31 Bond Street (13 page)

“Is that so? Can we verify that?” asked Thayer eagerly.

“It was the Girl’s Seminary, in Saratoga. He paid the tuition in November.”

“I’ll look into it,” said Thayer. “I’ll send word to Saratoga to find the bank check with the signature.”

“I think we have accomplished enough for today,” Clinton said. “We will let you rest.”

Emma remained on the bed, and proceeded to dab her face with her handkerchief. “In court, will they say terrible things about me?”

“I am afraid there will be a lot of that, but I suggest you try your hardest not to listen. We will soon pull a jury, a group of decent men. Keep your hopes up, that is the best way.”

“I shall try,” said Emma. Her response seemed to summon an effort, calibrated to please.

The men bowed and exited with the aid of the warden, who came with the key to slide the door open for them. They hurried out to the street. “I’m off to send the telegraph to Saratoga,” said Thayer.

“Meet me at seven for dinner at the Astor House,” said Clinton. “We will go over everything then.” The two men parted ways, and as Clinton headed toward Park Row, he saw Oakey Hall, outside his office at City Hall, about to depart in a carriage.

“Mr. Clinton, what a propitious day to see you—the Ides of March,” said Hall.

“Well it must be a propitious day for you—for it appears you are
feasting in tuxedo and tails. I understand tonight is the Tammany Society dinner, at Delmonico’s.”

They tipped hats, Hall’s was the taller, and when he lifted it, he revealed his ornate hairstyle. Hall made a deep bow. “I greatly anticipate our encounter in court, but I regret that the verdict will be a sorry conclusion to your already dwindling career.” He mounted the carriage. His cape swooped the air, and his elongated profile was outlined in the window as he rode away.

A
t the dinner hour, Clinton was at Broadway, and he cursed at the crossing. The intersection was stalled with two omnibuses facing each other, each driver holding back four rearing horses, straining at the reins. A steady procession of workers was hurrying in every direction, bent on catching the evening ferry or train. Newsboys darted under the carriage riggings. They rushed from one passenger window to another, hawking papers, grabbing a coin and dashing away before the heavy wheels of the bus lurched into motion. The press barons were stoking the demand for news of the upcoming trial, and by evening every newsboy’s pocket was heavy with change.

After leaving the jail, he had spent an hour at the office and now headed to meet Thayer for dinner, as planned. He crossed to the Astor House, where twin porters in knee breeches pulled open the door. As he entered, the sounds of the street faded away to a murmur of silk brushing against silk and canes tapping across the marble floor. In the paneled library, empty at the dinner hour, newspapers were folded in an array across a table.

Barnaby Thayer entered the library in a rumpled suit, recently
shaved. “I am sorry I am late. I stopped home after the jail, and my wife informed me that my son spoke his first words today. He said ‘la la.’ She insisted he was saying ‘lawyer,’” said Thayer proudly, with his winning smile.

“Congratulations,” said Clinton, folding a newspaper and placing it on the table. “We can put him to work between feedings.”

“I am afraid he’ll need teeth first, to work on this case,” replied Thayer.

“I suspect your wife would regret losing both of you to this trial.” Clinton pictured Thayer and his pretty wife, the baby crying at night, in a small set of rooms with wooden furniture, in the sparse comforts of the newly married, getting by on a junior lawyer’s salary, fueled by love and air.

“Shall we eat?” Clinton stood, and the two men walked through the lobby past the telegraph office, ticking with bond salesmen making late trades. At the entrance to the dining room, a battalion of waiters in red waistcoats floated around like dancers under the tinkering chandeliers.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the maître’d, bowing deeply at the waist. He snapped his fingers with a crack, and a server rushed away to arrange a table under the balcony. After the men were seated, the waiter deposited a tray of cocktails and a mountain of oysters on a bed of shaved ice.

Clinton draped his napkin across his lap, and then poked a fork into the soft belly of an oyster, its pearly shell filling with brine. “Order well, tonight,” Clinton told Thayer. “With the trial looming and our expenses mounting, this may well be our last feast.”

Thayer reviewed the menu. It featured over sixty choices of fowls and meats served in pies and puddings, roasted and broiled. There was a choice of beef, chicken, veal, ham, or tongue, calf ’s head, sweetbreads, pork steak, pig’s feet, mutton kidney, and cutlets. Separate sauces garnished each dish: walnut catsup, Yankee sauce,
horseradish, piccalilli, chowchow sauce, and mushroom catsup. A second course of game offered snipe, plover, pigeon or squab, and a third fish course offered codfish, salmon, black fish, shad, and five different types of turtle caught fresh from Turtle Bay, where snapping turtles grew to forty pounds. Each meal was served with bottles of wines chosen from the hotel’s inventory of Madeiras, sherries, clarets, Burgundies, Sauternes, and Champagnes.

