Forbidden Love

by Shirley Martin

  "Blast furnace exploded!" He slumped against the door, gasping for breath.

  Through a haze of anguish, she stared at Emil, covered with red dust. "Anton!" She pressed her hand to her heart, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, her heart beating frantically. Holy Mother, please! Please have Anton be safe.

  "A little burned." Emil turned away, his facial muscles working. He gazed down at the floor, shuffling his feet.

  Emma's hand tightened on the back of the chair. "How . . . how bad was the explosion?"

  "Several injured . . . and killed." Emil hung his head, looking everywhere but at her.

  With trembling hands, Emma reached for her cape and babushka hanging from a door hook. A wave of dizziness halted her movements, but she refused to succumb to weakness. "Where is he?"

  * * *

  They buried Anton several days later in the Catholic cemetery on a hill overlooking Homestead. If only she could forget his last days, Emma lamented, when he'd suffered horrible pain, and in such a drug-induced stupor, he hadn't even recognized her. Mary, Mother of God, how it hurt! She pressed her hands to her eyes, the tears streaming down her face. Sobbing brokenly, she recalled all the good times she and Anton had shared, their love for each other.

  She stood with her friends as the coffin was lowered into the frozen ground. A fierce wind whipped across the hill, scattering dry snow and bending bare tree branches. She tightened her babushka and hugged her thin cape closer to her body as she agonized over her future. By all that was holy, how would she manage? The benefit society of St. Michael the Archangel had paid for the funeral and given her money to tide her over, but that small sum wouldn't last forever. So, it was back to Slovakia, for she missed her family dreadfully. She drew a handkerchief from her pocket and dried her tears, fighting for the strength to bear a bleak future.

  * * *

  Owen had come to the cemetery to pay his last respects to Anton. He stood apart from the others, not wanting to intrude on Emma's grief and the solace she derived from her friends. He observed the priest saying a few final words but stood too far away to hear them. The last bits of earth were shoveled over the coffin, a painful reminder of death's finality.

  As he turned to leave, Emma caught sight of him and headed his way.

  "It was kind of you to come, Mr. Cardiff," she said, her voice breaking. "That means so much to me." She dabbed her face, struggling to control the tears.

  Owen spoke in his halting Slovak. "It was the least I could do, Emma." What an inadequate thing to say; he regretted the words immediately. He wouldn't ask her about her plans for the future; she had enough to deal with in the present. He turned away from her for a moment, overcome by a sorrowful rage. Greed, plain greed had caused the accident. The mills were using cheaper ores now from the Mesabi Range and not making technical adjustments for the difference in ores. How many more workers would pay with their lives for the short-sighted avarice of the mill owners?

  Owen stared across the gravestone-dotted hill, observing Emma’s friends waiting for her, grief plain on their faces. "I mustn't keep you from your friends any longer. But remember, if I can help you . . . if you should need any money . . ." Owen looked away again, fighting tears of sorrow and anger. Would he be here to aid her? His trial would begin tomorrow, but he pushed that worry from his mind. "Please come to me anytime you need help," Owen offered.

  Emma managed a wan smile. "I shall always remember your kindness, Mr. Cardiff. Ist es Bohom.”

  “Es Bohom, Emma," he replied. "May you go with God, too."

  * * *

  Lisa took one last look at the parlor of her new house in Allegheny, noting the furnishings, as if she’d never see them again. Would she and Owen have the chance to share these lovely things? she asked while running her fingers along the back of the green horsehair sofa. Would she ever see him again? It seemed as if he’d been in jail forever. God, she prayed, please have the jury find him innocent. Please, please. And what if the jury declares him guilty? a voice inside her head whispered. What then? Lisa shook her head vigorously, banishing the thought.

  Her black velvet hat in place, she reached for her black woolen cape from the coat rack and slipped it on, then eased on her black kid gloves. Bracing herself against the cold, she left her house on Resaca Place and made her way to the Sixth Avenue Bridge that led into Pittsburgh.

