City of Liars and Thieves (23 page)

Lorena Forrest described the galloping horse and the sleigh without bells. An elderly woman who lived across from Ezra Weeks recounted the “rumbling noise” of a sleigh that left Ezra's yard about eight in the evening on “the night the deceased was lost.” Curiously, she said, the sleigh had no bells. I nodded wholeheart
edly.

“When was this? What month was it?” Hamilton asked in quick succession.

The woman cupped her hand to her ear. “I don't know the month, but I know it was so.”

“Was it after Christmas or before?”

“It was after, I believe.” Her wrinkled lips quivered. “It was January.”

People began to whisper, “She's confused. Senile.”

A wooden gavel lay on the bench in front of Judge Lansing. His fingers opened and closed on the finely crafted handle as if marking time.

Arnetta Lispenard was called to repeat her sorry performance. “ ‘Lord have mercy on me, Lord help me,' ” she cried, imitating Elma, while the audience gasped.

My expectations were as low as they'd been all day when Anthony Lispenard exchanged places with his wife.

“On the Sunday that the girl was missing,” Lispenard began, “my wife woke me up to look out the window. It was a clear night, starlit, but the moon was dull. I got out of bed to hear and see what I could. When I looked out, I saw a man walking near the well.”

Colden was visibly startled. He checked his notes, walked to the witness stand, then returned to his notes. “How was this man dressed?”

Seated next to me, Hardie flipped to a fresh page, energetically scribbling.

“As near as I could tell, he had on blue britches, white stockings, and a red jacket,” Lispenard said.

Lispenard's story had changed by leaps and bounds. And the vivid details were bewildering. Countless witnesses had testified about the dull moon and dark night. It would have been impossible to make out the color of anyone's clothing, yet Colden nodded as if he were satisfied by the improbable response.

His voice dropped. “Was he alone?”

Lispenard listed to one side as he braced himself against the rail. “Who can say?” His gaze shot from Ezra to Burr. “The land is sloped. It's impossible to see the far side of the well from the house.”

“So there may have been someone else? Someone you failed to see?”

“Might've been.”

“Might there have been a sleigh?”

“Don't see why not.”

Burr sat back in his chair, crossing his legs, and slamming the floor with the heel of his well-polished shoe. “Yes or no,” he called out.

Hardie's pen paused above his notebook.

Lispenard turned to Burr. “Yes.”

Colden returned to the attorney's table, flipping through papers as if fully prepared to read the entire stack.

Burr clasped his hands together. “Anthony Lispenard, will you swear that Levi Weeks is the man you saw at the well?”

I studied Lispenard's wizened face. I wanted him to incriminate Levi, but I was suspicious of his motives.

His voice shook. “I cannot swear to it.”

Midnight came and went. The boy who had fished the muff from the well was called. When asked if he could read, the boy admitted he could not, nor did he know the meaning of the word
oath
. Lansing glared impatiently at Colden, who summoned the boy's father.

“I went the next day and looked about,” the farmer said. “There was a board off the top, which left it open, maybe twelve or thirteen inches.”

“Twelve or thirteen inches?” Colden repeated. “Could you show the court precisely how wide?”

The farmer squinted as if only a fool, one who spent his days scouring books, would not understand the length of measurement. Shrugging, he held up his right arm, stretched out his fingertips, and chopped with his left hand slightly above his wrist.

Burr's dark eyes narrowed, and I understood why.

“The opening was too narrow,” I told Hardie, watching as he took down my comment. “Elma could never have fit through, and who replaced the boards? This proves Levi pushed her and put the boards back to cover his crime.”

Hardie stopped writing, tapping the end of his pen against his chin. “Why would Levi replace all but one board?”

“He probably put them all back,” I said. The thought of Elma losing sight of the sky as she drowned in a dark and watery grave made the image of her death even more gruesome. It was a struggle to keep speaking. “The boy could have pulled a board off when he found the muff.”

I turned back just in time to hear the farmer add that he had seen footprints around the open well.

“Footprints?” I wondered out loud. The farmer had mentioned a sleigh track, but he had never said anything about prints. Impatient to see the scene for ourselves, we had not given him a chance.

