Fortunate Son (35 page)

“And in the middle of this argument during which, as ya've told us, Arthur sliced off Tom Palliser's ear, and was hurling insults to Mary about being unfaithful, are ya telling this jury that not once did she accuse Arthur of being unfaithful by fathering James with another woman?”

“That's correct, sir. Not once.”

Coldness came over James. They were a bare two hours into this trial, yet he was already wishing it over and done with. It was hard to listen to these people talk about him, about his mother and Juggy, about Arthur, about Fynn. Telling the world things he wished to forget, things he wished he had never known.

Evening's amber light was streaming through the windows high over the judges' bench, angling across the open temperate air, dust floating in the golden shafts. James stared at the thousands of little specks glinting there, flickering like motes of hot ash rising from a fire. Lowering his gaze, he saw Mackercher and Malone still in the midst of a heated exchange at the bench, petitioning the judges on some point of law. It was late; everyone was tired. Over the course of the previous week, Mackercher had questioned ninety-six witnesses, most for no more than four or five questions, and most with little or no cross-examination. One had been John Purcell, the butcher, who testified about the murder of Juggy. Mackercher let another solicitor handle the direct of him. Now they were nearing the end of their case, to James's relief. This trial was requiring more painful patience than expected. He had envisioned the testimony as fascinating, but it was anything but that—it was dreary repetition of random remembrances. And soon would begin Richard's farce parade. It was arduous at best.

Suddenly Justice Bowes boomed, “That's satisfactory gentlemen, step back!”

Mackercher returned to the table angry. Clearly, he had been refused.

“Is your witness coming today, Sergeant Mackercher?” asked Bowes.

“Aye, my lord, he—” At that instant, the doors swung and a short, wiry, grey-haired Irishman came walking briskly to the front. James saw the left side of the man's head was deformed: a fleshy hole where an ear had once been. He was sworn in then stated his name as Thomas Palliser. Mackercher moved close to the jury box before asking his first question. “Mr. Palliser, for the past few days we've been hearing, in some detail, of an altercation ya had with the late Lord Arthur Annesley. I will spare asking ya the event particulars as it clearly did occur.” Laughter came from the gallery. “I apologize, Mr. Palliser,” he added quickly, “I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken,” replied Palliser, his accent thickly Irish.

“What I wish to ask pertains to the events following that day, that day at Dunmain House. Do ya know the defendant, Richard Annesley?”

“Aye, I know o'him.”

“When did ya first meet him?”

“De day after I lost me ear, ‘twas. He came t'me with some o'his men, a Captain Bailyn an' another. I believe went by de name Higgon.”

“Might it have been Higgins, a Mr. Paul Higgins?”

“O' might've. I know not, but might've indeed.”

“What did the defendant want from ya that day?”

“Asked me challenge Lord Anglesea, fer satisfaction. Fer his affront on me ear, ye understand. With pistols, he did.”

“To a duel?”

“Aye, so he did. Had a challenge written fer me. Gave t'me t' post at de cross o' Ross.”

“New Ross? About four miles from Dunmain House, aye?”

“I think ‘tis more o' six,” said Palliser. “Aye, twas a post front o' St. Mary's.”

“And did ya?” Mackercher continued. “Did ya post it, yar challenge?”

“Most certainly. Didn't know an Earl wouldn't meet me.”

“So Arthur never accepted yar challenge to duel?”

“Nay. Lord Anglesea said I should—”

“By Lord Anglesea, do ya mean the late Arthur Annesley or his brother, the defendant?”

“Him there,” replied Palliser, motioning toward Richard with a finger. Richard's eyes went to slits at the gesture.

“Ah well,” Mackercher said softly, “ya may refer to him as Richard. I think we understand he merits no higher address.”

Malone jumped to his feet. “My lords this is outrageous! I object! Sergeant Mackercher is making arguments to the jury, entirely disregarding—”

“Enough Sergeant Malone.” Bowes raised a hand. “Sergeant Mackercher, you will have your closing argument. Do not stir our wrath at this juncture.”

