City of Liars and Thieves (21 page)

The attorneys conferred, then nodded, and the court clerk let the man leave, while I sat mourning my own lack of scruples. I had no qualms in my judgment that Elma's killer deserved to die.

A bowlegged man in farmer's dress approached the clerk. Hamilton stood before the man had the opportunity to set his hand on the Bible.

“Were you a member of the party that searched last December for Gulielma Sands?” Hamilton asked. Elma's name rolled fluidly off his lips.

The man's eyes grew wide and he nodded.

Hamilton walked around the table toward the judge's bench. “I ask that this gentleman be excused.”

The farmer retreated to the back of the courtroom, pushing others aside to sit on one of the long benches.

The panel of jurors proceeded. Hamilton objected to another man, who worked for the
Commercial Advertiser,
and to several more, for reasons that were obscure to me.

“Why is he allowed to decide?” I asked.

Elias shrugged.

Five more jurors were seated before Colden stood. “This man has done work for the prisoner's brother, Ezra Weeks.”

Judge Lansing frowned. “Are you currently employed by Ezra Weeks?” he asked.

The man shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Mr. Colden,” the judge said. “If we were to ask each juror where and how he has formerly been employed, we would be here for days.”

Colden looked crestfallen. “I disagree. There is a direct relation.”

Judge Lansing was shaking his head even before Colden finished speaking. “Save your arguments for the trial.”

Colden resumed his seat and did not object again.

The bells at Trinity Church were striking one when the last juror was seated.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” the clerk called out, “the prisoner at the bar stands indicted for the murder of Gulielma Sands. He has been arraigned, pleaded not guilty, and is now to be tried by his country, which country you are, so that your charge is, gentlemen, to inquire whether the prisoner at the bar is guilty of the felony whereof he stands indicted, or is not guilty, so sit together and hear your evidence.”

Cadwallader Colden rose for his opening statement. Neither youth nor height worked in his favor. A boyish grin made him appear inexperienced. His towering presence left him clumsy. Hamilton and Burr gave off a glow of experience and righteousness; Colden had no such charm. His voice had the flat, nasal inflections of the upper class.

“In a cause which appears so greatly to have excited the public interest, in which the prisoner has thought it necessary to employ so many advocates distinguished for their eloquence and abilities, so vastly my superiors in learning, experience, and professional rank”—Colden paused, smiling at the defense attorneys—“it is not wonderful that I should rise to address you under the weight of embarrassments which such circumstances excite.”

Hamilton was perched attentively at the edge of his chair. To his left, Burr huddled over his notes. Neither man acknowledged Colden's praise.

“But, gentlemen,” Colden's voice lost its cordiality as he continued, “although the abilities enlisted on the respective sides of this cause are very unequal, I find consolation that our tasks are also so. While to my opponents belongs the duty to exert all their powerful talents in favor of the prisoner, as a public prosecutor, I think I ought to do no more than offer all the testimony the case affords and draw from the witnesses all that they know, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

The words were fluent enough, though they lacked passion. No one was more interested in the outcome of the trial than I was, but I found my mind drifting as I searched the crowded courtroom for sympathetic faces.

“Levi Weeks, the prisoner at the bar, is indicted for the murder of Gulielma Sands. We are aware,” Colden said, “that you will not readily be convinced that one so young has already imbrued his hands in the blood of the innocent.” He walked across the room to the jury box, looking determined and righteous. “The deceased was a young girl who, until her acquaintance with the prisoner, was virtuous and modest and, it will be material for you to remark, always of a cheerful disposition and lively manners.”

I nodded, vigorously enough for the reporter beside me to take note.

“We expect to prove that the prisoner won her affections, that her virtue fell sacrifice to his assiduity, and, that after a long period of criminal intercourse between them, he deluded her from the house of her protector under a pretense of marrying her and carried her away to a well in the suburbs of this city, and there murdered her.”

Abruptly, Colden ceased speaking. He rested his hands on the rail of the jury box and bowed his head as if overcome by emotions.

Elias sighed, while I sat bewildered, floating outside myself.

Colonel Burr propped his eyeglasses on top of his head and crossed his legs, while Hamilton watched Colden as if awaiting an opportunity to pounce. A full minute passed before Colden spoke again. When he did, he apologized for the interruption and gallantly continued.

“I will not say, gentlemen, what may be your verdict, but I will venture to assert that not one of you, or any man who hears this cause, shall doubt that the unfortunate young creature who was found dead in the Manhattan Well was most barbarously murdered.”

“Catherine Ring.” A chill shot through me as the clerk called my name.

