The Russian Hill Murders (20 page)

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Authors: Shirley Tallman

BOOK: The Russian Hill Murders
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Really, this was too much! “Why is it so hard for you to give me a little help, for a change, instead of constantly coming up with arguments for why I’m wrong?”
“You mean help you to ruin your career before it’s even started? Damn it all, Sarah, I
am
trying to help you. You’re just too stubborn to see it.”
He rose from his chair, placed both hands on my desk and looked me squarely in the eye. “I humored you while you went through your pathetic list of suspects. But even you have to admit it ended in a blind alley. Sarah, listen to me—
please.
” He half choked out this last word, so unfamiliar was it on his tongue. “Your insistence on defending Chin is professional suicide.”
“I have to do what I feel is right!”
He took his hands from my desk so suddenly it set the rickety affair shaking. “And you consider this right? Defending a murderer? Think what you’ve been through, woman, to toss it all away for this churlish, lying cook.”
“You sound like every newspaper in town. Chin has a right to a fair trial. I can’t believe you would deny him that.”
“Don’t be thickheaded. Of course I wouldn’t deny Chin his constitutional rights. I just don’t want to see you go down with a sinking ship. You can’t win this case!”
Mirrored on his broad, sunburned face, I saw anger, frustration, disappointment and, beneath it all, fear that I was destroying my chance for a career in the law.
Sighing, I said softly, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Robert. I truly would have appreciated having you by my side, sitting as second chair at Chin’s trial.”
He stood very still; his eyes hadn’t left mine for a second. “I’m sorry, too, Sarah. There’s a time when I’d have been the last person
in the world to say this, but I think you would have made a gifted attorney—even if you are a woman.”
I almost smiled at this backdoor compliment; I never expected Robert Campbell to make such a startling admission. My only regret was that it was under such circumstances.
“You’ve made your choice, Robert,” I told him, determined not to let him see my disappointment. Arranging the papers spread before me, I bent to my work. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a great deal to do before the trial begins.”
He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it. With a curt nod of his head, he turned and left the room.
 
 
T
o say that I was nervous the first day of Chin’s trial would be a gross understatement. Whether we care to admit it or not, much of what transpires in a courtroom—especially during a murder trial—can be termed theater of high drama. Without devaluing the significance of solid evidence, the manner in which that evidence is presented is often of greater import. The jury is composed of mere men, after all, susceptible to all the imperfections of our species. In an effort to sway the jury, lawyers on both sides of the aisle have been known to blur the line between justice and showmanship until it becomes all but indistinguishable.
I’d arrived early, hoping for a few minutes to collect my thoughts. Although I was alone, I felt surrounded by the spirits of all the men and women who had given testimony in this courtroom over the years—tense, worried people, some brave enough to tell the truth, others willing to lie in an effort to hide dark secrets and private sins. This chamber had seen it all: every conceivable transgression and outrage, lives devastated, defendants condemned to prison or even death. This last thought caused me
to shiver. Today I would begin the fight for Chin Lee Fong’s life.
The courtroom looked no different this morning than it had during the two days of jury selection. Because the fog outside had yet to dissipate, little light showed through the tall windows lining one wall of the dark-paneled room. The judge’s bench loomed before me in daunting majesty, its towering size making me feel small and insignificant. The knot forming in my stomach tightened, hardly an auspicious beginning to what the city’s newspapers touted as the trial of the year.
My footsteps echoed as I walked between rows of empty benches. Choosing my wardrobe for the trial had been akin to balancing on a tightrope. If I dressed too severely, I might insult the all-male jury by appearing too masculine. Too many flounces and frills, on the other hand, and I risked being characterized as frivolous. In the end, I’d selected a fitted, two-piece navy blue suit with a very small bustle. To soften its tailored lines, I wore a hand-laced cream-colored shirtwaist, my small gold timepiece pinned to the bodice. I arranged my thick hair in a neat bun at the nape of my neck and wore a small but stylish hat Celia had found in a millinery shop on Market Street. As I took my seat at the defense table, I felt I had achieved a professional appearance without sacrificing my femininity.
