31 Bond Street (23 page)

“So what does this mean?” asked Snarky.

“It means that if the Judge is in agreement, the trial’s over. Tomorrow we close.”

S
amuel could not see the room below from his spot high in the beams. He crouched, his back against a crossbeam, his arms pinned to his side to avoid any exposure. There was commotion outside from the street, as if a battalion of men on horseback was converging on the block, with shouts and iron hooves ringing on the rounded cobblestones. Horses whinnied as men pulled the reins and jumped off. In a matter of seconds he heard the crowd entering the storehouse, and the hounds were loosed among the maze of crates. As Samuel expected, the crescendo of barking dogs scrambled right through the room, straight to where he had been hiding, piling atop his satchel and shirt.

“We got him!” rose a jubilant cry, accompanied by deafening barks and the violent sound of the dogs jawing at his clothes. The men must have believed there was a body under those dogs for there was pandemonium: “We want him alive! Take him alive!” It took a while for the handlers to tease the pack apart by beating them with sticks.

The men hollered and pounded at the animals, and the dogs whimpered, retreating in disappointment. “It’s not him, it’s just his
things. He must be nearby! Don’t let him escape!” Men scattered to search the storeroom, tossing the sacks and crates, shouting and cursing, referring to him as the “nigger” and the “fugitive.” Samuel remained pinned against the rafters. His dark skin and dusky pants aided his camouflage; he dared not move a muscle for his slightest movement might draw an eye upward. The noises below went on for an interminable time until someone yelled, “The dogs have another scent. In the next warehouse!” and he heard the dogs run after the lead, scrambling after the next smell of meat.

Samuel waited in the roof until moonlight shone through the panes of the high windows. All sounds had subsided, and the search party had retreated hours ago. Below, it was pitch-black. He believed that the posse had gone, but he took no chances and waited long into nightfall. As he crouched in the rafters, he thought of this long year that he had served the Underground, by reporting the plans of the men who were doing business with Dr. Burdell. Besides reporting to the pastor and the abolitionists, he recounted the comings and goings to Katuma and his Indian friends, when they sat, grilling fish, around the riverbank. “Why don’t you tell the constabulary?” he recalled one of the Indians asking, when Samuel told of the illegal business in slave trade that was underfoot. Katuma scoffed at the comment. “Even if they stop the slave trade, who will return our kingdom, our sacred land?” It was the disruption of the marshlands that made Katuma seethe, for in his mind, his ancestors and their gods had been defiled. But Samuel knew, as did the pastor, that this business was deadly and it involved more than the exchange of slaves or land. There was no authority to turn to—not the Sheriff, or the Police Chief, the District Attorney or the courts. There was no chance that Samuel would be safe, for he had seen too much.

The distant bells rang that it was now ten o’clock. He finally swung his way out of the rafters and crept through the warehouse.
Before stepping out onto Greenwich Street, he listened to the darkness; from the trees near the river he heard owls and other night birds. Far off in the direction of the city, he could hear the cries of newsboys in singsong. The choral was faint, but by straining to hear, he made out some isolated lines: “The trial is over” and “Verdict tomorrow.”

On the empty street, he encountered nothing but a soft breeze on his cheek. He crossed to the far side of the avenue to the orchard. Deep in the trees, the river shimmered down the slope.

He would go back and look for the boat that he left on an abandoned stretch of waterfront, so he could set out again across the inky river. If the trial were really over, then he might outlive this manhunt. But first, he’d check to see if there were any signs of the boy. He crept low as he entered the orchard, passing behind the chicken coops, careful not to wake the old man’s dog.

When he approached the spot where he had dozed, he saw a flickering farther on, and was drawn by the strangeness of the light. It was a lantern, far into the woods, hanging on the door of Katuma’s hut. It tilted and dangled in the gentle night’s breeze. It was odd; Katuma slept in his home on Perry Street every night, and none of the Indians hung a lantern on the door. He crept forward, approaching it with foreboding, coming close from the backside of the hut. He made his way closer and crouched low. There was no sound of anyone present, just the lantern swaying. Several feet around the hut, he saw the smashed branches where a horse’s bulk had come right up to the hut and then passed again back out of the woods. He saw how the mud had been distressed from the hooves, and the boot prints from a single rider’s dismount. The muddy footprints made a scrambled pattern at the entrance, showing that the man had stooped down and entered through the little door.

