Boston Jacky: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Taking Care of Business (30 page)

I recognize that bloke as Prosecutor Attorney Hamilton Brown, the man who tried his best to have me whipped when I last was in this courtroom, a scared kid in a strange land, down on my knees right over there, crying out my despair at being charged with Lewd and Lascivious Conduct.
I guess I really haven't come that far after all,
I think with a heavy sigh,
from convicted felon to unfit mother . . .

“All right,” says the Judge, “let's get this over and done with. Where are these wretched children?”

Attorney Brown signals to the bailiff at the side door. The man opens it, pulls out Joannie and Ravi, and takes them to the center of the courtroom.

I take one look at the bedraggled pair and leap to my feet. “This is an outrage! That girl was clean and that boy was unbeaten when they were taken forcefully from my care! Look at them now! They are brought here like that to cast discredit upon me! It is the State of Massachusetts that is to blame here, not me! There is the evidence before you,” I thunder, pointing a stiff finger at the kids, “of merely one week's worth of the State's tender care!” A murmur of sympathy is heard running through the crowd as they gaze upon the condition of the two children.

Joannie is dressed in the same stained asylum shift that I last saw her in. Her hair is filthy and hangs lankly about her dirt-streaked face. She is in a sorry state, but she does not bow her head. Instead she casts a look of supreme contempt all around. It is undeniably the Lawson Peabody Look, make no mistake about that.
Good girl! They did not break your spirit in that awful place!

Ravi makes a move in my direction when he sees me, but is restrained by the bailiff. He, too, is dirty, but in addition, there are cruel marks of abuse on his face—a large purple bruise, an eye swollen shut.

“It is not your place to object, Miss Faber,” says Prosecutor Brown, looking down his long nose at me. “Sit down. We have proper procedures here and we will follow them. You will get your chance to testify in this matter.” He pauses, then says, “I call to the stand Mrs. Hester Chumbley Shinn.”

Mrs. Shinn gathers herself up and advances to the witness chair. She states her name and address and is sworn in. She sits, adjusting her skirts and looking over at me with complete disdain.

“Perhaps you will tell us why, Mrs. Shinn, you have instituted these proceedings?”

That's about the last civil thing that is said this day.

“Because that slut has no right to those children,” she shouts, pointing a finger at me. I start to rise in anger, but Ezra puts a hand on my shoulder and holds me down. “She runs a low tavern and a bawdy house that puts on dirty plays that appeal to none but the lowest of our society—drunkards, whores, and . . .” Here she puffs up and exclaims, “. . . and Irish!”

That gets a rumble out of the gallery, half of whom I know have been to the Emerald Playhouse and half of whom are of Irish descent, if not from Ireland itself.

“Do you have any further evidence of the unsuitability of Miss Faber to act as guardian to these children?” purrs Hamilton Brown, knowing full well that she does.

“Yes,” she says firmly. “While conducting a peaceful march with my fellow members of the Committee on Women's Suffrage down State Street a few weeks ago—a march that she disrupted, by the way—I noticed, and many of my ladies noticed, that as we passed the low dive known as the Pig and Whistle, the two children were up in the balcony overhanging the street, drinking glasses of demon rum!”

I struggle to stifle myself, but Ezra says, “Wait, Jacky, just wait.”

“Very well, Mrs. Shinn. Do you have any questions of this witness, Counselor?”

Ezra gets to his feet and approaches Mrs. Shinn. As he does so, I examine the Judge for any signs of change in his demeanor.
Alas, no.
Maybe he didn't drink it . . . Maybe he found it too bitter, too musky . . . Maybe the potion needs the addition of the brandy to work, maybe . . .

“Mrs. Shinn, how can you be sure that what you saw the children drinking was, indeed, rum? Could it also have been whiskey? Rye? Bourbon?”

“It doesn't matter, they are all of the same vile color,” says Mrs. Shinn, with a sniff. “It's all the same, whatever—alcohol, the drink that is destroying this town.”

“And as to that, Mrs. Shinn, do you not head an organization that is dedicated to banning alcohol in our fair city?”

“Indeed I do. The Committee on Women's Suffrage.”

“Suffrage . . . votes for women, you mean?”

“Yes, that.”

“But what does that have to do with alcohol?”

