Veil of Doubt, page 7
“Over here,” JW called from the fence line adjacent to the neighboring property at the back of the lot. “Looks like a couple of dead chickens.” In a pile of compost were the decaying bodies of feathered birds.
“Mrs. Lloyd didn’t raise chickens.” Powell eyed the chicken coop in the neighbor’s yard. “Must have belonged to the neighbors.”
“Seems like a waste of meat.”
“Perhaps they were diseased or something.”
“Why toss them onto the Lloyd lot?” JW questioned.
Powell shrugged his shoulders.
Finding little else, they headed toward the street. From the shadows of the narrow passage along the side of the house, Maggie Greene, wearing a white dress with a straw hat tied under her chin, emerged in front of them.
“What on earth are the two of you doing here on the Sabbath?” she said.
“Mrs. Greene,” JW greeted, tipping his hat.
Powell tipped his hat as well and nodded.
“You know they showed up here yesterday at nightfall and just took her away,” Maggie said with anger in her eyes. “Poor thing hadn’t had supper yet. And they had given her nothing of substance other than a little tea when I stopped by this morning to visit her.” She shook her head at JW. “It’s not right.”
“Powell and I are going to do everything in our power to get her out of jail until the trial,” JW said.
Maggie looked at Powell. “You need to tell the judge that jail is no place for a woman. She’ll die in that wretched hole!”
“I’ll do my best,” Powell said, and for an instant, he let himself notice the deep green of her eyes under the brim of the hat.
“Perhaps you can help us,” JW said.
“Anything,” Maggie said with a shiver and crossed her arms even tighter. The sun had dipped behind the roof of the neighboring house, and a cold shade had fallen over the yard.
“Why don’t we go inside before you catch a chill,” JW said, motioning toward the back door of the Lloyd house. “There’s a couple things I’d like to ask you.”
“Why don’t we go to my house. There’s fire in the stove, and I can put on a pot of coffee.”
“Works for me,” JW said, with a hand at the small of her back.
As Maggie and JW started toward the street, Powell glanced at the sun sinking near the horizon. Five o’clock or thereabouts, he thought and pulled his watch from his vest to check. Four forty-five.
JW turned as Powell put the watch back in his pocket. “Are you coming?”
His sisters wouldn’t head back to the farm until five thirty at the earliest. He had time.
“Just a quick coffee, and then I need to get home.”
“Well, come on, then,” JW said, turning toward the street. Powell followed them through the narrow passage to the stone house three doors down.
• • •
“Do you know if Mrs. Lloyd has any family?” Powell asked as Maggie poured coffee for the three of them.
“She was orphaned, you know,” Maggie said as she filled Powell’s mug. “And the aunt who raised her passed away a few years back.”
“Do you know William Lloyd, Mrs. Lloyd’s brother-in-law?” Powell asked, cupping the mug and resting his hands on the table.
“Billy Ray? I’ve seen him around town sometimes and over at Emily’s. Wild eyes and an ugly scar. A good-for-nothing, like Charlie Lloyd. Mean. Beats his wife.”
“Did Charles Lloyd beat Emily?” Powell asked.
Maggie lifted the mug to her mouth and blew across the rim before taking a drink. “I heard that he would strike her when he didn’t get his way. And he beat the boys. Especially the older son.”
“And the girls?”
“I can’t imagine he would have struck Annie, as she was just an infant. Charlie died before Maud was born. But I know how brutes like Charlie Lloyd treat their daughters. Eventually they tire of molesting their wives and move on to the girls.”
Powell glanced at the floor, knowing Maggie spoke from experience. “Did Charlie abuse Emily in that manner?”
“You mean, did he take liberties against her will?” Maggie asked.
Powell nodded.
“Whenever the pig felt like it. He’d come home full of liquor, grab her by the hair, and drag her up the stairs. And smack her around if she refused him.”
“Emily told you this?” Powell asked in disbelief.
“Emily never spoke of it, but I heard it from Delphi. And there was the backyard incident a number of years ago. Before you moved back. JW knows about it.”
Powell looked at JW.
“I don’t recall the specifics,” JW said.
“I wasn’t witness to it, but her friend Mollie Ryan was,” Maggie continued. “She said that Charlie had Emily pinned to the ground behind their house. Emily was kicking and screaming bloody murder, trying to get away from him. Had her by the throat, he did, and nearly choked the lifeblood from her. And I hear all of this happened in front of the two boys.”
Powell shook his head at the thought of Emily’s young sons witnessing the assault of their mother at the hands of their father.
“Did anyone inform the sheriff?” Powell asked.
“Her neighbor Colonel Nixon made a complaint. Sheriff Atwell made an investigation, but there was nothing he could do. Charlie was her husband. It was his right, they said.”
“There’s nothing right about it,” Powell said.
“This William Lloyd, what’s his relationship with Emily?” JW interjected.
“He blames Emily for Charlie’s death. And the death of their mother.”
“Their mother?” Powell asked. This was a rumor that hadn’t made its way around town.
