A Respectable Actress (24 page)
The colonel studied the bullet. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank you.” Philip strolled to the table and poured himself
a glass of water. He
sipped it and took his time returning to the witness stand. “Dr. Adams has testified
that in his expert medical opinion, Mr. Sterling's wound was likely caused by a
metal cartridge. But you are quite sure Miss Hartley's weapon could not have fired
such a bullet. Is that correct?”
“That's what I'm saying, Mr. Sinclair. These days, metal bullets most likely come
from a Remington .44.”
“Could you explain to the jury why this is so?”
“Metal cartridges come from more recent weapons, such as an 1868 breech loader. Remington
has converted almost exclusively to metal cartridges.”
“Why is that?”
“They can be loaded faster than lead balls. They are less likely to misfire and are
considerably more accurate.” The colonel shrugged. “It's too bad we didn't have
these during the war. Things might have turned out differently.”
Judge Bartlett banged his gavel. “Just stick to the facts, Colonel. This is not the
time or place to debate the outcome of the war.”
Philip clasped his hands and paced for a moment, his head down. Returning to the
witness, he said, “Let me be sure I understand your testimony. You have testified
that the lead ball found lodged in the wall at the theater and entered into evidence
could have come from Miss Hartley's weapon.”
“Yes. Or one exactly like it.”
“And you have just told us that Colt .44s are less accurate and more likely to misfire
than a Remington using a metal cartridge.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As an expert in weapons and ammunition, Colonel, would
you say it's possible that
Miss Hartley's gun discharged a wild shot that missed Mr. Sterling altogether and
lodged instead in the wall, where it was overlooked by the investigating officers?”
“Objection!” Mr. McLendon rose from his chair. “There is absolutely no evidence that
anyone except the defendant fired a weapon that night. Mr. Sinclair is engaging in
wild speculation that can only confuse the jury.”
“On the contrary,” Philip shot back. “I'm trying to show that there is more than
reasonable doubt thatâ”
“Gentlemen!” Judge Bartlett banged his gavel, silencing them both.
“All right.” The judge sat back in his chair. “Now, do you have any more questions
for this witness?”
“No further questions.”
Judge Bartlett raised his brow at the prosecutor. “Mr. McLendon?”
The prosecutor strolled over to the witness stand, his hands in the pockets of his
smoke-colored trousers. “About this lead ball that was so conveniently discovered
at the theater on Sunday afternoon. Can you tell how long it might have been lodged
in the wall where Mr. Sinclair just happened to find it?”
Colonel Culpepper blinked. “Well, of course there's no way to tell for sure, butâ”
“Thank you, Colonel. Now. Would you say that a person who owns a gun generally is
acquainted with the feel and heft of the weapon?”
“I suppose so.”
“So in the case of the defendant, even in the dark, she would reasonably be expected
to recognize that the weapon in her hand
was her own.” The prosecutor looked over
at the jury, a smug expression on his face.
“Not necessarily.”
India watched in hopeful disbelief as the prosecutor paled at the unexpected answer.
“Not necessarily, Colonel?”
“That's what I'm saying.”
“Very well. That's all.”
“Judge?” Philip approached the bench. “Since Mr. McLendon has opened up this subject,
I'd like to ask the colonel here another question.”
“Go ahead.”
Philip approached the witness box. “Colonel, I wonder if you would explain the answer
you just gave the prosecutor. If I understand you correctly you have testified that
my client could have picked up the weapon in question thinking it was the prop the
theater manager had provided, and not recognized it as her own. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why is that?”
“Except for the kind of ammunition they use, the Colt and the Remington are nearly
identical. They each weigh just under three pounds. They each have an overall length
of approximately fourteen inches. And they each have an eight-inch barrel.” The colonel
leaned back in his chair. “Good gravy, Mr. Sinclair. In the dark like that, I doubt
if even I could have told the two apart.”
“Objection to that last observation, Judge,” said the prosecutor.
