by Argyle, Ray
“Yes, he had a box. There wasn’t much in it. Just a little glass tube and a magnifying glass. It had a couple of pieces of glass with a flea between them. People could look at it and see what the flea looked like from real close.”
“One more question, Mrs. Teets. Was Cook at home with you the night Rosannah fell ill and died?”
Mrs. Teets gripped the sides of the witness box and looked directly at Masson when she answered.
“Yes, he was with me all night. We were just getting breakfast when Bridget and Mrs. Tackaberry came for him.”
Leonard wasn’t surprised that Mrs. Teets had stood up for her son. He was impressed with the firmness of her answers. Old people are often forgetful, he thought, but she knew what she was doing and saying.
Alfred Frost’s cross-examination took only a moment. “Did you know your son kept strychnine in his trunk?”
“I knew he did.”
“Is that the bottle?”
“It looks very much like it.”
“What did he keep the bottle in when he had it in the chest?”
“I don’t know as he had it in anything. Whenever I saw it, it was loose.”
Silence enveloped the courtroom when Margaret Teets stepped from the witness box. Leonard felt immense respect for this tired woman, faced with the burden of having to testify at her son’s murder trial.
“Are my learned friends finished with their presentations?” Judge Armour asked. James Masson and Alfred Frost agreed they had completed their cases. “In that event, I will adjourn for today. Be prepared to sum up your arguments for the court in the morning.”
Chapter 18
THE VERDICT
Morning, November 5, 1884
By the third morning of the Cooks Teets trial, those gathered in the Grey County courtroom had become accustomed to the routine of the proceedings. Most felt they shared a common bond that allowed them to comfortably exchange opinions on the evidence and speculate knowingly on the trial’s likely outcome. Summations by Alfred Frost and James Masson, and the charge to the jury by Judge Armour, took until noon. Leonard Babington listened carefully to each man’s arguments, knowing that a life was at stake with the words he was hearing.
James Masson was up first and he spoke for almost an hour. He made an emotional but well-reasoned argument, Leonard thought. You could tell from the quaver in his voice that Masson believed strongly in his client’s innocence. He reminded the jury that Rosannah was not the only tragic figure in the case. “There is the unborn child that died in her womb and two helpless children left without a mother. And there is Cook Teets, a man weighed down with a grievous handicap for much of his life, confined to a small, dark cell for the past twelve months, accused of a horrendous crime. A crime which the Crown has failed completely and utterly to lay at his feet.”
Masson argued that the circumstantial evidence against his client did not warrant a conviction. As long as there was reasonable doubt of Cook’s guilt, he deserved to be acquitted. He finished by reminding the jurors they were intelligent men. “I know you are determined to give the prisoner a fair and square deal. You must allow him the benefit of your reasonable doubt. Gentlemen, do your duty. The Crown has not proven its case. Going strictly on the evidence you have heard, you must find Cook Teets not guilty.”
Alfred Frost took only half the time James Masson had used. His tone, Leonard thought, was one of vengeful retribution. It was calculated to arouse in the jury a Biblical sense of rightousness. He said the acts of Cook Teets were those of a devilishly depraved man, carried out in deceit and deception. “His methods were fraudulently conceived and cunningly executed,” Alfred Frost proclaimed in a voice that echoed to every corner of the courtroom.
“Whether Cook Teets administered strychnine to his wife during his last visit, or whether he left her with a supply of the poison on the pretext that it was medicine of some sort, knowing she would innocently follow his direction, is of little import. Rosannah Leppard died by the hand of Cook Teets. It matters not whether his hand was present at the crucial moment of ingestion. He is as guilty as if his own hand had placed the poison in her mouth.”
In his charge to the jury, Judge Armour conceded that the evidence against Cook was entirely circumstantial. But he said that need not prevent the jury from convicting him. “As long as you are satisfied the facts of the matter are such as to be inconsistent with any other conclusion than that the accused committed the crime, you may find him guilty.”