“Anne Lloyd, I think her name was. It was Thanksgiving. The whole family—Billy Ray, his wife and kids, and the mother—had been over to Emily and Charlie’s for dinner. The old woman died a couple days later. Charlie said it was Emily’s cooking that killed her. Not sure if he meant it as a joke or not, but a few weeks later when Charlie got sick, Billy Ray accused Emily of poisoning them both.”
“Is there any merit to the claim?” Powell asked.
“Of course not,” Maggie said with a spark of annoyance. “The woman was in poor health. A drunkard as well. And as for Charlie—I’m betting the Good Lord decided it was time to send him to meet his fate. And you can bet it ain’t in heaven.”
Resisting the urge to correct her poor speech, Powell remembered all the hours during their courtship he had spent teaching her etiquette and proper English. Why? he asked himself, wondering whether he had done it more for himself than for her.
“What about her neighbors?” Powell asked.
“There’s Colonel Nixon across the street. Mr. Slack and his wife on the right. The Ryans in the house on the left. But Emily doesn’t socialize with them. She keeps to herself mostly.”
“She lives in a twin,” Powell said. “Who lives on the other side of the house?”
“A pair of sisters rent it, but they’re hardly ever there.”
“Do you know them?”
“I’ve never been introduced,” Maggie replied, fiddling with her hair. “Emily talks about the older one. Lara, I believe, is her name. I don’t recall the name of the younger one.”
“You’ve lived on the same street all this time and have never met them?” Powell asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “They’re never at home, and when they are, they don’t seem to venture out.”
“Surname of these sisters?”
Maggie shook her head. “You’ll have to ask Emily.”
“What about enemies?” JW asked.
“Emily?” Maggie said. “Not what I would call enemies. She doesn’t care much for Sam Orrison.”
She crossed her legs and sat back, resting her hands in her lap.
Powell studied her. “Orrison was the guardian of her children, correct?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied. “And executor of Charlie’s estate. When he bought Charlie’s tavern, Emily questioned the transaction, convinced he’d sold it to himself at a bargain. I know they had words.”
“Did Emily take any action against Mr. Orrison?” Powell asked.
“She threatened to sue him. And before things got real ugly, Sam found religion and paid her more.”
“Everything that she was asking?”
“I wouldn’t know. But whatever their terms, it certainly left a sour taste in Sam’s mouth. The mayor’s, too. He called Emily out when she filed for Charlie’s pension. Said she had no need. Only greed, were his words.”
A clock on a shelf began to chime. Powell looked up. It was six o’clock. Janet would be furious.
“Late for supper?” Maggie asked, following his gaze to the clock.
“As a matter of fact, yes. I really must go.” He pushed himself from the table and stood.
JW and Maggie stood with him.
“I should be heading out as well,” JW said. “I’ve offered to walk a young lady to the seven-o’clock service this evening and would not wish to disappoint her.”
“What is this I’m hearing?” Maggie said with an exaggerated look. “JW Foster is attending church services?”
“That is not what I said,” JW replied with a sly grin. “I said that I was walking her to church. That does not mean that I’m going in the church.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, sir! I think the lady will expect you to attend the service with her if you are escorting her there.”
“We’ll see about that,” JW said. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath!”
“I’ve learned not to,” Maggie said with a laugh.
She walked with JW and Powell to the foyer. Powell took his hat from the rack and turned to her as she opened the door.
“Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Greene,” Powell said, his eyes catching hers.
“I’m happy to do whatever I can to help,” she said. “And for Emily’s sake, I pray that you will do the same.”
• • •
Powell rushed through backstreets to get home before his sisters left for Morrisworth, unable to take his mind off the case. No one in their right mind would poison a little girl to settle a score.
As he dashed into the alley that cut to the main street, angry voices flew from the shadows up ahead. Nearing the backyard of the Orrison house, the voices were louder. He looked over the fence and to the house. Through the window, he saw a woman with one hand on her hip and the other pointing, shouting at a red-faced man. The man roared back, his expression contorted and filled with rage. The woman waved her index finger at him. Seizing her wrist, the man twisted her arm. She fell to her knees with a cry and tried to pull away. The man raised an opened hand and brought it violently across her face. The woman cried out again.
Adrenaline flooded Powell, and he bolted toward the house. He hopped the fence and raced across the yard, not stopping to pick up his hat as it fell from his head. The man struck the woman again. She was on her knees on the kitchen floor with her free arm shielding her face from the blows of his fist when Powell pounded on the door. The door flew open, and Sam Orrison, reeking of whiskey, glowered at Powell.
“What the hell do you want!”
“Do not strike her again!” Powell demanded, stepping forward.
“What I do with my woman in my own house is none of your business.”
“As an officer of the court, it is every bit my business. It’s a crime in this state to take your fists to your wife.”
“Then I’ll just cut me a switch,” Orrison said as he grabbed the waistband of his trousers and adjusted them higher on his hips, his eyes challenging.
Of no mind to explain that Virginia had also banned the doctrine permitting husbands to whip their wives with sticks no greater than the circumference of a man’s thumb, Powell glowered back. “By God, if you hit her again, I’ll have Sheriff Atwell arrest you.”