  It was a long, cold walk across the bridge, a harsh wind pummeling her face. Even though it was mid-morning, the street lights had been turned on, barely penetrating the city's murky shroud. Heavily-packed snow crunched beneath her high-button shoes as she took cautious steps, fearful she might slip and fall.

  Finally reaching Ross Street, Lisa viewed the massive Allegheny County Courthouse. The county jail stood across the street from the courthouse, the Bridge of Sighs connecting the two buildings. A short while later, she entered the building's cold, tomblike interior and paused for a few seconds, then located a sign pointing to Criminal Court on the second floor. Gathering her skirt in her hand, she mounted the marble steps, then proceeded to Criminal Court.

  She found the last empty seat on the defense side of the room, back in the last row. A group of staid, dark-suited men with tablets in front of them sat at a separate table; she assumed they were newspaper reporters. More than anything, she observed the great crowd that had assembled in this room, all the spectators appearing anxious to view the upcoming trial.

  An air of intense anticipation pervaded the courtroom, a certainty that some momentous occasion would soon begin. Lisa listened to bits and snatches of conversation, recognizing that the people's sympathy lay with Owen. Other strikers had been charged with murder, she heard the onlookers say, but this man was one of the strike leaders. Would the jury find him guilty and sentence him to hanging? They wouldn't dare!

  Despite the chilly room, perspiration beaded her forehead. With shaking fingers, Lisa drew her linen handkerchief from her handbag and raised it to her face.

  Owen entered the room, his attorney at his side. All her senses became keenly alive, as if her entire life had been merely a prelude to this one cataclysmic event. How wonderful he looked, how confident, as he walked to his chair in his easy stride. He and his lawyer quietly took their seats.

  Immediately upon the opening of the court, Owen was ordered to stand. Having heard the charge read, he pleaded "Not Guilty" in a clear, firm voice. Lisa's heart leaped; the blood pounded in her head. How she loved him!

  Robert Caldwell, the prosecuting attorney, rose to address the jury in his booming voice, advising the men that Owen Cardiff was simply on trial for murder. "It has nothing to do with the charge of treason against him. You must also remember, gentlemen, that the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is the prosecutor and Owen Cardiff the defendant. There is no private prosecutor here. The case will be presented by public officials and no one will be allowed to interfere . . . ."

  The defense attorney, William Browning, gave his opening statement, promising to prove Owen's innocence. Then Caldwell called the first witness, a bookkeeper at a glass factory. Stoop-shouldered and wearing thick glasses, the witness took the stand.

  After the preliminaries, Caldwell began his questioning. "Do you recall the events of July 6, 1892 on the site of the Homestead mill, in which the steelworkers fired on the Pinkerton guards who'd been sent to keep the mill open?"

  The defense attorney jumped to his feet. "Your Honor, I object! Who fired first on that day has never been ascertained."

  The judge viewed Browning impassively. "Objection overruled. Mr. Caldwell never said the steelworkers fired first."

  Somber-faced, Browning returned to his chair.

  Caldwell repeated his question.

  "Of course, I remember," the witness answered.

  "And where were you on that day?"

  "Close to the mill ground, where I could see everything that happened."

  "Did you see the defendant on the morning of July 6?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you recogn
ize him in this courtroom?"

  "Yes," the witness replied, pointing to Owen. "That's him sitting there. I saw him on the mill ground on July 6, just as plain as I see him now."

  The spectators moved restlessly in their seats and nudged each other, consternation plain on their faces. Lisa passed a hand across her eyes, trying to reassure herself that this was only the beginning of the trial. Things had to get better. The buzzing of conversation continued.

  The judge banged his gavel. "Order in the court! A man is on trial for murder. Let us have quiet."

  "I have no further questions," Caldwell said as he turned to the defense attorney. "Your witness."

  Browning rose from the defense table. Tall and thin, with a neatly-trimmed goatee, he had the look of an ascetic, like a man who spent all his time poring over ancient manuscripts, rather than one who defended innocent men in a court of law. And this is the man who's going to defend Owen, Lisa agonized with a sinking heart.

