Belle Cora: A Novel (82 page)

The foreman of the jury, reading from a page, said it was their conclusion that “William H. Richardson came to his death by a pistol shot fired from the hands of one Charles Cora on the night of Saturday, Nov. 17, between the hours of six and seven o’clock … and the act was premeditated and that there was nothing to mitigate the same.”

THE ONLY REALLY GOOD ATTORNEY I KNEW
was Hall McAllister, who used to patronize my house on Dupont Street in the company of his brother Ward, later famous as Mrs. Astor’s social secretary. The morning after the inquest, I went to McAllister’s office, telling him that I wanted Charley to have the best defense money could buy. He said that he would love to take the case, but public opinion was so inflamed against Charley that it would be the ruin of him: the lawyer who defended Cora could lose all his other business. McAllister had a family. Besides, his father, Judge McAllister, would never forgive him.

“Fortunately, I know just the men who can help you,” said McAllister. First, I must hire James A. McDougall, the former state attorney general. McDougall loved a fight, did not mind representing unpopular
defendants, and was friendly with Colonel Edward D. Baker, whose services I must obtain at any cost. Baker was one of the finest orators in the country, a man of unimpeachable integrity, admired by the sort of people likely to end up on our jury. His mere presence in the courtroom, at Charley’s table, would help us. Baker, however, would have to be persuaded, and he would be very expensive.

McAllister sent an errand boy to fetch McDougall, telling him to look for him in his office, and if he was not there to try this saloon, and that saloon, and that other saloon; this bothered me, because it was early in the day for drinking. Then we waited. I raised the second-story window’s shade, revealing the elaborate ironwork of the exterior windowsill, the arched windows of a bank across the street, and the naked masts and yardarms of ships in the bay. Below me were the bricks of Montgomery Street, signs, canvas awnings, hopping sparrows, men in stovepipe hats, a silent shouting match between two cart drivers. It occurred to me that the birds and horses, and some of the people on the ships, did not know that Charles Cora had shot William Richardson, but everyone else out there did, and it was the first thing that many had heard about either of these men. That amazed me. I could not quite grasp it. I thought of Charley in his cell. I thought of Jeptha and Agnes. With everyone they knew talking about the case, would they mention it to each other, or avoid discussing it so that they could avoid discussing me? Jeptha was not easily fooled, but I hated to think of him reading the newspapers and not getting Charley’s side of the story. I wished I could tell him about it now.

At last McDougall came in. He was small and spare, with a goatee, a Mephistophelian expression, and agate eyes surrounded by crow’s-feet. Newspapers sprouted from the pockets of his frock coat. When he saw me, his mouth stretched in delight, but he looked at McAllister inquisitively.

“I’m just helping her find counsel,” said McAllister. “I was thinking you and Baker. Baker likes you. You help bring Baker in.”

McDougall’s glittering eyes inspected me. He nodded absentmindedly when McAllister rather belatedly said, “Mrs. Cora, allow me to introduce Mr. McDougall.”

The little man exuded eagerness and confidence—maybe justified, but how, really, could I judge? I had seldom used a lawyer in my business.

McDougall took me across the street to the headquarters of Baker & Wistar, Attorneys at Law. Baker was out. His partner let us wait in Baker’s
untidy office, where a window was propped open by books, and stacks of papers bound in twine stood against the wall. I told McDougall about the events at the American Theatre and about Richardson’s actions the following evening at the Cosmopolitan, when he had threatened to shoot Charley and anyone who got between him and Charley. McDougall, after hunting for ink and paper on Baker’s desk, had me repeat all of the names that had come up in my account. “The prosecution will try to restrict the testimony to the shooting itself,” he predicted. “When we bring witnesses against Richardson, they’ll say we’re soiling his name, putting him on the level of a gambler who lives on an immoral woman’s earnings.”

“He does not! He’s just not flush enough now to pay for his defense.”

McDougall looked up, a little surprised.

“Is Baker really a fine lawyer?” I asked him.

“Yes.”

“Which of you is better?”

He smiled. “I am, I think. But that’s a minority opinion. When Baker gives an address, the newspapers print all of it, word for word. They don’t do that for the rest of us. Nor is his value merely ornamental. He changes minds. We need him.”

Baker came in at last, a tall man, untidy in his person and evidently proud of it. His head sat in his upturned collar like a cauliflower in a garden; the sparse hair was wild yet stiff, reminding me of those mountain cedars that look permanently struggling and windblown. It was a studied dishevelment speaking of eccentric genius indifferent to appearances. He had shiny skin, a piercing gaze, a long straight nose, and a double chin. From some angles he resembled a middle-aged baby.

He made a visible decision to treat me like a lady (unlike McDougall, who was equally indifferent to my profession and my feelings). He sat in royal silence as McDougall told him that if he did not take the case Charley was doomed. If I had not guessed that Baker was vain, I would have known it from the way McDougall spoke to him. Encouraged by McDougall, I made my own plea on Charley’s behalf.

Afterward, Baker sat for some time with his hands folded. A mighty mind was at work: we were not to interrupt. At last he rose to his feet and addressed me as if I were a foreign potentate or a vast crowd. “The most basic principles of equal justice under the law are at stake in this case. I am at your service, Belle Cora. I will do everything in my power,
use every tool at my command, all my skill, my knowledge, and all my heart, to vindicate this man attacked by a drunken bully in the guise of a marshal, traduced by a bought press and all but abandoned by the legal profession. Though he had led a dissolute life and kept evil companions, he deserves justice, and I shall not abandon him.”

