Veil of Doubt, page 22
Kilgour huffed before throwing himself into his chair. Powell checked his watch. It was coming up on six o’clock. Judge Keith was right. It had been a tiresome day, and the week wouldn’t be any different.
• • •
Powell returned home from the courthouse, weary and wet from the rain, just as supper was ready to be served in the Harrison dining room. Shedding his coat and hat, he didn’t bother to wash up and joined Janet and his daughters at the table. After the meal, Janet left for the kitchen with Rebecca, and the girls moved to the hall to play with their dolls. Powell retired to his study, preparing for his cross-examination of Dr. William Cross, whom Powell assumed would be the prosecution’s first witness.
What was Cross’s experience in poisoning cases? he wrote on his notepad. How many? Arsenic? Involving children? He tapped the pencil on the desk, thinking. Had Cross ever witnessed a patient suffering from too much bismuth? No, he thought, and scratched through the writing. He would save any questions regarding bismuth poisoning for the defense’s case. Powell’s concentration was interrupted by a squeal as Lalla ran down the hall past the study’s doorway. Nannie was chasing behind her.
“You’re it!” Nannie screamed. “Now you’re supposed to tag me!”
Powell lifted his head from his notes. “Nannie, I need for you and Lalla to settle down. Papa needs it quiet so he can work.”
“But she won’t play fair,” Nannie protested.
“Please, Nannie. Why don’t you play quietly with your dolls?”
“We want to play tag.”
“Not inside.”
“But, Papa!”
“Dolls. And quietly,” Powell insisted.
Nannie pouted for a second before taking off down the hall after her sister.
Powell returned his attention to his cross-examination. Symptoms of stomach congestion, he wrote. Cholera?
A sudden shriek from the hallway caused him to startle in his chair. Lalla fell in front of the doorway with Nannie tumbling on top of her. Lalla was crying and Nannie was screaming.
“You aren’t playing fair!”
“Dammit, Nannie!” Powell shouted, his patience gone. “I told you to settle down!”
Nannie stood, her lower lip protruding and eyes welling with tears.
“Powell Harrison!” scolded Janet, emerging from the back. She scooped Lalla from the floor.
“How am I supposed to work with all this noise!” Powell shouted.
“Not by yelling at the children,” Janet countered sternly.
“Why isn’t Connie watching them?”
“Because I gave her the evening off,” Janet said as she consoled their youngest daughter.
Powell looked from Janet to Nannie, who was staring at him, trying desperately not to cry. Powell’s anger was instantly replaced with guilt. He stood from his chair behind the desk and went to his daughter.
“I’m sorry, Nannie,” he said, and he picked her up. “Papa didn’t mean to be cross with you.”
Nannie sniffled and nodded her head before laying it on his shoulder.
Janet threw one of her disapproving looks in Powell’s direction.
“I’m to blame,” Powell said. “I shouldn’t take my pressures out on you or the girls.” He smiled apologetically. “Let me help get them to bed.”
With a frustrated sigh, Janet turned toward the stairs.
“Can we have a bedtime story, Papa?” Nannie asked, her head perked.
“I don’t see why not,” Powell said with a grin. “How about the one where the brave attorney wins a big case in court against the big, bad prosecutor?”
“Well, that would be one way to ensure they fall asleep quickly,” Janet said with a half roll of her eyes.
Powell laughed and followed behind with Nannie in his arms.
Chapter 25
“Wake up, Emily.”
Emily’s eyelids flew open at the sound of the familiar voice. She sat up on the bed, afraid to look beyond the bars into the corridor. “How did you get in?” she whispered.
“Mr. Goldilocks, who is supposedly guarding this place, is asleep and the door to the block was open,” Lilith said. “So I let myself in.”
“You aren’t supposed to be here.” Moving against the wall, Emily brought her knees up to her chest and pulled the bed linens tightly under her chin. “Lara said y’all had left.”
“You don’t think Lara would abandon her precious Emily for long, now, do you?”
“I hadn’t thought about it.”
“That’s your problem. You wouldn’t be in this mess had you taken a moment to actually think!”