“Apologies my lord.” He turned back to the witness box. “Mr. Palliser, please disregard my comment. Ya may address the defendant in whatever way ya deem appropriate. Now, ya were telling us what he,” he pointed purposefully at Richard, “the defendant, said ya should do.”

“Aye. Well, he…Lord Richard….” Palliser grinned. “Said I shouldn't accept Arthur not meetin' me. Dat an honorable man would see justice done.”

“And by justice, what did ya think Richard meant?”

“T' kill him,” said Palliser. A collective gasp was heard. “By virtue o' me oath, he did.”

“And at that time, did ya know Richard was Arthur's brother?”

“Aye, sir,” the Irishman replied, shifting in his seat. “Been told dat, I had.”

“Very well, that brings me to a most delicate question. A few days later, Arthur was shot in his drawing room, rendering him blind in one eye. Do ya know what villain fired the shot?”

Palliser glanced about, as if unsure what to say. “Nay.”

“Nay? Do ya not know that it was Richard himself who pulled that trigger?”

“I must object, my lords!” shouted Malone. “This is beyond—”

Bowes leaned forward. “Sergeants, approach.” Mackercher and Malone walked to Bowes, and James could hear Bowes lecturing Mackercher fierily. After a few moments, both stepped back.

“Mr. Palliser,” Mackercher continued. “I am nearly done—” Suddenly, the bells of Christ Church Cathedral began to peel the six o'clock hour. Since the cathedral adjoined the Four Courts, the tolling resounded through the courtroom, muffling all other sounds, forcing whoever was speaking to yield, to let it pass. Mackercher shook his head as the bells finally hit six. “All right, Mr. Palliser, shall we try this again?” He asked a few more questions, of little consequence, then turned the witness over to Malone.

Malone stood behind the defense table. “Of what profession are you, Mr. Palliser?”

“Eh?”

Malone gave a slight shake of his head, then smiled as if acknowledging Palliser was toying with him. He approached the witness box. “I asked, of what profession are you?”

“I'm a Roman Catholic, sir.”

Malone waited for the general laughter to die off. “Nay, sir. What business or occupation do you follow?”

“Oh. I'm a tanner.”

“A tanner?”

“Aye. What o' it, sir?”

“Are you not also a builder of muskets?”

“I've tended t' ‘em, sir, from time t' time. Never built one.”

“Is it not true that you shot Arthur, the late Earl of Anglesea, after—”

“Nay!”

“—after he attacked you for your dalliances with his wife?”

“By virtue o' me oath, nay.”

“Tell us true, were you and Mary Sheffield not involved in a relationship—”

Mackercher sprang to his feet. “I object, my lords. What Lady Anglesea did or did not do has no bearing in this case.”

“My lord,” Malone said, turning to Bowes, “Sergeant Mackercher introduced the subject on the day first of his prosecution, when he asked his witness, Mr. Thomas Rolph, if Lady Anglesea made comment of Arthur's unfaithfulness. ‘Tis only fair for this jury to know if she herself was indeed so involved with Mr. Palliser here.”

“I will allow it, for now. But not much further, Sergeant Malone.”

“Aye, my lord,” Malone said, then turned. “Now, I ask you again—”

“Nay, we weren't,” Palliser said in a gruff tone.

“Nay?”

“On my oath.”

“Then why did Arthur accuse her of such?”

“I know not.”

“What do you believe, Mr. Palliser?”

“I believe in God,” he replied, stiff-necked. Again the gallery chuckled.

“Order!” Bowes bellowed, though he too was restraining a grin.

Malone continued. “If you were not in such relations with Mary Sheffield, and yet her husband cut off your ear in the fury of an accusation of such, do you not have—”

“'Twas someone else,” Palliser mumbled.

“Someone else?”

“Aye, but I know not who, so don't ye be askin' me.”