“Sustained.”
“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Philip said. “But
I'd like to request
a meeting with you and Mr. McLendon in chambers.”
“You mean now?”
“If it please the court.”
“Very well. We'll be in recess for half an hour.”
Philip glanced at India as he and the prosecutor left the courtroom. She couldn't
read his expression, but she couldn't help feeling the colonel's testimony surely
would sway the jury.
An officer appeared at her side, arms crossed, as if he needed to remind her not
to flee. “You need anything, miss?”
“Some more water?”
He signaled to another officer, who hurried away and returned momentarily with a
pitcher of fresh water. The minutes crawled by. India drank her water and ventured
a look at the jury. Some looked anxious, some weary. Others looked annoyed at the
delay.
At last the door to the judge's chambers opened, and the three men came in. One look
at Philip's face and India knew that whatever legal ploy he'd tried had failed.
The judge resumed his seat and tapped the gavel again. India flinched. “Gentlemen,”
the judge began. “Mr. Sinclair has requested an immediate acquittal based upon reasonable
doubt arising from the testimony of Colonel Culpepper. And while I see his point,
I'm inclined to let the jury do its duty and decide the merits of this case. Mr.
Sinclair, have you any other witnesses?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Then make your case, and let's get on with this.”
Philip studied his notes. Took a long sip of water. He gave
India's shoulder a quick
squeeze before crossing the courtroom to face the men who would decide her fate.
“Gentlemen. You have heard, in absentia, from many people acquainted with Miss Hartley's
life and work. You have heard that she is a beloved mistress of her craft and a woman
who brings delight to audiences all over the world. You have heard that she came
here to Savannah to begin a tour of the finest theaters across the South. Theaters
willing to pay her a great deal of money.”
Someone in the gallery coughed. Skirts rustled. A door opened and closed.
“Murder is the result of fear,” Philip went on. “Fear of losing money or love or
position, fear of not getting what you want. Fear of losing what has been hard won.
Miss Hartley has none of that fear. She enjoys the abiding affection of her public,
the loyalty of her friends. In short, contrary to the emotional testimony of Mr.
Sterling's . . . companion, India Hartley had no reason to kill a man she'd just
met.”
He paused, and India saw that he was assessing the effect of his words on the jury.
The two men nearest her sat with heads down, but the others stared at Philip, their
faces impassive. The room had gone still. The judge, the reporters, the spectators
in the gallery sat rapt. Perhaps if her very life were not hanging in the balance,
she, too, would have found his summation as fascinating as any play.
Philip went on. “Now, a beloved citizen of Savannah has been taken from our midst,
and society demands that someone must pay. But that someone should not be India Hartley.
You
have heard testimony that Mr. Sterling may have had a heart condition that contributed
to his demise. You have heard from Dr. Adams that in his opinion, Mr. Sterling's
wound was caused by a metal cartridge. A cartridge that could not possibly have been
fired from Miss Hartley's gun. A gun that uses only lead bullets identical to the
one found in the theater. A gun that the police assures us is in fact the murder
weapon, because they quit looking for evidence too soon.
“Gentlemen, I have no idea who shot Mr. Sterling, or why. But in all my years of
practicing law I have never encountered a stronger case for reasonable doubt.
“You must search your consciences on this matter and determine whether there is
enough doubt about Miss Hartley's guilt to set her free. The law does not ask you
to provide a solution to what really happened at the Southern Palace that night.
It asks only that you determine whether there is any other plausible explanation.”
India poured herself another glass of water, her hands shaking.
“I believe the only fair verdict is a verdict of not guilty. But in any case, I ask
you for mercy for my client.” He paused and inclined his head toward India. “As a
sworn jury you hold the power of life and death in your hands. You must decide whether
to deprive this young woman of life or liberty or whether to set her free.”
Philip braced his hands on the rail of the jury box and looked at each man in turn.
“Shakespeare once wrote that mercy is an attribute of God Himself. And earthly power
shows like God's when mercy seasons justice.”
