Katie Rose (29 page)

B
ridget Flynn, please take the stand.”

The woman strode to the witness box, much more subdued after a weekend in jail. As she gazed at Charles with defiance mingled with caution, he almost felt sorry for her. Picking up his notes, he attempted to concentrate. As he approached the witness box, he had to ignore how beautiful Winifred looked that morning, and how much he still wanted to throttle her. He could not blame her entirely for the newspaper stories, but her ruthless ambition had led up to it. And yet …

At that dinner with his parents, he’d been stunned to realize that his mother shared many of Winifred’s opinions. Why did she bury her real thoughts? Was it because of his father’s bullying, or society’s expectations? He could not picture Winifred ever doing that, but perhaps the self-censorship was something that occurred over time, like a rock rubbed smooth in the ocean. Could there be more than a grain of truth in Winifred’s assertions about women and marriage?

Charles glanced down at his notes, grateful that he had prepared carefully. “Now Miss Flynn, we left off
with Mrs. Black serving her husband tea. Did you observe her add anything to his cup?”

The maid pressed her lips together tightly. Charles repeated the question, forcing her to respond.

“No.”

“What happened next?”

“Mr. Black drank the tea. The missus stayed with him while he did. Soon after that, he got ill, and I fetched the doctor.”

“Did anyone else, other than you and Mrs. Black, have access to that tea?”

Bridget glowered at Charles contemptuously. But the memory of her weekend in jail must have been still fresh in her mind, for she bit her tongue. “No. No one did. She alone gave him the drink.”

The gallery erupted, and the judge banged the gavel. Bridget gave her mistress an apologetic glance, and Mrs. Black’s veiled head nodded as if in understanding.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” said Charles, satisfied.

“Mr. Shane?”

Horace strode up to the witness box and leaned comfortably against the rail. “Miss Flynn, do you enjoy working for the Blacks?”

“Yes. Her I do, anyway.”

“By ‘her,’ do you mean Mrs. Black?”

The maid glanced once more at the veiled figure and smiled softly. “Yes, that’s right.”

“Would it be correct to say that you are fond of your mistress?” Horace asked.

“Yes, it would.”

“Miss Flynn, could you describe Mrs. Black’s character?”

The maid’s face softened, and for the first time, she spoke freely. “The missus is the sweetest woman ever.
Helps me whenever she can and is never demanding of a thing. Unlike himself.” She referred to Mr. Black as if he were a distasteful insect.

“Miss Flynn, how would you describe the relationship between Mr. and Mrs. Black?” When the maid looked puzzled, Horace attempted to clarify. “Would you say their relationship was cordial? Did they fight often? Were they friendly?”

“I wouldn’t say friendly. I think Mrs. Black is a saint for putting up with the brute, what with his drinking and all …” She glanced quickly at the judge, then cut herself short. “What I mean is, the missus has always been very patient with him. A saint, she is.”

“I see. A saint.” Horace smiled. “Miss Flynn, you know Mrs. Black probably better than anyone else. You have seen her happy, sad, sick, and well. You have helped her dress, taken meals with her. Would you describe her as, say, a potential murderess?”

“No.”

The gallery roared, and Charles leaped to his feet. “Objection!”

Charles knew Horace understood that such a question was not allowed. Yet the jury had heard his message loud and clear.

“Sustained. The jury will disregard that question. Mr. Shane, please keep your questions within the proper parameters.”

“I apologize,” Horace said, though his eyes twinkled. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

There was no way the jury would disregard the question, yet Charles wasn’t as annoyed as he should have been. Horace’s tactics were standard in this kind of trial, and if Miss Flynn’s opinion would help Monica Black, letting it in wouldn’t ruin the prosecution’s case.

Miss Flynn left the stand, giving her mistress a sympathetic pat as she passed. The gallery was amazingly quiet, apparently taking the judge’s threats more seriously today. The crowd jammed the benches and filled the aisles, everyone from the curious working class to reporters to a few society folk. The Black scandal had become the talk of New York.

At Charles’s nod, William Black rose and took the stand. Dressed in a dark coat with a striped vest covering his broad belly, he looked like a petty tyrant. After being sworn in, the man gazed around the courtroom with an air of injured belligerence. Charles wished the man had a more agreeable personality, for he was certainly an unsympathetic victim.