Again Mackercher stood. “My lords, to what relevance is this questioning? To besmirch Lady Anglesea's fine name? To insult his Lordship, the Duke of Buckingham? Surely there is no value here. There is no merit to such a frivolous line of questioning, no purpose other than to draw us from the question that has brought us here, as to Mrs. Sheffield's maternity of the plaintiff, to which we have already proven—”

“Your stand is sustained and noted,” answered Bowes. He turned to Malone. “Do you have more questions for this witness?”

“Nay, my lord.”

“You may take your leave, Mr. Palliser. This court stands adjourned until eight o'clock on the morrow next.” Everyone stood as the three judges rose and strode through their door.

James stretched, then turned, smiling at Laura. Mackercher leaned near him saying, “Nearly done, m'lord. One or two more tomorrow and we'll rest.”

“Very good, Mr. Mackercher,” James said. He stood before continuing, “I don't care for such talk of my mother. Keep it out. ‘Tis useless.”

“That's over, unless they bring it up in their direct examination, in which case—”

“No more,” James half-barked. “Shut them down if they do. I want no further accusations of such infidelity.”

Mackercher nodded confidently. “I'll do my best, m'lord.”

James put a hand on Mackercher's shoulder. “We'll dine at Stag's Head?”

“If that's what ya'd like.”

“Laura likes it, so ‘tis fine. We'll visit with ye there.” James started toward Laura, pushing past the black robes milling around the bar. Just then Richard blocked his path, glaring. James snorted with disgust. “What do ye want?”

Richard leaned close, whispering, “Ye'd better win this case, knave. If ye don't, I'll have ye done in for sure. B'Christ, I will.”

“Oh?” James stood his ground. “Are ye already hiring more assassins?”

“I'll send ye to hell in an instant. I'll do it myself!”

“Ye're a rabid dog, ye are. Ye never stop. Well, I admire yer tenacity, but do please ply me no more with yer schemes.”

“Damn yer blood!” Richard snarled.

“My blood?” snapped James. “Annesley blood runs through us both, lest ye forget.”

“Ye don't deserve it.”

James leaned into Richard's face. “Fortunes have been spent on both sides in this affair, but do ye know the highest price for me?”

Richard stepped back, glowering, lofty.

“Seeing it in print, for everyone to know I'm related to the likes of ye. Having to admit I was born into this godforsaken, honorless family.”

“Blood and thunder! Where's my sword?” Richard shouted, spinning around.

“James!” Mackercher was there, along with Malone and a swarm of other lawyers.

“‘Tis nothing,” grumbled James. “Just family banter.”

“Ye knave! Ye goddamned little knave!” roared Richard, struggling to free himself from his lawyers.

“Uncle! Black-eyed vermin,” James fumed. “Hear me clearly. Though I'd sorely wish to kill ye, I'd rather see ye live in ruin and shame. To that end, when I've reclaimed my title, ye must go. Flee to France if ye wish, or any other place that'll harbor yer rotten kind, but ye'll not remain here or England. Do ye understand me?”

“Damn ye bastard,” hissed Richard, “ye'll never win this.”

“Do ye not understand me sir?” James shouted in the man's face.

“Come now,” Mackercher urged, steering James away. Shaking, James allowed himself to be led to the door where Laura, Seán, and Ann were staring at him.

Malone followed after, asking Mackercher, “What if Lord Anglesea does not leave?”

Mackercher turned, smirking at the capitulating question. “He'll be hanged, Mr. Malone. On sight. No hesitation. No trial. No mercy. Is that not clear enough?”

“Outrageous!” Malone protested.

“Murder and kidnapping, Prime Sergeant Malone,” said Mackercher. “A man's sins will surely find him out.”

The trial resumed the next morning as the bells of Christ Church pealed eight. Mackercher rose. “My lords, the plaintiff calls his last witness, Prime Sergeant John Giffard.”

