City of Liars and Thieves (22 page)

I shook my head, confused. Watkins was our neighbor, not a member of the household. Hamilton waited until I gathered his meaning.

“Her bedroom wall backed onto his house—”

“Were there any other females in the house when you went to the country?”

It was the second time the defense had asked the question. “No,” I said quickly.

“Elma said that she and Levi were to be married. Did you ever ask Levi whether he was engaged to her?”

The questions were coming so quickly, I could hardly follow. “After her death—”

“Had you ever any reason to suspect that any other person but Levi had an improper intimacy with Elma?”

“What?” I felt a stab of panic. “No. Never.”

Colden stood. I held my breath, praying that he would object to Hamilton's lewd line of inquiry, but he asked a question instead.

“Catherine Ring, do you know of what materials the wall between your house and Watkins's is composed?”

“No,” I said. “I don't.” I turned back to Hamilton, dreading an influx of more furiously paced questions, but he had resumed his seat and was making copious notes.

Gray veins darkened on the marble floor as twilight fell. Our benches were low and the windows were high, making it impossible to see more than a patch of dwindling sky. The jury demanded a break and the judge reluctantly agreed to a short recess. Like a river breaching its banks, the narrow aisles overflowed with restless, hungry people.

“Levi Weeks is the picture of innocence,” one woman declared. Others spoke of Colonel Burr's eloquence and Hamilton's fine manner.

My knees buckled the instant I reached the hallway, and I was abruptly aware of the tension I had been suppressing. Desperate for air and anxious to avoid attention, I decided to use the back entrance the watchmen had led us through hours earlier. I inched open the door and tiptoed onto the landing. Halfway down, I noticed two figures. One was Ezra Weeks; the other, Anthony Lispenard.

Ezra's voice was low and impassive. Though I could not see his face, I imagined his stony expression. With each rebuttal, Lispenard grew increasingly animated, until his protests echoed up the closed stairwell.

“No,” he said. “I don't want any part of this.”

“You took the job.” Weeks's voice rose to an angry growl. “It's your responsibility as a Republican.”

“Jefferson is the Republican candidate,” Lispenard said.

“Jefferson doesn't understand New York.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Think of the girl.”

“What?” Lispenard sounded stunned and hopeless. “As if I could ever forget that poor creature.”

“You made your choice,” Ezra seethed. “There's nothing more to say.” Shoes squeaked, and a rush of air blew up the stairwell as the door opened and slammed shut.

My thoughts raced, trying to make sense of the conversation. Praying for courage, I took a few tentative steps and saw Lispenard, looking utterly defeated. “Anthony Lispenard?” I called before he had a chance to flee.

A flicker of recognition crossed his lined face.

“What were thou discussing with Ezra Weeks?” I walked down, close enough to hear but out of arm's reach.

Lispenard nodded to the spot where Ezra had stood. He seemed reluctant to offer as much as a greeting. “It's private.”

Privacy was a luxury I could not afford. “That man's brother murdered my cousin. She was killed on thy land.” I took a deep breath and glanced over my shoulder. I wanted to make sure we were not being overheard, and I needed to confirm my escape route. “Why?”

Lispenard, so outspoken and brash the first time I'd laid eyes on him, was a shadow of his former self. “I have no idea why she was murdered.”

“Not why she was murdered. Why was she killed at Lispenard's Meadows?”

“It's remote,” he said, “but it could have happened anywhere.”

“Does thy business with the Weeks brothers have to do with Elma's death?”

“What?” Lispenard shuddered, and his tired eyes surveyed the steep stairwell as if contemplating the effort it would take to walk away. “It's complicated. You would never understand.”

“That well was never anything but a grave. What did thou know about it?”

“Mrs. Ring, I'm sick over what happened to that poor girl, but my quarrel with Weeks is about money, not murder.” His voice rose and, for an instant, he spoke with the indignation of his former self. “Ezra Weeks promised me stock in the Manhattan Company. Instead, he and Burr pocketed the profits. When I threatened to expose them, they tried to buy my silence. They dug that well and swore the value of my land would double, maybe triple.” He shook his head. “Now all I've got is a hole that will haunt me forever.”

“Then speak up!”

“You saw me arguing with Ezra.”

“He said something about a job. What job? Murder?”

Lispenard shuffled backward as I stepped forward. “I'm a victim too,” he said. “Weeks dug that well to keep me quiet, but it wasn't long before I understood it was worthless.”