“Mr. Black, can you tell us what happened the night of March 8?” Charles asked. Better to cut to the heart of the matter and get the man off the stand as quickly as possible.

“She tried to do me in, Monica did!” The man glared at his wife, full of self-righteous outrage. “She put poison in my tea! Made me sick as a dog. Had my head in the bucket all damned night.”

“Objection!” Horace leaped to his feet. “Mr. Black couldn’t have known anything was wrong with his tea.”

“Sustained.” The judge glanced at Mr. Black sternly. “Please just give us the facts.”

Mr. Black appeared even angrier at the reprimand, and he glared at his veiled wife with open hostility.

“Now Mr. Black, what happened that night when you came home?”

The man grumbled under his breath, then spoke begrudgingly. “I had been out for a few hours, having a few drinks. Married to a woman like that, who can blame me? When I came home, of course my tea wasn’t ready. I had to ask for it, just like every night.
Bridget prepared the tea, but Monica brought it to me.”

“What happened next?”

“Like I said, I got sick as a dog. Briddie fetched the doctor, who saved my life.”

“I see.” Charles paused for a moment. “Mr. Black, the charges against your wife are very serious. Is there anything you want to add?”

Mr. Black glanced at his wife again, and his scowl turned even uglier. “I hope she gets what’s coming to her. How dare she try something like that! When I think of her sneaking poison into my tea—” Unconsciously, the man made a fist, causing a man in the jury to gasp. Realizing his mistake, Mr. Black quickly put his hands in his lap, but it was too late. Most of the jury had seen the gesture.

“No further questions.” Charles strode back to his desk, while Winifred gazed at him in amazement. Charles, she knew, did nothing in court without reason. Could he have let the jury see Mr. Black for what he was deliberately? It was an interesting thought.

Horace approached Mr. Black in the witness box and smiled at him sympathetically. Mr. Black’s eyes narrowed shrewdly, but Horace turned on the full blast of his charm.

“Mr. Black, you have been through a terrible ordeal. I don’t think anyone can question that. You suffered a sickness, nearly expired, and your own wife is charged with poisoning. I think we all know how that must make you feel.”

Mr. Black nodded, his face filling with self-pity. “A man works hard—and for what? This kind of end! This is terrible! These women have gone too far. I see the papers! All that marching, carrying banners—their husbands need to take control, now.”

His face flamed, and he puffed out his chest even more. Horace nodded as if in total agreement.

“Very distressing, this state of affairs. Mr. Black, is there any reason you know of that Mrs. Black would want to kill you? Just hypothetically, of course.”

Mr. Black’s confidence vanished, and he stared at Horace suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Mr. Black, you are, as you said, a good, hard-working man. I don’t know many women who would want to—how did you put it?—do in such a husband. I am just asking you if you think she may have had reason. For us to believe your story, it is important that we know.”

Winifred leaned closer, praying that Charles wouldn’t object. Technically, the information Horace was after could be considered irrelevant, and the defense would have to cite cases in order to let the question stand. But for some reason, Charles let Horace spin this web around Mr. Black.

“I—cannot think of anything. Sure she complains that I go out and have a drink now and then, but that is not a crime, is it? A man has got to have his pleasures.”

“And that is the only thing amiss in your marriage?”

Mr. Black shifted uncomfortably, then glanced at Charles as if pleading for help. But Charles was busy scribbling notes and did not seem at all concerned. Turning back to Horace, Mr. Black nodded.

“For the record, Mr. Black indicated a positive response to my last question,” Horace said formally. Picking up his own notebook, Horace approached the bench, his voice rising. Gone was the shuffling, man-next-door best friend. Now Horace showed his years of training and went in for the kill.

“Mr. Black, I have witnesses who are willing to testify that your drinking consists of far more than one
or two at night. Is it not true that you have lost several jobs in the past few years due to intoxication? And is it not true that you recently had to appear in a civil case for a carriage accident, caused by your drinking?”

“Objection!” Charles finally spoke.

“Sustained.” The judge glanced at Horace. “Please stick to the present case, Mr. Shane.”

