The River Rose (48 page)

Cy Jameson had no questions for this eager defense witness either.

Next, Deshler set on his repair of Clint's character. He called old L. F. Warner, whom Clint had been apprenticed to since he was twelve years old. He was almost seventy, wrinkled and walking slowly with a cane. He told the court movingly of how Clint, even as a young boy, had been scrupulously honest, and had worked as hard as two full-grown men.

"Not once in his life has Clint ever asked me for one blessed thing. He never complained about the hard work. In fact, through the years he's thanked me, over and over again, for being so kind to him." The old man wiped a tear away from his eyes. "It got to where he was almost like a son to me, and I'm as proud of him as any father ever could be."

Sighing, Jameson said, "I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor."

Clint's landlady, Mrs. Archibald Bowlin, was a short, round little woman with childlike bright blue eyes and chubby pink cheeks. She wore a very obvious blonde wig of fat ringlets underneath her bonnet, with a few airy wisps of gray floating about her cherubic face. She was sworn in and gave her residence as Bowlin's Boardinghouse on Adams Avenue.

Deshler established that she was Clint's landlady until he moved onto the
Helena Rose,
and then said, "Please tell the court of how you came to know Mr. Clint Hardin, and in your own words, what kind of man he is."

"Oh, Mr. Hardin came to my boardinghouse when he was but sixteen years old," she said, fanning herself vigorously with a violently purple silk fan. "But even then he was such a fine young gentleman! So tall, so handsome, so charming! Such fine manners, so respectful he always was. And mind you, he paid his rent on time every single month of those six or so years. He loves my cooking, and always brags on it and thanks me, which is a great deal more than I can say for most of my boarders, with all their nattering and complaining.

"Now I must say that Clint wasn't above asking me for little extra tidbits every now and then," she continued her gossipy chatter, "in particular, he loves my raspberry sponge cake. He always asked for a second piece of my raspberry sponge cake, and sometimes he'd ask the next day if there was any left, the sly thing, and I have to admit that I spoiled him somewhat, with cakes and cookies and sometimes we'd even have our own little tea, if he was in of an afternoon."

"And what about Mr. Hardin's social life? Did he ever introduce you to any lady friends?"

"No, he did not, though I don't mind my boarders having callers, or bringing young ladies, if they
are
ladies, to introduce me to them. I pick and choose my boarders, Mr. Deshler, and I only take in respectable, clean people. Oh, yes! I must tell you that Mr. Hardin is the cleanest man, the cleanest
person
I ever have known. He was in the kitchen all hours heating up my big copper pot for water for washing, I've never seen—"

"Yes, Mrs. Bowlin, thank you, I believe we understand your observance of Mr. Hardin's personal habits," Deshler said with amusement. "So, you never met Mr. Hardin's friends?"

"Of course I've met Mr. Hardin's friends," she said indignantly. "Haven't I known that scoundrel Vinnie Norville as long as I've known Mr. Hardin? And Duffy Byrne, and Eddie Long, and, oh, there are about half a dozen young men that Mr. Hardin introduced me to over the years. But no ladies, oh, no."

"In view of your strict Christian morals, Mrs. Bowlin, do you think it possible that Mr. Hardin could not introduce you to his lady friends, because they might not be the clean respectable persons that you might countenance?"

She stopped fanning and summoned up a surprising amount of dignity in her answer. "I think that Mr. Hardin is a discreet man that keeps himself to himself, for the most part. But in the six years I've known him, I have found him to be a kind, honest, hardworking man. And he has always, without fail, shown the utmost gentlemanly respect to me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bowlin. Now I am going to ask you some questions, not as Mr. Hardin's landlady, but as a lady who owns a boardinghouse. How many boarders do you have at this time?"

"Four rooms I let out," she answered. "Right now I have three gentlemen and one lady."

"I see. May I assume that the four boarders' rooms are in close proximity to each other?"

She looked puzzled. "You mean, are they close together? Why, yes. It's my upstairs, you see, what used to be, until poor Mr. Bowlin passed on, the master bedroom and three other bedrooms. Two on one side of the hall and two on the other."

Deshler said carelessly, "So the lady must be across the hall from a gentleman?"

"Well, yes."

"So naturally this lady and the gentleman across the hall from her are lovers?"

