by Jack Ford
As the clerk passed the document across the table to Kitty, he raised his nose in the air as if he were encountering a noxious odor, and addressed her in a condescending tone. “I will read this to you, and you can then make your mark at the bottom, signifying that you understand,” he said.
“No need,” said Kitty, mirroring his attitude with a haughty tone of her own. “I can read and write,” she said, and then she picked up the document and read it out loud, just to prove her point. She then signed it.
The undersigned plaintiff, Kitty, a Negro woman who professes to be free, hereby petitions for the benefit of herself and her children, Eliza Jane, Mary, and Arthur, against Samuel Maddox, a resident of Rappahannock County, claiming that the said Samuel Maddox did, with force and arms, beat, wound, hurt, and injure the said plaintiff and imprisoned her against her will. Wherefore, the said plaintiff sayeth that she is injured and hath sustained damages in the amount of $1 000.00, and therefore she sues.
Signed,
Kitty
“That is correct,” sniffed the clerk after Kitty handed him the document. “I will have the complaint delivered to the court. The circuit judge will arrange for the complaint to be served on the defendant and will then set a schedule for the trial. That’s all,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.
“Thank you,” Kitty said formally.
As she and the jailer rose, Lillard leaned toward the clerk and glared at him for a moment. The clerk recoiled, surprised at the jailer’s apparent annoyance.
“Miss Kitty will be residing with us until this matter is resolved,” Lillard said. “You shall contact me if you need anything from her. Understand?”
The clerk nodded his head vigorously, uncertain how he had offended the jailer but anxious to try to placate him. “Yes, sir,” the clerk answered. “Certainly, sir. I will be sure that is noted.”
“Little rat bastard,” Lillard mumbled as he and Kitty left the clerk’s office. “Beg pardon, ma’am,” he said to Kitty. “Apologies for my language. Thinks he runs this here county. Gets my anger up every time I got to deal with him.”
“No apology necessary. My thoughts exactly. Except my language might’ve been a bit stronger,” Kitty said, chuckling.
As they walked past the courthouse toward the jail, Kitty noticed a covered wagon making its way down the street in their direction. The wagon braked to a halt, and two men carrying bullwhips jumped from the front and threw back the tarpaulin, revealing a dozen black men chained together in the wagon bed.
Kitty, alarmed, shot the jailer a questioning look.
“Slave market day today,” Lillard said. “Been doin’ more of ’em lately. Folks’re havin’ trouble makin’ ends meet, so they been sellin’ off slaves for the cash.”
Kitty shook her head, confused. “They sell the slaves here? At the courthouse?” she asked.
“Yep,” Lillard said, shrugging. “Been drawin’ pretty good size crowds. Bunch of slave traders from down south been comin’ up here, lookin’ for good deals.”
Kitty could not draw her gaze away from the manacled black men, who were shuffling along in leg irons as the white men pushed and prodded them toward the front steps of the elegant redbrick courthouse. Still staring at the slaves as she entered the yard of the jail building, she did not notice that her three children were outside playing with Mistress Lillard. Eliza Jane approached her cautiously as Mary and Arthur romped with the Lillards’ dog.
“Mama? What they doin’ with those men over there?” she asked quietly, nodding in the direction of the slaves lining up on the courthouse steps.
“Slave market,” Kitty whispered. “Owners are sellin’ ’em off. Down south.”
Eliza Jane stepped closer and clasped Kitty’s hand. “They gonna sell us off, too?” she asked.
“No, baby,” Kitty answered softly. “I won’t ever let that happen. And we got Mistress Mary on our side. And now Miss Fanny, too.” She pulled her daughter close to her and kissed the top of her head. “Won’t ever let that happen,” she repeated. “We’ll be free again soon. I promise.”
CHAPTER 55
“REPRESENT A SLAVE?” ASKED ZEPHANIA TURNER INCREDULOUSLY. “Bringing charges against a white man? And asking the court to be set free? Why would I ever want to do that?”
Mary and Fanny were sitting in armchairs, facing Turner across the desk in his office. The lawyer was dressed as always in a suit jacket and waistcoat, with an elegant blue silk cravat knotted stylishly around his neck, held in place by a pearl stickpin. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, shaking his head in bewilderment over the suggestion.
“Because she’s not a slave. She’s free—I set her free,” answered Mary. “We just have to prove it in court.”
“I don’t disagree with you on that point,” Turner said. “I’ve told you—and Sam—that I believe the will gave you the right to free her and her children. But there is a significant difference between advising you”—he paused and then leaned forward, placing his hands on his desktop, his voice rising—“and actually representing a slave in court. You have to understand how difficult that would be. What would people think? What would they say?”
The room was silent for a long moment, and then Mary spoke.
“I would hope they’d say that you did the right thing,” she said calmly. “That you did what lawyers are supposed to do. You helped to right a wrong.”
“We understand this will be difficult,” added Fanny solicitously. “It will be difficult for us, too. But understand something. We’re not looking to become abolitionists here. Lord knows that’s not what I want. I’m tired of all those know-it-all Northerners condemning me to hell for how we live. All you have to do is look at my plantation and how many slaves we have to know that.” She shook her head. “And I’m sure there are folks who’ll call me a hypocrite for supporting Kitty. But this is different.”