“Elma's the victim,” I said. “She lost her life. Tell me about thy argument.”

“Ezra had me appointed to the Electoral College. That's the job. It's politics.” He spoke with regret, not pride.

It's politics:
Levi had used the very same words the night he slammed the door in my face. “When was this? Does Levi know?” I asked, wondering if this was the secret Elma took to her grave.

“It's a public position,” he said, bowing his head like a dog that had been scolded. “Ezra said it was prestigious, that I would forge valuable connections.”

“Then why argue with him?”

Lispenard pressed his fingers to the corners of his eyes. “Ezra thinks he can twist my arm and tell me how to vote. Mrs. Ring, you're right. It's no coincidence your cousin was murdered on my land. It's a warning.”

“A warning to whom?”

“To me. The well where Elma died is still there. It always will be.”

Court resumed. Elias was called to the witness stand. Dressed in a somber coat and wide-brimmed hat, he looked like a relic from the past century. Hamilton stood as Elias passed. The gesture, seemingly respectful, only called attention to the discrepancy in their attire. Hamilton looked educated and refined, while Elias's dark clothes and refusal to swear the oath made him appear nefarious.

“Levi Weeks,” Elias began, “was a lodger in my house, and in Ninth Month—”

“What month is that called?” Burr asked, as if disputing the standards we Friends lived by.

Elias shifted his weight. “I don't know it by any other name.” From a distance, I could see that Elias looked pale, all but green. He had lost weight and his drab clothing draped over his stiff limbs like a shroud.

Burr shrugged at the jurors, his eyes full of mirth.

“At this time, when my wife was gone to the country,” Elias said, “Levi and Elma were constantly together in private. I was alone and lonesome.”

I sat up straighter, unable to understand why he would offer up such personal information.

“Strange disclosure,” Hardie mumbled.

Elias stood in the center of the witness stand, avoiding my gaze. “One night when our tenant Isaac Hatfield was out of town, I heard talking and noise in his room. In the early morning, after twelve o'clock, I went up and found the bed tumbled, and Elma's clothes, which she had worn that afternoon, on the floor.”

One of the younger jurors spoke. “Did Elma go away naked?”

People laughed outright. More audible than their laughter, though, was a sorrowful moan from the prisoner's box. Levi looked distraught. Ezra stared at him.

“She left part of her clothes,” Elias said. “The dress was her best, which she had on the day before, being First Day.”

Levi was clutching the rail. I studied him as I might a vicious animal snared in a trap. I pitied his pain but would not have set him free.

Looking as confused as I felt, Colden tried to restore order. “Did you see anything improper in Elma's behavior before the prisoner came to live in your house?”

It was a full minute before Elias responded, “No.” He did not elaborate, nor did he sound convincing.

A flash of color rose in Burr's cheeks as he stood for the cross-examination. “Did you ever know the prisoner and Elma to be in bed together?” He may as well have been holding court in a tavern, telling a bawdy joke.

I covered my eyes, imploring Elias to honor Elma's memory.

“No.” Elias's denial sounded as if he were refusing to answer rather than refuting the charge.

“Did you ever speak to her about her improper intimacy with Levi?”

“I never did.”

Burr squared his shoulders. “What is the wall made of between Watkins's house and yours?”

Like me, Elias seemed baffled by the references to Watkins and his home. “It's a plank partition, lathed and plastered,” he said.

“Could you hear voices through the wall?”

Elias cocked his head. “Not as I can recollect.”

Burr stood an arm's length away from Elias. “Is Joseph Watkins a decent man?” he asked.

“Mr. Watkins is a good neighbor.” Elias looked out into the audience to where Watkins sat directly behind Ezra Weeks. He seemed to be pondering Watkins's proximity to Ezra, as was I. Watkins stared ahead, astutely following each line of testimony, and did not appear surprised to be the source of so many questions.

“Have you not threatened Levi?” Burr asked.

Elias shifted, unnerved by Burr's abrupt change in topic. “I never threatened him that I know of. The day Elma was found—” Elias looked directly at Levi. “I had a conversation with the prisoner and he asked if I had said certain things about him and Elma.”

I remembered the afternoon the men brought Elma's body home and how Elias swore he would put a pistol to Levi's head. Elias had been at the edge of his wits. Was it possible he didn't remember?

“Did you tell the prisoner that you thought he was guilty?” Colden asked.

“I did,” Elias said, nodding too emphatically, “and he appeared as white as ashes and trembled all over like a leaf.”