Samuel stepped around and peered inside, and in an instant all the sounds he had heard when the rider approached added up, the
little padding, the horse rearing protectively, even the leaves seemed to have been crying out for a kind of mercy. At the opening to Katuma’s hut he saw what he most feared in the world—curled on the floor was the young boy, John, his small limbs turned like the sparrow wings of a fallen bird, his yellow hair matted with mud and his eyes closed, his lids milky. His little neck was snapped, and his body was still warm, dead on the floor.

Samuel heaved himself down on the ground in pain. The stars, the riverbank, even the leaves seemed to be shrieking.

January 31, 1857

Helen’s nightdress twisted around her leg. Augusta was asleep beside her. Emma had made up the large four-poster bed with a place for both girls and a spot for herself at the bottom with a pillow at the opposite end. The trunks were packed and moved near the door. Emma had locked her door, but if anyone managed to enter, the trunks were close enough to the door to make the intruder stumble. All evening she had felt fearful or agitated. Either way, her mind was never calm.

It was near midnight. When Dr. Burdell had left around six, Emma had sat limply on her bed with the scroll in her hand, in a state of disbelief. The date of the marriage certificate was January 14, two weeks earlier. The certificate was clearly fabricated, and as her mind worked around the strange document, she knew that he kept it as the proof he needed to lay claim to her land and make the sale on his own behalf. But as she thought of the other occurrences—the lady at the hotel, the trip to Europe, leasing away her rooms—she was certain that his intention was that she be thrown out on the street. Her disappearance was now desirable; it was quite possible that he preferred her dead.

Earlier, she had sent Augusta and Helen to the kitchen to have some soup for supper and to bring her meal back on a tray. Then she went to her washbasin and opened a vial that contained powder, a supply of laudanum given to her by Dr. Burdell. She mixed the solution in water and felt the tingle as the drink went down, which calmed her nerves. Augusta and Helen returned to her room after supper. The stretch of nighttime hours dragged on. Augusta was withdrawn and sullen and spent time at the washbasin in her bodice and bloomers, sponging her arms and legs. Emma ordered Helen to finish packing. Helen retreated to the trunks, spooling ribbons onto loose wooden sticks, and packing her clothing in an awkward way, leaving the linens crumpled. Emma was agitated and could not focus. She paced around, straightening up, or picking at a bit of sewing, but everything seemed haphazard. With each noise outside, Emma lifted her head to the dark windows. Finally, at ten, she went down to the kitchen and sent Hannah to bed.

Her daughters were now asleep and hardly breathed. They were still except for the occasional twitch of Helen’s dark lashes. The coal in the fireplace gave off a faint glow. Emma slipped carefully out of bed and crept across her room. She lit a taper in a brass holder, and the small light flickered its illumination across the bedroom and across the tableau of her two daughters side by side, their silken hair mingled, dark and light across the pillows. She had had an urge to creep downstairs and reenter Dr. Burdell’s room to examine again the contents of his safe, to read his letters and toss the contents in the fire, to destroy the nefarious sequence of his plans, but she restrained herself, biding her time, knowing she must be careful not to do anything rash.

Emma held the taper and sat next to the window, looking out at the houses across the street, where she could make out one or two flickers deep inside, but mostly the houses were dark. The
cobblestones glistened under the streetlights, and a paper skittered across the pavement from a sudden gust of wind that also set the streetlamps banging on their hinge.

She wasn’t sure of the time, it slowed to a crawl, and she felt as if she’d entered into a trancelike state. She could feel a deep menace inside the house, as if it was sidling up to her in the dark and rubbing against her skin. Then a carriage came along the street. The noises that followed were faint, of a distant door, the house sighing at the presence of an entry. She touched the keys on her table. There was a shriek from outside, like a bird or a crow that echoed through the winter night. The noise resounded through her room, as if it came from another world. She glanced around the bedroom, her knuckles white, gripping the candleholder. The room wavered in patches of moving shadow across the carpet and pillows and soft furniture. The house below was beckoning. Patience, she told herself. She would be mistress of the house, and he would rue the day.