Mrs. Bowlin's eyes grew as big as china plates. "What! No, sir, no sir, not in my house, not under my roof! And Miss Carew wouldn't—what kind of terrible question is that, sir? How dare you?"

"I apologize, Mrs. Bowlin, it is quite a shocking thing to assume that just because two unrelated people live under the same roof they must, in fact, be lovers. Yes, Judge, I know, I'll stop testifying. I have no more questions for this witness."

"Neither do I," Jameson said grumpily without even rising.

Dr. Augustus Hightower was called to the stand, and he clinically described Jeanne's injuries, and affirmed that they were consistent with a blow from a strong person.

Jameson asked him, "Dr. Hightower, is it possible that Mrs. Bettencourt might have received this small injury in any other way than from a blow?"

"It is possible, but highly unlikely."

"But couldn't she have accidentally just bruised her face in a fall?" Jameson persisted.

Icily, Hightower replied, "The cheekbone is a curve, Mr. Jameson. Mrs. Bettencourt's cheek was contused, and her lip was abraded. If she sustained these two injuries in a fall, then she must have bounced."

Jameson, looking chastised, gave up.

"Judge Poynter, at this time I wish to recall Mr. Maxwell Bettencourt," Deshler said.

Max came up to the witness box, and the judge reminded him that he was still under oath.

Deshler crisply asked, "Mr. Bettencourt, when you went to the
Helena Rose
on the night of September 2, and went up to the Texas deck to Mrs. Bettencourt's cabin, did you knock?"

"What?" he asked, startled.

"Did you knock on the door, and announce yourself, and ask for permission to enter?"

"Why—why, no! She's my wife! We've been married for eight years! I am her husband! Her home is my home!"

This time Deshler didn't instruct him to simply answer the question; he seemed content to let Max bluster on.

"So although you had not seen Mrs. Bettencourt for six years, you thought it permissible to just break into her bedroom?"

"I didn't break in! And—and I had seen her the day before, she knew I was here and I wasn't dead and I am her husband, I have a perfect right to be in her bedroom."

"Did you lock the door behind you?"

"No! I know Jeanne says that I did, but she's lying. I never did any such thing."

"Did you grab your daughter by the arm, call her a brat, haul her bodily out into the hallway, and then lock the bedroom door?"

Bettencourt had regained his composure, and he answered with apparent deep regret, "That is not at all what happened, sir. All I wanted to do was talk to Jeanne, try to win back her love. But she had so corrupted my sweet daughter's mind against me, that Marvel panicked and kept interrupting so that it was simply impossible for me to be able to speak to Jeanne at all. I took Marvel's hand, and explained to her that we were adults, and we needed to talk about grown-up things, and we needed to talk privately." He sighed deeply. "Marvel has been thoroughly spoiled, and certainly she's not likely to obey me. I'm sure that she's said that I treated her more roughly than I actually did. I certainly did not 'grab' her nor 'haul' her. And again, sir, I never locked that bedroom door at any time."

Like rapid-fire, as soon as Max finished Deshler asked, "Did you hit Mrs. Bettencourt?"

"No! I—I didn't even know that she had a bruise on her face until I heard that doctor's testimony!" He visibly calmed himself, then went on, "While I was trying to talk to Jeanne, she flew at me. I don't know if she was going to try to scratch me or hit me or what. I naturally tried to defend myself, and we struggled. Jeanne is strong for a woman. Somehow she fell, and that must have been how she bruised her face."

"When Clint Hardin came into the room, where was Mrs. Bettencourt?"

"She was sitting on the bed when that animal came bursting into the room like a mad dog," Max said darkly. "By that time I had calmed her down somewhat, and we were just going to sit down and talk, as we used to."

"What exactly did Mr. Hardin do when he came into the room?"

"He charged right at me like a maddened bull. He drew very close, and then I saw a small gun in his hand. I realized later, since I am an expert on firearms, that from the diameter of the gun barrel it must be a .22 caliber or even smaller, and those guns are only accurate at a distance, at best, of six to ten feet. He aimed that gun right at my heart and he knew he would have to be close for his shot to be accurate. And then he shot me, an unarmed man, in cold blood."

"And so, to sum up your narration of the events of that night, Mrs. Bettencourt is lying, your daughter is lying, and Clint Hardin is lying, is that correct?"

