CHAPTER 34

There was a short halt in the proceedings as one of Ryder’s assistant clerks added more wood to the fires. Ryder’s offices were heated in the winter months by small stoves positioned in the center of each room, which looked like potbellied dwarfs rooted to cast-iron bases. A thick black cylindrical pipe ran from the top of each stove to the exterior wall to vent the smoke.

The clerk knelt before each stove in turn and shoved in new kindling followed by four or five thick logs. He blew to fan the flames, and soon we could hear the fires catch. As the fresh wood crackled and snapped, Prickett resumed the People’s case.

The barkeep Gentry was the next witness. His direct examination by Prickett was a close copy of Hector’s: Gentry testified to witnessing several loud arguments between Jones and Bingham during the course of the upriver voyage. Gentry also related the circumstance of one evening when a drunken Jones had complained to him that Bingham had ruined his life.

As Lincoln rose for his cross-examination, I pulled out my pocket watch. It was nearing three o’clock. Martha had agreed, whatever she did or did not discover, that she would come to Ryder’s building to join us no later than two. I had made light to Nanny Mae of Martha’s penchant for finding trouble, but I knew there could be real consequences, especially under the present circumstances. The problem was, I had no idea where Martha might be at this hour.

I looked about the courtroom to see if Martha had slipped into a back row, but she was nowhere to be seen. As my eyes swept the room, they locked with Nanny Mae’s. The old woman had been watching me, and I sensed at once she had been reading my thoughts. She gave no sign of acknowledgement, however, but rather continued with her work, the knitting needles clacking away quietly beneath the testimony.

Fighting the impulse to go in search of Martha, I turned back to Lincoln’s questioning.

“. . . like Hector, you too have been with Captain Pound for quite some time?” Lincoln was saying.

“That’s correct,” said Gentry, stroking his neatly trimmed beard.

“And you would agree with Hector that Captain Pound’s crew is unusually loyal to one another?”

“I would agree, yes.”

“Is there a member of the crew who goes by the name Willie?”

“No.”

“A frequent traveler by that name?”

Gentry paused, as if in thought, and said, “Don’t think so.”

“Are you certain?”

Gentry nodded with assurance.

Lincoln walked over to me and whispered, frustration evident in his voice, “Are you sure that’s the name of your fool? I can’t very well paint him to the jury as the real killer if no one’s even going to acknowledge his existence.”

“‘Willie’ is the only name I ever got,” I replied, cupping my hand around his ear so no one else could hear. “I can easily imagine it’s a false one. He was wearing an old battered straw hat the night Jones was killed. Ask him about that.”

Turning back to Gentry, Lincoln said, “You were working at your post in the salon on the night Mr. Jones died?”

“I was.”

“And I understand Jones lost a good deal of money at the tables that evening, is that correct?”

Gentry played with the top button of his brown vest. “I couldn’t see exactly from my stand. But it did appear so.”

“Was there a man, a shabby sort, in a battered straw hat, who played a role in facilitating Jones’s folly?”

“Not that I recall,” said Gentry.

He’s lying, I thought. They all are. But how can Lincoln make the jury see it?

“There was no man with a battered straw hat in the salon that night—is that what you’re telling the jury?” Lincoln’s voice rose with frustration, and several members of the jury noticed it and stared at him.

“That’s a different question,” said Gentry evenly. “There were plenty of men with straw hats. Battered? It depends on your definition.” He removed the straw hat from his own head. “Would you consider this hat battered, Mr. Lincoln?”

The two combatants went back and forth for another thirty minutes. Lincoln scored a few minor points, but I thought Gentry scored more. And if the gentlemen of the jury were not keeping score closely, I feared their tally would be even more unfavorable, because the barkeep’s calm demeanor made him appear the decisive victor over the increasingly frustrated Lincoln.

Eventually Lincoln dismissed Gentry and returned to our side, shaking his head. Bingham leaned over to give him an encouraging nod, while Tessie stared straight ahead.

“For our next witness,” Prickett announced, “the People call Telesphore Roman.”

As Telesphore came forward, the gallery whispered excitedly. From his last name and clear physical resemblance to Tessie, many guessed correctly it was her brother, arriving to testify against his sister’s accused lover. Others had seen Telesphore’s attack on Bingham during the lunch recess and hoped for a repeat of the violence in the courtroom.

