by L. A. Meyer
I rise to my feet and face my dearest friend, extending my shackled arms . . .
I can only move so far and I can only say . . . nothing, nothing at all.
Chapter 37
The next morning, at nine o’clock, I am led intoPlymouth County Courtroom by Sheriff Williams, my hands shackled before me. I should be used to shackles, ropes, chains, and other bindings by now, but I find I am not. I look about in the dim light of the interior to find the high-windowed room packed with spectators, many of whom I take to be reporters, for they have pads and pencils well in hand. And why not, for is this not the story of the year, the dread pirate and accused foul traitor, Jacky Faber, at last brought to justice? Should sell lots of papers. Hope all enjoy. Yeah, right . . .
All eyes are on me, of course, as I am brought in, and I so wish I could present a better appearance. Alas, I am refused permission to don one of my better dresses and made to wear the gray prison dress, to emphasize my current status as the alleged criminal. My only adornment is a white mobcap I am given to cover my head.
Ezra Pickering is seated at a desk in front of the Judge’s high bench, with a pile of documents in front of him. He rises in greeting me, and we both sit down. He is about to say something, but we are interrupted by a man in black, with short white wig, who is sure to be the Clerk of Court. He stands and intones, “This Circuit Court, in the County of Plymouth, State of Massachusetts, United States ofAmerica, is now in session, Judge Hiram Thwackham presiding. All will be upstanding.”
Oh, no!
“Thwackham?” is all I can silently mouth to EzraPickering as I get to my feet and stand, astounded, to watch my old enemy mount the Bench, all clad in black robes, jowls waggling, eyes fixed on me.
“Be seated,” orders the Clerk, and all do, except for the many standing at the back of the room.
“Yes, Jacky, he’s back, The Mad Thwacker.” Ezra sighs, sliding into his chair beside me and not at all pleased. “I found out only yesterday he’s been assigned to this case. I was hoping for Judge Norquist, a more moderate jurist. Yes, you may read that ‘moderate’ to mean neither insane nor bloodthirsty, but there was a last-minute change. Politics, I am sure, and Boston politics to boot. But no matter, truth and justice are on our side.”
Uh-huh . . . right, again, Ezra . . . But this is not a good omen.
The last I saw of Judge Hiram Thwackham, he was being escorted out of the Municipal Court in Boston, mumbling about purple baboons and his preference for wide female bottoms. I had heard he was banished from the Bench and sent to his country home to spend the rest of his days. Apparently, he did not agree to stay there.
“But how . . . ?”
“Well, it seems that the Honorable Judge Thwackham recovered quite quickly after the Infamous Purple Incident, attributing it to a momentary aphasia, and he applied for his old spot on the Bench. However, while he was recovering from this brief lapse in acuity, the learned Judge Lemuel Tragg had moved into his place and was in no mind to give it up. I believe you are acquainted with this Judge Tragg?”
“You know darn well I am, Ezra.” I sniff. “You were there when he ordered the original sentence of twelve lashes to be carried out. And I, for one, will never forget being tied to the stake in the open courtyard, my back bared to the entire populace, and given the twelve. My humiliation was total and complete.”
“Umm. That is true,” agrees Ezra, “but you must realize that it could have been much worse. Anyway, whileThwackham had friends and influence in Boston, Tragg did, too, so he was able to keep his post as Head Magistrate. And since Judge Thwackham exhibited no further signs of dementia, he was appointed to the Circuit Court. While it doesn’t improve his disposition in any way, because the assignment requires the old buzzard to travel a bit, it does keep him in the game. Unfortunately . . .” Ezra pauses, and then continues, “although he acts normally, or what might be construed as normal for him, he does exhibit a curious aversion to the color purple and requires that any person wearing that color be removed from his court. Says it hurts his eyes.” Ezra cuts a knowing glance at me.
I look down at my hands. I did have something to do with that . . . and I sure wish I had some of my Purple Passion Potion here right now, and the means to distribute it liberally. But forget your tricks, girl, since you do not. It’s all up to Ezra now.
