These Honored Dead (21 page)

Patterson bowed his head and rested it in both hands. The courtroom was so silent I could hear the breathing of Martha and Jane near me, in rhythm with the pounding of my own heart. I studied the gentlemen of the jury but could not read their tense faces.

Lincoln looked as if he had additional questions, but he seemed to gauge the somber mood of the jury and the rest of the courtroom. Without another word, he took his seat at counsel table. Patterson remained in the witness chair, his head still clutched penitently in his hands.

A
s soon as Judge Thomas called for the luncheon recess, he turned to Sheriff Hutchason, standing at his usual post to the side of the defense table, and said, “Remember what we discussed, Humble.”

“But, Your Honor—” began Hutchason.

“Yes?” The judge, already halfway to his chambers, glared at the sheriff.

“Never you mind,” said the sheriff. “It will be done.”

It transpired that Judge Thomas had ordered the sheriff to remand Patterson to the jail cell during the luncheon recess for his own safety. The sheriff took Patterson firmly by the arm—the lawman towering over the doctor—and escorted him through the crowd. Lincoln walked with his client; Jane Patterson rose to follow closely behind.

“Let’s go with them,” said Martha. “I want to look in on how Molly’s progressing.”

“Very well,” I said. “It’s no wonder the sheriff wasn’t keen on this idea. He’s inviting the whole trial, or half of it at least, into his wife’s birthing tent.”

We made an odd little procession as we walked out of the courtroom and through the throng spilling onto the town green. No one in the crowd met Patterson’s gaze as he marched along, eyes forward. When we reached Hutchason’s backyard, the
sheriff opened the jail cell door, led Patterson in, and carefully locked it behind him. Jane immediately thrust her arms through the bars to give her father an awkward embrace.

As they talked, Hutchason said, “Why don’t the rest of you come inside. I asked Molly to lay out lunch, just in case the judge ordered us here.”

“You didn’t!” said Martha.

“Yes, I did,” said the sheriff with genuine puzzlement. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Martha gave an incoherent shout, threw up her hands, and hurried inside the house through the back door. The sheriff beckoned to Lincoln and me to follow at a more measured pace.

“We’re content to stay outside if you’d prefer, Humble,” said Lincoln. “We don’t want to intrude.”

“You’d do the same for me,” returned the sheriff. “Come in and have a morsel and some ale, then you can come back out and talk with your client. He’s a bold one all right. As are you, Lincoln. If you manage an acquittal somehow—well, I wouldn’t want to have to guarantee
your
safety in town.”

“Let’s worry about one problem at a time,” said Lincoln, patting the sheriff on the back.

We followed Hutchason into his kitchen, where indeed food and drink had been laid out on a table. The sheriff wolfed down his refreshment and excused himself.

“That went better than you had any right to expect,” I said to Lincoln once the sheriff had left.

“So he convinced even you?” replied Lincoln.

“Certainly not. I still maintain he’s a liar and a murderer. The murderer part he’s admitted now. As for the liar part, I’ll grant you he’s an accomplished one. To falsely admit to a venereal disease in support of his false claim of madness was a masterstroke. If his facility as a doctor matched his facility with deception, he’d have a lot fewer deceased patients to testify about.”

Lincoln snorted with laughter.

A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the house. There was an instant of silence, then we could hear my sister’s voice offering encouragement to Molly Hutchason. Phillis appeared and, eyes downcast, she walked quickly through the kitchen and out the back door.

“I feel odd being here,” I said.

“We’re almost done,” said Lincoln. “Besides, if the jailer of my client invites me into his home for a meal, I’ve found it prudent to accept.”

I looked out the window into the backyard. Phillis was at the pump, drawing water for two jugs. Twenty feet beyond her, at the door to the jail cell, Jane and her father were engaged in an animated discussion. From their expressions and gestures, it seemed to be an argument of some sort.

I couldn’t hear anything they were saying, but it was apparent Phillis could, because at one point she stopped her pumping and stared at father and daughter. As I watched, it appeared the Pattersons belatedly realized Phillis’s presence, because Jane turned and said something to the old Negro woman. Phillis quickly looked down, shook her head, then rapidly finished filling her jugs. Soon she was walking back through the kitchen, head down, water sloshing about.