  The defense attorney leaned against the railing as he addressed the witness. "You were close to the mill grounds on July 6?"

  "I said I was."

  "And I believe you said you saw everything that happened on that day. Am I correct?"

  The witness frowned. "Well," he hedged, "everything there was to see."

  "Then, sir, you must be truly omniscient if you saw everything. But tell me something," he continued quickly before the courtroom had a chance to react to his last statement. "About how far from the defendant were you?"

  The man looked puzzled. "I . . . I'm not sure."

  "Come now," Browning persisted. "Surely you can give us an estimate. Fifty yards, one-hundred, one-hundred and fifty?"

  "About one-hundred and fifty, I suppose."

  "One-hundred and fifty yards," Browning repeated, looking skeptical. "And what was the defendant wearing?"

  The witness squirmed in his seat. "Dark blue pants and a gray shirt," he replied after some hesitation.

  Browning turned to the judge. "I have no further questions, Your Honor."

  Other witnesses were called throughout the morning, men who seemed surer of themselves, the evidence more damaging. Yes, they recognized Owen Cardiff as one of the armed strikers. Yes, they'd seen him take aim and shoot at one of the Pinkerton guards, John Maginnis. Tension wrapped around Lisa like a python ready for the kill. Queasiness roiled in her stomach. This was it, then. The jury would surely find Owen guilty, she realized with a certainty that sent her heart plummeting.

  "It don't look too good for him, does it?" she heard one man ask of another.

  "He's gonna hang," the second man answered. He gave a sorrowful shake of his head, as if the jury had already announced the dreaded verdict. Lisa clutched her stomach, saying a silent prayer.

  The trial resumed after a short noontime break, and Owen returned to his seat. Lisa observed the tense set of his shoulders, the grim line of his mouth, and wanted, more than anything, to rush to him and hold him close to her heart. Would he ever look her way? she worried with increasing despondency. She'd had no chance to talk to him during the break, since he'd left the room with his lawyer, not even looking in her direction.

  But of course he wasn't expecting her in the courtroom; he'd told her not to attend his trial. Well, she was here now, and if only he'd look her way, surely her presence would cheer him. And don't ever let him see your discouragement, she reminded herself. Lisa clenched her gloved hands in her lap, her heart beating furiously. Closing her eyes for a moment, she forced herself to breathe more slowly.

  More witnesses took the stand, everyone saying they'd seen Owen Cardiff fire his gun and kill the Pinkerton guard. Browning, resourceful and quick-witted, ripped through much of the testimony, leaving many of the witnesses unsure of themselves and fumbling for words. Still, Lisa realized that enough other witnesses had presented terribly damaging evidence. Only a miracle would save Owen.

  Hours passed, and still Lisa didn't get a chance to talk to Owen. Now, late afternoon shadows darkened the room, adding a somber dimension to the courtroom proceedings. Despite Browning's heroic efforts to save Owen, enough witnesses had given testimony to hang him. Lisa leaned forward in the gathering darkness, fearful she might miss a word, a gesture. Browning, at his seat again, was writing furiously on a tablet. Scarcely daring to hope, Lisa wondered what significance that had.

  The bailiff strode throughout the courtroom, pulling electrical cords to turn the lights on. Now, everything looked brighter, clearer.

  Easing his chair back, Owen turned to view the courtroom. His eyes met Lisa's, a look of shocked surprise on his face. She returned his look with one of her own, one of such deep devotion and faith that told him her love would always be his, no matter the outcome of the trial.

  Owen smiled, a slow, encouraging smile, that seemed to say, Don't worry about me. I’ll be all right. Did he really believe that, or was he merely trying to make her feel better? In any event, hope blossomed inside her for a brief moment, then disappeared as the gravity of his situation reclaimed her. Never would she let him see her doubt, however. She returned his smile, her unspoken words seeming to say, I believe you, and I believe in you.

