City of Liars and Thieves (25 page)

On the stand, Watkins was nodding. “That's right. I wanted to know if Croucher had seen Elma the night she disappeared.”

“And what was Richard Croucher's response?”

Watkins wrinkled his brow. “He went off on a tirade, accusing Weeks of murder. He seemed bent on seeing Weeks hang.”

I turned to Levi, expecting him to recoil. Instead, he was standing at the front of the prisoner's box, looking more alert than he had during the course of the trial.

Hamilton was equally attentive. “Have you heard Richard Croucher say he was by the Manhattan Well on the night of the murder?”

“Sure, I have. He said it several times, once right after Elma's body was brought home.”

Colonel Burr flipped his glasses to the top of his head and stood. “Judge Lansing, may I request a moment with my colleague?”

Lansing looked out the window. The sky was completely dark and there was nothing to see but flickering candlelight reflected in the glass panes. “Time is of the essence,” he warned.

Burr bowed, “Of course.” He looked sternly at Hamilton and the two walked to the far corner, away from the jurors.

“There's a sight,” Hardie said, craning to see.

Burr spoke while Hamilton tapped the toe of his shoe on the marble floor as if it were all he could do to keep from interrupting. When Burr finished, Hamilton waved his arms with a flourish accentuated by his lacy sleeves. Burr glared and color rose in his cheeks, but Hamilton kept speaking, poking his finger in the air as if to mark each point. Finally, Burr held up both hands in surrender. He returned to his seat and Hamilton resumed his questions.

“Richard Croucher said he had gone by the Manhattan Well that night,” Hamilton repeated, enunciating each syllable. “Did he say anything about visiting Ann Brown's house that same evening?”

Watkins fidgeted. He had been on the stand for well over an hour and seemed to be regretting his testimony. “He mentioned dining at someone's house. I can't recall the name.”

“How about Ann Ashmore?” Hamilton asked. “Does that name sound more familiar?”

Watkins looked longingly at the courtroom doors. “That's right. He said he'd had supper at Ann Ashmore's home and that she could vouch for his whereabouts.”

Heads turned as a mature woman with russet hair and a tight corset, which did little to contain her fleshy figure, took the witness stand.

“Pray, ma'am,” Hamilton said, “tell the court your name.”

“Ann Ashmore.” Her throaty voice conveyed a weary wisdom.

“Do you not also go by the name of Ann Brown?”

“At times.” She leaned forward, exposing her chest far beyond the point of subtlety.

Hamilton stood several feet away, as if reluctant to approach such a tawdry woman. “Pray, madam, why use two names?”

“Brown was my late husband's name. Ashmore is my family name.”

“Why use them both interchang
eably?”

“I use both names,” Ann Ashmore said. She had not answered the question, but it didn't matter. Her credibility was already gone.

“Ah, like Miss Sands,” Burr murmured, pleased to remind the court of Elma's illegitimacy. “Is Ashmore your mother's name?”

Ann Ashmore brushed a sleeve of her dress as if she had been dirtied. “Certainly not.”

“Pray tell what happened on the night of December twenty-second,” Hamilton said.

“It being my little boy's birthday, I invited some friends to come sup with me, and among the rest was Mr. Croucher. Between four and five o'clock in the evening, he came and remained there till four or five minutes after eleven.”

“Could he have been absent at all during that time?”

“No. He wasn't.”

“He remained at your house from four or five in the evening until, as you say quite specifically, four or five minutes after eleven without a single absence?”

“Yes.”

Hamilton called four others who had been guests at Ann Ashmore's that night: lisping, pockmarked, lazy-eyed—the dregs of New York City. Each witness said they had had supper with Ann Ashmore on her son's birthday. All agreed it was a Sunday evening. Not a single one could recall the exact date.

Jurors began openly shaking their heads and snorting, as more witnesses came forward to cast suspicion on Richard Croucher.

“I had been acquainted with Mr. Croucher for some time, but I never liked his looks,” said a barber who had a shop on Greenwich Street. “On the second of January, the day when the body was found, he was extremely busy among the crowd, spreading improper insinuations and prejudices against the prisoner. I told him I thought it was wrong that he should persecute Weeks in such a manner.”

Someone cracked open a window and a draft blew through the room while a cobbler testified.

“One afternoon, a man—I don't know his name—came into my store and said, ‘Good day, gentlemen; Levi Weeks has been taken by the sheriff for murder.' He seemed quite pleased with himself and happy to cast blame.”

Hamilton snatched a candle from the attorneys' table. Wax dripped down the sides and the candle fluttered as he strode out into the courtroom. “Is this the man?” he demanded, thrusting the candle into Croucher's stricken face.

The cobbler did not hesitate. “It is.”

Hamilton held the candle under Croucher's trembling chin. “The jury will mark every muscle of his face and every motion of his eyes.”