At once Malone was on his feet. “Sergeant Giffard may not be called to testify, my lords. He was an attorney for the defendant in another matter, and anything Sergeant Giffard can say would be privileged and inadmissible as secrets between an attorney and his client.”

“My lords,” began Mackercher, his tone resolute. “We concede the veracity of that fact, that last spring, in London, Sergeant Giffard did represent Richard Annesley in his meritless prosecution of James Annesley on the false grounds of murder, but—”

“This is highly unacceptable,” Malone cut in. “There is no evidence to suggest that it was the defendant who prosecuted those murder charges against the plaintiff. No such—”

“Prime Sergeant Malone,” Bowes interrupted, “did you not just claim this man's testimony to be privileged because of that very fact, that he represented the defendant in an earlier matter?”

Malone hesitated before conceding, “Aye, my lord.”

“And is it not true that the earlier matter was the murder prosecution of the plaintiff?”

Malone looked at his team of attorneys, appealing for a lifeline, but none came. Instead, their gazes darted to the walls, dropped to the floors, examined notes. “Aye,” Malone finally muttered.

“Speak up, if you will, Prime Sergeant Malone,” a different judge ordered.

“Aye, m'lords,” said Malone. “I said, Aye.”

“Then to that issue, the fact is so stipulated, Sergeant Mackercher,” said Justice Bowes, appearing glum. “Yet,” he continued, “I still see no room to allow such testimony.”

“Thank ya, my lord,” Mackercher said, then took a breath before continuing. “My lords, the witness's testimony may be allowed on the grounds that the defendant has previously waived his right to claim such testimony as duly privileged. Evidence exists—”

“My lord,” Malone interjected, “may we not conduct these arguments at the bench, or more preferably in chambers, rather than before this jury?”

Justice Bowes leaned back, conferring with the other two judges. The courtroom fell dead silent, other than the indistinguishable murmur of the judges' deep voices. Finally, Bowes sat forward, saying, “We see no reason at present, Sergeant Malone. Sergeant Mackercher, please state your evidence of the asserted waiver.”

“Thank ya, my lords. Sergeant Giffard was counsel to the defendant, Richard Annesley, in the previous instance, but as James Annesley was not found guilty in that criminal matter, the defendant refused to pay Sergeant Giffard for the legal services he rendered. Sergeant Giffard then took the matter to the Court of Exchequer in London where a waiver was executed by the defendant allowing Sergeant Giffard to divulge to that court what legal services he had performed, in order that Sergeant Giffard could prosecute his claim for payment.”

“Do you have that waiver?” asked Bowes, his aged hand already outstretched.

“Aye, my lord.” Mackercher stepped up, Malone following, and handed the paper over.

“My lord, may I see that?” asked Malone.

“Of course.” Bowes allowed Malone to read it, then took it back. While Bowes read it, Malone turned his head and glared at Richard, who simply looked away. The paper was then handed to the other judges, who read it in turn. They put their heads together, whispered for a moment, then resumed straight postures. “All right, Sergeants, you may step back,” announced Bowes. Mackercher and Malone returned to their tables as Bowes addressed the jury, “Gentlemen of the jury, you will now be hearing rather unusual testimony. The witness, Mr. John Giffard, is a prime sergeant solicitor who represented the defendant, Richard Annesley, in a prior instance. The witness is no longer counsel to the defendant and therefore will not be coming before you in his capacity as such, but rather as a witness only. As the defendant did not pay Sergeant Giffard's bill of….” He paused to read the waiver, then looked at Giffard, still waiting beyond the bar. “His bill of ten thousand pounds….”

The gallery gave a collective gasp.

“As Richard Annesley refused to make payment,” Bowes went on, “he was sued by Sergeant Giffard in a London court for collection. In that suit, Richard Annesley waived all rights of privilege between an attorney and client.” He lifted the paper. “This is that waiver.” He gave Richard a disdainful look that, to James, seemed to say, ‘you ignorant greedy man.' Then he resumed with the jury. “Therefore, we shall allow Sergeant Giffard to come before you and give testimony that would otherwise have been disallowed. Sergeant Mackercher, you may call your witness.”