“. . . don’t you agree?” Lincoln was saying. He was oblivious to the drama I had just witnessed by the jail cell.

“Sorry. Agree about what?”

“This will be the hard part. Patterson surviving cross examination. I imagine Prickett only allowed me to call him as a witness because he figured he could thoroughly undermine the doctor through his own examination.”

“What would you have done if Prickett had objected to him?” I asked.

“Tried to prove Patterson’s madness through other witnesses. Though I doubt they would have been nearly as effective as the man himself.”

“I still don’t understand why lack of sound mind should be a defense at all. Certainly not to a charge of murder.”

“I do agree,” I said, “though I still don’t understand why lack of sound mind should be a defense at all. Certainly not to a charge of murder.”

Lincoln studied my face. “I’ll not try to convince you further,” he said, “but remember the law is clear in excusing actions taken in a condition of insanity. That’s not
my
argument—that’s the law.”

“Perhaps the law’s an ass,” I said.

“Perhaps it is. You wouldn’t be alone in thinking so.”

As we were finishing our pies and tankards, Martha appeared to say Molly’s labor of birth had reached a new, critical stage and that she would stay with her for the afternoon. I agreed to meet her for dinner at the Globe again, and Lincoln and I went outside to rejoin the Pattersons, who were now conversing in quiet, amiable terms. Lincoln said he wanted to talk to Patterson about a few of the finer points he expected Prickett to raise in his questioning.

“Will you walk me back to the courthouse, Mr. Speed?” asked Jane. “I’m sure no one will trouble me on the way, but I’d appreciate the escort. Just in case.”

“Certainly,” I said. I wanted no part of helping Patterson avoid Prickett’s charge, even indirectly. “I’ll see you back at court, Lincoln.”

We set off in awkward silence. After a block, I managed to get out in a barely civil tone, “How is your father bearing up?”

“As well as can be expected,” Jane said. “He’s very embarrassed about having had to reveal his condition to the public at large.”

“
That’s
what he’s upset about from this morning?”

Jane looked at me with knitted brows. “How would you feel if you had to admit carrying a vile disease?”

“I think I’d be a lot more upset about having admitted to murdering three innocent persons.”

Jane merely sniffed in reply. Soon we reached the courthouse square. The green was swarming with spectators, though the mood seemed subdued in comparison to the initial days of trial.

“Mr. Speed,” Jane said as we crossed the street to the square, “do you know who that old Negro woman was, the one who came out to draw water from the pump?”

“One of my family’s bondswomen. She’s a midwife. My sister brought her here from Kentucky to provide assistance to Molly Hutchason.”

“Ah,” said Jane. “I guess that explains it.”

I spotted Simeon Francis’s distinctive profile across the way. He was talking to Herr Gustorf, and as I watched they broke apart, laughing and shaking hands with mutual admiration.

“I’ll leave you here,” I said to Jane. “There’s a fellow I want to visit before court starts up again.” Before Jane could object, I hurried toward Simeon and hailed him.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“We were sharing notes on the curse of being a writer,” he said. “Gustorf told me van Hoff has put his carriage back together, good as new. He’s planning to leave in a few days to continue his tour of the West. I’ll miss him—he’s really a fine fellow.” We watched as Gustorf dragged his casted leg along the green in slow pursuit of a cart of beer being pulled by one of the innkeepers.

Simeon turned back to me. “So how goes the conspiracy?” he asked good-naturedly. “Has Lincoln assured that everyone knows their roles for this afternoon?”

“I have no role whatsoever, I can promise you,” I said. Immediately I thought back to the prior evening. Had I in fact played some role in trying to absolve Rebecca’s killer merely by talking to Lincoln about his defense?

“My problem,” Simeon was saying, “is no one who wasn’t in court today will believe a word of it when I come out with my next issue. The local citizenry are always accusing me of printing the incredible. This time they’ll actually be right.”

