A Respectable Actress (22 page)

India heard Philip draw in a long breath. She reminded herself to remain calm and
impassive, even as her character was impugned in open court. Before her on the table
sat a pad and pencil. A glass of water. At her feet, the small travel satchel packed
with the few things she would be allowed to have in her jail cell: her comb, clean
stockings, a small bottle of rosewater Mrs. Mackay had pressed into her hands at
the last moment.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, his voice rich and melodic, “the people call Dr.
Wakefield Adams.”

The doctor, a rotund man with the ruddy complexion and bulbous nose of a habitual
imbiber, made his way to the front of the room and was sworn in.

“Now, Dr. Adams,” Mr. McLendon began. “Were you called to the Southern Palace Theater
on the evening of December 20 of last year?”

“No, sir. I wasn't called there. I was already there. To see Miss Hartley's play.”

“Oh?” The prosecutor turned to look at the jury. “So you were an eyewitness to the
shooting?”

India shifted in her chair. Clearly, Mr. McLendon knew what he was doing. Even she
knew that a lawyer never asked a question unless he already knew the answer.

“Yes, sir, I was in the third row when the shot was fired.”

“And did you see who fired that shot?”

“It was Miss Hartley.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Well, sir, I saw that Mr. Sterling had been shot, so I left my seat and ran onto
the stage to see if I could help him.”

“And what did you see, Doctor?”

“He'd been hit once in the left femoral artery. He was bleeding bad.”

“And did you render aid?”

The doctor nodded. “I applied a tourniquet and stayed with him until he was taken
to the hospital.”

“And did you have occasion to examine Mr. Sterling after that?”

“I went by the hospital the next morning.”

“And how was your patient faring by then?”

“He was dead.”

The prosecutor paused to let the murmurs die down, and to let the weight of the doctor's
words sink in. “No further questions.” He turned to Philip. “Your witness, Mr. Sinclair.”

Philip got to his feet. “Doctor, I wonder if you could stand and show the jury the
location of the femoral artery.”

The witness glanced up at Judge Bartlett, who nodded. “Go ahead, Dr. Adams.”

The doctor stood. “The femoral artery runs through the thigh and is the main artery
that supplies blood to the lower limb.”

“And can you identify for the jury the approximate location of Mr. Sterling's wound?”

The doctor pointed to a spot on his own thigh, just below the hip.

“Thank you, Doctor. Be seated.” Philip paused. “Now, when you were tending Mr. Sterling,
did you observe the nature of the wound?”

“Certainly. There was just one. A small, rather neat hole, typical when a cartridge
penetrates flesh at fairly close range.”

“A cartridge?”

“Metal cartridges tend to make a smaller hole than a lead ball.”

Philip paused to look at the jury. “I see. Any other visible wounds to Mr. Sterling?”

“No, sir. Not that I recall.”

“Did you notice whether the cartridge had lodged in the patient, or whether it had
exited Mr. Sterling's body?”

“No, I did not. I was just trying to keep the poor man from bleeding out.”

“Did you notice an exit wound later on?”

“No, sir.”

“In your report, did you make a determination as to the type of bullet that injured
Mr. Sterling?”

The doctor shrugged. “I've seen enough such cases in my time to know I was most likely
looking at a wound from a metal bullet. But it made no difference by then.”

“So it's likely the bullet remained in the body of the deceased and was buried with
him.”

“Sure. I guess so.”

“This is a murder trial, Doctor. A woman's life is at stake. Let's not guess, if
we can be more precise.” Philip paced for a moment, his head down, his hands clasped
behind his back. “How long have you practiced medicine, Dr. Adams?”

“Forty-seven years.”

“Forty-seven years. Did you know that Mr. Sterling suffered from dropsy?”

The prosecutor shot to his feet. “Your Honor. Point of relevance. Mr. Sterling's
medical history has no bearing on these proceedings.”

