by Dorothy Love
“Sure. I guess so.”
“This is a murder trial, Doctor. A woman’s life is at stake. Let’s not guess, if we can be more precise.” Philip paced for a moment, his head down, his hands clasped behind his back. “How long have you practiced medicine, Dr. Adams?”
“Forty-seven years.”
“Forty-seven years. Did you know that Mr. Sterling suffered from dropsy?”
The prosecutor shot to his feet. “Your Honor. Point of relevance. Mr. Sterling’s medical history has no bearing on these proceedings.”
Judge Bartlett peered down at Philip. “Where are you going with this line of questioning, Counselor?”
“Your Honor, if you will allow me just a few more questions, I think you will see that the victim’s condition has a vital bearing on this case.”
“Proceed.” The judge waved a mottled hand at the doctor. “You may answer the question.”
“Mr. Sterling was not a regular patient of mine,” the doctor said. “I just happened to be there when he was shot.”
“So you didn’t know he had a severe heart problem?”
“Not firsthand. My wife keeps up with all the talk in Savannah. She heard that Mr. Sterling was not a well man.”
“Doctor, in your expert medical opinion, can a damaged heart suddenly cease to function?”
“Of course.”
“So it’s possible that Mr. Sterling died not of the gunshot wound but because the shock caused his heart to give out?”
India felt a sudden surge of hope. Philip had just given the jury a pathway to reasonable doubt.
“Sure, it’s possible. But I reckon we’ll never know for sure.”
“Exactly.” Philip faced the jury and, in turn, looked each of the men in the eye. “We’ll never know for sure.”
He turned back to the doctor. “That’s all.”
The judge consulted his gold pocket watch and cleared his throat. “Mr. McLendon?”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Call your next witness.”
The door behind India opened. She turned, and her stomach dropped. She grabbed her pencil, scrawled one word, and pushed it across the table to Philip.
CHAPTER 18
FABIENNE?
Philip glanced at India’s notepad and raised a brow. They had expected the Frenchwoman to testify for the defense. Clearly he was as surprised by this development as she.
India watched as her young dresser walked slowly down the aisle to the witness stand. The girl seemed entirely undone. Her hair was in a half braid, her eyes swollen and red rimmed. She wouldn’t look at India. She was sworn in. She promised to tell the truth.
Mr. McLendon rose. “Now, Miss Ormond. Would you tell the jury the nature of your relationship with the defendant?”
“I was her dresser.”
“And what does that mean?”
“I helped Miss Hartley at the theater. I dressed her hair and helped her change her costumes during the play.”
“And were you serving in that capacity on the evening in question?”
“Yes, sir.” Fabienne’s voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Were you there when Mr. Sterling stopped at Miss Hartley’s dressing room to discuss the evening’s performance?”
“Yes.”
“Would you say that Miss Hartley was angry with him?”
Philip shot to his feet. “Objection. Calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness.”
“Sustained.”
The prosecutor cleared his throat. “Do you remember what they discussed?”
“Just that Mr. Philbrick wanted them to do something more spectacular, because a critic was coming.”
“All right.” He consulted his notes. “Another witness who cannot be present for these proceedings has signed a sworn statement that as Mr. Sterling was leaving Miss Hartley’s dressing room that evening, he cautioned her not to take the new stage directions literally. Do you remember his saying that?”
At last Fabienne lifted her head and looked at India, sorrow and fear mingling in her eyes. “I was busy. I cannot remember exactly. But Miss Hartley wouldn’t—”
“Just answer the question, please. To the best of your recollection.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And did Miss Hartley make a reply?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which was?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
Every person in the gallery gasped. The reporters scribbled in their notebooks.
Mr. McLendon’s eyes shone with triumph as he passed their table. “Your witness, Mr. Sinclair.”
Philip took his time. He paused for a sip of water, then paged through his notes.
At last he approached the witness.
“Miss Ormond. How long have you known Miss Hartley?”
“Since last November, when she put a notice in the paper for a dresser.”
“And were you hired right away?”
“Oui. The first day. When I answered the advertisement.”
“How often did you see her, would you say?”
“Almost every day when she was rehearsing the play. I dressed her hair, and we practiced changing her from one costume to another. There are but a few moments between scenes and all of those buttons”—Fabienne rolled her eyes—“they take a very long time unless you have practiced.”