The waiter carried a thin tablet to take their order, and he inscribed their choices, including a soup course, an assortment of game, potatoes, and prime rib of beef.

“Bloody, sir?” asked the waiter.

“Pink, not rare,” said Clinton as the waiter dashed away. “Oakey Hall is feasting tonight at Delmonico’s with the ward bosses and heads of the fire brigades,” said Clinton. “It appears that they are planning his move for Mayor.”

“Now there’s a group that prefers their beef bloody,” replied Thayer. “Hall, no doubt, attired himself for the occasion. I hear that he wears green gloves on St. Patrick’s Day to shake hands with the Irish.”

“Beware the chameleon,” said Clinton. “His changes of color are merely a distraction. His ambition may take him out of the courtroom, but as a prosecutor, he is a formidable adversary.” The waiter brought terrapin soup in a giant silver bowl with a ladle that he dipped into the pungent broth, swimming with chunks of turtle meat the size of a man’s knuckles. They took sips from the salty broth.

“I have received word from Dr. Gideon,” said Thayer. “And he has finished the examination of the evidence. We can send the evidence to the illustrators to make the exhibits.” In his mind, Clinton calculated the rising costs—costs that escalated every day—exhibits, experts, fees, salaries, rent, plus the legion of law students clerking and preparing the legal papers. That it was all moving forward was nothing short of a miracle.

“So far, according to Dr. Gideon,” continued Thayer, finishing up the last of the broth, “there were many shoe impressions left in the blood by Dr. Burdell, but there are mysteriously few left by the murderer, except for a few marks by a softly padded sole. There is no appearance of a woman’s shoe, which would have a sharp heel. Dr. Gideon says that a crime scene reflects the personality of the perpetrator as much as a home reflects the personality of its owner, but aside from the brutality of the act, the perpetrator left very few physical traces.”

“How long until these reports are finished?”

“I suppose they are working as fast as they can. He already has two teams on the microscopes. So far, the findings reveal no bloodstains on Emma Cunningham’s clothes or in her part of the house. The spot examined from a dress in her closet was wine.”

“As I suspected. Science is on our side.”

“But what about Burdell’s business associates? It was known that he shortchanged partners in shady business ventures. Snarky has been doing some sleuthing, trying to discover who he was doing business with at the time of his death. That would be a real lead. If we can call any of those characters to the witness stand, a harsh examination would certainly clinch reasonable doubt for Emma.”

“I sincerely doubt any character involved in illicit activity would come forward voluntarily. With our resources stretched, we do not have the investigative tools to chase down every possible suspect,” replied Clinton. “As for putting them on the witness stand, unless we have bona fide proof against a person, we are at great risk if we attach anyone with a motive to the crime. It is a high burden, and the judge would be restrictive. If a witness committed any other crime they would be advised to plead the Fifth. Or be uncooperative, or simply lie. As for as our strategy, it is a far more straightforward case if we attack the paucity of the prosecution’s case rather than to try to implicate a third party. The physical evidence at the
murder scene, presented by our experts, will do exactly that. So, that is why we need to work fast. Speed is of the essence. I want the earliest possible trial date, which should be in early May.”

Thayer looked doubtful and dabbed at his mouth with a large napkin. “Well, regardless of how fast we try the case,” he said, “there is no doubt that public opinion goes strongly against her character, and that is in the prosecution’s favor. By the time we pull a jury for the criminal trial, every man in New York will have his head filled with conjecture from the newspapers. Without another culprit, she’s as good as hanged in every drawing room in the city in advance.”

“Mr. Thayer,” replied Clinton, lowering his voice, “unlike our politicians and newspaper publishers, I have the highest regard for the people of this city. Jurors take their oaths most seriously. They seek justice and will search for it to the best of their ability. If given a chance, juries respond with deep thought and earnest attention.”

Stung by the rebuke, Thayer said, “I’m sorry, sir, I’m not at odds with you there.” Thayer put down his fork and continued, with a deferential tone. “But certainly science is not enough. We will need to counter the charges against her character. We must establish her veracity, for there is still the confounding issue of the marriage. We certainly can’t put her or her daughters on the stand, which will invite the most salacious line of questioning.” Clinton observed him, wondering if he was too brash, or too unseasoned. Thayer had some prior experience examining witnesses on the stand, but he was untried in a trial of this magnitude. Clinton had seen many a promising litigator crumble under pressure on the courtroom floor.

“Agreed. The daughters shall not testify. And the defendant will not go on the stand, but plead the protection of the Fifth Amendment, as is the custom in a capital case.” The men returned to their food in silence, sampling four different game birds under glass.