I had known that I would be a witness but was unprepared to be first. I reached deep into my pocket, running my fingertips over each point of the delicately crafted ivory comb. Although it had been a gift from Levi, I could not part with it. Its elegance recalled Elma's. I had even retied the lost ribbon, imagining a world in which I could just as easily repair the harm done to her.

The clerk repeated my name. I stood on shaky legs and, stepping on toes, proceeded to the end of our row. The audience chattered while I concentrated on keeping my back straight and head up.

“Her cousin,” a woman said loud enough for the entire room to hear. “She was her
guardian
.”

The words stung. I turned, expecting to confront anger with anger. Instead, I saw wide-eyed fear. The women before me were frightened by Elma's senseless death. They were equally powerless. But there was an explanation: If I had neglected to set my impressionable cousin on an honorable path, it mitigated the horror. They watched with something more than sympathy as the clerk approached me, Bible in hand.

“Catherine Ring is a Quaker,” Judge Lansing instructed the clerk.

The clerk eyed me skeptically before stepping aside. As a Friend, I was not required to take an oath. We were thought to be guided by our own quest for truth. But as I took my place on the witness stand, looking at a courtroom full of doubting eyes, it seemed no one, least of all me, believed I was impartial.

Hamilton was on his feet before I had collected my breath. His eyes caught the light and glimmered like the sea. “Your Honor, defense counsel respectfully requests that Elias Ring should withdraw out of hearing during his wife's testimony.” The speed of his objection suggested he had planned this first assault.

Judge Lansing's answer was also swift. “It's within the prisoner's rights.”

The crowd parted as Elias stood. There were sneers as he wound his way up the aisle. I watched the courtroom door close behind him, confused by my relief.

“Pray begin by telling the court what occurred in your household from the time the prisoner came to board with your family,” Colden said, his voice unduly loud.

I had never gone to the theater but knew that the groundlings pelted actors with rotten fruit if their performance proved disappointing. And here was high drama. I half-expected a disgruntled spectator to toss a bruised apple. Instead, what I saw was row upon row of somber faces. Ezra Weeks studied me over the steeple he had formed with his fingers. Behind him sat our neighbor Joseph Watkins, and several rows farther back were Anthony Lispenard and his plump wife.

As if on stage, I took a meaningful breath and willed my expression into a mask. “Levi Weeks came to board with us last July.” My hands flew to my mouth as I realized I had breached Quaker practice and spoken the month's pagan name. I looked around the courtroom, glad Elias was not present to hear my lapse. The audience seemed mercifully unaware. “Levi was always attentive to Elma,” I continued. “She once said—”

Colonel Burr stood. “Your Honor, we object.” Though he was addressing the court, his eyes were trained on Hamilton, as if he was keeping a tally of points scored. “This is hearsay testimony,” Burr said. “The declarations of a deceased person against a prisoner can only be admissible when they are made
after
the fatal blow, in the last moments, when the individual must be supposed to be under an equal solemnity with that of an oath.”

Burr seemed to be suggesting that Elma should have accused Levi
after
her death
,
but that couldn't be. Troublingly, though, Colden was arguing as if Burr had made a legitimate point.

“Catherine Ring's testimony is proper to show the disposition of mind in the deceased,” Colden said. “It is the only way to discover whether Elma was sound in her intellects.” He walked back to the table and began flipping through papers, citing precedents to support his position. His words sounded like gibberish. The jurors started to fidget.

With the ease of a man in his drawing room, Burr repeated his point. “The argument carries no weight in this court. In the first case, no ruling was made, and the second case took place in Scotland and is not valid.”

Nodding, Judge Lansing upheld the objection.

Noticeably diminished, Colden approached again. “Mrs. Ring,” he said, sounding almost angry, as if I had violated courtroom etiquette. “You may not repeat what Elma has said to you in private conversation.”

I sighed. The trial was supposed to determine the force behind Elma's death, yet no one wanted to know the least bit about her. Hesitantly, expecting Burr or Hamilton to leap from their seats, I explained how Elma came to live with us and spoke of the attention Levi showed her. Reluctant to sully her name, I proceeded with caution. “I often found them sitting together, once on her bed.”

A heavy silence settled over the court. Men looked at their shoes, but it was the women who interested me most. One in the third row, who was wearing a gray flannel dress buttoned to her chin, was wringing her hands. Another bit her lip until it grew red. Both looked guilty.

“When I was in the country—” I started. Feeling a set of eyes boring through me, I looked up and saw that Elias had crept back into the courtroom. He was standing to the side of the door, slowly shaking his head.