I pulled open my briefcase and spread an assortment of papers out on the table, as well as a volume of legal lore I’d borrowed from Papa’s library for ready reference. The pile seemed pathetically small, I reflected, considering that a man’s life hung in the balance.
Robert possessed no more experience in a courtroom than I did. Still, it would have been heartening to have him beside me acting as second chair. But of course he wasn’t here; I would have to face the enemy on my own.
Papa would have been delighted to join me at the defense table. Because he was a judge, however, he could not. He’d done the next best thing, though, spending hours with me going over courtroom protocol and procedure. He warned me of tactics I might expect from the prosecutor, how best to question witnesses, which questions to avoid, which ones to ask. A good defense attorney, he told me, must be prepared to lose a minor skirmish here and there in order to save his big guns for more critical battles. “All things come round to him who will but wait,” he quoted from Longfellow.
For the hundredth time I went over my notes, asking myself if I’d done everything possible to prepare for Chin’s defense. The sad fact was that I had still found no way to prove his innocence. The best I could do was try to establish that Chin’s bark was worse than his bite. For all the cook’s angry posturing, he’d never been known to strike anyone, much less try to kill. His reputation as a gambler was well known, but he rarely pilfered more than a few dollars to further that passion. Samuel and I had located half a dozen witnesses willing to testify they’d seen Chin at various gambling dens at the time he was supposed to be poisoning Arlen. But they were Chinese. I had no illusions about their ability to convince a jury of white men.
Then there was the matter of public opinion. While the prosecution’s case was circumstantial, the public had already decided Chin’s guilt. There’d even been talk of a lynching, requiring additional jail guards for protection.
Ironically, although Chin was being tried for the murder of Lucius Arlen, what most incensed the populace were much publicized rumors that he had also killed a white girl. The papers had a field day portraying Dora as a defenseless young beauty, cowering at the feet of a crazed Chinaman. The accompanying cartoons pictured Chin as a slant-eyed devil, complete with pitchfork and forked tail!
The chamber began to fill. I knew that most people had come out of curiosity, not only to see a woman attorney but to catch a glimpse of the “yellow-skinned devil” (the name with which Chin had been christened by local newspapers) pictured on every front page in town.
Fifteen minutes later the room was crowded to overflowing, and latecomers were being turned away at the door. I was pleased and touched to see my mother, Celia and Samuel seated not many rows behind me. Papa was presiding at a civil trial this morning and, much to his disappointment, could not be here to support me.
Although her husband was a judge, this was one of the few times Mama had entered a courtroom; almost certainly it was Celia’s first time to witness a trail. It was considered not quite proper for a lady of society to be seen in such a place, which made their presence here this morning all the more poignant.
They gave me encouraging smiles, which I returned, even though I felt anything but confident. I could see no sign of the Barlows, then remembered that Mrs. Barlow was to be called as a prosecution witness and therefore was banned from the chamber until after her testimony At the rear of the courtroom, I spied two Chinese men, and I wondered if they’d been sent by Li Ying. I also saw an associate from Shepard’s law firm. No need to wonder what he was doing here; his sour expression said it all. He’d been sent by Shepard to make daily reports on my inability to handle the situation.
Across the aisle, Miles Dormer—a senior assistant district attorriey-and his assistant took their seats at the prosecution table. Both men glanced in my direction, Dormer with a polite nod, his junior with a smile so smug I wanted to reach over and wipe it off his face.
Miles Dormer was a tall, slender man in his mid forties, with aspirations, Papa had informed me, to become district attorney The
successful conclusion of this case would prove a big step in that direction. He wore an expensive-looking black frock coat, dark gray trousers and a stiffly starched white wing collar with a perfectly knotted silver-gray cravat. Handsome in a self-important sort of way, he had brown hair just beginning to turn gray, high cheekbones and deep-set hazel eyes, which appeared as if they missed nothing.