Thayer continued. “They’ll bring forward every shopkeeper and servant that had a grudge against her. There will be a whole host of
unfavorable testimonies that will insinuate all sorts of motives, that the marriage was false, that she was greedy for money or hungry for status, certainly trying to elevate herself.”

After deftly handling a small-boned bird with a silver fork, Clinton replied, “With no murder weapon, no direct evidence, and no witness to the crime, their case is weak. Motive is all they have, and motive is the mercury of any case. Let them slide upon it.” He glanced around the room, careful to keep the conversation at a low tone, and resumed. “As far as character, we have an opening before the trial begins to rebuild her character. I intend to draw up papers asking that as Dr. Burdell’s widow, Emma receive the entire marital share of Dr. Burdell’s estate.”

The fork entering Thayer’s mouth paused, and he stopped short. He put it down incredulous. “You can’t be serious?”

“I will make application to the Surrogate’s Court that Emma Cunningham Burdell is the rightful wife and heir to Dr. Burdell’s estate, and entitled to his house and possessions.”

“But that feeds the prosecution! That is the essence of their case—that she ensnared him falsely and then killed him for his property. Furthermore, the Surrogate’s Court is separate from the criminal court, and that means we will have two cases going on simultaneously!”

“All the more reason for speed,” said Clinton, dabbing his chin. “Once a petition for the estate is made, the family will counter sue, saying that she is
not
the rightful widow. The papers will be filed, but the filing will be interrupted by the criminal trial.”

“Aha,” said Thayer, brightening, struggling to follow the tactic. “Once we begin an estate suit, any reference to it can be disallowed in another courtroom.”

“Exactly,” said Clinton. “The Judge will be asked to restrict the proceeding, and give limiting instructions that the issue of the marriage is a collateral matter, and not properly resolved. If that hap
pens it can’t be mentioned at all.” The waiter brought hot portions of fricassee of veal with truffles and ribs of beef with anchovy butter. Clinton sampled the food.

“So, the whole character issue surrounding her morals and what went on behind the bedroom door is eliminated,” said Thayer, comprehending the strategy, “and along with a ‘false’ marriage, it eliminates the motive.”

“And Dr. Burdell’s family will act on our behalf—they will surely ask for the entirety of his estate, and by doing so, prior to the trial, they will be seen as motivated by the desire for his money. They will appear to have the same motive that the prosecution says drove Emma Cunningham to kill.”

Thayer fell back against his seat. He was still a bit uncertain. “So we sow reasonable doubt in advance. But won’t this effort drive us in too many directions at once?”

“Remember,” said Clinton, “the public mind perceives subtleties with less confusion than it grasps bold declarations. The public has fallen prey to the ‘subtle’ campaign of rumor and innuendo placed against her. Anyone could have committed this crime. There were many in the household, including patients and the servants, who could have obtained keys to the house. Our task is to emphasize the circumstantial nature of the prosecution’s case, so that the public will be able to entertain the idea of reasonable doubt.”

“We still have the missing carriage driver,” said Thayer. “I think he is a paramount witness. What he saw or heard at any point may help us enormously.”

“It’s possible that the carriage driver has vanished because he is scared. But remember, like the other servants, he could easily have a grudge or prejudice against our client. He could shed an unfavorable light on her actions on that night. We may not want him as our witness, but we certainly don’t want the prosecution finding him first and catching us unprepared.”

They ate silently, finishing the main course. The plates were cleared and brandy poured. “I’ll have Snarky spread the word and put up some placards with a reward for information on Samuel,” volunteered Thayer. A Swiss meringue appeared, oozing with yellow custard and topped with a wobbling white cloud. Thayer was feeling the pressure of all the work still to do, reeling under the caseload, with papers that had to be checked and run up and down to the courts, working late into the night under the glow of extra lamps while hardly seeing his son, until one day his mouth was full of teeth.

As if reading Thayer’s mind, Clinton said, “No doubt, the work is hard ahead of us. We must stay focused. This case will take all of our resources and then some and we will have to work around the clock.” Clinton drained his last sip and pushed his brandy glass away, indicating the meal was over. He stood up, and Thayer stood as well. They shook hands.

“Mr. Clinton, I am honored that you have chosen me to serve on this case. I hope you have faith in me,” said Thayer.

“For that, you can thank my wife. She suggested that I hire you, and I trust her instincts implicitly. She has one of the top legal minds around.” The two men retrieved their coats at the concierge. On the street, a few carriages clattered down Broadway. “I have one last question, if I may, sir,” ventured Thayer. “If Dr. Burdell was as disreputable as we suspect, why would Emma Cunningham marry him?”

Clinton observed that Thayer, like many young lawyers, was struggling to overcome the ambiguities of his client’s actions. “As for the answer,” Clinton replied, “I have only one explanation—Emma Cunningham was in love with Harvey Burdell. Her need for the protection of a husband took on the powerful guise of love.”