“Women suffer in many ways, Sir,” says Mrs. Shinn, regarding Mr. Pickering as if he were a toad. “Demon rum contributes to all their forms of suffering—drunken fathers who do not come home with their pay envelopes . . . children who do not eat because their fathers have drunk up all their money and lie in the gutter, young mothers beaten and left destitute, babes in their arms crying out for milk . . .”

“Ah, yes, all that,” says Ezra, turning from her and strolling about the floor with his hands behind his back. “Now, you did mention that Miss Faber did, at the time of your first meeting, disrupt a march of your . . . COWS. Do I have that right?”

“Yes,” she replies testily.

“And just how did she disrupt the grand march of the COWS?”

There are some titters from the gallery.

Mrs. Shinn casts him a very sharp look. She puffs up, reddening, then says, “By making mooing sounds.”

Then, from the back of the gallery is heard a soft
moooo . . .
then another . . .
mooooo . . .

And then another, from a surprising source. All heads turn and gaze up at the bench. That last
mooo
came from Judge Hiram Thwackham. He is looking very intently at his gavel, as if it had turned a vivid shade of what . . .? Purple, perhaps? A sly grin creeps across his face . . . and one spreads across mine as well.

Ah-ha . . .

He lets out yet another low
mooooo
and then says, “How now, Purple Cow? How doth thee do? Shall we dance and fly over the moon? And where is the dish and the spoon, pray tell?”

He then notices the stares directed his way and shakes his head to clear it, setting up undulating waves in his ample wattles.

“Ahem!” he says. “Excuse me. Please continue.”

“No more questions, Mrs. Shinn,” says Ezra, looking a bit puzzled. “You may step down.”

Mrs. Shinn does so, in a great huff, welcomed back to the gallery with a few more
mooo
s
.
I am sure there are not three men here in this great room who wish to see Mrs. Shinn and her COWS succeed in their quest to close the taverns.

When Ezra gets back to our table, I whisper, “Better get things moving, Ezra, as things are going to get strange.”

He looks puzzled but nods. “I call Miss Molly Malone to the stand.”

Molly is sworn and plunks herself down and testifies . . .

“I am a barmaid at the Pig and Whistle Inn . . .” She gets a small cheer on that from some wag way in the back. “I swears on that there Bible and on the grave of me sainted mother that what I served those kids on that day was nothin' more than sweet tea!”

Then Ezra calls up Mistress Pimm.

“Miranda Pimm, Head Mistress, the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls, Beacon Street, Boston,” she says upon being sworn in.

“You have agreed to assume the guardianship of this Joan Nichols?”

“Yes, until she reaches her majority. Ample funds have been provided by Faber Shipping for her tuition and upkeep till that time.”

“Your witness, Mr. Brown,” says Ezra, and he steps back to our table as the Prosecutor comes forward.

“Mistress Pimm, you do not have any reservations in accepting money from Miss Faber in this matter, considering her reputation?”

“None whatsoever,” replies Mistress, drilling the lawyer with her steeliest gaze. “I am proud of all my girls. I have been to the Emerald Playhouse and have seen the
In the Belly of the
Bloodhound
play and found it most commendable. I am proud of my former students: Amy Trevelyne for having written it and Jacky Faber for staging it. I am proud of those of my girls who are performing in it. I am proud of all my girls.”

That put the lid on that. It brought a tear to my eye, and I suspect one to Amy Trevelyne's, as well.

It sums up things for Judge Thwackham, too. He brings down his gavel and roars, “The girl is remanded into the custody of Mistress Pimm! Now let's take care of that black boy over there, and then let's get the hell out of here. There looks to be a beautiful purple sunset out there and I want to bask in it!” With that he pulls off his wig and tosses it at Mr. Hamilton Brown with a hearty, “Haw! Haw! Catch that, Counselor! You can use it to powder your bum!”

That speech and toss gets a lot of surreptitious, questioning glances between members of the court. Can it be that the Old Bull has finally lost his mind? He certainly seems to be casting his eyes about most avidly.

Well, Joannie, at least we got you out,
I'm thinking as Joannie is hauled out by the bailiff, leaving Ravi standing all alone in the middle of the room.
Now for you, Ravi . . .

Prosecutor Brown pushes doggedly on.

“I call Jacky Faber to the stand.” I did not fail to notice the lack of the
Miss
before my name.