"Well, yes."

"How tall are you?"

"What?"

"How tall are you?"

"I'm—uh—six feet tall."

"Do bullets travel in a straight line?"

"What?"

"Since you are an expert on firearms, I am asking you if bullets travel in a straight line."

"What—that's a stupid question! Of course they travel in a straight line!"

Deshler turned to Judge Poynter. "At this time, Judge Poynter, I would like to make a demonstration to the courtroom. I request that Mr. Bettencourt stand out here, in front of the witness box, and I request that Dr. Ernest Slattery assist me."

"Objection, Your Honor! This is a court of law, not a theater! My client has no obligation whatsoever to assist the defense!"

Judge Poynter pursed his lips, then asked Deshler, "Is the point of the demonstration vital to an understanding of this case?"

"Your Honor, it is absolutely crucial. The point must be visibly, not verbally, illustrated."

"Then I'm going to allow it. Dr. Slattery, please come forward, remembering that you are still under oath."

"At this time I would like to introduce into evidence my set of fountain pens, Your Honor," Deshler said, bringing up a velvet box to show first to the judge, then to the clerks. He walked over to the jury box and walked slowly down, allowing the men to clearly see the two slim silver pens in the blue velvet case.

Judge Poynter looked interested, Cy Jameson looked puzzled, and Max Bettencourt looked enraged. But he said nothing, and merely stood tall and stiffly in front of the witness box.

Deshler said, "Mr. Bettencourt, please turn to face the jury box."

As if he were on parade, Max made a concise right turn.

Deshler continued, "Now, Dr. Slattery, please come over here and stand at Mr. Bettencourt's left side, facing him. Thank you. Now I want you to take these two fountain pens. With one, I want you to point straight to the entry wound on Mr. Bettencourt's shoulder. With the other, I want you to point to the exit wound."

His lip curling, the doctor placed one fountain pen against Max's shoulder and one fountain pen on the back. Carefully Deshler reached up and tipped the front pen at an angle until it pointed downward toward the floor. Then he lifted the back pen until it pointed to the ceiling.

He came around and looked up at Max Bettencourt. "My client is six feet, two inches tall, Mr. Bettencourt. So I assume that he was on his knees when he shot you?"

The courtroom erupted in a loud babble. Judge Poynter pounded his gavel, but with much less force than previously. It took a long time for the courtroom to quiet down to low sibilant constant whispering.

Max started to angrily resume his seat at the prosecution table, but Deshler said, "Sir, I am not finished questioning you." Max returned to the witness chair.

Deshler very slowly moved to stand in front of him, his back to the courtroom. He leaned on the railing and, for the first time, raised his voice in righteous indignation. "Isn't it true that you, Max Bettencourt, sneaked onto the
Helena Rose
in the dead of night, went into Jeanne Bettencourt's bedroom, threw your daughter out bodily, and beat Mrs. Bettencourt so that you could rape her?"

"She's my wife! She belongs to me! I have a right to do whatever I want to her!" Max snarled, jumping to his feet, his smooth face scarlet with rage.

Deshler turned and said quietly, "I have no more questions for him, Your Honor."

Jameson then re-examined Max, trying to mitigate some of the damage done. He elicited more declarations of love and loyalty to Jeanne, and his longing to know his only daughter, so that he could love her as a father should, and so on and so on. Jeanne thought that Jameson sounded not half-hearted, but rather automatic, as if he were painstakingly performing a bothersome chore.

Then it was time for Jeanne to testify. Her heart was beating like a timpani, and her hands were icy. But her gaze was direct, her expression calm, her voice quiet and sure.

First Deshler asked her about her marriage to Max, and Jeanne explained how they had begun as what she thought was a happy couple, but soon Max was cruelly and often crudely describing his liaisons with other women. She told of how he was often gone for two or three days at a time, and in April of 1849 he left for ten days. When he returned he told her that he had been in New Orleans with one of his army comrades meeting with emissaries of the Maharajah Ranjit Singh, and of his plans to join the
Khalsa
and leave for the Punjab in two weeks.

"And did you encourage him in these plans?"

"No, sir. Even though we were—estranged—I was five months expectant with his child. I didn't want him to desert us, of course not."