“I imagine so.” Philip smiled at the ladies in the gallery. “Now, you have testified that Miss Hartley said to Mr. Sterling at the theater that evening, ‘Don’t tempt me.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because she was exasperated.”
“Ex—?”
“Annoyed. Irritated.”
“Mr. Sterling was a most annoying man.”
“Objection.” Mr. McLendon rose. “The victim is not on trial here, Judge.”
“Sustained.”
Philip paused. “Miss Ormond, have you ever been annoyed with someone?”
“Oui. Of course.”
“And said something you didn’t mean? Made an idle threat you had no intention of carrying out? Exaggerated your words for effect?”
“A million times.”
Philip smiled. “Me too.”
He glanced at the jury then turned back to Fabienne. “So when Miss Hartley said, ‘Don’t tempt me,’ she might have been expressing her annoyance, but certainly not intending to act upon it. Is—”
“Objection, Your Honor.” The prosecutor was on his feet again. “Is Mr. Sinclair asking a question, or giving his summation to the jury? Frankly I can’t tell which it is.”
Judge Bartlett peered down at Philip. “Counselor?”
“No further questions.”
With another sorrowful glance at India, Fabienne hurried from the courtroom.
The judge consulted the large clock mounted on
the rear wall. “Court is in recess until one o’clock.”
He banged the gavel, stood, and disappeared into his chambers.
A policeman escorted India and Philip to a room down the hallway then took up his post outside the door.
Weak with nerves and hunger, India collapsed into a chair and massaged her temples.
Philip drew up a chair and sat beside her. “Are you all right?”
“I didn’t expect Fabienne to speak against me.”
“It’s obvious she didn’t want to. But I think I mitigated the damage with the jury.” He sounded tired too. “We have a right to recall her if we think it’s necessary, when it’s our turn to present evidence.”
The door opened and the policeman came in carrying a wicker hamper that clearly had been searched. The napkins were unfolded and lay in a heap atop a loaf of bread protruding from one corner. “Mrs. Mackay has sent you some dinner.”
Philip took the basket. “Thanks.”
The policemen shifted his weight. “If your client needs the . . . um . . . necessary room, I’ll arrange it.”
“We’ll let you know.”
The policeman withdrew. Philip opened the basket and took out wedges of cheese, a dried fruit tart, the bread, and a jar of soup. Everything smelled good, but India felt as if she’d swallowed a brick. She shook her head as Philip set the meal on a small table before her.
“India,” he said, his voice filled with concern. “I realize food is the last thing on your mind, but you must eat something. It’s apt to be a trying afternoon, and this food is much better than what you’ll have in the jail tonight.”
India forced down a few bites of bread and cheese and picked at the tart, but it might as well have been made of paste.
Philip ate, but without any sign of enjoyment, then paged once more through his notes.
At ten minutes to one, the door opened once more, and the policeman came in again with a piece of paper and a small paper bag. “Sergeant Trueblood said to give you this.”
Philip glanced into the bag and read the paper, and India saw some of the tension leave his shoulders. He nodded to the policeman. “Thank you.”
The door closed again. India looked up at him, wanting to hope but afraid of disappointment. “What is it?”
He smiled at last. “We may have caught a break.” He took out his watch. “It’s nearly one. Do you need the—”
“I’m all right.”
He packed up the basket and left it to be returned to Mrs. Mackay. “Let’s go.”
India had hoped that after the initial excitement, some of the spectators would return to their own pursuits. But upon entering the courtroom, she saw that the crowd had swelled well past the room’s capacity. The gallery was filled, and people stood three deep along the walls, each vying for a view of the proceedings.
The jury filed into the jury box, the judge came in and gaveled the proceedings to order, and Mr. McLendon rose from his chair. “Your Honor, the people call Miss Victoria Bryson.”
India pressed her fingers to her temples as the young understudy sashayed down the aisle, the deep ruffles on her pink skirt whispering on the wooden floor.
Miss Bryson took her oath and made a production of arranging her skirts just so before turning to smile at the men in the jury box.
“Now, Miss Bryson,” the prosecutor said. “Will you tell these gentlemen what you were doing at the Southern Palace the evening Mr. Sterling was shot?”