“Does he remember me?” I ask.
“I am afraid so. In spite of his annoyance at being relegated to the traveling Bench, I believe he rather relishes this particular case.”
Needless to say, this is not a good development . . .
Again the Clerk of Court speaks. “This High Court is convened to sit in judgment of Mary Faber, aka Jacky Mary Faber, on a charge of high treason and various other crimes against the government and the people of the United States of America.”
“Court is now in session,” growls the Judge, bringing down his gavel loudly on his high podium. “Miss Faber. Stand up.”
I do.
“How do you plead to these charges?”
“Not guilty, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Please be seated so we may proceed. United States Attorney Anthony Belcher will lead the prosecution.” Here he gestures to a very severe-looking man in wig and judicial robes standing to the right side of the Bench, next to the witness chair. “The accused will be represented by . . .”
Ezra gets to his feet and says, “Ezra Pickering, Attorney at Law, Your Honor.”
Thwackham looks out over the half spectacles he habitually wears, and mutters, “Oh, yes, you again. Very well, let us get started. If you gentlemen have affidavits, dispositions, and other such papers, bring them up to me now. Clerk, impanel the jury.”
Ezra gathers up his documents and whispers to me as he goes to approach the Bench, “This will take a bit of time, so please try to relax.”
Relax. Right. Most of the people in this room would take great delight in seeing me dangle from a rope . . . especially those twelve hard-faced men being seated in the jury box. No women, of course.
I finger the gray prison garment I am dressed in. Might as well make the accused look as guilty as hell. Saves time, I guess. As I wait for things to start, I recall a picture of another person clad exactly as I now am, and in similar circumstances. It was back in Paris, beautiful Paris . . .
It was at the Louvre Museum, and I was on the arm of Jean-Paul de Valdon, as he was showing me about the place. I, of course, was most impressed by the fine work hanging on the walls and expressed admiration at one I thought was especially well done, a large painting of Napoleon Bonaparte on horseback, by an artist named Jacques-Louis David. Jean-Paul, a committed Royalist, grimaced and said, “Yes, very fine. Now let me show you another work by this David.”
Saying that, he directed me to a small, rather crude pencil drawing hung around the corner. It depicted a woman dressed exactly as I am, sitting in a rude cart, her hands tied behind her and wearing a deep frown.
“It is a picture of the Queen being taken to her execution,” explained Jean-Paul. “David was a fiery revolutionary who deeply hated the King and Queen, so much so that he drew this from a balcony as she was taken to her death. It is reported that, as she was being prepared on the scaffold, Her Majesty accidentally stepped on the executioner’s foot and then asked his pardon for it.”
The Executioner’s reply was not recorded, only the fact that he did take the mobcap from her hair . . . one just like mine . . . before he laid her down under that terrible machine . . . Moments later, the blade came hissing down and the head of Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, lay at the bottom of a common basket . . . I hope I will be as brave or as gracious if that happens to me . . . but I doubt that I will . . .
Ah, Jean-Paul, those were wonderful days in spite of that awful war, were they not? I hope you are happy now, my bonny light horseman, you of the soft brown mustache, the gentle manners . . . and our little white tent, there on the battlefield of Jena . . .
I am shaken out of m
y reverie by Ezra’s return to my side. Enough of the troubles of French royalty, for now it’s time to focus on my own.
“They will take care of the smaller charges this morning,” he reports, “then get to the serious business this afternoon.”
“The small stuff?” I ask.
“Yes. Fleeing a warrant. Resisting arrest. Firing on an officer of the law. Kidnapping of a small child.”
“Oh,” I say, in a rather small voice.
“They will start with the circumstances of your resisting arrest at the circus,” Ezra goes on, “but I think you’ll be glad to hear this . . .”
“What?” I ask, grateful for any good news.
“The boy Edgar Allen Polk has refused to testify against you, and without that, they have no charge of kidnapping.”
