson and Miss Mitchell, because Alice Mitchell and your sister were engaged to be married, and your sister was about to elope with her, and had gotten on the boat for that purpose?”

“That was one reason,” Jo answered.

“Was that not the controlling reason?”

Judge DuBose again ignored the prosecution’s protests, but cautioned Patterson—the man who would one day be governor—to remember there were women with delicate sensibilities in the audience, and they were unaccustomed to hearing talk of such profane and worldly subjects. Though the judge disagreed with their very presence, they were in his courtroom, which made him their chivalrous protector.

Patterson accepted the warning, and proceeded as gently as possible, with Alice and Freda’s plan to meet in Memphis.

“And there marry? Well, now, in that arrangement to marry, Miss Ward, who was to be the man? Miss Mitchell?”

“Yes, sir.”

“[Freda] intended to take the boat, did she not, and to come to Memphis, and then they intended to go to St. Louis?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And your sister was to be the wife, was she, and they were to arrange it in that way?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And was not Miss Mitchell to be called Alvin J. Ward after they married?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your sister was to be called Mrs. Alvin J. Ward?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That was all made up and understood, and planned, and your sister discovered it all, and after making that discovery she forbade your further correspondence with them?”

“Yes, sir.”⁷¹

Judge DuBose had allowed Patterson’s probe, and thus granted the prosecution permission to reexamine Jo, who had certainly noticed the defense’s approach. What was it about Lillie, Peters asked, that had so bothered Ada? What could have been so terrible about Lillie that Ada forbade Jo from ever seeing her again?

“It was because she visited the union depot quite often, and she flirted a great deal. She flirted with men . . . . When she was visiting us last summer, my sister also forbade her waving at the boats and the men,” Jo explained. “She was just considered quite a flirt.”⁷²

At that, Lillie nearly fainted.

The accusation that she had shamelessly flouted accepted gender norms, the revelation that her immodest behavior was the reason she was banned from talking to her best friend, and the fact that all of this—her disgrace—was announced in a crowded public courtroom and, within hours, in newspapers across the country, was too much for Lillie to bear. Aiding and abetting a murder was one thing, but shameless flirting was something else entirely.

It was just one o’clock, but Judge DuBose adjourned the hearing. Lillie had become so distressed by the first day’s proceedings that he considered it unwise to continue. She would remain unsettled well into the night, until the sheriff deemed it necessary to summon a physician to the jail.