“My problem is Patterson’s trying to excuse three murders, and Lincoln’s helping him.”

“That too,” said Simeon, “though I suppose it’s the job Lincoln signed up for, isn’t it?”

I didn’t have a good answer to this, and I looked out across the green. On the far side of the courthouse I spotted a man with a slanted straw hat talking to Jane. The man turned slightly, and with a jolt I recognized him in profile as the poorhouse master, Hathaway. How could Jane have made
his
acquaintance? Perhaps their paths had crossed somehow in Decatur when Jane lived there with her father.

Before I could puzzle about this further, there was a murmur from the crowd, and I saw Hutchason leading the doctor by the arm toward the courthouse, with Lincoln walking by their side. A number of men spat in Patterson’s direction. As they passed our position, I looked down in order to avoid making eye contact with the doctor. The three men went up the courthouse steps. A few minutes later, the sheriff reappeared at the top of those steps to throw open the door, and the crowd surged forward to find their seats for the afternoon’s drama.

A
s soon as Judge Thomas gaveled the courtroom to order, Prickett stepped to the center of the well. He straightened his frockcoat and fixed his most penetrating stare on the doctor.

“That was quite a tale,” the prosecutor hissed.

Patterson met the prosecutor’s gaze squarely but remained mute.

“Tell me, Doctor, are you pleased with your performance this morning?”

“If, by that,” Patterson replied, “you mean am I pleased I admitted to the courtroom, admitted to all of Springfield in effect, I suffer from an unspeakable disease and, as well, acknowledged I may slowly, day by day, be losing my mind—no, I am not at
all
pleased, Mr. Prickett.”

The gallery rumbled and groaned. While much of the noise was hostile, I realized with disgust that some portion was actually sympathetic to the doctor. The tenor of the reaction was not lost on Prickett, who took two aggressive steps toward Patterson.

“As I understand your testimony, Doctor,” the prosecutor said, “you are admitting to having murdered all three persons.”

“That’s not what I said,” Patterson insisted. The despair he’d shown at the end of his direct testimony had vanished. In its place had reappeared the doctor’s usual self-confident mien.

“You are admitting to having caused their deaths.”

“I am saying to the jury I can fairly reach no other conclusion but that I was, tragically, the agent of their deaths, however unwittingly and unconsciously so.”

“You caused their deaths and you did so unlawfully,” Prickett insisted. It was a statement, not a question.

“What is lawful and what is not is a matter to be determined by the judge, I suppose,” said the doctor, keeping his poise. “And the jury, of course. I did not intend to harm them, any of them.”

The audience was at attention watching the fierce exchange. Every man on the jury leaned forward on his chair. I turned to see Jane’s reaction, but she was not in her usual seat near me. I craned my neck and looked around, but I couldn’t spot her anywhere in the courtroom.

“You’re claiming you did not intend to harm any of the three of them?” Prickett continued.

“That’s right.”

“Are you also saying you never harmed any of your patients intentionally, even the ones who died?”

“Certainly. No doctor can guarantee the continued good health of his patients.”

“And your testimony is you’ve never intentionally killed anyone, isn’t that right?”

“Absolutely that’s the case.”

Prickett nodded dangerously. He tugged on the sleeves of his frockcoat and arched his back, a strutting peacock getting ready to fan out his plumage.

“Now, you mentioned during your testimony the passing of your wife, when you were living in Decatur,” the prosecutor said.

For the first time, Patterson looked discomforted. His eyes darted over to Lincoln and back to Prickett. “Yes,” he said tentatively.

“I wonder if you could enlighten us. Were you referring to your first wife, or your second one? Because you’ve been married twice, haven’t you, and both of your wives passed?”

The courtroom murmured.

“I’m not sure what it has to do with this matter, sir,” Patterson said, “but I was referring to my first wife. My dear Jane’s mother.” The doctor shifted his gaze to where he expected Jane to be, near me, but when he found her absent he looked around the courtroom uncertainly.

“How did Miss Patterson’s mother, your first wife, pass, if I may ask?”