Judge Bartlett peered down at Philip. “Where are you going with this line of questioning,
Counselor?”

“Your Honor, if you will allow me just a few more questions, I think you will see
that the victim's condition has a vital bearing on this case.”

“Proceed.” The judge waved a mottled hand at the doctor. “You may answer the question.”

“Mr. Sterling was not a regular patient of mine,” the doctor said. “I just happened
to be there when he was shot.”

“So you didn't know he had a severe heart problem?”

“Not firsthand. My wife keeps up with all the talk in Savannah. She heard that Mr.
Sterling was not a well man.”

“Doctor, in your expert medical opinion, can a damaged heart suddenly cease to function?”

“Of course.”

“So it's possible that Mr. Sterling died not of the gunshot wound but because the
shock caused his heart to give out?”

India felt a sudden surge of hope. Philip had just given the jury a pathway to reasonable
doubt.

“Sure, it's possible. But I reckon we'll never know for sure.”

“Exactly.” Philip faced the jury and, in turn, looked each of the men in the eye.
“We'll never know for sure.”

He turned back to the doctor. “That's all.”

The judge consulted his gold pocket watch and cleared his throat. “Mr. McLendon?”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

“Call your next witness.”

The door behind India opened. She turned, and her stomach dropped. She grabbed her
pencil, scrawled one word, and pushed it across the table to Philip.

C
HAPTER
18

F
ABIENNE
?

Philip glanced at India's notepad and raised a brow. They had expected the Frenchwoman
to testify for the defense. Clearly he was as surprised by this development as she.

India watched as her young dresser walked slowly down the aisle to the witness stand.
The girl seemed entirely undone. Her hair was in a half braid, her eyes swollen and
red rimmed. She wouldn't look at India. She was sworn in. She promised to tell the
truth.

Mr. McLendon rose. “Now, Miss Ormond. Would you tell the jury the nature of your
relationship with the defendant?”

“I was her dresser.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I helped Miss Hartley at the theater. I dressed her hair and helped her change her
costumes during the play.”

“And were you serving in that capacity on the evening in question?”

“Yes, sir.” Fabienne's voice was a hoarse whisper.

“Were you there when Mr. Sterling stopped at Miss Hartley's dressing room to discuss
the evening's performance?”

“Yes.”

“Would you say that Miss Hartley was angry with him?”

Philip shot to his feet. “Objection. Calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness.”

“Sustained.”

The prosecutor cleared his throat. “Do you remember what they discussed?”

“Just that Mr. Philbrick wanted them to do something more spectacular, because a
critic was coming.”

“All right.” He consulted his notes. “Another witness who cannot be present for these
proceedings has signed a sworn statement that as Mr. Sterling was leaving Miss Hartley's
dressing room that evening, he cautioned her not to take the new stage directions
literally. Do you remember his saying that?”

At last Fabienne lifted her head and looked at India, sorrow and fear mingling in
her eyes. “I was busy. I cannot remember exactly. But Miss Hartley wouldn't—”

“Just answer the question, please. To the best of your recollection.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did Miss Hartley make a reply?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Which was?”

“Don't tempt me.”

Every person in the gallery gasped. The reporters scribbled in their notebooks.

Mr. McLendon's eyes shone with triumph as he passed their table. “Your witness, Mr.
Sinclair.”

Philip took his time. He paused for a sip of water, then paged through his notes.

At last he approached the witness.

“Miss Ormond. How long have you known Miss Hartley?”

“Since last November, when she put a notice in the paper for a dresser.”

“And were you hired right away?”

“
Oui
. The first day. When I answered the advertisement.”

“How often did you see her, would you say?”

“Almost every day when she was rehearsing the play. I dressed her hair, and we practiced
changing her from one costume to another. There are but a few moments between scenes
and all of those buttons”—Fabienne rolled her eyes—“they take a very long time unless
you have practiced.”