Mackercher waited as Giffard came forward and was sworn in. Then he began. “What is yar profession, sir?”

“I am an attorney of the Common Pleas in England and a Prime Sergeant Solicitor of the High Court of Chancery.”

“Do ya know the defendant in this suit?”

“Aye, I do. I was retained by the Earl on the fifth of May of this year to carry on a prosecution for murder against the plaintiff, James Annesley.”

“And when was that trial?”

“It was held in the Old Bailey on the third of June.”

“So the conversations ya had with the defendant occurred during a one month period, sometime around May of this year? Is that correct?”

“Aye, that is correct.”

“And as was mentioned before ya came to the stand, Richard Annesley was unhappy with yar performance in the murder prosecution and refused to pay yar fees?”

“Whether or not he was unhappy with my performance, I can only surmise. I do know he was extremely disconsolate that his nephew was not hanged.”

“How do ya know this?”

“When the waiver was signed, one of his men, a Captain Bailyn, carried it to London and threatened to kill me if I further pursued payment from Lord Anglesea.”

“Did ya pursue the suit for payment?”

“Aye, I did. And it was granted.”

“Do ya know where Captain Bailyn is now?”

“Somewhere quite hot, I suppose.” Giffard flicked a small smile at James.

Mackercher continued, “Most likely so. He's dead, correct?”

“That is my understanding.” A nervous chuckle rose in the room, then faded quickly.

“What was the court's verdict in yar suit?”

“I was awarded my fees but have yet to be paid. Indeed, I'm certain I never shall be.”

“Why is that, Sergeant Giffard?” Mackercher asked, stepping closer to the witness box.

“I must object, my lord,” Malone said. “The witness's knowledge about the defendant's financial habits or property is not relevant to this proceeding.”

“I will allow it,” Bowes said, then glared at Mackercher. “But get to its relevance.”

“Aye, my lord.” Mackercher turned back to Giffard. “I asked—”

“I remember the question. I was never paid because Richard is penniless, best I can determine.” A surprised muttering erupted throughout the courtroom.

Bowes raised a hand. “Continue, Sergeant Giffard.”

“Aye, my lord. The man has so heavily encumbered the Anglesea Estate that there are more debts outstanding against it than its capital on the whole.”

James slumped back in his chair, gut punched.

Mackercher was clearly surprised as well. “Ya are not saying the entire estate of the Earl of Anglesea is worthless, are ya?”

“Not exactly. ‘Tis of great worth, valued at several million pounds, to be sure. But Richard, the current Earl of Anglesea, and quite probably his brother before him, has incurred debts of greater amounts.”

James closed his eyes. “Sergeant Giffard,” Mackercher continued, now more slowly, “how did ya come to know of such private finances? Have yar factors investigated the man?”

“Nay. I could be mistaken. I've looked into the matter as best I can, but the Anglesea estate is broad and grand, not easily assessed.”

“I would think not.”

Malone was standing. “I must object. This inquiry, ostensible as it is, into the defendant's private affairs is highly irrelevant.”

“Sergeant Mackercher,” said Bowes, “move this line of questioning back to the issue at hand or release this witness.”

“Aye, my lord. Sergeant Giffard, did the defendant tell ya why he wished to prosecute murder charges against his nephew, James Annesley?”

“Aye. He said the man should be hanged, at any price. He and I traveled to London in late May, but once there, we stayed apart, generally speaking. He thought it inadvisable to be seen in my company. Most messages between us were conducted thereafter by Captain Bailyn.”

Mackercher frowned. “The one who later threatened to kill ya?”

“The very same.”

“Yet before ya went to London, ya had direct conversations with the defendant?”

“Aye. And one particular occasion in London.”

“What did ya discuss in those conversations?” Mackercher moved close to the jury box.

Malone jumped. “My lords, this is privileged—”

“No,” barked Bowes. “I have already ruled it allowable. Take your seat sir.”