“I figured they belonged to the same man I had seen the week before,” the farmer added.

Colden sounded almost breathless. “You had seen the man there before?”

“Yes,” the farmer continued. “He was sounding the well with a pole. I went up and asked what he was about. He said he made the carpenter's work—”

“A carpenter!” someone shouted. “Levi Weeks is a carpenter.”

The farmer scratched his chin and nodded. “I went up to him and asked what he was doing. He said he wanted to know the depth of the water.”

“What!” I practically shouted. I was sure the jury would now pronounce Levi's guilt and the hangman would finalize his fate, but others disagreed.

Burr did not bother standing. “Three days had passed since the worst snowstorm in recent memory. More than a foot of snow had fallen and the wind was blustery, yet the footprints you saw—
three
days after the deceased vanished—were fresh.” It was more statement than question and the farmer looked toward the judge as if he was unsure whether to respond. The clock struck one, the haunting clang heightening the moment.

There was a ragged noise, and I turned to see a man behind me snoring. The more I looked, the more exhausted the audience appeared. And it was not only them. An elderly juror's head bobbed toward his chest, then shot upright as he shook himself awake. Another man drummed his finger on the rail in front of him. Judge Lansing studied the jurors and announced an adjournment. Levi was led away. The jury was sequestered. They could only walk on the rooftop for air. And they would sleep in the courthouse's portrait gallery under the dignified likeness of General Washington.

The moon was full and bright as Elias and I walked home. I could not shake the notion that it was mocking me, demonstrating the illuminative powers that had failed us on the dark night Elma vanished.

I woke with a start. The bedsheets were twisted, the sky still dark. Elias was gone. Exhausted, I could not recall if he had spent the night in our bed. Aware of the grueling day ahead, I tried to close my eyes, but each time I did I heard Elma scream,
Lord have mercy on me, Lord help me.
Her cries echoed down a bottomless pit, hitting jagged stones and drowning in never-ending cold.

I wandered into the parlor. There was an empty drinking glass in front of Elias's chair; it was from the same set as the glass that had broken the morning after Elma arrived. Elma had taken the blame for what I now knew was Elias's fault. I shuddered to think what else I had overlooked. I had imagined that a single year in the city made me sophisticated or wise. I thought Levi was too worldly for Elma, but I was the one who was naïve.

In anger, I took the glass and smashed it to the floor, then collapsed beside the broken bits. A sharp sliver dug into the soft skin under my thumbnail, and crimson drops of blood splattered onto my dress.

“It's a ghostly hour to be awake,” Croucher said. His eyes darted anxiously around the dark room.

“Stop sneaking around!” I said, startled by his sudden appearance as well as my venomous response.

Croucher took a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped my finger, applying pressure. “Not many 'ave kind words for me, but you, Mrs. Ring, 'ave always been above that.”

I avoided his gaze, certain I was not as magnanimous as he seemed to believe.

“And unlike others,” he said, releasing his hold, “I've no reason to lie to you.”

There was a pathetic longing in Croucher's voice, and I had the impression he was on the verge of divulging something significant. He spoke with his usual bluster, but there was a note of sincerity I had never heard from him before.

“What is it?” I asked, aware that the truth might be more painful than anything I dared imagine.

Croucher jerked himself up off the floor. “I came to tell you the truth, and I want you to listen carefully,” he said, pausing until I signaled my consent. He lowered his chin until his eyes met mine. “Weeks did it.”

My curiosity turned to annoyance. “Yes, of course, but where is the proof?” I asked.

“Those fancy barristers want me to swing for 'is crime. 'E's paying 'em”—Croucher nodded toward my splattered dress—“blood money to lay the blame on me. Do you understand what I'm telling you? 'E trapped Elma, and now 'e's after me. Night and day someone's watching. I'm being followed.”

I gazed out the dark window but saw nothing but my own tired reflection peering back.

“Mrs. Ring,” he said, “you must believe me. Lord knows what I'm risking by coming to you. I'm just an old English bulldog, not pretty to look at and a bit of a brute. I may 'ave paid 'er too much attention, but I'm no killer.”