May 14, 1857

A
fter a closed-door session with the Judge, the trial was over. At the five-o’clock hearing in the Judge’s chamber, the prosecution and the defense mutually agreed to rest their cases. Clinton appealed to the Judge that subjecting the trial to the drama of a manhunt would create a fevered chaos. As Clinton had suspected, Hall had plenty to gain by closing swiftly, by not having to cross-examine any additional forensic testimony produced by venerable authorities. After much posturing and bluffing, Hall relented to a deal. Both sides would summarize their cases in the morning, and by the next afternoon, Friday, the jury would return their answer, with a final verdict.

After an hour in the Judge’s chambers, Clinton and Thayer left the quiet courthouse for the Tombs to give Emma the news. Snarky appeared, running up Centre Street to intercept them. “They haven’t captured Samuel after all,” he said breathless. “I just heard. They are saying that they had him cornered, but he ‘escaped.’” Clinton shot Thayer an ominous look. “Why am I not surprised,” he said.

“Did we just gamble our case away?” asked Thayer.

“No, we did the right thing. We’ve negotiated a path that is consistent with our aims. We have lost some evidence, but we have a strong enough position to close.”

Clinton and Thayer entered the prison and climbed the iron stair to Emma’s cell. When the matron let them in, they found Emma sitting with a woolen shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The spring evening was mild, but dampness seeped through, creating a chill. The hardship of confinement was etched all over her face. Her bloodless complexion, which had not seen sunlight in many months, looked strained and weary. She had now been three months in captivity, first at 31 Bond Street, and then in the Tombs. She was much thinner, and her hands and arms showed the sinewy muscle and knobby bones of the joints, as it does with the elderly. Her mouth often hung open, as if she was in a daze. Her eyes looked creased and worn, and her expression was burdened.

When the lawyers entered, she looked up. “Your ordeal is over,” said Clinton. “This evening, both sides have agreed that the case is closed. We will not give any more testimony, and tomorrow we will deliver summations to the jury. The verdict will come directly after. Your patience and fortitude have been most admirable.”

Her eyes widened and her facial muscles succumbed to involuntary tics. “Will they find me guilty?” she asked. Both men offered her their most level assurances that all had gone favorably, that the prosecution case was weak and riddled with holes, and that the jury was a just and reasonable lot. Despite the very real threat of the gallows, they attempted to reassure her that there was no reason to look toward a guilty verdict. It was their job to bolster her courage for one more night.

She seemed relieved by their optimism and got up and started moving about the room. “Then, I will get ready to go home,” she said. “I must be ready for tomorrow.” She began laying out her
small pile of books and belongings on the cot. Clinton and Thayer glanced at each other. It was not uncommon to see a prisoner, at the crucial hour, alternate between despair and the giddy euphoria that accompanied freedom. Clinton had often seen prisoners shift back and forth between the two moods on the night before a verdict: it was the disorienting effect of legal fatigue. Seeing that she was preoccupied with her task, they bowed, and with more assurances, they bid her good night.

Clinton returned home and, after supper with Elisabeth, retired to the library. Elisabeth brought in a tray and placed it beside his desk with a teapot, cheese, and biscuits and a decanter of water. He removed his jacket, vest, and collar, and loosened the buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. He laid the notes and draft of his final speech, penned at intervals over many months, across the desk and placed a stack of fresh paper beside it, lined.

Elisabeth bustled about, readying the room. Clinton glanced at his notes. On one page he had listed the main points that would bind the opposition’s case.

“Oakey Hall will say that the defendant had the motive, the means, the ability, and the opportunity to commit this murder.
‘And murder she did, in cold blood, in the presence of her children, and of the servants who so reviled her,’”
Clinton said aloud, mimicking Hall’s Southern drawl.
“‘She resented him for his home and possessions, and resentment can be motive.’”

“She wasn’t physically capable,” replied Elisabeth as she pulled shut a window against the night chill, “so, that eliminates the opportunity. And as for motive, it could have been any of the million who live within the sound of the fire-bell on the City Hall. It seems a large portion of the population had resentment against him. And,” Elisabeth added, “no mother would commit such an act with her own children sleeping in such close proximity.”