Croucher reeled as though he had been struck. The defense rested its case.

It was two-thirty in the morning. The candles had burned down and their wicks were smoking. The courtroom was sedate. Burr kept his closing argument brief.

“It's better that five guilty persons should escape unpunished,” he warned with ecclesiastic authority, “than one innocent man should die.” His somber words hung over the audience. The stale air added a religious austerity. A man's life was at stake. The entire room seemed to contemplate the gravity of the jurors' decision.

Colden alone was immune. In a hoarse voice, he asked for an adjournment, arguing that it was essential for the jury to hear his comments on the defense testimony but that he was too exhausted to deliver them at such a late hour. “I've been awake for forty-four hours,” he complained, gesturing at the jurors, Levi, even at himself, as if trying to signal sentiments he was too tired to vocalize.

The jury grumbled, unhappy at the prospect of bedding down for a second night at City Hall.

Hamilton rose. He looked remarkably well and curiously unencumbered. The candlelight flattered his sharp features, erasing any sign of fatigue. The case, he said, required no “labored elucidation.” Several jurors nodded appreciati
vely.

Only Colden objected again. The audience groaned. Judge Lansing frowned. Finally sensing the tide was against him, Colden began to waver. He conceded that unless the court was willing to grant an adjournment, he would have to accept the desire of the defense to submit the case now.

Judge Lansing turned to the jurors.

“It has unexpectedly become my duty to charge you without the assistance of the argument of counsel, which they have waived on account of the late hour. Your path of duty is clearly and distinctly traced: to find the prisoner, Levi Weeks, guilty, if in your consciences you believe him so, or to acquit, if you think him innocent.”

I could hardly keep my eyes open and would have been as happy as anyone to lie down in my bed, but the simplicity of Lansing's explanation was madness. The case was as complex as the wants, desires, and passions that had led us to this courtroom.

Lansing continued, “It is not pretended that positive proof of murder is attainable, but the prosecution has attempted to prove the prisoner's guilt by circumstantial evidence. If it can be established by a number of connected circumstances that Levi Weeks was the perpetrator of the crime, it will be your duty to find him guilty, as much as if proof were made by direct testimony.”

More satisfied, I sat back in my seat, but Lansing had not finished.

“There are points in which the circumstances were not so satisfactorily connected as to enable you to pronounce the prisoner guilty,” he said.

His words flooded my ears. His mouth continued to move, but I could only make out bits and pieces: “It is doubtful that Gulielma Sands left the house of Elias Ring in the company of the prisoner.” “It is doubtful the prisoner's brother's sleigh was removed from his yard.”

I pressed Elma's comb into my palm, feeling each tooth dig into me, as Lansing performed the defense's final work for them. “The prisoner appears to be a young man with a mild disposition and fair character, and it is difficult to discover what could have motivated him to commit the crime.”

In the back of the courtroom, the crazed woman who was Elma's greatest advocate began to sob. I envied her extravagant display.

Lansing continued, “The witnesses produced on the part of the prisoner have accounted for the manner in which he spent the evening. It is very doubtful that Gulielma Sands was exposed to any other violence than that occasioned by drowning.”

Elias wrapped his arm around me, and I became aware that I was gasping. I heard Croucher cough. I heard Elma scream.

Lansing concluded, “The court is unanimously of the opinion that the proof is insufficient to warrant a verdict against the prisoner. With this general charge, we commit the prisoner's case to your considerat
ion.”

“He's already considered it for them,” I nearly shouted. Other members of the audience echoed the same concern. Elias lowered his head into his hands. My chest constricted and my vision narrowed.

“What's happening?” one man asked.

“The judge says there's no proof,” someone said.

“What about the dead girl?” a woman yelled.

The clerk led the jury out of the courtroom. Some shuffled; others gazed over their shoulder at the judge or the courtroom; all looked confused.

“Are they being dismissed?” I asked, unable to hide my mounting panic.

“They're going to deliberate,” Hardie explained.

Levi watched the jurors file out. There were dark circles under his eyes. His hair was spiky, as he ran his fingers through it constantly. One moment he appeared innocent, the next he looked like a monster, incapable of emotion.

Judge Lansing ordered Levi back to his brother's house to await his fate. The attorneys began to collect their belongings. The crowd debated whether to wait for the verdict or return home. As officers led Levi away, a group of men in the back of the room began to shout: “Weeks is a villain!” “Hang him!”

Relief washed over me. The public was incensed; perhaps the jurors were as well. Judge Lansing might believe that the evidence was insufficient, but the final decision rested with the jury. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, unable to still my anxiety. I had imagined that the trial would prove Levi's certain guilt, but I had more doubts than ever.