He nodded once and turned on his heel. The courtroom exploded into applause. The
reporters scribbled in their notebooks.
The judge gaveled the room into silence. “This room will come to order. Any more
of that and I'll clear this courtroom. Mr. McLendon, do you wish to address the jury?”
The prosecutor rose. “As compelling as Mr. Sinclair's oratory is, the fact is that
there is no way to determine whether the lead ball found in the theater did in fact
come from a wild shot fired from Miss Hartley's gun. Or whether it came from another
gun, and had been there for weeks, months, or years. Mr. Sinclair has not offered
up any other person with a reason to harm such a beloved local figure. This womanӉhe
turned and pointed to Indiaâ“came out of nowhere, came here to Savannah, and the
next thing we know, our most talented thespian lies dead, our most beautiful theater
is locked up tight, and our citizens are mourning a man who can never be replaced.
I agree with my colleague that someone must pay for this death and grief and the
disruption to our pleasant life here in Savannah, but that is where our agreement
ends.” He paused. “You should find her guilty.”
Mr. McLendon sat down, and Philip resumed his seat beside India. Blinded by tears,
she squeezed his hand. Whatever happened now, he had done his best. It was all she
could ask.
Judge Bartlett spoke to the jury, but India was so terrified that his words might
well have been spoken in Arabic. At length, they filed out, and she and Philip were
escorted to the anteroom to wait.
He sprawled in the chair and raked a hand over his chin, too spent for words.
“You were brilliant,” India said after half an hour had passed. She spoke quietly,
out of the hearing of the officer stationed by the door. “Whatever happens, I want
you to know I couldn't have expected a more thorough defense.”
“I thought we'd get an acquittal based on the colonel's testimony. We would have,
I'm sure, had Judge Russell heard the case. Bartlett is noted for deferring to the
jury, but it was worth a try.”
India watched a small flock of birds rise and fall along a distant rooftop. “I was
surprised that Mr. McLendon seemed unprepared for the colonel's testimony about the
two weapons.”
“So was I.” He ventured a weary smile. “The similarities between the two clearly
caught him off guard.”
“This morning you said we have a good chance. Do you still think so, Philip?”
“McLendon is trying to play upon the jury's fears by reminding them you are an outsider.
And much of our case is circumstantial. We can't prove when that other bullet was
fired or by whom.”
“But the case against me is circumstantial too. They can't prove that I wanted to
harm Mr. Sterling, or that I knew the gun was not the one Mr. Philbrick showed me.
Surely they must give me the benefit of the doubt.”
The door opened, and the clerk stuck his head in. “Mr. Sinclair, the jury's back.”
D
EEP OBLIVION PULLED AT HER
,
DRAGGED HER INTO
blessed darkness. Something terrible had happened. She struggled to remember, but all she felt was an overwhelming sense of vertigo, of bumping up against the edges of the known world.
She was surrounded by silence and shadows. A sharp, medicinal smell permeated her
cell, and she willed her eyes to open.
“You're awake.” A rough, low whisper came from out of the darkness. A black-clad
figure loomed over her. One hand covered her mouth, the other grasped her wrist.
“Shhhhhh. Don't talk. Just listen.”
She was fully awake now, every nerve taut. She tore at the hand covering her mouth.
“I'm here to get you out.” The man tossed her a garment. “Put this on.”
Now she realized this was not the jail, but a hospital. The man in the room was dressed
as a priest, and the garment he'd given her was a nun's habit. Bits and pieces of
yesterday's events came back to her. The spectators and reporters wedged into every
nook of the courtroomâthe circus-like atmosphereâas they waited for
the verdict.
The jurors' hard eyes as the decision was announced. Philip's muttered oath. A fear
so intense her legs buckled. The loss of consciousness, the explosion of pain, and
the gush of blood as she fell against the sharp edge of the table. She reached up
to touch a thick bandage covering her head.