Turning to follow my gaze, Hamilton was quick to object. He pointed out Elias, and Judge Lansing reprimanded Elias and had him removed. I watched the doors close, thankful again.

“On the tenth or eleventh of Ninth Month,” I resumed, “Elma and Levi were left together with my husband—”

“Which room did Elma sleep in while you were away?” Burr interrupted.

Hamilton and Burr interjected as questions occurred to them, but no one other than me seemed bothered. Burr's query was not overtly crude, but his tone made me blush. I looked at Mr. Colden, who nodded.

“She slept in the back room on the third story.”

“During the period that you are describing, were there any other women in the house?”

Shame coursed through me. I shook my head.

“Out loud please, madam,” Burr said.

“No.”

Colden tried to mitigate the damage. “Pray, Mrs. Ring, has Elma not always borne a good character, I mean that of a modest, discreet girl?”

“Very much so,” I said. This was the moment I had been waiting for, my chance to defend Elma. I closed my eyes so I could fully remember her flowing hair and easy laugh. She had been so eager to come to New York, to create a new life for herself, and she had fallen in love—with the wrong man. My anxiety began to abate, replaced by indignation. “I have known Elma since childhood. She is—she was—kind, loyal, responsible; to say otherwise would be wicked.”

Ezra Weeks shifted in his seat, examining his nails.

Colden assumed a more confidential tone. “Would not the conduct between the prisoner and Elma have been considered improper, if it was not supposed they were soon to be married?”

I frowned, taking care not to look at Ezra Weeks. I did not want to insinuate that Elma's behavior was wrong, but it was difficult to excuse, even in light of their engagement.

Burr did not wait for my response. “Are Miss Sands's parents living?”

“Elma's mother has been gravely ill,” I said, reaching deep into my pocket and squeezing the ivory comb until the teeth bit into my skin.

“And her father? You say he died in England?”

Panic shot through me as I recalled the lie I had told Sheriff Morris. “Yes,” I said, nodding for emphasis.

“Elma took her mother's name of Sands?” Burr said, waving his hand as if brandishing a cigar.

I nodded.

“Out loud, please, madam. Pray tell us why Elma did not use her father's name.” Burr watched Hamilton while he waited for my response.

The room was silent. I could hear my own shallow breath. Burr's satisfied grin proved he already knew the answer. I struggled to keep my voice level. “Her mother never married,” I said.

There was a tremor through the audience and I had little doubt that its reverberations would reach Cornwall, where my poor aunt lay dying.

“If the mother had no scruples, one can't expect much of the daughter,” a woman said.

“Bastard!” someone called.

“Quiet,” the judge admonished, but it was too late. All eyes were fixed on Hamilton, though the man himself hardly took note.

In a wave of despair, I realized that Elias had been right. Hamilton and Burr were campaigning. Even in their defense of Levi, they remained adversaries, striving to outshine each other. In one fell swoop, Burr had managed to discredit Elma and, by extension, Hamilton.

“Is it true that Elma's father was a loyalist who fled the country during the war?”

I clutched the rail in front of me as if a trap had been released beneath my feet. “Certainly not.” Aunt Mary had spoken so lovingly of Elma's father. “He was a hero who fought with—” The words died on my lips. Aunt Mary had told me that Elma's father marched alongside Benedict Arnold, which had not seemed wrong to me until this moment.

“A British war hero,” Burr announced to the room.

“No,” I said, though the denial sounded halfhearted. I looked out into the audience. Elias was gone. Hardie was taking furious notes. Only Croucher's eyes met mine. He nodded. “He was an
American
war hero,” I said, steadying my voice.

Burr scoffed. “One who fled to England, deserting his comrades, abandoning a woman he disgraced, and forsaking his unborn child?”

I had no response.

Hours passed. I was asked to remain on the witness stand while the defense conducted its cross-examination. A chair was brought for my comfort. I gazed down at the attorney's table, wondering which of the powerful men would question me. Both looked formidable, but it was Hamilton who stood. His pearl buttons gleamed along with his eyes. Hamilton paced the floor between the jury box and me, not deviating from a precise path.

“What was the state of Elma's health?” he asked.

“She was of a delicate make.”

“Had she any habitual illness? One that might require medication?”

There was a pain in the pit of my stomach. “No.”

Hamilton stopped pacing, then looked to the public. He stood for a long moment before moving on to his next question. “Where were her usual lodgings?”

“In the back room, on the third story,” I said, mindful of the attention being paid to this point.

“Was it next to Joseph Watkins's bedroom?” he asked, as if the notion had just occurred to him.