“And charge me with what? Chastising my wife?”
“That and attempted murder. With a good attorney, maybe you’ll get the charges dropped to aggravated assault. Either way, it’s trouble you don’t want.”
“Good luck with that, Counsellor. Bentley will see to it that it all goes away.”
“Perhaps, but not until you spend a night in jail.”
Orrison glared.
“Mrs. Orrison,” Powell called, his eyes meeting her husband’s glower. “Go on up to your chamber, if you please, and lock your door. Your husband will have sobered up by morning.”
From the corner of his eye, Powell watched her leave the room. “Give it a rest, Sam.”
“Get off my porch.”
Powell held the man’s stare for a long moment before straightening his shoulders and stepping back. With a lift of his chin and one final piercing look, he turned and stepped from the porch. Orrison remained in the doorway, watching as Powell crossed the lawn to retrieve his hat.
As he left through the gate, Powell looked back. Orrison had closed the door and was in the kitchen, leaning against the table on straightened arms, his head hung low between his shoulders, his eyes cast to the floor.
A movement from the upper floor caught Powell’s attention. It was Mrs. Orrison, watching Powell from an upstairs window. Nodding in her direction, he placed his hat on his head and continued on his way home. Any possibility of getting there in time for supper had long since passed.
“What I do with my woman in my own house is none of your business.”
Powell’s thoughts moved to the day long ago when he had first seen welts on Maggie’s arms and a bruise on her cheek. Bile had erupted in him then as it had tonight. And at the hands of her own father! Where was God? And what about justice? Wasn’t that Kilgour’s job? Kilgour, who didn’t care about truth. Or protecting the weak.
He rubbed his hand over his brow as he reached the town’s main street. Emily Lloyd. He couldn’t shake her from his head. Abused by her husband. Her daughter’s body not yet cold when it was desecrated in front of her. Nobody has ever stood up for that woman.
If there had been any lingering uncertainty in his mind about whether he should take the case, it was now gone. The only doubt was what plea he would make at Emily Lloyd’s arraignment in the morning: not guilty or not guilty by reason of insanity.
• • •
“You gave me your word that you were only consulting,” Janet said, standing in the center of the parlor, her arms crossed over her chest and face reddening.
“I know, darling, and I’m sorry to break my promise, but I have no choice,” Powell said, reaching for her.
Janet shrugged from his touch. “You indeed have a choice. You simply decline Mr. Foster’s request.”
“JW does not have the experience to mount an insanity defense.”
“His lack of experience isn’t your problem,” she argued.
“But it is,” Powell said as his eyes pleaded. “The burden of proof shifts to the defense in an insanity case. Law schools don’t teach that well. The jury knows up front that the defendant committed the crime. And it is the defense’s job not only to prove that the defendant is insane but to convince the jury that an insane person can’t be guilty of the crime. It’s counterintuitive—that a person responsible for committing a heinous act is, in fact, legally not responsible. JW will need to convince the jury that Emily deserves more sympathy than the child and absolve the jurymen of any burden on their conscience for ruling that way. It takes experience, building rapport with the jurymen, earning their trust. That’s the job of a lead attorney, not a consultant. As a consultant, I can only advise so much.”
Janet shook her head. “It’s too distracting, Powell. It will consume all your time and your attention.”
“I promise I will not allow it to disrupt our family.”
Her mouth tightened. She gave him a hard look. “Do not make promises you cannot keep.”
“I understand your concern, Janet. I do. But Mrs. Lloyd will not have a fair trial unless I step in as lead counsel.”
“That’s what you always say—that so-and-so won’t get a fair trial.” She shook her head again. “You are not the only attorney in the county.”
“I’m the only attorney in the county with experience successfully defending an insanity plea.” Janet narrowed her eyes and glared at him before turning to the window.
Powell stepped behind her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Jan, they will hang her if she’s found guilty.”
“And what about how your distraction will affect our lives?” she said, spinning to face him. “And the lives of our girls?”
“I promise that I will not allow it to interfere.”
She glared at him, her brow stitched. “Like last summer?”
Her words struck like the blow of a fist. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “I will never forgive myself.” A painful silence fell between them, amplifying with each monotonous tick of the room’s grandfather clock. After a long minute, Powell lifted his head and looked at her. Janet was staring out the window again, her lips tight over her teeth. “A woman’s life is at stake. I cannot have that on my conscience, too.”
“You cannot represent this woman,” Janet said.
“Janet—”
“You are not being fair to me.”
Powell felt his body tense as his composure snapped. “It’s you who is unfair,” he shouted, the vein on his temple twitching.
She glowered at him, her nostrils flaring as she drew a noisy breath before pushing past him to the doorway. Powell watched her leave the room and listened as she stomped up the stairs. With the echoing slam of her chamber door, he turned, running his fingers through his hair before walking to the window. He stood before the paned glass and stared out into the night. Darkness had blanketed the street, with only the amber glow of the gaslight on the corner piercing the pitch-blackness. Leaning on straight arms against the sill, Powell forced his breathing to slow, lowered his head, and closed his eyes.
