Traces of Mercy (28 page)

“I’m sorry. Does that hurt?” he asked sarcastically. She shook her head, and tears trailed down her cheeks.

Rand’s jaw trembled with anger. “I was ready to give up everything for you! My home, my family, my job—my birthright to the railroad empire my father has built! Everything for a rebel soldier!”

“Rand,” she said in a hoarse whisper.

“I know you were the one who set fire to the Hendersons’ house,” he said.

She couldn’t even think to deny it. “How?”

He lifted her journal into the air between them. “You told me.”

Mercy’s eyes grew huge at the sight of her journal. She hadn’t even looked for it that day. Hadn’t written in it for several days and assumed it was under her mattress.

“Where did you get that?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.”

“Let me explain, Rand, please!” she pleaded. “Let me tell you my side of things.”

Again, he lifted the journal. “No need. I’ve read quite enough.”

Mercy knew by the cold tenor of his voice, by his dark, pitiless eyes, that any feelings he’d had for her were gone. Her fear that the truth would kill his love for her had been realized. She swiped at the tears on her cheeks.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Rand looked grim. He stepped back and waved at someone she couldn’t see. “So am I,” he said.

Mercy counted five law-enforcement officers coming toward her. Rand moved completely out of the way as they approached. Her knees
did
buckle then as they told her the charge against her: conspiracy to commit murder. She would be tried for treason for the attempted assassination of an elected official.

Mercy was vaguely aware of Mother Helena coming to her side—some of the sisters praying for her—Oona crying—and Deirdre … Deirdre was standing off to the side, not saying a single word. Mother Helena wrapped her arms around Mercy and whispered, “God be with you, child.”

As the officer in charge led Mercy toward a police wagon, she saw Rand mount Sherman. He glanced her way, then gave the horse a kick. They galloped away, and he never looked back. If Mercy had ever wondered if a heart could break and still beat, she didn’t have to anymore.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
T
WO

Mercy sat in her cell in Gratiot Street Prison, her heart pounding in a fear-induced cadence as her mind raced with what had happened. Rand’s voice filled with hate, the nuns’ faces as she was led away, the thought of spending the rest of her life in a prison cell. She had no one to turn to, no one to talk to—so she tried to pray. But the words she tried to form seemed to be drowned out by the voices of hundreds of men who had died within the prison walls, voices whispering despair in her ear. Did God hear their prayers? Would He even listen to hers when she had proven herself to be a liar and a manipulator?

Her tightly clenched hands lay in her lap, and she unfolded them against the gray of the prison dress they had given her upon her arrival. The minute it had dropped over her head, she’d thought of something Mother Helena had said right after they met.
Clothing is a way to communicate to people who we are and what we value.
The gray dress said she was considered a criminal, a blight so great on society that she had to be locked away behind bars.

It was hours later when a guard opened her cell door to admit a man. He was baby faced, with a leather satchel that looked as young as he did. As soon as the guard walked away, the man moved toward her.

“My name is Frank Collins, Mercy. I was appointed by the court to defend you, and to be quite honest, it isn’t going to be easy. I’ve reviewed the evidence they have against you, and it’s quite damning.”

“You mean my journal?” she asked.

“Among other things.”

“What else?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“They found torn and blood-spattered clothing and some blood-stained sheets buried outside of the cottage where you used to reside,” he told her.

“Who found them?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

“It was Rand Prescott,” he said, consulting his notes.

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Frank Collins cleared his throat and looked back down at the paper in his hand.

“Moving on … a Springfield muzzle-loading rifle at the same cottage was found to have been fired recently. There was blood on the stock.”

“I forgot to clean it,” she muttered. “How could I forget that?”

Collins looked at her with a trace of disbelief. “Don’t say that in front of the jury,” he said. “In fact, don’t say that in front of anyone ever again.”

Her chin quivered. “But it’s the truth.”

“Unless you are asked a direct question about cleaning the gun, that particular truth needs to be left unsaid.”

Mercy nodded her understanding.

Collins continued. “There are several other things: missing kerosene, some bits and pieces of newsprint that can be traced to the note that was left outside of John Henderson’s home. The injury on your shoulder, which was documented when you arrived here at Gratiot.” His expression was grim. “The evidentiary case against you is very strong.”

Again, her lip trembled. “The jury will find me guilty, Mr. Collins,” she said nervously. “What will happen to me then?”

Collins shifted his eyes from her face and looked down at his notes. “They have charged you with treason.”

“I know.”

He looked back up at her. “Treason is a crime punishable by death.”

She felt herself go numb. “But I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I know. But in the case of treason, it doesn’t matter. If you’re found guilty of plotting acts against the country, the army, or even elected officials such as John Henderson—then the death penalty is on the table. I wish I could tell you that I’m confident I can get an acquittal for you, but I don’t know how to fight the evidence.”

“What if I told you that it wasn’t Henderson I was trying to kill?”

She could see the doubt on his face.

“They have a note that says otherwise.”

She briefly entertained the idea of telling him about Elijah Hale, but who would believe someone who had proven to be so adept at lying? “I understand,” she said in a monotone voice.

“I’m told you are suffering from amnesia,” Collins said. “Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“So if I ask you about your past—your upbringing—that means nothing to you?”

“The fact that I can’t answer those questions means a great deal to me,” she said.

“I’m going to do my best to dispute the treason charge so that the jury can’t recommend death.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t fight it at all,” she said, more to herself than to him. The thought of dying terrified her, but it was a way out of her nightmare. “At least it would bring it all to an end sooner.”