Elias put his hand on my forearm, and I shivered at his touch. “Come,” he said, leading me to a dark corner. He looked around to make sure we would not be overheard. “You can't possibly believe that smut.”

He had used “you” instead of “thou,” but it hardly mattered. We had nothing left. Elias seemed furious, but I had no words to respond. Words were useless. I had just sat through a trial filled with nothing but futile words.

Elias swore under his breath. “Watkins is a vicious liar.”

“Why would he lie—under oath?” Joseph Watkins had helped us search for Elma. He was a kind man. Elias said so himself.

“He was sitting within arm's reach of Ezra Weeks, within reach of Ezra's pocketbook, I should say.”

“Not everything is about money,” I said. “Not everyone can be bought.”

“Watkins's story changed with every question. No one believed him.”

I nodded. Colden had created quite a bit of doubt over Watkins's accusations. Judge Lansing had hardly acknowledged his testimony. Even the defense attorneys had quickly moved on to their next point. The problem was that Watkins's words rang true with me. Somehow Elias had laid the trap that had snared Elma.

“But…” I recalled Levi's warning, uttered in the dark room the afternoon Elma's body was found. “Richard Croucher saw
you
—with Elma.”

Elias exploded. “Richard Croucher!” People turned and he lowered his voice. “He was after that girl from the moment he laid eyes on her.”

Croucher was obnoxious and crude, but there was something in him that was plain and authentic. Our early-morning talk had only added to my confusion. “Elma would never have had anything to do with him,” I said.

“That doesn't mean he didn't lust after her. It doesn't mean he didn't kill her.” Elias pointed at the attorney's table. “Hamilton practically accused him of murder.”

“Because he's an easy target. Croucher said they would try to pin this on him.”

Elias looked bewildered. “You're defending Richard Croucher?”

“He had an alibi, Elias. Perhaps not one as respectable as Levi's, but that woman, Ann Ashmore, said he had supper with her.”

“That wench? She could not swear to her own name.”

I started to tremble. “There were others.”

“A bunch of misfits. They were there to celebrate her son's birthday but no one knew the date? They hardly know Ann Ashmore, and I'd say they don't know Croucher. The man's lived under my roof for nearly a year and I don't know a thing about him.”

“He's misunderst
ood.”

“His excuses make no sense. One minute he's bragging that he was by the well that night; the next he says he took another route or can't remember. He's accused Levi from the moment Elma disappeared, because he was trying to draw attention away from himself. And he hated Levi from the moment they met.”

“Hating Levi does not make him a murderer.”

“Printing handbills and spreading rumors doesn't make him innocent. The morning after she disappeared, he was racing around town spewing ghost tales.”

“Ghosts?” I saw bricks stacked higher than my head and a tangle of black hair slowly rising from the loamy pit. “Elma's ghost?”

“He claims her spirit rises from the Manhattan Well at midnight, condemning Weeks.”

“Croucher wrote those things?” I asked. Croucher enjoyed spreading speculation and he had always disliked Levi, but printing handbills required money and forethought, an effort that went well beyond hate. It was not that I found it objectionable, in all honesty, but I was shocked by his vehemence.

I scratched my neck, unable to understand why Elias was being so forthright now, when it was too late. “If thou are so certain of Croucher's guilt, then why was Levi charged? Why didn't Croucher stand trial?”

“Ask yourself,” Elias snarled. “You put Levi on trial while the real culprit walks free.”

I leaned against the wall behind me, urging my knees not to buckle.

Elias glared. “I warned you to be careful, not to blindly accuse, but you wouldn't listen. Never did.”

“No,” I said, although there was truth behind Elias's words. “Levi left our house with Elma. He said so.”

“There's no proof he killed her.” Elias waved at the witness stand. “Two days of testimony and not a shred of proof.”

“Levi is not innocent!”

Elias shook his head. “He soiled Elma and treated our home like a brothel, yes, but she was ripe for the taking—just like her mother. She may not have thrown herself down a well, but she paraded around in her nightgown, she remained alone in a house full of men, and she encouraged him and flaunted herself in front of all of us—”

“Elias,” I asked. “Did thou speak with the sheriff about Anthony Lispenard?”

Commotion broke out as Judge Lansing returned. As if in a trance, I followed Elias back to our bench. Levi was led to the prisoner's stand. He looked as hopelessly lost as I felt.

The jurors returned but remained standing. A deep hush settled over the court as the clerk called their names.

Judge Lansing spoke. “Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner. Prisoner, look upon the jury. Have you reached a verdict?”

The juror at the end of the first bench responded, “We have.”

“How say you, gentlemen? Do you find the prisoner Levi Weeks guilty or not guilty?”

A thin slip of paper trembled in the foreman's hand. His voice was weak as he pronounced, “Not guilty.”

“Good God!” a woman screamed. Others burst into tears. Men hissed and stamped their feet in protest.