Emily remained silent.
“It’s of no matter. Lara will most certainly do all your thinking for you now that she’s back.”
“Where is she? Mr. Harrison wants to speak to her. And why isn’t she here instead of you?”
“I’m here because she’s too much of a prude to tell you herself. The two of you with your black, your Bible, and your veils.” Lilith spat in disgust. “I’m here to tell you that you cannot be wearing that nun’s habit and expect those men on the jury to feel sorry for you. No, sir, your job is to get them thinking about how to get you out of jail so they might get a bit of that crumpet, if you know what I mean.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “You’re despicable!” she said, louder than she had intended. She brought her hand to her mouth.
“Be that as it may, I’m trying to save your ungrateful hide.” Lilith’s voice was low and dark. “For once, you need to listen. You’ve got to stir the desires of those jurors. Especially that little worm that used to come calling on you. Make him yearn for you. Make certain that farmer boy understands that if he gets you out of jail, you’ll be more than happy to let him grind your corn any time he likes.”
“I’ll do no such thing!” Emily said, thumping her fist into the mattress.
“You’ll do exactly such a thing if it means keeping your neck out of a noose!” Lilith hissed.
“I will not!”
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to hang?” Lilith leaned forward, her stare intense and menacing. “If you’re lucky, the force of the drop will be just enough to ensure that your neck snaps cleanly and you die instantly. But luck has never been on your side, now, has it?”
Emily looked away from her.
“No. With your luck, I can’t imagine it will go easy at all. Too much of a drop, and just like that”—Lilith clicked her finger against her thumb, and Emily jumped—“your head snaps off, rolling like a ball into the crowd. Not enough drop, and you’ll thrash about while your throat is slowly crushed. Minutes go by as you swing on the end of the rope, eyes popping from their sockets, pissing and soiling yourself before you slip into the abyss and meet the cold arms of death.”
Emily put her hands over her ears. “Stop it!”
“Now, you listen to me, you prissy little bitch! I promised Lara I’d help you, so you better listen up and listen good. You need to play the part. Look in the bottom of your trunk. I slipped in one of my dresses as you were packing for jail. Figured you might have a need for it at some point. It’s not too loud in color, but the bodice is tight and the neckline low enough for our purpose. In the pocket, I left you a little tin of rouge. In the morning, you’re going to put on that dress and tighten those laces so that those men on the jury can see the tops of your tits. And lose that goddamned veil and wear your hair down. I want to see a rise in the crotch of those jurors’ britches when you walk into that courtroom.”
Emily pressed her forehead to her knees, her hands still over her ears. “I cannot listen to this.”
“Oh, you’re going to listen. And you’re going to do what I say.”
“I won’t do it.”
“We’ll see about that. We’ll see.”
Chapter 26
Tuesday, October 22, 1872
The foul weather had carried over from the previous day, with rain pouring from the skies and the autumn air damp and cold. A fire burned in a stove next to the jury box. Powell glanced around the courtroom. There were fewer spectators in the gallery today than yesterday. Kilgour was in his usual spot, but Powell noticed that he was sitting alone.
Powell leaned to Matt, nodding in Kilgour’s direction. “Looks like Charles Lee is running late.”
Matt glanced over at the prosecution’s table. “Maybe he grew weary of being Mort’s secretary.”
Powell chuckled and turned to JW, who was sitting at the other end of the defense table. “Are you ready?”
“Ready as always!” JW said with a confident smile.
“What the hell!” Matt exclaimed, looking toward the dock.
Powell followed Matt’s gaze and stared in horror. The side door had opened, and Sheriff Atwell was escorting Emily Lloyd into the courtroom, dressed in a tight-fitting gown. Her bosom looked as if it would explode from the bodice at any moment. Her hair was flowing across her shoulders, and her lips were painted with the same red worn by the women who worked in the brothels down by the tracks.
“What does she think she’s doing?” Matt asked.
Powell watched her take her seat. “I do not know, but I’ll put an end to it at the midday break.”