“Then go to the sheriff, or anyone else.” I could not understand why he was appealing to me, adding to my burdens. “Stop scaring people in the dead of night.”

“I'd go, but—” He ran his hand over a bald patch on his head, which seemed to have grown in the short time I'd known him. “My past is a bit checkered. I've done some things I'm not proud of and racked up a bit of debt. I don't want to call any more attention to myself. Besides, the sheriff would never listen to the likes of me.”

Croucher's disclosure was hardly a surprise. I had always had the impression he had fled England under a dark cloud.

“Is there no one who will listen?” I asked. The question I posed to Croucher was the same one I had been asking myself. Over and over, I saw myself storming the sheriff's office or approaching Judge Lansing, but as many times as I imagined the scene, their response was always the same:
Where is the proof?

“Those lawyers are trying to smash me to pieces.”

“Elias knows that Levi is guilty; perhaps together—”

“Elias?” He shook his head, then chuckled in a mocking way. “ 'E's the last one 'oo'd come to my aid.”

The white handkerchief was turning stiff with drying blood. “Why?” I asked. “What's passed between thee?”

Croucher shook his head. “I've never spoken ill of your 'usband, Mrs. Ring, and I'm not one to judge, but somewhere between your former 'ome and this city, 'e lost his way. Did you know that Ezra paid 'im a tidy sum on the condition that 'e'd keep an eye on that cad Levi?” “Ezra Weeks has eyes of his own,” I said. “Besides, Levi's a grown man. Why should anyone watch over him?”

“Levi fathered a child back in New England and 'ad to flee after the girl's father put a pistol to 'is 'ead. Ezra didn't want 'im getting into the same kind of trouble. Course, this isn't anything like that. Adonis can't run now.”

Wanting to believe but wary of Croucher and his gossip, I went to the fireplace, took the broom, and began to sweep up the broken glass.

“What I'm saying,” Croucher continued, “is, like it or not, Elias is indebted to Weeks and 'e's focused on playing his 'and.”

I took a deep breath. “I may not know much, but I am confident that Elias does not see Elma's murder as a game. What's more, he was here with me the night she disappeared. Where were thou? Did thou pass the Manhattan Well that night?” I asked, fingers tightening on the broom handle.

“The meadow; not the well.”

“Lispenard's Meadows?” The name made me shudder.

Croucher noticed. “ 'Ere's the man they should be watching,” he said. “ 'Is wife heard Elma fighting for 'er life, but 'e 'eard
nothing
? 'E saw a stranger prowling 'is land and did
nothing
? Mark my words, all 'is
nothings
add up to something.”

It was all I could do to make out Croucher's garbled speech, yet his lack of pretense, the notion that his guard was down, made him all the more believable. Whether from exhaustion or the prospect of a sympathetic ear, I had a sudden desire to speak frankly. “I saw Lispenard arguing with Ezra Weeks at the courthouse, and when I approached him, he said they were quarreling about money.”

“Is that so?”

“Lispenard said he was owed stock in the Manhattan Company and, to buy his silence, Ezra Weeks found him a government post, with a political board of some sort—the Electoral College?”

Croucher rubbed his chin. “Important job. It means Lispenard will be one of only twelve men casting a ballot in New York for the next president. The outcome 'ere determines whether it's Adams or Jefferson.”

“Lispenard is working with Burr. I saw him handing out flyers.”

“Politicians reward their supporters. That's common enough.”

“But that's just it. Lispenard complained that Ezra Weeks was telling him how to vote.”

“Maybe 'e 'ad a change of 'eart and decided not to vote for Jefferson. That would be enough to infuriate Weeks.”

“Ezra was the one criticizing Jefferson. He said Jefferson didn't understand New York.”

Croucher chuckled. “Well, that's true. Still, Ezra's a staunch Republican. 'E and Burr are thick. Do you 'ear the way Burr defends Levi? You'd think 'e was 'is own flesh and blood.”

“Lispenard made a deal with the devil,” I said. “He looked the other way while Levi murdered Elma on his land, and he was rewarded with a prestigious job. But the pressure of the trial and his own guilt is eating away at him, and Ezra is anxious.”