Dormer’s assistant looked to be several years younger. He affected an absurd-looking walrus mustache, which he kept absentmindedly twirling with his fingers.
A loud murmur broke out behind me, and I saw Chin being led into the courtroom. Despite his circumstances, the cook’s face bore its usual truculent expression. To my dismay, he glanced around the crowded courtroom as if the spectators had gathered here to pay him homage rather than to see him convicted of first-degree murder.
But it was his garb that made me groan. In my zeal to make Chin appear as dissimilar as possible from his pictures in the newspapers, I’d insisted he wear a Western-style suit and shoes. I now realized my mistake. Instead of making Chin appear more normal, he looked ludicrous, like a Chinese man dressed for a costume party.
I had no time to lament my unfortunate lapse of judgment. As soon as Chin had been led to the defense table, the Honorable William Carlton was announced and strode with authority to the bench.
As the clerk of the court called out the particulars of the case, I studied Carlton. If anything, Papa had been overly generous when describing the man. In his mid fifties, the judge’s face looked as if it had been carved in granite, his dark eyes sharp and disapproving, wholly humorless as they looked out from beneath thick spectacles to take in his courtroom. For a moment his eyes rested on me and I sucked in my breath. This man resents my presence in his courtroom,
I thought, the knot in my stomach tightening. Was it possible that in the face of such blatant antipathy Judge Carlton could be impartial—either to me or my client?
He banged his gavel to bring the courtroom to order, and Dormer stood to deliver his opening statement. Smiling confidently, he introduced himself and his assistant, Leighton Pruit, then went on to lay the foundation for the state’s case against Chin. Even to my ears, each piece of evidence seemed like a fresh nail being hammered into my client’s coffin. When Dormer finished, he glanced at me as if to apologize for the utter hopelessness of my cause, then with a slight bow to the jury, returned to his seat.
“Miss Woolson,” the judge said, his deep voice just short of mocking, “We’re ready for your opening statement.”
I tried to stand, but for an awful moment my body refused to move. I felt as if I were stuck to the chair. There were footsteps to my left, and I was stunned when Robert slipped into the seat beside me. I just had time to give him a questioning look when Judge Carlton growled,
“If this is your assistant, Miss Woolson, he is late.”
“I apologize, Your Honor.” To my relief, I found my limbs once again functioning normally. “This is Mr. Robert Campbell.”
Before Judge Carlton could find further reason to chastise me, I stood and faced the jury box. Twelve pairs of male eyes fastened on me with expressions ranging from outright disdain to boorish curiosity. Gathering strength from Robert’s smile, I cleared my throat.
“Your Honor, gentlemen of the jury,” I began. “I am Sarah Woolson. My associate, Robert Campbell, and I will be representing Mr. Chin Lee Fong against these outrageous charges. We’ve listened to Mr. Dormer describe Mr. Lucius Arlen’s tragic death by
Actaea alba,
or baneberry poisoning. Yet the prosecution cannot produce a single witness who saw Mr. Chin in Mr. Arlen’s company the night
the poison was supposedly administered.” I paused, pleased to note that the jury was carefully attending my words.
“While it is true that baneberries were discovered in a cupboard in Mr. Chin’s kitchen, Mr. Dormer cannot prove who put them there. Keep in mind that anyone in the hospital had access to the kitchen. The prosecution has also made much of the animosity that existed between Mr. Chin and Mr. Arlen. It cannot be disputed that both men made what could be construed as threatening remarks during the heat of these disagreements, but we mean to show that neither man took the comments seriously.”
Purposefully, I eyed each juror in turn. “Please remember, gentlemen, the prosecution has the burden to prove beyond any possible doubt that my client is guilty. The lack of evidence, which you will note over the coming days, will more than create that doubt in your minds. You will be left with no alternative but to find Mr. Chin not guilty. Thank you!”

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