Patterson stared at Lincoln, who rose hesitantly. “Objection, Your Honor,” Lincoln said. “I don’t see what this has to do—”

“No. Overruled,” the judge said, pulling on his cigar and staring intently at Patterson.

“Dr. Patterson?” prompted Prickett.

“I’m sorry. May I have the question again?”

“How did your first wife pass?”

“She drowned herself,” he said. “Shortly after Jane’s birth.”

There was
woosh
of sound in the courtroom. Judge Thomas banged his gavel once and called for order.

“You weren’t the cause of her death?”

“Absolutely not,” Patterson said. His face was contorted. “How dare you suggest—”

“Now, Doctor,” Prickett continued blandly, as if he were carrying on a banal conversation about the weather. “Your second wife—how did she die?”

“I . . . I don’t know. She went missing. Her body’s never been found.”

“You killed her, you bastard!” came an anguished voice from behind me. Major Richmond was on his feet, his plumed hat in hand, gesturing angrily toward Patterson.

“No, Syl, I didn’t,” Patterson said, his face pale. Judge Thomas pounded for order, but the doctor continued, “Truly. I had nothing to do with it.”

“You killed her!” repeated Richmond in a shout above the roiling crowd. He strode down the central aisle of the gallery toward the gate, where Hutchason met him with the meaty-pawed
grasp of a bear. Richmond was still yelling as Hutchason dragged him through the crowd and out the door of the courtroom.

It took Judge Thomas several minutes to restore order. Once he had, he said, looking from one side of his courtroom to the other, “Anyone else other than the lawyers and witness who so much as opens their mouth will be confined to the jail cell until well after the harvest. Is that clear?” The courtroom nodded silently.

“Proceed, Prickett,” he ordered.

“If the body of your second wife has never been found, Doctor, then how do you know she passed?”

“It . . . it seems the most likely explanation.”

“Maybe she tired of fixing your supper every day and went off.”

Patterson flushed.

“Your Honor,” Lincoln said, rising again. “I’d ask that my brother be admonished to maintain a professional tone—”

Judge Thomas spit out his cigar and glared at Lincoln. “Let me make myself clear,” he said. “In view of the testimony this morning from the witness, which I allowed you to put in unobstructed, I intend to afford your brother counsel every possible latitude in his questioning.”

Lincoln sat, his shoulders slumping.

Patterson’s face was red and his moustache starting to droop. “That’s not what happened,” he insisted. “She loved me—and I her. She just went missing one day.”

“So you’re saying someone killed her?”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“No. I already told you—”

“Who then?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“So you do know she was killed by someone, but you don’t know how or where or by whom?”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps it was an accident of some sort. I’m not sure.”

“I thought you just told us the one thing you did know was your second wife had been killed by someone?”

Drops of perspiration lined his forehead. Patterson took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Perhaps I was mistaken,” he said.

“Now, this venereal disease of yours,” Prickett said. He wrinkled his nose, as if he’d detected a particularly noxious odor. “You had it at the time of your first wife’s death?”

“As I testified,” Dr. Patterson replied quietly, “it has been my undesired companion since youth.”

“Had it driven you mad by then?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

The gallery chortled at Prickett’s mocking tone.

“No,” Patterson replied, wincing.

“What about at the time of the death—make that disappearance—of your second wife?”

“What about it?”

“Had your venereal disease driven you mad by then?”

“No.” The doctor paused to consider, then added, “I don’t think so.”

“Not even a little?” Again the gallery howled.

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m positive,” said Patterson, trying to rally to find his former confidence. “Not even the slightest bit.”

“And the death or disappearance of your second wife—that was about four years ago?” Prickett asked in a soft, dangerous tone.

“That’s right.”

“Immediately before you moved from Decatur to Springfield.”

“More or less.”

“So you’ve had this venereal disease of yours all your life but it hadn’t made you even the slightest bit mad four years ago, but now it’s made you so mad you’ve gone and killed three
innocent persons in some kind of accidental, unconscious fog. Is that what you’re telling the jury?”

“I suppose it is.” Patterson gave a nervous glance toward the gentlemen of the jury, who stared back with hostility.