Croucher stepped uncomfortably close. “A curious theory. 'Ave you told anyone else?”

“Elias. He promised to speak with the sheriff.”

“Did 'e?”

Unable to answer, I looked down at the shattered glass. The shards twinkled in the light, like my own wavering doubts.

Elias was already seated when I returned to the courtroom. I smelled whiskey on his breath. He shook his head and mumbled when Ezra Weeks walked past, and when Hardie took out his notebook, he leaned forward and glared. He was a stranger to me.

Burr had donned a fresh suit for the second day of testimony. Hamilton was elegant as well, in a bloused shirt with white cuffs that gathered at the end of his jacket sleeves. I looked down at my own gray flannel dress, the same one that I had worn the day before.

Necks craned as Levi was led to the prisoner's dock. His jacket was freshly pressed, his hair neatly tied, but he shuffled while he walked, though his legs were free of shackles. The jurors too seemed worse for wear. I was sure City Hall's marble floor was not nearly as impressive when it served as a bed.

As Colden stood, Judge Lansing interjected, urging him to get straight to business. It was past ten. Everyone seemed braced for another long day of emotional and physical hardship, but the audience came to life when James Lent, our neighbor who had helped recover Elma's body, took the stand.

“The victim's hair hung over her head. In lifting her up, I found her head fell forward, and when we lifted her a little it fell back again, which caused me to suppose her neck was broke.”

People let out a collective gasp, but I preferred to think that Elma's neck was broken. It meant she had not suffered long. But I still did not understand why the details mattered. Elma was dead. She had been found at the bottom of a well. Levi put her there.

The procession of witnesses melted into one another. Colden called a man who had been hired to drive the distance from our house to the Manhattan Well and back to Ezra Weeks's house. Though the roads were bad, he said, he had performed the trip in fifteen minutes.

Another man testified that Elma's left collarbone was broken and dislocated, but beyond that “she was a very lifelike corpse. The victim,” he said, “looked as if she were asleep.”

Colden scratched his head, making the short hairs stand on end. “Had you seen her alive?” His voice had a slight hitch, as if he were reluctantly approaching this new line of inquiry.

“Once.”

I sat forward, suddenly recognizing the doctor who had examined Elma when she was sick with fever.

“The case stands out,” he continued. “Miss Sands was in no grave danger, but she wanted medication. She specifically asked for laudanum. I was inclined not to give it to her, but she seemed desperate. I thought it might ease her conscience and, ultimately, improve her health.”

I was on my feet before I realized it. “That's ridiculous,” I shouted. “He knows Levi. The pair of them forced that vial on us!”

Hamilton leapt to his feet. “Objection!”

“Sit down!” Elias hissed.

Hardie gazed up at me with something like sympathy; it may have been pity.

“Mrs. Ring,” Judge Lansing said, “if you were to be recalled, could you testify that the victim never asked for laudanum?”

It was tempting to lie, but my principles were all I had left. I collapsed back onto the bench, recalling how the doctor had sent me out of the room. Minutes had transpired while I went for water. Who could say what had really happened?

Colden's final witness was a physician who had had a “superficial” view of Elma's body when it “was exposed to the view of thousands.” The doctor confirmed the scratches on Elma's hands and feet and described the “reddish-black” spots on her neck.

“Suppose, Doctor, that a person had been strangled by hand—would it not have left such an appearance on the body?” Colden asked.

“Yes, it would.”

“In your opinion, could any person have committed such an act of violence on themselves?”

The doctor leaned forward. “I don't think it could be done.”

Colden closed his case on a high note, but even that could not hide the lack of solid evidence. Stagnant air and the press of warm bodies lulled the crowd into inertia as he read from a fat legal text.

“Circumsta
ntial evidence is all that can be expected and indeed all that is necessary to substantiate a charge.” He paused, and his gaze traveled across the two rows of jurors as if he were individually appealing to each man.

Despite his impressive legal jargon, Colden was ultimately confirming the very same question that had been tormenting me:
Where is the proof?