“What?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yes. The lad maintains he went with you willingly. He reports that for him to inform on you would be a violation of some ‘Brotherhood Code’ or other.”
Well, I’ll be damned, Edgar. I guess you have some honest pirate in you after all. Good for you!
“I call to the stand Federal Marshall Orville Purvis,” comes the sonorous call from United States Attorney Belcher, and a man attired in a black suit approaches the Bench. I recognize the outfit, if not the man, as one of my pursuers at the Montessori and Mattucci GrandCircus, which is where I wish I were right now, back in my snug little wagon.
“I will cross-examine some of these witnesses,” Ezra goes on. “But I won’t put you on the stand till this afternoon. Agreed?”
“Yes, Ezra,” I say.
“And you will refrain from speaking out, no matter what is said about you?” he asks with a warning look.
“Yes, Ezra,” I agree wearily. “I will try to keep the Faber trap shut.”
“That would be very good. Ah, here we go.”
Marshall Orville Purvis goes up to stand in front of Prosecutor Belcher, who has in his hand a Bible. He orders Purvis to place his hand upon it, and recites, “Do you,Orville Purvis, swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” replies Marshall Purvis.
“Please be seated.”
Purvis places his bottom in the chair and waits to give his testimony.
“Mr. Purvis, you are a duly appointed Federal Marshall?”
“Yes, Sir, I am,” says Purvis with a certain amount of righteous self-importance, his hands folded across his belly.
“Very well, Marshall,” says Belcher. “Will you please tell us of the events of November fourth of this year?”
Purvis is about to answer, when Ezra gets to his feet and says, “Objection, Your Honor, for learned counsel is leading the witness. And furthermore, the question is irrelevant. This court has no interest in what Mr. Purvis had for breakfast on that particular day. Perhaps Counsel could be more specific in directing his questions?”
There are some titters in the room at this . . .
My good Mr. Pickering is plainly laying out his battle plan—to ridicule and confuse. Go get ’em, Ezra.
“Sustained,” growls Judge Thwackham. “Let’s get on with it, Counselor.”
Attorney Belcher gives Ezra a glare, then continues. “Mr. Purvis, will you please give us a description of that day’s events that concern the accused, Jacky Faber?”
“Yessir,” replies Purvis. “Myself and nine other agents were sent to this circus in New Bedford to apprehend the criminal Jacky Faber—”
“Objection,” says Ezra. “Miss Faber has not yet been convicted of any crime, the obvious hostility of this court notwithstanding.”
“Sustained, but watch your mouth concerning the conduct of my court, Mr. Pickering,” warns the Judge. “You seem to enjoy skirting the boundaries of contempt of court. Beware, Sir.”
A somewhat steamed Prosecutor Belcher returns to Purvis. “Go on, Marshall Purvis. Please be specific.”
“Harrumph. Yes, Sir,” answers a now red-faced Orville Purvis. “Anyway, we were sent to arrest a certain fugitive from the law named Jacky Faber, at the circus where she was employed. We had the proper warrant for that arrest.”
“And did you accomplish that arrest?”
“Yessir.”
“And, accomplishing that task, did you bring her back here to face these charges?”
“Yessir, we did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Purvis. No further questions. Do you wish to cross-examine, Counselor?” asks Belcher with a look to Ezra.
Purvis has his ample butt halfway out of the witness chair when Ezra replies, “Indeed, I do.” The Marshall sinks back, a wary look on his face as Ezra clasps his hands behind him and begins the destruction of U.S. Marshall Orville Purvis.
“Mr. Purvis, ten of you were sent to apprehend the suspect on that day. Did you accomplish the arrest on that day?”
“No, Sir,” replies Purvis, digging his finger into his collar, which seems to have grown quite tight. “It was on the next day that we nabbed her.”
“You mean ten full-grown officers of the law could not seize that one small female right there on the day in question? What was the problem?”