He then reminded the jury of the words of a notable American barrister:
“As Daniel Webster has wisely remarked, ‘Every unpunished murder takes away something from the security of every man’s life.’”
Leonard Babington thought Judge Armour might be using those words to signal his belief that Cook Teets was guilty of the murder of Rosannah Leppard. He thought the judge was showing his bias by reminding the jury that the guilty needed to be punished.
Judge Armour concluded by remarking that the next day, Thursday, would be Thanksgiving Day, the sixth of November having been set aside by Parliament for observance of this rite of autumn. If the jury didn’t reach a decision tonight, they’d have to be sequestered until Friday.
The twelve men knotted up in twos and threes as they made their way along the narrow hallway leading to the jury room. Leonard, sitting at the newspaper table, was making notes when he saw that Henry Johnson was being careful to hold himself toward the end of the pack. The black man was the ninth or tenth man into the jury room.
Spectators collected in groups of three or four. There was much discussion as to how long the jury would be out, as well as vigorous speculation on the verdict. “It shouldn’t take but a few minutes,” a big man in a checkered red coat told his neighbour. “The sooner the jury’s back, the more likely Teets will hang.” Another thought that because no one had been able to put Cook Teets at the Leppard house when Rosannah died, it would be diffiult to find him guilty. One of the few women in the courtroom, Agnes McNair, elbowed her husband in the ribs at this. “He’ll hang, as sure as God made little apples,” she said.
Leonard watched as Cook’s mother and his sister Sarah put their hands on his shoulders. They seemed to be trying to comfort him and prepare him for the outcome. After a few words, they walked sedately from the courtroom. “My guess is they’re too frightened to stay for the verdict,” the Telegram man said. Cook bobbed about in his seat and nervously ran his hands through his hair. A stir at the back of the courtroom caused him to leap to his feet. At James Masson’s urging, Cook sat down, only to get up again a moment later when the guards came to take him away.
After twenty minutes of mingling with the crowd, Leonard went to the washroom. Coming out, he decided to explore the hallways back of the courtroom. The walls were none too thick, he knew, and if he just happened to overhear something, who was to say anything about it?
The hallway he was in made a jog to the left and ended in a small alcove. A window looked out on the wall of the jail and Leonard was able to see where Cook would be waiting in his cell.
Once he reached the alcove, Leonard heard a murmur of voices. A heating grate had been left open and by listening carefully, he could make out what was being said. As long as no one came along, Leonard thought, he might as well stay here.
The discussion that Leonard heard appeared to have begun in an orderly fashion. He didn’t recognize the voices, but from time to time men would be referred to by name. Leonard was able to match the names with the faces he’d seen in the jury box. It sounded as if the jurors had chosen Captain Copeland, the retired shipmaster, as their foreman.
“Maybe we don’t need a lot of time to discuss this,” he heard Captain Copeland say. “We better just get a feel for where we all stand. We’ve heard the evidence. I’m going to ask everyone right out, guilty or no? We’ll start here on my right, Mr. Wilson, I believe?”
“Yessir, Captain, but maybe you could tell me something first. How did an old blind man get a yo
ung good-looking girl like that? I’d like to know his secret.” He must have smirked as he said it, because Leonard heard guffaws all around.
“I’d say she was a chippy,” came a voice from the end of the table. “Two little kids by different men. Cook must have looked pretty good to her.” Leonard thought he’d like to get that man alone, he’d show him a thing or two about chippy. Then he heard another voice chime in. “He lost a good bed-warmer when he did away with that girl.”
“So why did he do it?” another juror asked.
“For the insurance money,” someone said.
“But what’s a blind man want with that kind of money?” the first man responded.
Leonard had no difficulty recognizing the next voice. Henry Johnson spoke with the lilt of the typical black, a legacy of a long history in the South.
“Gentlemen, that’s what bothers me.” Johnson said. “Seems to me Rosannah was worth more to Cook alive than dead.”
“You mean a good lay’s worth four thousand dollars?” somebody asked.