“I imagine so.” Philip smiled at the ladies in the gallery. “Now, you have testified
that Miss Hartley said to Mr. Sterling at the theater that evening, ‘Don't tempt
me.' Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Because she was exasperated.”

“Ex—?”

“Annoyed. Irritated.”

“Mr. Sterling was a most annoying man.”

“Objection.” Mr. McLendon rose. “The victim is not on trial here, Judge.”

“Sustained.”

Philip paused. “Miss Ormond, have you ever been annoyed with someone?”

“
Oui.
Of course.”

“And said something you didn't mean? Made an idle threat you had no intention of
carrying out? Exaggerated your words for effect?”

“A million times.”

Philip smiled. “Me too.”

He glanced at the jury then turned back to Fabienne. “So when Miss Hartley said,
‘Don't tempt me,' she might have been expressing her annoyance, but certainly not
intending to act upon it. Is—”

“Objection, Your Honor.” The prosecutor was on his feet again. “Is Mr. Sinclair asking
a question, or giving his summation to the jury? Frankly I can't tell which it is.”

Judge Bartlett peered down at Philip. “Counselor?”

“No further questions.”

With another sorrowful glance at India, Fabienne hurried from the courtroom.

The judge consulted the large clock mounted on the rear wall. “Court is in recess
until one o'clock.”

He banged the gavel, stood, and disappeared into his chambers.

A policeman escorted India and Philip to a room down the hallway then took up his
post outside the door.

Weak with nerves and hunger, India collapsed into a chair and massaged her temples.

Philip drew up a chair and sat beside her. “Are you all right?”

“I didn't expect Fabienne to speak against me.”

“It's obvious she didn't want to. But I think I mitigated the damage with the jury.”
He sounded tired too. “We have a right to recall her if we think it's necessary,
when it's our turn to present evidence.”

The door opened and the policeman came in carrying a wicker hamper that clearly had
been searched. The napkins
were unfolded and lay in a heap atop a loaf of bread protruding
from one corner. “Mrs. Mackay has sent you some dinner.”

Philip took the basket. “Thanks.”

The policemen shifted his weight. “If your client needs the . . . um . . . necessary
room, I'll arrange it.”

“We'll let you know.”

The policeman withdrew. Philip opened the basket and took out wedges of cheese, a
dried fruit tart, the bread, and a jar of soup. Everything smelled good, but India
felt as if she'd swallowed a brick. She shook her head as Philip set the meal on
a small table before her.

“India,” he said, his voice filled with concern. “I realize food is the last thing
on your mind, but you must eat something. It's apt to be a trying afternoon, and
this food is much better than what you'll have in the jail tonight.”

India forced down a few bites of bread and cheese and picked at the tart, but it
might as well have been made of paste.

Philip ate, but without any sign of enjoyment, then paged once more through his notes.

At ten minutes to one, the door opened once more, and the policeman came in again
with a piece of paper and a small paper bag. “Sergeant Trueblood said to give you
this.”

Philip glanced into the bag and read the paper, and India saw some of the tension
leave his shoulders. He nodded to the policeman. “Thank you.”

The door closed again. India looked up at him, wanting to hope but afraid of disappointment.
“What is it?”

He smiled at last. “We may have caught a break.” He took out his watch. “It's nearly
one. Do you need the—”

“I'm all right.”

He packed up the basket and left it to be returned to Mrs. Mackay. “Let's go.”

India had hoped that after the initial excitement, some of the spectators would return
to their own pursuits. But upon entering the courtroom, she saw that the crowd had
swelled well past the room's capacity. The gallery was filled, and people stood three
deep along the walls, each vying for a view of the proceedings.

The jury filed into the jury box, the judge came in and gaveled the proceedings
to order, and Mr. McLendon rose from his chair. “Your Honor, the people call Miss
Victoria Bryson.”

India pressed her fingers to her temples as the young understudy sashayed down the
aisle, the deep ruffles on her pink skirt whispering on the wooden floor.