I thrilled to this free sample of the mysterious natural force that was Colonel Baker’s power over the English language. Of course it was expensive: it was the best.

LVIII

WHEN THE NAMES OF THE LAWYERS I HAD HIRED
were made public, it was understood immediately that Belle Cora would spend vast sums of money to save Charles Cora. My house promptly became the site of its own little gold rush. In the weeks before the trial, half a dozen people came to me claiming to have witnessed the shooting, or to know those who had seen it; with varying degrees of subtlety they would offer to change their testimony, or threaten to change it. I would tell them that they should not have come: my house was being watched, and any suspicion of bribery would hurt Charley’s case. But I added that, just the same, whoever helped Charley was my friend, and whoever hurt him was my enemy, and that I was both generous and vengeful.

One of these people was a woman named Maria Knight, who had testified at the inquest. She arrived early in the afternoon, wearing Sunday clothes, looking her best given that her head was too small for her body, her nose was the right size but too complicated, and standing near the nose, like an ill-conceived distraction, was a pink mole from which a long hair sprouted. With her was a sober-looking man with bad skin and round shoulders whom she introduced as Thomas Russell. I bade them sit, sent for tea and a seed cake, and said as usual that though she was welcome I was afraid that her visit might be misunderstood. It might be
thought that she intended something dishonest, especially if later her testimony changed in a way that proved favorable to Mr. Cora.

“It would? Really?” she asked, holding out her cup while I poured. “What kind of thing would folks think you’d like me to say?”

That was a plain enough invitation to make an offer, and I would have struck a bargain with her if it hadn’t been for the presence of her companion, Russell. Perhaps she had brought him so that she would feel safe in a brothel. But he was also a witness to this conversation; I was afraid of a trap. “I’m not sure I want to give an example. Unless—would you mind if we continued this conversation in private?”

“Oh, don’t worry about Mr. Russell; he’s the soul of discretion, ain’t you, Tom?” Her companion nodded. “You see?” said Maria Knight. “Let me guess what you’d like. You’d like me to say that I saw a pistol in General Richardson’s hand. I could say that.”

“If that’s what you saw,” I said, “that’s what you ought to say.”

“Oh, I didn’t see anything of the sort. But for five thousand dollars, I could say I had.” With the nail of her pinky finger, in a gesture that she almost succeeded in making refined and ladylike, she scraped a caraway seed from between her teeth.

I spoke carefully. “I know that Richardson drew his pistol, and Charley pushed the pistol up, and it was evening. People could make mistakes. You could realize that you made a mistake. As for the other thing you mentioned, all I can say is, I’m the friend of anyone who helps Charley, the foe of anyone who hurts him, and I have a long memory.”

“Well,” she said, after a while. “Well, I never. Come, Thomas.” Keeping her back very straight, she rose from her chair.

“I don’t mean to be unfriendly,” I said. “I want you for a friend.”

She turned. She said, “My friendship has a price.”

I smiled. She blushed. I repeated my vague promises. They weren’t enough for her. “You shouldn’t have treated me this way,” she said. “I’ve got a long memory, too.”

It is my belief that she had other resources. I was not the only one with money.

AT MY SUGGESTION, LEWIS SPOKE
to Abner Mosely in the Cosmopolitan and nebulously alluded to the rumors of my generosity. People said
that I was willing to pay men to change their testimony. Had Mosely heard that? Did he ever daydream about it? “I daydream of Charles Cora going out dancing in a hemp necktie,” said Mosely with a well-lubricated smile.

Well, Lewis said then, what did he think of the rumors that Belle Cora was willing to pay ten thousand dollars to the man who killed Abner Mosely?

“There ain’t no such rumor and ain’t going to be. She knows that if I’m killed they’ll bring back the Vigilance Committee, and Charley will be hanged for sure.”

We were afraid he was right. Still, we discussed it. Lewis wanted to take a personal hand, and long after I had definitely decided that it would be too dangerous to murder Mosely, I thought, simply for my amusement, about how it might be done.

CHRISTMAS NEARED. MEN WALKED THROUGH
the streets carrying bread, plucked turkeys and geese, apples, and small evergreens. Lewis, Jocelyn, Edward, Ned McGowan, and I spent Christmas Day with Charley in his cell; and we were there together again on New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.

On Thursday, January 3, the selection of the jury began, with four lawyers for the People and four lawyers for Charles Cora. Our lawyers insisted that I stay clear of the courtroom. I could do no good there. The prosecutors need only glance in my direction to remind the jury that Charley was a gambler who lived in a brothel. I followed events through the newspapers and conferences with McDougall or Baker. Every day, as Charley was moved under heavy guard from the county jail to a carriage that would take him to the court, I stood on Broadway to greet him, and we both tried to look cheerful.

The jurors were isolated from the rest of the world, and were never supposed to separate during the trial. They were all moved into the Railroad House, a three-story hotel with entrances on Clay Street and Commercial Street. Three or four would be lodged together in a room, and sheriff’s deputies would sleep with them. They would not be permitted to leave, even to visit their families. When I first heard this, I borrowed a carriage (so that it would not be identified as mine) and examined
the Railroad House. It was exposed on every side and would be impossible to leave or enter without detection. On the other hand, it had a staff: cooks, waiters, maids. They did not live at the Railroad House. They had to come and go. Perhaps some of my people could become acquainted with them. And the sheriff’s deputies. Most of them were very poorly paid.