At this rate, Leonard thought, Captain Copeland would soon lose control of the jury.
“Now gentlemen,” he heard the Captain say, “we can speculate all we want on why she married him, or what a good bed partner she might have been, but we have to decide on a murder charge here. I ask again, how do we feel about that?” There were mutterings of guilt from several jurors. Henry Johnson’s voice came through the grate: “I’m not sure, I think we should talk about it.”
Leonard worried about someone seeing him here, listening to the deliberations. He wasn’t sure if what he was doing was legal. He slipped down the hallway and returned to the courtroom. No one had noticed his absence. He took his seat at the newspaper table, uncertain whether what he’d heard meant what he most feared.
The appearance of Angus McMorrin, the clerk, signaled to the courtroom that something was about to happen. An hour and a half had passed. A click marked the lifting of the latch on the jury room door and the twelve men filed into their seats. Cook Teets was brought in and Judge Armour mounted his dais.
Leonard’s eyes surveyed the jury. None of them looked too happy, he thought. The verdict might have gone either way. He wished the judge would get on with it.
“Who will speak for the jury?” Judge Armour asked.
Captain Copeland hesitated, coughed and stood up. “I will your Lordship.”
“Has the jury reached a decision – and if so, what is it?”
“We have, unanimously,” Captain Copeland said.
“We find the prisoner … guilty.”
He added, almost as an afterthought, “With a recommendation for mercy.”
Leonard saw Cook Teets lean forward in his seat and whisper to James Masson. It seemed he needed confirmation of the awful judgment. Cook’s shoulders sagged and his head fell to his chest. A deathly still hung over the courtroom. So this is what it’s come to. Leonard felt disheartened – any sense of triumph he might have had at Cook being found guilty had long since vanished.
Judge Armour broke the silence. “Cook Teets, have you anything to say why the sentence of this court should not be passed upon you?”
The words, in deep measured tones, heightened the tension in the courtroom. It seemed to Leonard as if everyone had stopped breathing.
“Your Lordship,” James Masson called out, rising to his feet. “This decision cannot be …”
He was shushed by Cook Teets. With a wave of his arm, he motioned his lawyer to be seated.
Now standing, Cook took hold of the gate to the prisoner’s dock. His heavy breathing could be heard throughout the room. Leonard saw one hand rise and pull away the handkerchief that had covered an inflamed eye. Straightening himself, Cook began to speak. His voice was firm and clear.
“Lies have been told about me in this courtroom,” he began. “Wilful and malicious lies.
“Mrs. Leppard has lied. That sonofabitch Scarth Tackaberry has lied. I have been persecuted and misrepresented. I have been treated badly by the public press.”
Leonard cringed when Cook railed against articles about him in the Vandeleur Chronicle. He felt the stares of the newspapermen sitting alongside him. Rather than meet their gaze, he bent his head to his notes.
“A man should not be hanged first and tried after,” Cook said. “But that’s what the press has done to me.
“If I never leave this dock alive,” he declared, his voice rising, “so help me God, I did not kill Rosannah.
“This man Tackaberry,” Cook spit out his name as if it was snake’s venom, “he is not a reliable man. Never was. I can’t recollect ever having any conversation with him about strychnine.”
Cook’s outburst had left him momentarily breathless.
“There is something wrong with the law,” he began again, his voice now sounding raw, “when a man is not permitted to speak in his own defence before the jury decides his fate.”
That was true, Leonard had to concede. While Cook had been called to testify at the coroner’s inquest, he’d not been allowed to speak in his own behalf at his trial. Leonard scribbled furiously to catch all that Cook was saying. The words were flowing more rapidly now, and Leonard marvelled at the man’s ability to speak so well under such strain.
Cook said neither he nor Rosannah had wanted to be married by a priest. This was why they eloped to Toronto. The Sunday before her death, he said, she had met him on the road near his mother’s house and had told him her mother was treating her badly. She pleaded for a place of their own.
