by Caleb Carr
But had the jury been able to see that? Or was it only the few of us what knew her full history who’d been able to read Libby’s face?
Looking terribly alone without Mr. Picton nearby, Clara turned her eyes downward once more, and started moving her lips silently. Seeing the near desperation on the girl’s face, the judge leaned over toward her. “Clara?” he said. “Are you able to go on now?”
With a start Clara looked up at him. “Go on?” she asked softly.
“The defense must question you now,” the judge answered, with just about the only smile I ever saw him exhibit during the trial.
“Oh,” Clara answered, like maybe she’d forgotten. “Yes. I can go on, sir.”
The judge sat back, looking to the defense table. “All right, Mr. Darrow.”
During the whole of Mr. Picton’s examination of Clara, Mr. Darrow’s hands’d been folded in front of his face, so that it’d been pretty tough to tell what he was thinking or how he was reacting. But when he stood up for his cross-examination, all the deep worry and occasional outrage what we’d seen him exhibit to this point seemed gone, and his features became open and relaxed in a way what Clara pretty obviously considered a relief.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said, gently smiling and moving toward the witness box. But he moved at an angle what made it impossible for Clara to get any more looks at the Doctor: life is never more tit-for-tat than when you’re in a courtroom. “Hello, Clara,” he said as he got closer to her. “I know this isn’t easy, so I’m going to try to get you out of here as soon as I can.” Clara just dropped her eyes as an answer. “Clara, you say the next thing you remember is waking up in your house, is that right?” At another nod from the girl, Mr. Darrow went on, “But I don’t guess you thought you’d had a bad dream, did you?”
“No,” Clara answered. “I was—hurt …”
“Yes,” Mr. Darrow said, fairly oozing sympathy. “You were hurt pretty bad. And you’d been asleep for a long time, did you know that?”
“They told me later—the doctors did.”
“A long sleep can make people confused sometimes. I know if I sleep too long, I sometimes don’t even know where I am or how I got there, when I wake up.”
“I knew where I was,” Clara said, softly but firmly. “I was at home.”
“Good girl,” the Doctor whispered, craning his neck in an effort to get a look at her but not wanting to be obvious about it.
“Of course you were,” Mr. Darrow said. “But did you know everything else? I mean, as soon as you woke up, did you remember everything else?”
As if she couldn’t help herself, Clara again glanced over at her mother, who had her hands folded on the defense table like she was pleading for something, while her eyes’d filled with tears. Seeing this, Clara bobbed her head back down like she’d been jerked with a rope, and said, “I remember Mama screaming. And crying. She said that Matthew and Tommy were dead. I didn’t understand. I tried to get up and ask her, but the Doctor gave me some medicine. I went back to sleep.”
“And when you woke up the second time?”
“Mama was next to my bed. With the doctors.”
“Did your mama tell you anything?”
“She said that we’d all been attacked—by a man. A crazy man. She said he’d killed Matthew and Tommy.” Tears now slowly streaming down her face again, Clara added, “I started to cry. I wanted to see my brothers, but Mama said—I couldn’t ever. Ever again …”
“I see,” Mr. Darrow told her. Then he pulled a handkerchief—one what was a lot neater than the clothes it’d been concealed in—out of his breast pocket. “Would you like to use this?” Clara took the white piece of linen and wiped her face. “Clara, how long after that did your mama go away?”
“Soon. I think. I don’t know, not for sure.”
“But was she with you all that time before she left?”
Clara nodded. “Her and Lou, sa—our housekeeper. The doctors, sometimes, too. And Mr. Picton visited.”
“I’m sure he did,” Mr. Darrow said, looking over at the jury. “And what did your mama tell you before she went away?”
Stealing another look at Libby, Clara answered, “That she had to go find us a new place to live. So we didn’t have to live in that house. It was too sad, she said—Dada was dead, and Tommy and Matthew, too. She told me she’d find a new place, and come back to take me away when she did.”