“I won’t just give it up without a fight, Mercy. My conscience won’t allow it.”

“Then do your job as best you can for your sake, Mr. Collins. I know what happens when a person doesn’t listen to her conscience.”

The courtroom was packed with spectators, and Mercy felt their eyes and their judgment with every step she took as Frank Collins led her to the defendant’s table. She glanced over and got her first look at the prosecutor. She estimated Don Shepherd was in his midforties. He looked like a man who didn’t have a tentative bone in his body. He studied her for a moment, then looked back down at the notes on the table in front of him. And just like that she knew he had no doubt he would win—and she would finally get a way out of the wretchedness that had become her life.

Frank pulled out her chair, but when she tried to lower herself into it, he put a steadying hand on her elbow. “Wait.”

A bailiff entered the courtroom and crossed to stand in front of the judge’s elevated platform. “All rise for the Honorable William Young.”

Mercy heard the collective shuffle of feet, bodies rising, throats clearing all around her—and even above her. She glanced up to the side balcony at a sea of black faces peering down at the main floor of the court. Scanning the faces, she saw Ezra, Letty, Kizzy, Isaac—even Marjorie and Ellis from the Prescotts’ estate. While the rest of the Negroes stayed stoic and stone-faced, Isaac forced a smile and wiggled his fingers at her. Ezra grabbed his hand and leaned into his ear with a scowl as he whispered something to him. Chastised, Isaac nodded and sat back.

Frank touched her elbow, and she realized the bailiff had called for everyone to be seated. As the bailiff read the charges against her, Frank leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Remember what I told you. Try not to react to things in a way the jury can hold against you. They
will
be watching you.”

“Mr. Shepherd,” Judge Young said from the bench, “you may begin your opening statement.”

“Thank you, Judge,” Don Shepherd replied. He slid his chair back and walked toward the jury box. He cast one disdainful look in Mercy’s direction before he began to speak, painting a picture of a duplicitous, conniving woman who was true through and through to the Confederate cause—and, even at the end of the war, couldn’t accept the South’s defeat. He told the jury he believed she’d concocted the story about her memory and was in fact such a good actress that she’d gained the sympathy of a town doctor and a convent full of sisters and, ultimately, the love of a man who belonged to one of the most prominent and powerful families in St. Louis. A man whose family provided an introduction to the congressman she plotted to kill.

“In conclusion, gentlemen of the jury, I will prove, on behalf of the state and ultimately the federal government, that the woman who calls herself Mercy has not moved on from the war—has not accepted the defeat of the South and wanted to exact her revenge on John Henderson, a man who has given much to support the Union cause. A man who worked tirelessly to see the Southern way of life forever changed. A man who personifies the very words
hero
and
patriot
—and could easily represent all the Union men she hates so much.”

Low rumbling murmurs filled the courtroom as Shepherd took his seat behind the prosecutor’s table.

“Mr. Collins?” Judge Young said. “Opening statement?”

Mercy stared straight ahead at nothing and wondered how painful it was to die. Collins got to his feet and walked toward the jury.

“Gentlemen … this is a case of no ordinary measure and one with a possible outcome that could irrevocably change the course of a young woman’s life. Our Constitution provides specific stipulations in regard to a conviction under law regarding treason.” Collins held up two fingers and waved them in front of the men in the jury box. “There must be two witnesses to the act or an actual
verbal
confession from the accused.” He took a moment to pause and let that sink in, then continued. “I assure you, gentlemen, today you will be provided with neither of those things.”

Mercy heard all the witnesses who testified against her. Everything they said was true. She had shown up in St. Louis under mysterious circumstances, dressed as someone trying to pass as a man. She couldn’t remember her own history but managed to remember everyday tasks and even proved herself quite capable at certain things. The issue of her incredible skill with a rifle had been recited by more than one witness who had been at the pheasant hunt. Frank Collins did his best to refute the growing evidence against her, but it was hard to put the truth in a box and hide it away. And then came the moment she’d been dreading the most. Rand walked past her and swore on a Bible that he would tell the truth.

Mercy held her breath, afraid Rand would look at her … and equally afraid he would not. He looked pale and drawn, like a man who had suffered a great deal. The prosecutor went through the expected questions: He asked about Rand and Mercy’s relationship, how they met, how well he knew her. How he felt when she unexpectedly broke off their engagement. Rand recounted his pain and confusion about the breakup. He talked about how good the family had been to her—providing her with a place to live, servants, money, clothes, and a very promising future. He finally turned and looked right at Mercy when he said he couldn’t begin to describe the pain he felt when he saw the evidence that their whole relationship had been a ruse so she could get an introduction to their close family friend John Henderson—and plan his assassination.

“It turns out that Mercy was such a good actress, she should have been on the stage instead of sitting next to me in the theater,” Rand said. “A female John Wilkes Booth, if you will.”

Shepherd called his next witness. “The state calls Deirdre O’Hennessey.”

Mercy watched Deirdre settle herself in the witness stand.

“Miss O’Hennessey, would you please tell the court how you know the defendant?”

“I met her when Dr. Johnson brought her to the Little Sisters of Hope Convent. I am a postulant of the order,” Deirdre said.

“Would you say you and the defendant were on friendly terms?” Shepherd asked.

“I thought so,” Deirdre said. She glanced over at Mercy. “We shared a room, meals, and some duties. I felt like I was someone she could confide in.”