Burr walked to the rail that divided the audience from the rest of the court and gazed toward the back of the room. “Was Richard Croucher's name mentioned?”

Elias faltered, seemingly thrown by the reference to Croucher. I rested my head in my hands as Levi's cryptic words again came to mind:
Croucher saw you.

“Was Richard Croucher mentioned?” Burr asked again, his voice even but firm.

Elias gazed down until one could see nothing but the crown of his hat. “I can't recall.”

The clerk called Richard Croucher twice before he was located in the hallway. He had both the limp and the hungry-eyed look of someone who had seen battle.

“May it please the court and the gentlemen of the jury,” Croucher began, “I was at the Ring house during the time of Catherine Ring's absence in September.” His gaze met mine before his eyes narrowed and shifted to Elias. “I paid particular attention to the behavior of the prisoner and the deceased, and I was satisfied from what I saw that there was a warm courtship going on. I have known the prisoner to be with the deceased in private, frequently and at all times of night.” Croucher craned his thick neck. His face grew increasingly flushed and his speech slipped with each damning statement. “I knew 'im to pass two whole nights in 'er bedroom.” Assured the room was listening, he leaned forward and continued, “Once, lying in my bed, which stood in the middle of the room, in a position so I could see 'oo passed the door, I saw the prisoner come out of 'er room, wearing only 'is shirt—” Although the tirade had left him breathless, Croucher sounded as if he would go on.

Colden cut him off. “Did you tell anyone what you saw?”

Croucher stared toward us, though I couldn't tell whether he was watching Elias or me. “I never said a word to no one.”

Hamilton stood. “Have you ever had a quarrel with the prisoner at the bar?” he asked, rocking forward onto his toes as if Croucher's testimony was nothing short of fascinating.

Croucher appeared to collect himself. “I bear him no malice.”

“But have you ever had words with him?” Hamilton's eloquence magnified Croucher's shabbiness.

“Once. The reason was this: Going 'astily downstairs, I suddenly came upon Elma, who stood on the landing. She cried out and fainted away. On 'earing this, the prisoner came out of 'is room and said it was not the first time I'd insulted 'er. I told him he was an impertinent puppy. Afterward, being sensible of 'is error, 'e begged my pardon.”

Hamilton was absolutely still, seemingly mesmerized by the story. Burr too was watching appraisingly.

“Yet you say you bear him no ill will?” Hamilton asked. He shook his head, making his dubiousness clear.

“I bear 'im no malice,” Croucher said again, “but I despise any man who doesn't behave in character.”

“Do you know the Manhattan Well?” Hamilton asked. His voice had lost its geniality and was now clipped and purposeful.

Croucher leaned forward, resting his elbows on the rail, his manner forcedly casual. “It's one of Colonel Burr's dry wells, collateral for his bank.”

“Got that right!” someone called out.

Hamilton neither smiled nor winked, but he may as well have. His features relaxed and he paused a full moment as if encouraging the audience to go on.

“Did you pass by the Manhattan Well on the evening of December twenty-second?” Burr interjected.

Croucher was not nearly as brash as he had been the afternoon Sheriff Morris first questioned him. He raised his fist to his brow and muttered. “I didn't—I wish I 'ad—I might, perhaps, 'ave saved 'er life.”

Hamilton made as if to check his notes, but it was a cursory glance. “Did you not tell the sheriff you passed that way that night?”

Wiry hairs fell across Croucher's forehead as he shook his head. “I might 'ave said I
wished
I'd been there.”

“How near the well do you think you passed that night?”

“Maybe the glue factory.”

“What route did you take?”

“I can't say for sure. I might 'ave gone one way or another, seeing as I go sometimes by road, sometimes across the field. There wasn't much moonlight. The going was very bad.”

Hamilton raised his hand to his chin, posing his fine-looking profile atop his fingertips as if sitting for a portrait. “Mr. Croucher, were you ever upon any other than friendly terms with Elma?”

Croucher chuckled. It seemed no one but I took offense at the lewd line of questioning. Elias sat perfectly still. Ezra Weeks nodded knowingly. Then I saw that Levi was trembling with rage.

Croucher seemed to relish his discomfort. “After I offended the prisoner at the bar, I never spoke to her again.”

As evening descended, candles were placed in front of the judge's bench and on the attorneys' table. Sconces were lit along the walls, creating more shadows than light. The jurors were wilting in their seats, but Colden continued to call witnesses as if he could persuade them through volume rather than substance.