“And did you believe her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you usually believe your mama?”
“Yes. Except—”
“Except—?”
“Except when She got mad sometimes. Then, sometimes, she would say things that—I didn’t believe her. I don’t think she meant them, though.”
“I see,” Mr. Darrow said, turning his body away from her without moving from his spot on the floor. “So—the last things you now remember about that night on the Charlton road are your mama touching you with a gun, then pulling the trigger—and after that there was a loud noise?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t remember it when you woke up?” Clara shook her head. “And you can’t remember anything about what happened to Tommy and Matthew?”
” I didn’t—I didn’t see—what happened.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“And so your mama went away, and you went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Weston—is that right?” Clara nodded. “And did you remember anything about what happened that night during the time you lived with them?”
“Not—” Here Clara worked very hard, pretty obviously to remember something. “Not so’s I could talk about it. Or show it. Only so’s I could see it. In my head.”
Mr. Darrow spun quickly to the girl, causing her to start a bit and try, without success, to look at the Doctor. “That’s quite a mouthful, for a little girl. Not so’s you could talk about it or show it, but so’s you could see it in your head. You think of that all by yourself?”
Clara looked down quickly. “It’s the way it was.”
“Did you think of that all by yourself, Clara?” Mr. Darrow repeated. Then, without waiting for an answer, he moved in closer. “Or isn’t it in fact true that Dr. Kreizler led you to see it that way, and told you to use those words when it came time to tell the story in court?”
Mr. Picton was out of his chair like the seat was lined with hot coals. “Your Honor, the state protests! We asked for special treatment of this witness, and what do we get? Leading and badgering!”
Before the judge could answer, Mr. Darrow was holding up a hand. “I will withdraw the question, Your Honor, and try to make my questions more palatable to the state.” Again smiling at the witness, Mr. Darrow asked, “Clara, when did you first start to remember what happened that night? I mean, remember it so that you could talk about it?”
Clara shrugged, her face looking even more worried after the short but sharp exchange between the lawyers. “Not too long ago, I guess.”
“Before you met Dr. Kreizler?” Clara reluctantly shook her head. “After you met Dr. Kreizler?” Clara didn’t move. “Or was it when you met Dr. Kreizler?”
Mr. Picton was up again. “Your Honor, with all due respect, which question does the learned counsel from Illinois wish the witness to answer?”
“Sit down, Mr. Picton,” Judge Brown replied. “The counsel for the defense is within his rights.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said. “Well, Clara?”
“I never forgot,” the girl answered, more tears coming as she did. “I never forgot, not really.”
“And what didn’t you forget? You never knew what happened to Tommy and Matthew, that’s fine, you’ve told us that. So you couldn’t and don’t remember it. But what did you know that you didn’t forget?”
“I never—” Looking up at the bench pleadingly, Clara said, “I don’t know what he means.”
“I mean, Clara,” Mr. Darrow went on, being a little fir
mer now, “what was it that you know that you never forgot, and what was it that you know that you forgot and only remembered not too long ago?”
Her body shaking once, Clara finally let out a sob as she looked from the judge to Mr. Darrow, and then tried to peer around the lawyer at the Doctor, who, for his part, was also desperately attempting to get himself into position to be seen by her.
“What the devil?” the Doctor whispered. “He’s deliberately attempting to confuse her—”
“I don’t understand!” Clara said again, openly crying now.
“Clara,” Mr. Darrow went on, “it’s very simple—”
“It’s not!” the girl cried. “I don’t understand—”
“Which is which?” Mr. Darrow said, surprising everyone in the room by letting his voice get stern, even a bit harsh. “What did you always know, and what did you forget but remember not too long ago, perhaps at about the time that you met Dr. Kreizler—and perhaps when you met Dr. Kreizler? Clara! You must—”
“Stop it!” a voice called out, silencing both the lawyer and the mumbling what had started in the galleries. The entire room turned to the defense table, where Libby Hatch was, like her daughter, in tears. “Leave her alone!” she shouted at Darrow. “You can’t treat her like this, not with what she’s been through. If she doesn’t remember, then she doesn’t! Stop browbeating my child! Stop it—s top!” Throwing her face into her hands, Libby collapsed onto the table as the crowd started to hum like a hive again, causing Judge Brown to smash his gavel down.