“What we’re arguing,” Mary chimed in, “is that Kitty is free. And whether she’s black or white, no one should be allowed to treat a free person the way Sam Maddox treated her. That’s all we’re saying.”
“But we need you to help us say it,” Mary pleaded. “We need you to be her voice in court. It’s the right thing to do, morally and legally, Mr. Turner. I’m hopeful you can see that. And we are begging you to help us.”
Turner leaned back in his chair again and let out a sigh. He gazed across the room, his eyes narrowed and nearly closed, contemplating the request and how he should respond. His father was a prosperous landowner, but he had chosen to follow the path of the law rather than that of his family business. But would his father, who had encouraged his choice of the law, and his family and friends understand if he now chose to defend a slave in court, especially a slave seeking her freedom?
“I’ve never owned my own slaves,” he said. “There was always something about it that made me feel somewhat uncomfortable. Not really sure why,” he added, almost as if he was musing out loud rather than talking to the two women. “I remember once puzzling over how Thomas Jefferson—whom I’ve always revered—could author such soaring rhetoric as ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal’ and nevertheless still be a slaveholder. I found it to be an interesting intellectual paradox, but really nothing more.” He shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve thought about it much since—”
“When you decided to pursue the law,” Mary said, interrupting his reflections, “you must have hoped that somehow you’d be following a higher calling. That someday you might be able to do something—something more than just closing a land title or resolving a business dispute, something that would allow you to change someone’s life. To change it for the better so that at the end of the day, you could say that someone was better off because of what you had done to help them. We don’t get too many of those chances in our lives.” She paused and looked at him intently. “But this could be your chance.”
The lawyer remained silent, his hands stee
pled prayer-like in front of his face. Finally, he looked at Fanny. “You truly believe this is the right thing to do?” he asked.
Fanny nodded her head.
“And you’re not worried about how everyone—your family and friends—will react?” he asked.
“Truthfully?” she said, with a wry smile. “A little. Well, maybe more than a little. I suppose my sister, Katie, will never talk to me again. Although I don’t necessarily view that as such a terrible loss. And I suppose there’ll be other folks who may not be so quick to invite me to their parties anymore. Or even speak to me again. But sometimes you have to do what you believe is the right thing, regardless of the cost. And,” she added, looking at Mary, “I know that my true friends will understand.”
Again, there was a lengthy silence, as Turner was clearly grappling mightily with his decision.
“One last thing,” Fanny said. “If you choose to take her case—and I truly hope you do—it will be an act of good conscience on your part. But it will not be an act of charity. I would insist that I pay you for your services.” She smiled sweetly. “And you would, of course, also receive our deepest gratitude.”
Turner returned Fanny’s smile but remained silent.
“Would you at least talk with her first?” Mary implored. “Before you decide.”
“Perhaps that might be helpful,” he agreed.
“Thank you,” said Mary. “She’s being held at the jail, in the debtors’ rooms. Could you come with us now to see her?”
Turner thought a minute, looked up at the large clock in the corner, and then nodded. “I’m meeting with a client later in the day, but I have some time right now,” he said.
“Thank you,” added Fanny as they all rose from their chairs.
* * *
A few minutes later, Turner, along with Mary and Fanny, was seated in the cramped office of the jail when Kitty entered. Turner stood and offered her a slight bow.
“My name is Zephania Turner. I am an attorney,” he said formally as he gestured to an empty chair. “Please be seated.”
Kitty sat and shot a questioning look at both Mary and Fanny.
“We’ve asked Mr. Turner to come speak with you, and he’s been kind enough to agree,” said Mary.
“Mr. Turner is a fine lawyer,” said Fanny. “And he is a friend,” she added, turning a beguiling smile on the lawyer, who offered a shy half smile in return.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Turner,” Kitty said politely. “But I should tell you right up front, I have no money to pay you, so . . .”
The lawyer waved his hand dismissively. “No need to talk about that right now. I simply wanted to meet with you and discuss your case,” he said.
Kitty looked at Mary and Fanny once again, and each offered a nod of encouragement. She turned back to Turner. “Thank you,” Kitty repeated.
“Now,” Turner began, “Miss Withers and Mistress Maddox have told me the essence of the story, but I’d like to hear it again, this time from you. So please tell me everything that has happened since you and Mistress Maddox began your journey from here to Pennsylvania.”
Thirty minutes later, Kitty completed her telling of the saga. Turner had listened carefully, his face expressionless, prompting her occasionally with specific questions. He was silent for a short time, apparently contemplating the details and implications of the tale. Then he spoke directly to Kitty.
“It’s a frightening story,” he said, shaking his head in both wonder and admiration. “You’ve shown great courage,” he noted. “As have Mistress Maddox and Miss Withers. You are fortunate to have them as friends and supporters.”
“I am mindful of that,” Kitty answered, with a nod and a grateful smile to the two women.
“Let me discuss with you—with all of you—the difficulties I envision if you go forward with this case,” he said.