Indeed, rather than taking the witness chair, Telesphore walked straight to where Tessie and Bingham sat. At first I thought he meant to assault the artist again, but instead, Telesphore leaned down next to his sister and loosed a torrent of words into her ear. Even sitting two seats away, it was impossible to hear him over the buzzing crowd. Then Telesphore straightened and made for the chair. Tessie’s face had gone as pale as a ghost.

“Your name, sir?” began Prickett, who affected not to notice his witness’s behavior.

“Jacques Telesphore Roman the Second. Most people call me Telesphore.”

“Your residence?”

“Roman Hall, near Commerce, Mississippi.”

“What is your business?”

“I am my father’s lieutenant. Together we farm eight hundred acres of cotton. We harvested and packed 4,962 bales in the fall just passed. Our most productive season in history.”

“You’ll pardon us, Mr. Roman, if those of us in this state are not familiar with your name,” said Prickett obsequiously. “Is your family a prominent one in your home state?”

“I’d like to think we are,” said Telesphore, puffing out his chest. “Beginning with my uncle Andre. Governor of the state for the better part of the past decade.”

“You are your father’s eldest child?”

“I am.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“Eight who survive.”

“May I ask if any of them are present today?”

“That’s my dear sister Contessa, sitting right there next to that damned murderous ruffian.”

A shout of excitement went up from the gallery, whose fervent hopes for a confrontation seemed on the point of being realized. Lincoln shot to his feet and objected. Judge Thomas nodded.

“Watch your tongue, son,” the judge said, looking down at Telesphore with a cool gaze. “Please give your evidence to Mr. Prickett and let the gentlemen of the jury draw their own conclusions.”

“I will try, sir,” Telesphore responded earnestly, “but when I see the face of that scheming, worthless—”

Thomas did not bother to take out his cigar this time but merely gave Telesphore another severe look.

“Yes, Your Honor, I’ll do my best,” Telesphore said with an air of only the mildest contrition.

“How old is your sister Contessa?” asked Prickett.

“Nineteen years, for another month.”

“Is she betrothed?”

“No.” Telesphore nearly shouted the word.

“Will her hand come with a substantial dowry?”

“I would not wish to speak for my father, sir,” said Telesphore, “but I know he plans to treat Contessa and her husband, when she acquires a proper one, with substantial generosity.”

“You are familiar with the defendant Bingham, I take it from your earlier remarks?”

“I am.”

“What is his financial condition, if you know?”

“I believe he has not a penny to his name.” The crowd murmured with satisfaction. The plot being laid out by Prickett was easy to follow.

“How did you come to know Bingham?”

Under Prickett’s questioning, Telesphore proceeded to relate the story at length. A grand party had alighted from a steamer for a festive postharvest gathering at Roman Hall. Among the invited guests was John W. Jones, a fellow scion of a cotton baron, with whom Telesphore struck up a friendship. Among the guests who were not invited but nonetheless managed to take advantage of the famous hospitality of the proprietors of Roman Hall was a shipboard traveling artist, who had spied the opportunity for living above his station, if only for a fleeting moment.

“What happened next?” asked Prickett.

“Contessa and Jones began to take an interest in each other. It was an obvious thing to see and a welcome development for me and my father. He was a fine man. I would have been proud to call him ‘brother.’ I fear his death has been a loss to our entire family.”

Tessie made a noise of disgust. Telesphore ignored her. The gallery whispered excitedly.

Watching the spectacle, I began to wonder if we had done more harm than good by going to find Tessie as a witness for Bingham. But for our adventure, Telesphore would never have traveled up to Alton, and thus he would never have been able to give his damaging testimony. A loss for our entire family. What nonsense. Telesphore had not even known of Jones’s death before his arrival in town earlier today.

“Did Mr. Jones and Miss Roman form an understanding?” asked Prickett after the courtroom had settled down.

“That man Bingham determined no man could be satisfied if he couldn’t gratify his base desires,” said Telesphore. “So he strove to disrupt the growing union through any means possible.”

“What, specifically, did he do?”