Here Ezra points at me, and I put on the full big-eyed helpless-waif look, the best one I’ve got.
“Well, Sir, she sort of escaped, like.”
“And how did she do that?”
“When we arrived, she was doing her act high up in the tent, Sir.”
“Did you serve her with the warrant when you entered the tent?”
“No, Sir. She was too high up to do that.”
“How did she get out of the tent?”
“Through a hole in the top, Sir.”
“Did you fire bullets at her fleeing form?”
“Yessir.”
“Did she fire any at you?”
“No, but she did—”
“Please answer just yes or no, Mr. Purvis. Those are the rules.”
“No.”
It is growing quite hot in here, but the witness seems to be growing even hotter under his collar.
“So just how did she effect this miraculous escape from all you big, strong, and well-armed men, all of whom seemed perfectly willing to shoot her down like a dog?”
“She slid down the back of the tent and took off on a horse.”
“You did not pursue? You had mounts, I assume? You did not arrive on the scene barefoot?”
“Yessir, we did. But you see, she set the lion on us.”
“The lion?” exclaims Ezra, holding his arms out to the court and affecting complete astonishment. “What lion?”
There is a gasp from the courtroom at that.
“Ahem. Well, there was a fearsome African lion in this cage and she set it loose on us. A fearsome beast it was, too, Sir. It scared the hell out of the horses.”
“And their brave riders, as well,” says Ezra, his voice dripping with contempt. He gets a good laugh from the audience on that. “I have it on good authority from theMontessori and Mattucci Circus that old Balthazar is both toothless and harmless.”
“Didn’t look harmless to us, it—”
“Never mind,” says Ezra, cutting him off. “So when and how did you finally run down this suspect?”
“The next day, Sir . . . with dogs.”
“Ah, my congratulations to the dogs, if not to our rather timorous Marshall Service. Now, after this creature led you on that merry chase, what did you do with her?”
“Why, we brought her back here to face justice, Sir.”
“In an open wagon, was it not? And exhibited to the scorn of the crowds that lined the route to here?”
“Yes, but—”
“How was she dressed?”
“Why, in her circus costume.”
“Describe, please.”
“A very skimpy white corselette. Quite scandalous, it was.”
“If it was so scandalous, why did you not allow her to change into better clothing for the journey here, as she request
ed? You did have custody of her baggage, did you not?”
“Yes, but . . .”
Here I hear some hissing from the crowd . . . probably from the women. Sure wish I had a few of them on that jury, for they would know how I felt during that ride.
“Yes, but you did not want to grant her even one shred of dignity, isn’t that true? Isn’t it true that you did not—?”
“Objection!” shouts Prosecutor Belcher. “That calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness!”
“Very well,” says Ezra. “I withdraw the question. I have no further queries of this witness. He may step down.”
A much relieved Mr. Purvis leaves the chair and heads for the exit, mopping his brow with his handkerchief, while Ezra goes to stand before Judge Thwackham.
“Your Honor, I move that the charge of resisting arrest against my client be dismissed on the grounds that—”
“Motion denied,” states Judge Thwackham. “We’ll let the jury decide that. Call the next witness . . .”
And so it drones on till noon, when Thwackham brings down his gavel and says, “This court is adjourned for lunch till one o’clock. When we come back, we will conclude this trial.”
The Honorable Judge is not kidding, because inAmerica trials are swift, nearly always concluded in one day, whether that day be eight, twenty-four, or forty-eight hours long. And Thwackham shows no inclination whatsoever to prolong these proceedings. It is plain he wants my neck in a noose, and he wants it there soon.
Yes, I will know my fate this afternoon, that is for sure . . .
And God help me . . .
Chapter 38
Needless to say, the rest of my trial did not go at all well . . .
Oh, Ezra, of course, did his level best, popping up every time Prosecutor Belcher opened his mouth to make a point, to object to whatever he said, bringing laughter from the court on many occasions. Restraining me was his biggest challenge.