I rise, am sworn, and the oft-despised Faber bottom is placed in the witness chair, where it settles in and waits for the attack. It comes . . .

“In regards to this child, Ravi Ganesh Faber, just how did you come by him?”

“In India . . . Bombay . . . He was a street beggar whom I took in.”

“Why did you do that?”

“He seemed a bright young lad. He intrigued me with his intelligence and bravery. I myself had been a beggar on the streets of London and knew the territory, as it were.”

“So you very conveniently picked yourself up a slave?”

“He is not my slave, and never has been. He is my adopted son, and I have great affection for him.”

“Ah. And have you filed formal adoption papers for him?”

“No, I have not.”

“And why not, if you have such regard for that rather dark little Hottentot?” he asks with a sneer.

“You know very well why not, Sir,” I say, lifting my burning eyes to his. “As a single female without male relatives, I am in control of all my properties. I own Faber Shipping Worldwide, the Pig and Whistle Inn, the Emerald Playhouse, several ships, and many boats. On the advice of counsel, should I legally adopt a son, then
he
would have control of all my assets, he being male and me being a stupid woman. Although that ‘dark little Hottentot' is extremely intelligent, I do not think he is yet ready to take on that burden.”

That speech gets a few guffaws and cries of “Well said!” from the gallery, which are quickly silenced by Judge Thwackham's mighty pounding of his gavel. I had noticed, during this exchange, that the Judge had been seen swatting at flies and muttering, “Bluebottle flies! How the hell did they get in here? Scat, you purple devils, away with you!” Apparently, they
are brightly colored flies that no one else can see.

The Judge rises in full magisterial mode. “Boring! This is all so very goddamn boring! I shall surely die of terminal ennui if this is to go on much longer!” shouts Judge Thwackham, relentlessly pounding his gavel. “Let us settle this now! Since that little brown bugger has not been adopted by any person of good character and white skin, and has been charged with littering the streets of Boston, I direct that he be returned to the Reformatory and may he spend the rest of his miserable life there! Take him away!”

Damn! Sometimes the magic works, and sometimes it doesn't!

Ezra shoots to his feet. “Your Honor, I object! There has been absolutely no evidence lodged against this boy on the littering charge!”

Mr. Hamilton Brown, looking very distraught at the proceedings, manages to say, “Constable Wiggins?”

Here Wiggins sees an opening, and he marches across the floor and levels an accusing finger at poor Ravi, who is kneeling quivering on the floor

“I observed this miscreant throwing those nasty shells upon the clean streets of Boston,” says Wiggins, his face red with anger.

I suspect Wiggins had arrived at Skivareen's soon after Pigger and Glory popped open the bottle of my special brew and drank it down. He was able to put together what happened to them, the goose and gander who were no longer laying golden eggs for him, and what was presently happening to Judge Thwackham, and it all led, in his little brain, to me. Pity he wasn't given a share of the purple potion as Pyro Johnnie was—he just might not be here now, causing me trouble if he had. I have a vivid picture in my mind of he and Goody going at it on the courthouse steps, but, alas . . .

“And furthermore, yer Honor, that there female, Jacky Faber, is the cause of much of the disruption in this town, and you yourself said that if she ever again appeared in your courtroom, the sentence you laid upon her would be carried out, and there she is!”

Judge Thwackham leans back, glares at me, and considers. Then he says, “Oh, very well, off with her head, then. Do you have an ax, Constable? Good. Then take her out and do it. The stump of the Old Gallows Tree should serve nicely as the chopping block.” He rubs his hands fastidiously. “Make too much of a mess in here . . . all that purple blood on the floor.”

People are beginning to look at each other curiously.
What was going on with Judge Thwackham?

Both Ravi and Ezra get to their feet to protest.

“No!” says Ravi, rushing to my side. “You must not cut off poor Memsahib's dear head! No!”

Ravi, coming from a part of the world where having one's head separated from one's shoulders is always a real possibility, completely misunderstands. He stands before me, arms outstretched before the approaching bailiff. I cry, “Ravi, no! That's not going to happen! Don't worry about me!” But as that officer of the court reaches for him, Ravi bites him hard on the arm. “Not hurt Mommy!” he cries, as the bailiff, cursing mightily, pries him off his arm and carries him, struggling, back to the center of the court.