“He used his false language of the arts. He pretended a desire to create a portrait of my sister, and he praised her lavishly, gratuitously, for her carriage and demeanor. He had no other means of wooing, so he used cheap words and paint and canvas. It was revolting.”

“Did you intervene to protect your sister?”

“I tried, and so did my father. Neither of us was wholly successful, I fear.”

“What happened?”

“Eventually we managed to uproot Bingham from our midst. I very nearly had to eject him forcibly from Roman Hall. Mr. Jones needed to head back to his family, so he left at the same time. My father and I talked to Jones before he left and invited him to return to Roman Hall in the spring. We assured him Contessa would be over any infatuation with the artist and would be receptive to his manly advances.”

Again Tessie made a noise of derision. Lincoln gave her a look suggesting she’d serve Bingham’s cause better by holding her tongue.

“Did you speak to the defendant Bingham before he left Roman Hall?”

“I did.”

The hunger in Telesphore’s eyes reminded me instantly of his expression out by the quarters as he prepared to take the whip to the house slave tied up between the pegs. I wished I could intervene to redirect him now as I had then.

“What did you say to him?”

“That he was never to darken our door again if he wished to retain the use of his hands to draw or paint.”

“And what did he say to you?”

Lincoln sprung up. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”

“It’s an admission,” said Prickett. “A series of them, as you’ll hear.”

Judge Thomas cleared his throat and said, “The objection is overruled.”

“What did he say to you?” repeated Prickett.

Telesphore breathed in and out to steady himself. He looked unblinkingly at the gentlemen of the jury. “He said he intended to marry Contessa and that there was nothing my father or I could do about it. He said that only he would make her happy—that Jones never would.” Telesphore took another breath and expelled it. “He said he would take every step to ensure Jones never returned to Roman Hall or laid eyes on Contessa again.” Another breath. “He said he would murder him with his own hands if that’s what it took.”

The courtroom was in an uproar. Men were on their feet shouting that Bingham should be pulled from the courtroom and strung up from the nearest tree branch. Tessie leaned against Bingham’s shoulder, sobbing. Bingham was rigid, staring straight ahead. Lincoln looked pained. Judge Thomas shouted for order. Even Daumier, who had been standing at the back of the room with his arms crossed and watching the witness’s performance with satisfaction, urged the crowd to settle down.

It had all sounded simple when Lincoln, Martha, and I had discussed the case the prior night. Lincoln would blame the murder on Jones’s clumsy threat to reveal some secret scheme on board the War Eagle, and Tessie would affirm her love for Bingham, thereby removing any possible motive for deadly action. But messy, unpredictable circumstance had collided with our carefully laid plans, and circumstance was winning—decisively.

“No further questions for this witness,” shouted Prickett above the roar.

Judge Thomas pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s nearly five, Lincoln,” he said. “I think we should defer further examination until the morning, when the gentlemen are fresh.”

I suspected Lincoln would want to commence his examination at once, so as not to send the jury back to their hearths with Telesphore’s damning words foremost on their—

“Joshua!”

I smelled her familiar scent even before I turned to see Martha sliding in next to me. She was breathing deeply. Her cheeks were rosy, and beads of perspiration dotted her forehead.

“Telesphore just—” I began in a hiss.

“I know. I heard as I was coming in. But you’ll never guess what I’ve discovered.”

Lincoln was arguing in the background with Prickett about when his cross-examination would begin.

“What is it?” I whispered.

“I’ll tell you and Lincoln together. But you’ve got to stop him.” She nodded toward Lincoln. “He needs to hear what I’ve learned before he examines Telesphore.” I hesitated. “If you don’t go up and tell him, I will,” said Martha at nearly a shout.

Lincoln was in the middle of an impassioned plea to Judge Thomas about the importance of commencing his examination without delay. I rose to my feet and put my hand on Lincoln’s shoulder. He cut himself off and looked at me with surprise.

“Martha says she found out something you should hear before you question him,” I whispered into his ear.

“But I . . . what is it?”

“She didn’t tell me. But she says you need to hear it now.”

“She better be right,” he muttered. Turning to the judge, Lincoln announced, with as much dignity as he could muster, “On second thought, Your Honor, I concur. I’ll question Mr. Roman in the morning.”