An Unspeakable Crime

by Theresa Lorella

  AN UNSPEAKABLE CRIME

  A Novel of America’s First Courtroom Scandal

  Theresa Lorella

  Lorella Rose Publishing

  Seattle, Washington

  This book is a work of fiction. While actual events and names are used, they

  are used fictitiously and are not meant to reflect the opinions of anyone so named. Characters, names, places, or incidents are products of the author’s imagination

  or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Theresa Lorella

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  in any form without written permission.

  Cover artwork by Alexandre Rito.

  Paperback Edition: ISBN: 9781796890969

  CONTENTS

  AN UNSPEAKABLE CRIME

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER five

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE & ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  Quia omnis advocatorum.

  For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth; to know the worst and provide for it.

  Patrick Henry

  CHAPTER ONE

  PATRICK HENRY SUSPECTED RICHARD Randolph before he had even met him. It was all over the papers and by far the most discussed topic in every parlor in Cumberland County: Did Richard seduce his young sister-in-law Nancy and then kill their baby as it entered the world? Honestly, Henry could easily see how the gossip had enthralled everyone. The Randolphs were one of the oldest families in Virginia. They were an intermarried and well-connected clan, even claiming the Secretary of State, Thomas Jefferson as one of their own. Not to mention that Jefferson’s eldest daughter married a Randolph cousin and had housed the same Nancy Randolph—her sister-in-law—at Monticello shortly before the scandal. Even Henry himself had succumbed to passing the time in idle chatter about the situation. Truly, there was nothing more satisfying than the chance to lower the elites a peg or two.

  As yet, it was nothing more than rumor, but in a county where everyone was related to or employed by the family in question, it marginally affected most residents in the area. Even the alleged conspirators were related. Richard Randolph had married his cousin Judith Randolph, thus making his alleged conspirator his cousin and sister-in-law. It was enough to make Henry dizzy if not a little sick to his stomach. These people considered themselves the betters of other Virginians. It gave Henry a laugh to think of it. In this young country you couldn’t hide behind pedigree.

  And that was about all the thinking he had done about the Randolph family for several months. That is likely why he found it so very surprising to find none other than the same Richard Randolph sitting in his study at Red Hill plantation—a good sixty miles from the seat of the Cumberland County court—one sunny Sunday afternoon in early 1793.

  “Because it is such a helpless case, that is why I need you, Mr. Henry. I will pay you anything you ask.” Richard looked down at the hat, now dreadfully crumpled, he held between his shaking hands. “I most emphatically did not kill any babies. Who would do such a thing?”

  Patrick Henry considered the young man before him. Richard Randolph of Bizarre. A member of the Randolph clan here, in Henry’s own study, begging him to help. Henry’s father would be so proud. This, more than his work in the Stamp Act, his famous “give me liberty or give me death” speech, would be what caused his father’s chest to swell with pride. My boy, he would say, when the Randolphs come a-asking the Henry's for help, that is the day you know you have made your mark. Perhaps pedigree did matter in America.

  Still, what kind of man would kill a baby—and one that was likely his own?

  Frankly, Henry didn’t have that high an opinion regarding most of the many members of the Randolph family. Most of the clan lived off their good name and not much else. This particular Randolph was on the more useless end of the family spectrum, even compared to his unaccomplished kin. Richard had spent time at Princeton, apparently urged to study law like his stepfather, St. George Tucker. Such a course had proven too hard—or too much work—and Richard had determined that the life of a gentleman farmer was his preferred career of choice. He had left school to return to his plantation and marry, a decision that Henry found to be rather pathetic. Perhaps if Richard had completed his studies, he wouldn’t be in such dire need of a team of legal experts.

  Henry really was not feeling inspired by the whole scenario. It was just such a nasty little matter and ultimately made no sense. If Richard had done even half of what people were saying, he was a monster. The man in Patrick Henry’s study did not seem to be a monster. But they rarely do when they want something from you. Henry found that his innate dislike for the young man’s family was making it hard to make an immediate decision.

  “Mr. Randolph, you know I haven’t been taking many court cases lately. I’ve been focusing on my land.” Truth be told, Henry had his eye on a new plantation, a real plantation. Not Randolph level, but respectable. “A little on my politics, too, but lawyering has slowed down.” That wasn’t true, but Henry wanted a gentle reason to turn down Richard if he needed. He didn’t mention that his health hadn’t been what it once was and the thought of a long trial exhausted him in theory alone. “At any rate, is there even a case against you as you sit before me?”

  “I haven’t been charged with anything yet by the court, but I am going to ask to be charged soon.”

  At this, Henry brought his hand down on his desk so loudly that the younger man jumped an inch or two. As he should. “You will do no such thing, Mr. Randolph. No one volunteers to be charged with murder. With infanticide. Why ever would you turn yourself over to the court? You may have a higher opinion than I of the justices of Cumberland County, but with no disrespect to said gentleman, why would you ever put your life and liberty in their hands?”