“Withdrawn. I apologize.” Horace said softly. “Mr. Black, have you ever struck your wife?”

The man shifted again in his seat, looking even more uncomfortable. He glanced at the jury, then at his wife, then finally at the judge. The older man looked at him expectantly, and Mr. Black’s face heated.

“Just once! Then she popped me with a frying pan! I had a lump on my head the size of a grapefruit! It’s still there!” He rubbed his head as if to demonstrate.

“Then your answer is yes. So Mr. Black, we have established that you drink and that you’ve hit your wife. Is there anything else we do not know about?” He stared at the witness, almost daring him not to admit the truth.

Mr. Black turned even redder. “I know what you’re getting at—the girls! It isn’t my fault my wife’s not as pretty as she used to be! A man has to find his own comforts, that he does!”

“So you think marital infidelity is justified by—what did you say?—‘She’s not as pretty as she used to be?’ ” Horace let the statement sink in, turning toward the jury to make sure they understood. The jurors were looking at Mr. Black with expressions of disapproval.

“No further questions.”

Horace walked back to the stand, giving Winifred a wink. Relief washed through her. While most men felt they had the right to chastise their wives, they
frowned on abuse, and Horace had successfully portrayed Mr. Black as less than a model husband. Although the testimony did show motive on Mrs. Black’s part, motive had already been established. Now Horace had painted Mr. Black as so unsympathetic, perhaps the jury would go easy on Mrs. Black based on pity.

“The court will adjourn for today,” the judge said as Mr. Black got off the stand.

Horace signaled to Winifred, who joined him and the other defense attorneys. “Let’s get some lunch, and we can talk about how to proceed.”

“Nice job with Mr. Black,” Winifred commented. “I think the jury sees what kind of man he is very clearly.”

“Yes, but it is not enough.” Horace sighed. “Unfortunately, too many men think infidelity, wife beating, and drinking are their unalienable rights. I know it is unfair, but that is what they think. No, we need something much more powerful if we are to help Mrs. Black. I will tell you right now, Miss Winifred, I am worried.”

Winifred tried not to let her own worry show. But Horace was certainly right—somehow they had to broaden the picture. The newspaper stories about Albright would help, but they needed something else, something that would catapult the case to a new level.

T
HEY ENTERED
the restaurant, and Horace accepted a table in the back, where the defense team could talk in private. As they passed the crowded tables, the male lawyers stared at them. One of them rose and approached Horace, slapping him jovially on the back.

“Well now, Shane. Didn’t think you one for the suffragette crowd. I hear you are their latest darling.”

Guffaws came from the nearby tables.

“I consider that a real compliment, Lufton, especially coming from you. Always been a believer in women’s rights. Don’t care at all if I am labeled in such a fashion.”

Winifred gazed at him in amusement. Horace was enjoying himself and the ruckus this case generated.

Jacob Lufton, a young and brash lawyer, was not amused. “Well, you are making it harder for the rest of us. I daresay the bar will not think much of it, either. What is your next case? Bloomers on every woman?”

Horace shrugged and pulled on his long beard thoughtfully. “Not a bad idea. I have always thought stays were unhealthy for women. A few other enlightened men think the same thing. But I do not understand your concern in all this. Are you worried that one day the Miss Appletons of the world might take your job?”

The young man stiffened, obviously offended. “Not in the least,” he spat.

“Good, then we are on the same side. I will see you in court next week.”

The other lawyers chuckled, the tension broken.

As the defense lawyers took their table, Winifred began. “I am so sorry, Horace, that this case is causing you grief,” but Horace stopped her immediately.

“Don’t even think about it. I took the case knowing my fellow man was not going to appreciate it. I have to admit that I rather enjoy the commotion. Keeps my blood flowing. Now let us talk about Mrs. Black.”

The other defense lawyers joined in, speculating
about the jury, the witnesses, and the rest of the evidence. As they talked, Winifred realized that their case was indeed weak, and they needed help.

Feeling a set of eyes on her, she was astonished to see Charles approaching their table.

“Mr. Shane, Miss Appleton. Gentlemen.” Charles nodded and indicated for them to stay seated.