“Not if she was blinded by greed and the passion of the moment,” countered Clinton, adding,
“‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, and hell has no fury like a woman scorned.’”

“Do you think he will dare repeat that cliché?” asked Elisabeth. “Dr. Burdell was missing for six hours, which opens up the possibility of scores of unknown encounters, all of whom had opportunity, and possibly followed him home. Why hasn’t the prosecution brought forth any witnesses to his encounters?” Her hand drifted over his shoulder, and he grabbed it and kissed it.

“You might write this speech for me, darling.”

“But I can’t deliver it, so one of us should sleep,” she said, kissing the top of his head. “I’ll leave you, now, to work,” she said. “I’m off to bed.”

“Good night my dear,” he said, burrowing again into his notes. Indeed, there was a mystery surrounding Dr. Burdell’s missing hours. Emma had been vague about many things—about whether she heard the carriage return or not. The prosecution had carefully avoided mention of Burdell’s various business ventures, for any one of them might raise reasonable doubt. Emma had always remained elusive on that subject. Her own travels on that day were a mystery. Her explanations fell toward a romantic but naïve description of his intentions toward her, but to Clinton, it appeared that she saw beneath his surface. The contradictions gnawed at him. Had she married him? Did they plan to go away to Europe together? Who had entered the locked house that night, and how? Emma stuck to her story about being in her bedroom, and if Clinton believed anything, it was that she did not kill Harvey Burdell. So he kept her focused on her most important task: to convey absolute innocence to the act of murder.

After Elisabeth left the library, he started scratching a revised draft of his closing speech, his pen nib moving over sheet after sheet
as the rhythm of the words poured forth in its loopy scrawl, replacing pages that he had written earlier. He wrote in a flow, pausing only to dip the pen in the inkpot.

We are not before the court to prove who committed the deed. Why would the prosecution charge this woman with this crime any more than any of the million who live within the sound of the fire-bell on the City Hall?

There are others that had proximity to the victim during the evening of January 31. Where did Dr. Burdell have supper? Where did he go between the hours of six o’clock and midnight? Why has the prosecution closed this case without calling a single witness to testify to these missing hours? Is it because the seeds of this murder lay elsewhere than inside his own home? Surely he had contact with others during that fateful night, for no man can become invisible in this city, and travel around it unseen.

He wrote for hours, tearing up pages, and reworking the words on each fresh sheet. The oil lamp cast its unnatural yellow glow, creating a distorted pattern of shadow across the page.

When the pile of discarded pages filled the desk, he paused to crumble them, tossing them on the coals. As the paper caught fire, a burst of flame danced up in the grate and caught its reflection on the velvet black of the windowpane. The leap of the flame appeared menacing, like a wraith in colorful garb, dancing in a pirouette. Then the sputtering firelight faded and the room darkened a shade and Clinton was left with a momentary feeling of sinking doubt, of being up against something ineffable and wrong, as if something surrounded and lurked behind the scrim of this case that could derail even the best-laid plans. First there had been the Coroner, a clownlike character and a sinister menace. And the press, so effective as recorders, had become a rabid force, spinning rumors and false tales. Oakey Hall moved with an oiled efficiency and the slick deception of ambition, between the courts and the gallows and
political back rooms, aligning to an unseen heart of power. It was a combustible combination, making even the logic of the law uncertain. Clinton was overcome with the thought that something had been unleashed that would not go away at the end of this trial, and was burrowed down under, like a conspiracy, a dark place, where it would fester, deeper even than the human instinct against murder.

He took the blotter and passed it over the wet spots on his sheet. He shook off his doubt and fatigue and forged ahead with the only tool he had, his reason and his ability to make a clean dissection of the moral and legal points of the case. He continued writing for another hour, cutting the page with the sharp edge of his words until he reached the end of the draft.

Let us use the cold impartial reason of the law to take the place of heated passion and coarse ignorance. Let evidence be substituted for gossip and fact for scandal. Let every weak link in the chain of circumstantial evidence be dissipated. If that happens, this defendant will be vindicated, and every stain placed upon her name and that of her children by this atrocious prosecution shall be removed.