  “I would do so because I am innocent, Mr. Henry. I have nothing to fear.” Richard was red in the face, but Henry noted that he was emphatic without being belligerent. A good sign. It was also, Henry noted to himself, a good sign that the proceedings would be in Cumberland County rather than one of the more outlying counties. Cumberland was full of good old boys from families as old as the Randolphs, or nearly. The justices wouldn’t be immediately disinclined towards the family based on jealousies or feelings of inadequacy. Ironically, that also meant that Richard likely could not use his family name alone as an influence. Henry sighed. This was not how he had planned on spending his Sunday afternoon.

  “Mr. Randolph, while I am certain you are innocent of the crimes bandied about in the press and parlors of Virginia, might I still humbly suggest that you do not request that the authorities seek to try you for murder.” It was a statement posed as a question. Henry didn’t care much for the young man sitting before him. Something didn’t add up. That did not mean that Richard was guilty of killing a baby. Guilty of something, but unlikely that he killed an infant.
It was unlikely that most people would do such a thing. Henry would rely on his intuition regarding the same—in his experience if you asked a defendant what they did, you found out more than your conscious could handle. Less is more. And in this case, Richard Randolph seemed adamant he had done nothing wrong. At any rate, it was of the utmost importance that there was no dead body to be found. Murder usually required a victim and unless and until said body appeared, there was a sound defense to these charges.

  “Mr. Randolph, can I ask you something?” Henry didn’t let the younger man answer. “Why are you here if there is no actual case against you? What do you expect me to do for you? Why don’t you let this lie and wait for the gossipmongers to come up with something new to occupy themselves?”

  Richard looked Henry in the eye as he answered yet again, “I am innocent. But this is not going away, sir. It divides my family—my brothers-in-law are the people spreading the nastiest of the rumors, saying I ruined not only Nancy’s life, but Judith’s as well.”

  “Judith is your wife and Nancy is your…. the sister?” Henry hadn’t been following the stories closely himself but his wife would no doubt know exactly who was who in this strange family drama and could set him straight if he lost track of the players.

  “Yes, the two sweetest girls you’ve ever met, Mr. Henry. My poor suffering wife has given me my dear son, and she doesn’t say a word against me, even now that she is a laughingstock in all the fine homes of Richmond. And Nancy, well, she’s just the best girl you ever met, Mr. Henry. We are all getting along so well still. Bizarre is a true refuge for us. Nancy continues to brighten its rooms even when Judith and I are feeling down.”

  This was not the right thing to say about the woman rumored to be your illicit mistress. “And so they are suffering alongside you without complaint? All in the same house?” Hard to imagine how a wife so horribly wronged would be amenable to her rival, sister or not. Another good sign that Richard was telling the truth although Henry was put off by this report of supposed domestic bliss. And imagine, they all lived at a plantation named Bizarre. Henry would have to ask his wife later just how closely Richard Randolph was related to his wife Judith (and thus also Nancy). It did not escape his notice that both Judith and Nancy were also Randolphs, of the Tuckahoe branch of the family. Henry shook his head at the thought of it all. The least these people could do was marry a cousin with a different family name than their own. Henry considered that it might make sense to float laws to the state legislature that would prevent such consanguinity. Perhaps no marrying of first cousins, for example.

  “Your brothers-in-law, Mr. Randolph.” Richard nodded for Henry to continue. “They are creating problems for you?”

  “Yes, sir. My in-laws have shut me completely out from Tuckahoe. My wife's many siblings have turned against me. Thomas won’t speak to me. William is hell bent on smearing my name—even if it brings Nancy down with me. I have come close to challenging one or two to a duel. To clear my name.” Henry again shook his head.

  “Well, young man, if you take no other advice from me, please take this: Do not fight a duel. What good does it do you to clear your name if you are dead or, perhaps worse, forced to live out your life maimed, a constant reminder of your rash youthful decision? No, dueling is not the answer.”

  “Well, Mr. Henry, sir, then what is the answer?”

  “Winning in a court of law. That is the answer.” Henry regretted it as soon as the words came out of his mouth. Those types of words only goaded people on, made them think they could win their honor back in a court of law. In fact, that may be the last result of a lawsuit. Richard could have presumed it was an implicit statement of interest in Randolphs case and an affirmation that forcing the issue with the court was in fact the right idea. It was his own fault for being so sloppy—Henry’s mind had been working since Randolph had mentioned his brothers-in-law and he wasn’t guarding his tongue carefully enough.

  “Your brother-in-law Thomas, Mr. Randolph…”

  “Yes, sir. Thomas Mann Randolph, Jr., son-in-law to Mr. Jefferson, the Secretary of State.”

  “Mr. Randolph, I know of Mr. Jefferson and his lengthy political career.” Now this was getting interesting. But while Henry was often on the opposite side of thought from Thomas Jefferson regarding many issues that the new county was facing, it intrigued him that this matter involved Jefferson’s family. If nothing else, the Jeffersons were a genteel and intelligent bunch, a shining light in a murky sea of Randolphs.