The bailiff called the court to order. Draped in his black robes, Judge Keith entered the courtroom and took his chair at the bench. As the gallery resumed their seats, a man in a dark suit slid in on the opposite side of Kilgour at the prosecution table. He was too tall and too thin to be Charles Lee. Powell leaned forward. His heart jumped into his throat when he saw the man’s face.
Powell turned to Matt. “John Orr just sat down at the table next to Kilgour.”
“He what?” Matt asked, pulling his reading glasses down lower on his nose as he looked over at the prosecution. “What does John think he’s doing?”
“I don’t know, but just let him open his mouth for the other side,” Powell said, the vein in his temple pulsing.
The bailiff brought in the jury, and the clerk stood to read the charges.
“The Commonwealth of Virginia charges that on March 24, 1872, in the town of Leesburg, the defendant, Emily Elizabeth Lloyd, committed murder in the first degree against her child, Maud Emily Lloyd. Count one. On March 21, 1872, Mrs. Lloyd administered white arsenic by mouth to Maud Lloyd, thereby causing her death. Count two. On March 21, 1872, Mrs. Lloyd administered white arsenic to Maud Lloyd by injection. Count three. On March 21, 1872, Mrs. Lloyd administered the poison in solution with water or some other substance, thereby causing her death.”
“Mr. Kilgour, is the state ready for trial?” Judge Keith asked.
“We are, Your Honor.”
“Very well, then, please proceed with your opening statement.”
Kilgour stood from his chair and approached the jury. “As jurymen, the duty before each of you is high and important. Under any circumstance, the charge of murder against any human being is terrible—thrilling every nerve and shrinking the stoutest of hearts. But murder by a woman, that sex toward whom, in our chivalric devotion, we are ever ready to render homage, and whose very weakness appeals to all high-minded men for protection?” Kilgour raised his brow at his question and, with sadness in his eyes, slowly shook his head. “And what makes this case doubly appalling is that the accused is not only a woman, but a mother—the murderess of her own child, the offspring of her own bosom.”
Kilgour paused as if overcome with emotion.
“The sweetest three words in the English language: mother, home, and heaven. Mother first, because at its very utterance, all the tenderest sympathies of our nature gush forth. At the mention of home, our memories turn to the days of childhood and bending at the maternal knee, the holiest altar known to man. It was at that holy altar where we first lisped ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ when we first learned of that promised paradise. With her daughter’s hand hypocritically clasped in her own and all her maternal affections dried up, Mrs. Lloyd, a most unnatural mother, dragged her young child from this altar, not to dash out her brains in the hurry of heat and passion but to rob the child of life by the insidious means of poison. Mrs. Lloyd deliberately and willfully murdered her three-year-old daughter.” Kilgour leaned toward them, looking each juror in the eye as he spoke. “When we remember that the child suffered more than three days before succumbing, we realize the far-reaching gravity of our duty—the duty that is upon each one of you.
“In trying this case, you are not to know Mrs. Lloyd as woman, mother, friend, or neighbor. You are to be without passion or preconceived notions, but instead remain unbiased and impassive. Whether the verdict consigns Mrs. Lloyd to the gallows tree or remands her back to the desolated hearthstone that will never again be cheered by the innocent prattle of her children, so be it. As jurors, you are merely ministers of the law, duty bound to execute its mandates. And those mandates are to find justice regardless of the sex of the defendant or any sympathies you may have for her. This, gentlemen, is your solemn duty.”
Kilgour extended his stare across each of the jurors’ faces before turning and walking away.
With a bemused look on his face, JW rose as Kilgour took his seat. JW shook his head, chuckling under his breath as he approached the jury box.