“I most certainly will.” The understudy glared at India. “I was understudying Miss Hartley’s role in case she was sick or something and couldn’t perform. Mr. Philbrick required me to be at every performance. So I was there, and he told me about the change he wanted to make in the performance that night, and he said Miss Hartley was angry about it and if she didn’t want to cooperate I could go on in her place.”
“All right. What happened then?”
“I went to find Arth—Mr. Sterling, and he was talking to Miss Hartley about it.” The understudy sent India another withering look. “She hated him because she thought he was upstaging her all the time.”
India glanced at Philip. Surely he would object to that last statement. But he kept his seat, his tawny gaze focused on the witness.
Mr. McLendon nodded. “Then what?”
“Mr. Sterling and I left for his dressing room, and”—her voice cracked—“the play began. I was watching from the wings when she shot him and—”
Now Philip rose. “Objection, Your Honor. It has not—”
“Sustained.”
Judge Bartlett motioned to the prosecutor. “Mr. McLendon?”
“I don’t have any more questions for this witness.”
Philip lost no time in approaching the witness box. “Miss Bryson. I wonder if you can tell the jury how long you knew Mr. Sterling.”
“Almost a year.”
“And what was the nature of your relationship?”
Victoria Bryson blushed and fussed with her skirt. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“I think you do, but I’ll be more direct. Were your dealings with Arthur Sterling strictly professional, or were the two of you romantically involved?”
Mr. McLendon rose. “Point of relevance, Your Honor?”
“I’ll allow it. Go ahead, Counselor.”
Philip waited while the understudy fidgeted in her chair. “Well, I admired him greatly, and he was trying to help me with my acting, and . . . and he was the kindest and most gentle man I’ve ever known.” She fumbled for a handkerchief and blotted her eyes. “And this . . . this stranger who thinks she is better than anyone comes to our town, and all she does is complain about him. She wanted him out of the way, and she killed him, and if you men can’t hang her for murder just because she is beautiful and famous, you are all traitors to Savannah and a bunch of cowards besides. You are all as guilty as if you yourselves fired that gun.”
She collapsed and began to sob.
“No further questions,” Philip said.
Mr. McLendon motioned to a young man, who escorted Miss Bryson from the room.
Philip resumed his seat and murmured to India, “Quite a performance.”
Judge Bartlett waited until the door closed behind her. “Are you ready with your next witness, Mr. McLendon?”
The prosecutor shuffled his papers and called a policeman to the stand.
“Now, Officer Avery,” he began. “You were the first on the scene at the theater that night, were you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after Mr. Sterling was taken away, what did you do?”
“What we always do. I made a search of the premises to gather evidence.”
“Did you find anything of significance?”
“A pool of blood on the floor of the stage. The weapon itself, of course. The defendant dropped it after she shot the actor.”
“Objection.” Philip rose from his chair. “The officer is stating a conclusion that has not been proven.”
“Sustained.”
Judge Bartlett leaned forward and frowned at the policeman. “You know better than that, Officer.”
Mr. McLendon cleared his throat. “Aside from the weapon, did you find anything else of significance?”
“No, sir. After Mr. Sterling was taken away, we cleared the theater and closed it.”
The prosecutor nodded. “Thank you, Officer. That’s all.”
Philip approached the witness with a barely suppressed urgency that lifted India’s spirits. She poured herself a glass of water and took a long sip.
“Now, Officer,” Philip began. “Would you tell the jury how long you have served as a policeman here in Savannah?”
“Eleven years come next summer.”
“And in that time, how many cases would you say you have investigated?”
“I don’t keep count.”
“Well, give us an estimate. Dozens, would you say? Hundreds?”
“Hundreds, I guess, but not all of them for murder, of course.”
“Hundreds. So you have some experience in collecting evidence.”
“I reckon so.”
“Would you consider yourself a thorough investigator?”
The officer frowned. “Just what are you getting at? Because I—”
“I’m asking you how carefully you search for evidence.”
“I know how to do my job.”
“So when you finished your sweep of the Southern Palace Theater you were confident you’d found everything pertinent to this case.”
The officer let out a gusty breath. “I had the weapon. I had a bloodied victim and a suspect who fired in front of hundreds of witnesses. Of course, I looked around, but I didn’t see the point of wasting time looking for anything else.”
“I see.” Returning to the table, Philip picked up the paper bag and the note from the police sergeant. “Officer Avery. I wonder if you’d be good enough to read this note aloud to the jury.”