  Richard could likely see that this family connection had sparked an interest in Henry’s eyes. “You may also know, sir, that Mr. Jefferson and his family are also Randolphs. More closely related to my wife’s branch than my own, but related nonetheless.”

  Henry couldn’t help let a small smile escape his otherwise implacable countenance—a well-practiced trick he had learned early in his career. He was not a superstitious man, but he could hear the laughter of his dead father echoing off the walls of Henry’s home. A Randolph, related to the Secretary of State needed the help of a young man who grew up in a roadside inn, watching his father serve the likes of the colony’s great families.

  “I suppose that’s why Mr. Marshall was so willing to get involved,” Richard continued, oblivious to Henry’s personal musings about the incestuous and illustrious Randolphs and his own upbringing. He was so caught up in his own thoughts about his father that he nearly missed this last bit.

  “Mr. Marshall?”

  “Yes, sir,” Richard beamed. “John Marshall has already agreed to provide counsel. In fact, he was completely in agreement with my plan to ask for an inquest. That is why he suggested that I come to speak with you.” Richard smiled. “Perhaps I should mention he is a distant relative of the family.” He added nothing further despite Patrick Henry’s rather insistent glare. Everyone in Virginia but Patrick Henry was a Randolph at some level.

  “And why, pray tell, Mr. Randolph, do you need my services when you have already procured the great legal mind of Mr. Marshall?” Patrick Henry was no man’s second chair. He feared that his absolute fury was making itself known in the form of a very red face. God forbid that such a reaction be interpreted as embarrassment. Grit your teeth, smile, Henry told himself. “You do not need two representatives when you have yet to even be charged with a crime.” Truly, Henry mused, it would not please Marshall to know this young nobody was off soliciting the services of a backup attorney.

  Henry smiled as he stood. “I hardly see the need to impose upon Mr. Marshall, especially since we don’t seem to see eye-to-eye and the case hasn’t even begun... or, rather, you haven't forced it to start.” Richard remained sitting, a fact that Henry registered as rather impertinent if not altogether rude.

  “I will pay you two hundred fifty guineas, Mr. Henry.”

  It was a lot of money. But Henry had practiced long enough to know money wasn’t always worth the effort exuded. “No, sir, I’m afraid it isn’t a good fit. I’m feeling tired, of rather poor health lately. It wouldn’t be worth the effort. I would have to travel down to Cumberland and that has its own cost—financially and physically.” Henry was still standing; Richard hadn’t budged.

  “Sir, I will pay you five hundred pounds. Sterling.”

  Henry sat back down. That kind of money changed everything. How crass. How humiliating. The power in the room had suddenly very quickly and very surely shifted back to the Randolph. Henry was in Richard's sights and both men knew it.

  The fact was that Henry needed money, especially money like that. He was so close to buying a respectable size farm, increasing the number of field hands he held. He could be a real planter, a real gentleman Virginian. And so it was that Henry found that he, in fact, needed to grovel to the Randolph family. He could see the spirit of his father, so prideful a moment ago, shake his head at how defeated his son was at the prospect of such funds. “We are all slaves in our own way, Patrick,” he had told his son once when a young Henry had been rude to a bondsman who had s
topped at the Henry’s roadside tavern. “The only difference is to whom we are enslaved.”

  Ironically, Henry thought, everyone in Virginia found themselves bonded to the damnable Randolph family. Even Henry had owed his law license to two Randolphs who sat on the licensing board. The other members had deemed him unready, but one of many Randolphs (not involved with this branch of the family) had considered Henry a genius, albeit ignorant of the law. It wasn’t exactly high praise, but enough to jumpstart Henry’s career.

  While Henry mulled over how he could refuse such an offer, Richard cut into his musings. “I do not have the funds here today, Mr. Henry, but I will sign a note. I own land. My family owns land. We will pay you.”

  Henry knew he must appear noticeably deflated. Yet this also gave him an out—it gave him time. A note Richard would sign, Henry thought. One that Henry would write himself; the mention of “family” meant nothing considering that Richard had just said he was willing to fight a duel with half his wife’s family. He would have to be good for this all on his own if Henry was ever to see a dime. The note would have to be signed—and witnessed for good measure—prior to Henry spending even a moment on this matter.

  Perhaps just one more trial wouldn’t hurt, Henry told himself as he saw the gentleman out. And he and Marshall could strike a harmonious balance if they tried. Henry found he was much more willing to do just that in exchange for five hundred pounds. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a word with John Marshall before this matter snowballed out of control. In Henry’s experience every case eventually unraveled; it was the job of a good attorney to stop the damage before it was too late. With two experienced counsel on board, the damage would only be minimal. At any rate, Henry had to get to Marshall in time to convince his colleague that turning in oneself for the charge of murder was a hideously naïve idea.

  ******