  * * *

  The trial continued, day after day, with Lisa given only a brief moment with Owen at the end of each day, not nearly enough time to tell him all that was in her heart. She hoped and prayed the trial would end soon, for she didn’t think she could bear the uncertainty much longer. She remembered that Sylvester Critchlow's trial had lasted for several days. Yes, and he'd been acquitted! Please, God, have the jury find Owen innocent, too, she prayed.

  On this day, the prosecuting attorney called his final witness, a stocky, thickset man of indeterminate occupation. "Mr. Peabody," he queried, "did you see the defendant on the morning of July 6, 1892?"

  "Of course, I saw him."

  "Is he here in the courtroom today?"

  "He sure is," Peabody replied, pointing to Owen.

  Angry murmuring erupted in the courtroom.

  The judge banged his gavel. "Order in the court!"

  The courtroom became quiet. Outside, complete darkness had fallen on Pittsburgh, the buildings of the city but pale outlines in the foggy late afternoon air.

  Caldwell's next question jerked her back to the present. “And did you see the defendant aim his gun and fire at the Pinkerton guards?"

  "Yes! I already told you that before the trial."

  Caldwell's mouth formed a tight smile. "We want to hear you say it again, Mr. Peabody."

  "Yes," he repeated, nodding toward Owen. "He raised his gun and aimed it at one of the Pinkerton guards, then he fired."

  With a smile of confident satisfaction, the prosecuting attorney turned to the defense attorney. "Your witness."

  Browning strode toward the witness stand. "Mr. Peabody, you said you saw the defendant on the mill grounds on the morning of July 6. Can you tell me what he was wearing?"

  Peabody hesitated, a bewildered expression on his face. "Brown pants," he said after a pause, "and a plaid shirt."

  "I see." Browning paused, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Peabody, where are you from?"

  Peabody jerked in his seat. "Pittsburgh," he replied in an unsteady voice.

  A look of mock bewilderment came over Browning. "That's strange. Somehow, I got the impression you were from Illinois."

  "No, sir!"

  "Oh, but I believe you are. And isn't it also true you served time in Joliet Prison for counterfeiting?"

  Peabody jumped from his seat. "Where'd you hear that?"

  Browning smiled. "I have evidence.”

  "It's a lie!" Peabody persisted, returning to his seat. "I've never been in Illinois, and I sure never did no counterfeiting."

  Without hesitation, Browning strode over to the table and grabbed a sheaf of papers. Brandishing them, he challenged the witness. "Oh, no? This is the evidence.” He turned to the jury and rolled his eyes, as if to say, Well, what did you expect? Then he addressed the judge
. "Your Honor, I have no further questions for this witness."

  Browning called several defense witnesses, friends and acquaintances of Owen's who spoke from the heart, testifying to his good character. Yet their testimony was based on sentiment rather than logic, and most of them were also union steelworkers who'd been involved in the battle with the Pinkertons. Lisa listened to their testimony, her heart sinking further.

  After that, Browning called Owen to the stand. A buzz of conversation issued from the onlookers as they craned their necks to get a better glimpse of the defendant. Lisa shifted in her seat, trying to see around the man in front of her. She forced herself to sit quietly, convinced she had as clear a view as possible.

  "I don't own a rifle," Owen stated in his defense. "Never fired one in my life. And I certainly didn't have one with me on July 6."

  "That will be all," Browning stated. "The defense rests."

  The people in the courtroom turned and smiled at each other, as if to say, There, you see! The man is innocent.

  Closing arguments followed, in which the defense attorney pointed out the discrepancies in evidence to the jury. Then the judge read instructions to the assembled men, emphasizing that guilt must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

  Lisa, too, felt a thrill of hope until she looked at the somber-faced gentlemen of the jury. Filing out of the room, not one of these men appeared to have a bit of sympathy for Owen. They all looked as if they would willingly consign him to death by hanging, without a moment's hesitation.

  Lisa twisted her fingers in her lap. She hoped and prayed that the jury understood the defense attorney's earlier instructions--They couldn't convict Owen unless the prosecution had proved his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

  Within an hour, the jury returned. Grim-faced as ever, not one of them looked in Owen's direction. Averting their eyes, they silently filed back to their seats.