Malone complied, slowly.

“He said he had arranged a witness, a Mr. Seán Kennedy, the son of the man James accidentally shot. Mr. Kennedy was to testify that it had indeed been an intentional killing.”

James winced, imagining Seán was uncomfortable as well. James knew Mackercher would not explore this issue regarding Seán. That was their agreement. Nevertheless, it was bad enough simply hearing this much said.

“Did he ever tell ya, sir….” Mackercher paused, facing the jury, lowering his voice. “Did Richard ever say that he knew James Annesley was the rightful heir to the title and property of the Earl of Anglesea?”

“Aye, he did. And he told me he had kidnapped the boy, sold him into slavery to remove him from Ireland.” The courtroom flared with murmurs.

“Silence,” warned Bowes.

“He did?” asked Mackercher, as if surprised. “The defendant….” He walked to stand in front of Richard, then pointed at him. “This man here, the defendant, he told ya that?”

“He said that was why James had to be hanged. He wanted to be rid of him. That since James returned from the American Colonies, the young man had been nothing but a nuisance. He said he wished to have killed James while still a boy, rather than to have transported him.”

“All right.” Mackercher gave Richard a wicked smile. “So, once again, Sergeant Giffard, ya're saying that Richard Annesley, in private conversation with ya, admitted James Annesley was the rightful Earl of Anglesea?”

“Aye. He told me so.”

“Thank ya, Sergeant Giffard.” Mackercher stood motionless, staring at Richard, who met his gaze. Then Mackercher smiled, clapped his hands once, and turned back to the bench. “We pass this witness for cross-examination.”

Bowes peered at the defense table. “Sergeant Malone?”

Malone stood, his face ashen. “Aye, my lord,” he said.

Mackercher took his seat beside James, leaned over, and whispered, “We have him. All he can do now is assault the man's character.”

“Sergeant Giffard,” Malone said slowly, as if unsure how to begin, “do you know if Lord Anglesea was aware of James Annesley's innocence or guilt in the murder trial?”

“Aye. Richard knew James was innocent. He told me so.”

“Yet he sought to have him hanged?”

“Aye,” answered Giffard.

Malone advanced slowly. “Did you not believe that to be a most wicked crime in and of itself—to seek the hanging of an innocent man?”

Mackercher grinned, then whispered to James, “Here it begins.”

“Nay. I did not,” Giffard replied coolly.

Malone grasped the rail around the witness box. “Nay? As an attorney, a solicitor before the King's Court, one who sets himself out as a man of integrity and honor, how could you engage in such a prosecution without objection? How could you represent a client, carrying out his orders, when you had full knowledge of the lies being perpetrated?”

Giffard snapped, “I may as well ask you, sir, how you came to be here today? How you came to be engaged for the defendant in this very case? You no doubt know the truth of this matter.”

Malone froze, staring at Giffard, mouth agape, then pulled his lips in tight.

“Sergeant Malone,” Bowes barked irritably, “have you finished with this witness?”

“I have another question or two.”

“Are you certain?” Bowes asked with an obvious nudge.

“Aye, my lord.” Malone stepped back to his table. “Sergeant Giffard, did you not comprehend that your actions would be for a bad purpose, to unjustly compass the death of another man?”

“I was not there to undertake a bad purpose. I was there to conduct a prosecution. If there was any dirty work, I was not concerned in it.” To that Malone gave a chuckle which to James sounded forced. Giffard continued, “Again, Sergeant Malone, I must ask how you came to be engaged in this suit without objection?”

Now Malone erupted, firing back, “I make a distinction between carrying on a civil defense and a murderous prosecution that has as its only objective the death of an innocent man!”

“Oh? How came you to that distinction—by your wits?”

Bowes intervened. “Gentlemen! This is not the forum for a debate of your legal ethics. Sergeant Malone, do you have anything else relevant to this trial?”

Malone took his seat, muttering, “Nay, my lord.”