“The defendant will get herself under control!” he ordered. “And so will the galleries! Mr. Darrow—the court would like to know—”
“If it please the court, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow said quickly. “The defense will forgo the remainder of its questions to this witness. Under the circumstances, we ask for an adjournment until tomorrow morning.”
The noise of the crowd grew louder at that, and the judge set to rapping away. “Silence! I won’t have another sound!” As his order began to take effect, the judge set his gavel aside, looking very displeased. “The witness is excused,” he called. “And court is adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning—at which time I’d better see some radically different behavior, or I will close these proceedings!” A final rap, and Bailiff Coffey moved to help Clara—who was weeping heavily now—down out of the witness box. Mr. Picton rushed over to lend a hand, but the little girl’s tormented eyes were fixed on her apparently devastated mother.
“Don’t cry, Mama!” Clara called once more as she was led away. But her tone was very different, now: all the grown-up quality was gone, and the desperation in her words was underlined by the weight of her sobs. “Don’t cry, it’s going to help you! It’s supposed to help you, they told me—”
Libby Hatch never looked up. Sensing what was happening, the Doctor moved quickly for the gate in the railing; but when Clara saw him, her anguish only appeared to get worse, and she ran past him down the center aisle to Mr. and Mrs. Weston, who rushed her out of first the room and then the building.
The judge had already departed; and as the jury moved to do the same, Mr. Darrow got Libby to her feet and moved her in the direction of the side door down to her cell. But before either she or jury had exited, she began to wail, “She doesn’t remember! She doesn’t remember, how can you expect her to, she’s just a child! Oh, my poor Clara, my poor baby!”
At that Mr. Darrow turned to the jury box, looking uneasy; but the sight of their confused faces seemed to reassure him, and he gave the guard who’d been standing behind Iphegeneia Blaylock the okay to take his client on downstairs.
With things finally settling down, Mr. Picton made his way over to the Doctor. The look what they exchanged indicated nothing good, and I certainly didn’t have any trouble understanding why. The rest of our group crowded round, also looking deeply troubled; only Mr. Moore was scratching his head.
“Well,” he said, “if you ask me, Vanderbilt’s throwing his money away. Imagine trying to bully an eight-year-old girl like that! Darrow must be crazy! Hell, even her own mother—” Then he suddenly stopped: watching the rest of our faces, he finally realized what we’d already grasped. “Dammit!” he seethed quietly, with a stamp of his foot. “I hate being the last one to get these things! He planned the whole scene, didn’t he?”
“Son of a bitch,” Marcus said, more amazed than angry. “He took an unmitigated disaster for his client and turned it into a possible advantage.”
“And she played her part perfectly,” Mr. Picton said regretfully. Then he turned to Mr. Moore. “Men like Vanderbilt do not maintain their stations in life by making stupid choices, John.” He hissed once and slapped at the railing. “What the hell does Darrow care if people think he’s callous, if at the same time he can make the jury believe that Libby genuinely loves her daughter, and wouldn’t do anything to hurt her?”
I looked up at the Doctor, whose face had gone a little pale. He turned to stare at the mahogany doors, as if he thought Clara might come back into the room; but all he saw, all any of us saw, was the crowd filing out, some of them turning back to give our group what might politely be called very unsympathetic glances. Feeling for his chair, the Doctor swayed back and then sat on it, his features suddenly going very ashen: the kind of ashen they’d gone, I realized with some dread, when he’d gotten the news about Paulie McPherson.