“Listening to all that, you might think Mr. Kilgour actually gives two hoots about seeking justice. But then, we all know better.” JW glanced over at Kilgour and shook his head again before turning back to the jury. “Gentlemen, I am James William Foster, and I, along with the Harrison brothers, represent Mrs. Emily Lloyd, a most natural mother. A doting mother who cared for and loved her children. And let me tell you what—Mr. Kilgour and his representatives have been anything but impassive and unbiased in how they have treated Mrs. Lloyd and how they have conducted themselves in this matter. In fact, they have allowed their preconceived notions to encumber every aspect of their investigation into the death of little Maud Lloyd, and any shred of evidence that might shine the light of truth on this case, they have deliberately and willfully withheld from the defense. No, my friends, do not allow Mr. Kilgour’s eloquence of speech to beguile you. Because the suspicions of guilt that he casts are like the gathering clouds that Elijah witnessed from his perch on Mount Carmel. And like that little cloud over the sea of Galilee, at first smaller than the smallest hand, this scandal has gathered on the horizon and has transformed the skies over our town into a dark tapestry of hateful gossip and intrigue. And like Ahab, the prosecution has believed every word.”
Matt leaned to Powell’s ear. “If I didn’t know any different, I’d believe JW was a churchgoing man.”
“Sunday-evening service was part of the deal he made with me when I agreed to let him open,” Powell whispered back with a grin.
“Unlike Elijah,” JW continued, now in his stride, “Mrs. Lloyd has not fled from the threats of Jezebel but instead has taken comfort in her faith, leaning on Psalms 31:20 in her darkest hours. ‘In the shelter of Your presence You hide them from the intrigues of men, in Your dwelling You keep them safe from accusing tongues.’ Mrs. Lloyd has no ravens, no Cherith, no Zarephath—no human to offer sympathy, and some days, she must feel as if the very presence of God has left her. Yet still she cleaves to her faith. Faith in Our Lord above. Faith in me and my colleagues to defend her and speak on her behalf. Faith in each of you to weigh the evidence carefully as Mr. Kilgour suggests, without bias or the influence of accusing tongues. Faith in this court to serve justice by finding the truth. And the truth, gentleman, is that Mrs. Emily Lloyd is not guilty of any of the crimes of which she is accused.” JW tipped his head and bowed before turning toward the table where Powell and Matt sat.
“Kings and Psalms?” Powell whispered as JW walked past him.
“I thought you’d be impressed.” JW winked and took his seat on Matt’s right.
“Mr. Kilgour, you may call your first witness,” Judge Keith said. A burst of lightning illuminated the courtroom in an ethereal flash, and thunder rumbled overhead.
Kilgour stood from his chair. “The state calls Mary Delphina Lozenburg.”
Powell glanced at his brother. The choice of Kilgour’s first witness was a surprise.
In an olive-green dress with an ivory lace collar, Delphi walked to the front of the courtroom and stepped into the witness box. Her eyes darted nervously over the faces in the gallery as the bailiff swore her in.
“Your Honor,” Kilgour said, “if it please the court, the state has retained Mr. John Orr as assistant prosecutor. Mr. Orr will be interviewing Miss Lozenburg on behalf of the people.”
Powell sprung to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Orr was consulting for the defense prior to the indictment hearing, and his working for the prosecution is therefore a conflict.”
Judge Keith narrowed his eyes. “Is this true, Mr. Kilgour?”
“It is, Your Honor, and the state, having thoroughly reviewed the matter, finds no conflict exists,” Kilgour said.
“Your Honor—” Powell started before Judge Keith held up his hand and beckoned the two attorneys.
“Approach, Counsellors,” Keith directed.
“I do not like this, Mr. Kilgour,” Judge Keith said in a low whisper as Powell and Kilgour reached the bench.
“The prosecution is shorthanded, Your Honor,” Kilgour explained. “A trial this lengthy, I will need assistance.”
“What about Charles Lee?” Powell asked. “He was in court yesterday as your assistant counsel.”
“Mr. Lee has taken ill,” Kilgour answered before pleading to the judge. “Mr. Orr’s assistance is required in examining witnesses. When I questioned him about his earlier engagement with the defense, Mr. Orr assured me that his involvement was limited. He never interviewed the defendant and only provided defense counsel cursory advice pertaining to case law relevant to insanity pleas. When Messrs. Harrison abandoned that defense, Mr. Orr took leave of the case. The state is confident that Mr. Orr’s prior engagement has no bearing on the defense’s strategy in the matter at present.”