“Perhaps,” Prickett said, “you killed your second wife but don’t remember it, just like you say you killed these three victims here but didn’t remember it until, I think you said it was yesterday?”

“No. That’s not possible.”

“So you’re saying it’s not possible you killed your second wife in a fit of unconscious madness but it is possible—nay, it’s a certainty, you’ve told the jury—you killed these other three persons in fits of unconscious madness. Do I have that all right?”

“I suppose you do,” the doctor said over the mocking laughter of the crowd. He was leaning back in his chair now, making no attempt to engage the prosecutor or the jury.

Prickett continued to pound away. Lincoln rose on a few occasions to object to the prosecutor’s tone, but Judge Thomas waved off each complaint before Lincoln could utter a full sentence, and eventually Lincoln seemed resigned to enduring the beating. He slumped further and further down in his chair at counsel’s table. While I detested his client, I almost felt sorry for my friend.

Eventually Prickett concluded his ridicule of the doctor had reached a point of diminishing returns and, giving his hair a final triumphant toss, he dismissed the witness. Patterson sagged in the witness chair, spent. His surgical coat looked four sizes too large, as if the body underneath had wasted away. After a minute, he managed to rise and shuffle back to his table.

“What’s next for the jury’s consideration, Mr. Lincoln?” Judge Thomas asked. He gave an innocent smile toward the audience, which shouted with glee.

“A moment, Your Honor,” Lincoln replied. He bent over next to Patterson and the two whispered back and forth at some
length. Eventually Lincoln straightened and said, “We call Jane Patterson to the stand.” He looked toward the audience.

An excited buzz arose from the crowd. Jane Patterson herself, however, did not rise. No one did.

“Miss Patterson?” called the judge, gazing out at his courtroom. “Miss Patterson?” He looked down at Lincoln. “Where’s your witness?”

“I’m not sure, Your Honor,” Lincoln said, glancing around with agitation. Dr. Patterson, too, was on his feet and scanning the audience, a perplexed look on his face.

“If I may have a minute,” said Lincoln. He gestured frantically to the office boy Hay, who had been crouched in a corner of the well. Hay scurried over and, taking quick instruction from Lincoln, raced from the room as fast as his little legs would carry him.

In Hay’s wake, the courtroom let down its guard. The gallery talked excitedly about Prickett’s cross examination. The gentlemen of the jury stood and stretched. On the bench, Judge Thomas took out a new cigar and, having caressed it lovingly, struck a match.

Hay did not immediately return. Where could Jane have gone? I wondered. Surely she knew Lincoln intended to call her this afternoon. At length, the jury sat down again and started looking bored. Judge Thomas’s pulls on his cigar became increasingly agitated. Several members of the crowd left the courtroom in search of a necessary.

“Mr. Lincoln,” said the judge after some ten minutes had passed. “Why don’t you call your next witness.”

“I’m not sure I have one,” said Lincoln. “I’d very much prefer to put Miss Patterson on next. I’m sure Hay won’t be too much longer.”

“I’ll give him five more minutes,” said the judge. He pulled out his pocket watch and laid it on the bench in front of him. Lincoln pulled out his own watch and studied it nervously.

Five minutes passed. Judge Thomas glowered at Lincoln. “Any minute now,” Lincoln offered, hopefully. The crowd hummed with excitement. What might happen next if the witness was nowhere to be found? Perhaps, some wondered aloud, a hanging before nightfall. Seven minutes. Ten. Judge Thomas cleared his throat loudly.

“Mr. Lincoln—”

He was interrupted by the crash of the courtroom door as Hay burst through. The bedraggled boy was drenched in sweat. He raced up the central aisle and stopped at the gate, right next to me, seemingly unable to muster the strength to advance any further.

“Well?” said the judge.

The boy panted. The courtroom was silent, staring at Hay with anticipation. At last he managed to speak. “Miss . . . Miss Patterson has been . . .
abducted
.”

The courtroom was thrown into tumult.

Hay looked at me and added, “And your sister’s gone too.”