“Pardon me, Mr. Turner,” Kitty said firmly, yet still politely. “But I do intend to go forward, no matter the difficulties.”
“I understand,” said Turner. “But please indulge me for a moment so that I am certain that you completely understand the legal complexities—as you go forward.” He took a deep breath and then continued. “There appears to be no question that you have been assaulted by Sam Maddox and held against your will. But here is the problem. Under the laws of the Commonwealth of Virginia, slaves are considered property, not persons, and as such, they do not have any recognizable rights in a court of law. Not only do they have no rights, but they are also not even allowed to actually give testimony in a courtroom.”
“But,” interjected Kitty, “I’m not a slave. . . .”
Turner held up his hand to silence her. “I appreciate that. And I will get to that issue in a moment, I assure you,” he said courteously. “So, I believe the threshold question a judge will have to decide is your standing to proceed with these charges against Sam.”
“What does that mean?” asked Kitty.
“It means that if the judge determines that you were, in fact, free at the time, you would be able to proceed with the case and your claims against Sam,” Turner explained.
“But I have the papers I signed freeing her and the children,” Mary said.
Turner waved his hand again. “I realize that,” he said patiently. “Please let me finish, and then we can discuss that.” He turned back to Kitty. “However,” he continued, “if the judge determines that Master Maddox’s will did not actually give Mistress Maddox the title to his slaves and thus the right to free you—as Sam will argue—then you will be deemed a slave in the eyes of the law and will have no standing to sue. Indeed, you will not be allowed to testify at all. Your claims would be dismissed. Do you understand?”
“I do,” Kitty answered. “But, Mr. Turner, I need you to understand something from me. I am free,” she said defiantly. “Don’t matter to me what Sam or some judge or anybody else thinks. I know I am free. Although God didn’t see fit to have me born free, Mistress Mary saw fit to rectify that. For me and my children. And I plan on standin’ up in that courtroom—with your help or without it—and provin’ to the world that I’m free. And then I’ll trust in God to bring me justice.”
No one spoke for a full minute, as Turner, after listening to Kitty, shifted in his chair, his head inclined to one side, and gazed thoughtfully out the window toward the redbrick courthouse. The silent minute seemed to last forever. Finally, he turned back to Kitty.
“Miss Kitty,” he said respectfully, “you have persevered through a great deal on your journey. I am deeply impressed by your fortitude. And you’ve been fortunate to have good friends accompanying you and guiding you along the way.” He paused a moment, looked at Mary and Fanny. Then his gaze went back to Kitty as he continued. “I cannot predict exactly what a court will do with your case. But I would consider it a privilege to act as your attorney in this matter.”
CHAPTER 56
THE SPECTACLE AND CEREMONY OF CIRCUIT COURT DAY ARRIVED SEVERAL weeks later. It was a crisp, clear Virginia summer day, and the pleasant weather acted like a magnet, drawing large and festive crowds to the usually drowsy hamlet of Washington. Those with business before the court mingled with the merely curious on the lawns surrounding the courthouse, waiting patiently for the imposing double doors to swing open and the curtain to rise on the theater of justice. The chorus of sounds—the low murmuring of nervous litigants; the self-important proclamations of the few lawyers roaming the grounds, seeking business; the hawking of wares by vendors in the street—all combined to create the anthem that accompanied this regularly scheduled and highly anticipated day of dispensing fairness and wisdom.
There seemed to be a particularly strong undercurrent of expectation coursing through the crowd. The first court day of each session always brought flocks of petitioners, defendants, and observers to town, but the numbers of visitors and the aura of energy encircling the stately columned red brick building far exceeded those of a traditional first day. That was because today was the day t
hat the court would begin hearing the case of Kitty v. Samuel Maddox.
The story of the slave woman suing a white man for damages, claiming that he had assaulted and kidnapped her, had captured the interest of many—and the ire of some—in Rappahannock County and beyond. Sam Maddox was well known—though not necessarily well liked—throughout the county, and Mary Maddox and her late husband, Samuel, had been respected residents for decades. This clash of family versus family, enhanced by the central presence of the unknown and reputedly beautiful young slave woman, had given rise to classic dramatic theater, now set to play out within the walls of a courtroom.
Many were milling about, driven by simple inquisitiveness and anxious to find seats inside to witness the spectacle; others were present, fueled by anger over the prospect of a slave asserting legal rights to redress some perceived wrong perpetrated by a white man, hopeful of witnessing the crushing of the slave’s arrogance by the legal system and a reaffirmation of their way of life and social code.
At precisely ten o’clock, the doors swung open and the deputy clerk stepped outside to herald the start of the session in the words first utilized more than a century earlier in the courthouses of colonial Virginia.
“Oyez, Oyez, Oyez. All manner of persons that have anything to do at this court, draw near and give your attendance. All who have complaint to enter or suit to prosecute, let them come forth and be heard.”
The members of the crowd pushed and cajoled their way through the doors, down the short hallway, and past the arched entrance that led to the courtroom. Within seconds, every seat in the double rows of benches was inhabited, and those who were not quick enough found themselves standing along the walls of the room or exiled up one of two curving, creaking back stairways to the small second-floor gallery, which looked down over the courtroom.