As I stood there watching him, I felt a little tug at my arm, and turned to find El Niño giving me a grave look.
“Señorito Stevie,” he said, trying not to be heard by the others, “this is not a good thing.”
“No,” I answered, “it ain’t.”
The aborigine considered that, and then nodded, straightened his white silk tie, and put his hands to his hips. “This man Darrow—you are certain I should not kill him?”
“Actually,” I answered, shaking my head, “I’m beginning to wonder…”
CHAPTER 45
Spirits were very depressed around Mr. Picton’s house that night, all the more so because at the start of the day we’d figured that the afternoon’s events would put us pretty firmly in control of the case. Instead, the clever Mr. Darrow had battled us to what amounted to a draw, or maybe worse: he’d made Clara look unsure and confused, and he’d planted the idea that her confidence and maybe even her story had been the Doctor’s work, not her own. True, the facts as she’d recalled them worked to our favor; but as anybody who’s ever been involved with the law will tell you, facts aren’t always or even usually what decides a case. And so we didn’t talk much during dinner, the adults putting most of their energy into making another good-sized dent in Mr. Picton’s wine cellar. After the meal Marcus and Mr. Moore took the trolley on up to Saratoga to try to get an idea of what the general public’s reaction to Clara’s testimony’d been—though the answer to that question seemed pretty obvious.
As for me, I found that nightfall brought more worries about Kat. Ana Linares was still on my mind, too, as she was on everybody else’s; but the thought of what would happen if Libby got off, went back to New York, and found Kat trying to protect the baby tugged at my heart and my stomach in a way what I found I just couldn’t control. After dinner I went for a long walk, and when I came back I just sat out on the front porch of the house, still trying to think my way out of what I was feeling by telling myself that Kat should’ve already left New York, that she only had herself to blame for her new predicament. But it didn’t really work. The more I considered the problem, the more it brought me to a state of mind what was typical, when it came to my dealings with Kat: a kind of frustrated sadness, and underneath it a sense that somehow I was to blame for at least part of the situation.
Wrapped up in such cogitations and emotions, I barely noticed the sound of the screen door opening behind me. I knew it was the Doctor: he’d been able to read my worried face at dinner, and it would’ve been like him to want to make sure I was all right. I didn’t feel much like talking—as usual, th
e subject of Kat only made me feel stupid when I discussed it with other people—and so I was grateful when he just sat beside me and didn’t say a thing. We listened to the crickets for a time, and traded a few short comments about a swarm of fireflies what were giving a good imitation of the starry sky above us out on Mr. Picton’s front lawn. Other than that, though, we stayed wrapped up in our separate worries.
It was plain what the Doctor was thinking: the moment when Clara Hatch’d run past him and out the door of the courtroom had been a terrible one, and’d caused him to wonder whether he’d done right by the little girl, or if he hadn’t, in fact, been, using her for his own purposes instead of helping her. There wasn’t anything I could tell him—I honestly didn’t know how I felt about it. Maybe silence and forgetting would’ve been better, part of me thought, for somebody like Clara Hatch; maybe facing the devils of your past, especially at such a young age, was just a painful waste; maybe the key to life, despite everything the Doctor believed and’d spent his life working on, was to just put the ugliness what you encounter—what every person encounters—behind you, and get on with things. Maybe memory was just a wicked curse, and the kind of mind what could wipe out painful recollections a blessing. Maybe …
We were still sitting there on the porch when Mr. Moore and Marcus came wandering up. Catching sight of them, the Doctor stood and called out, “Did you see White?”
Mr. Moore nodded, holding up a small envelope. “We saw him.” They reached the steps, and Mr. Moore handed the envelope to the Doctor. “He didn’t have much to say, though.”
“There’s more,” Marcus added, as the rest of our group, drawn by the returning men’s voices, came out onto the porch. “Several other guests arrived at the Grand Union today—courtesy of Mr. Vanderbilt.”