“I went over there the next afternoon. I had tea and left the Leppard place about five o’clock. Rosannah went part of the way with me. We stopped to light our pipes when Moses Sherwood passed. She told me, ‘I don’t want to let him see me smoking.’ I said you are my wife, not his servant. We then parted. She went back to her mother’s and I went home. It was the last time I saw her alive.”
Cook trembled, passed his hand over his face, and paused.
“I never knew anything about what happened to Rosannah until they came and told me the next morning. I don’t know what I said. I was so full of grief. I went to her bedside and asked her to speak and tell me what was the matter. My sister said Rosie will never speak again. I never said I was the cause of it or that I knew anything about it.
“I do not know where the poison was got or who got it. Mrs. Leppard asked me for some to poison dogs. She said there were dogs that bothered her cattle in the bush. I never gave her any.”
The longer Cook talked, the more disconnected his words became. He claimed again that Scarth Tackaberry had sworn falsely against him and denied ever having shown him any bottle of strychnine. He had no idea as to who might have killed Rosannah. He wondered if it was actually strychnine that caused her death. He complained about the months he’d been kept in his tiny cell in the Owen Sound jail, having to put up with the ridicule of other prisoners, men charged with such crimes as incest, assault, abusive language, forgery, or bigamy. After an hour, Cook sounded hoarse and tired. Finally, he said, “Now that you’ve convicted me, hang me, hang me right away. I don’t want to spend my life in some cell.”
Leonard could hear sobs from women in the courtroom. Men coughed, crossed and uncrossed their legs, and shuffled their feet as Cook sat down.
Judge Armour had let Cook speak without interruption. Now it was his turn.
“Gentlemen of the jury, I concur entirely in your verdict,” he said. “You could have come to no other conclusion. You have discharged a difficult task with honour.”
He looked at Cook, now slumped in the prisoner’s dock.
“Cook Teets, the jury has recommended mercy, a plea that will be forwarded to the proper authorities. But I cannot hold out any hope for you. You have but a short time to prepare to meet your God. Make good use of the time you have left.”
He then pronounced the fateful decree:
“It is the sentence of this court that you be taken from the place whence you came and that yo
u there remain until the fifth day of December next, when you are to be taken to the place of execution and there hanged by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul.”
Two guards moved to Cook’s side. They seized his arms and escorted him through the side door of the courtroom, down the stairwell toward his cell.
“You’ve condemned an innocent man,” Leonard heard Cook Teets say on the way out.
Members of the jury dispersed quickly. They had orders to speak to no one. Leonard tried to catch a few words as they passed the newspaper table. He heard Henry Johnson throw a caustic remark to Captain Copeland “You tricked me with your talk of mercy.”
December fifth, Leonard thought. A month from today. So that’s what it’s come to. And what about mercy? He realized, with a pang, he’d shown none when he’d written about how Cook had fired his gun at the boys who had thrown snowballs at him. Leonard remembered his days at the Globe and reminded himself what it was like to be wrongly accused. He could not forget how his thoughtless treatment of Rosannah had caused him to lose her. How much of what happened today, he wondered, had been set in motion by his own actions?
But was all hope really gone? On the steps of the courthouse he caught up to James Masson. Leonard needed to know whether the lawyer would make an appeal for a new trial.
“Will you be going to the court of appeal?” Leonard asked.
“Not an easy course,” Masson said. “It’s a matter left to the discretion of the trial judge. Judge Armour would have to agree the case involves a contentious point of law where he might have made a mistake. Then a panel of judges would decide whether the court of appeal should hear the case.
“That’s not going to happen. There’s no time, there’s no money, and there’s no chance of Judge Armour ever permitting an appeal.”
Leonard added the lawyer’s comments to the running account of the trial that he’d been writing since Monday morning. Every night he had put copy in an envelope and sent it to Tyler Thompson, who met the train at Flesherton Station. Leonard had left space at the top of his final report for a headline. He now penciled in: