31 Bond Street (18 page)

“Now gentlemen, I will conclude my brief history of this case. Emma Cunningham was his mistress, with claims to be his wife. If I show you the facts as they relate to this defendant and prove to you that she deserves no sympathy and no respect, then, I have done my duty.”

T
he spectators remained hushed in anticipation as Oakey Hall returned to his seat. Clinton pushed his chair back and stepped forward to address the assembly. Listen for your cues, he told himself. Avoid all eyes. “May it please the court.” He then took a breath, held the air for several seconds, and began:

“Gentlemen of the jury. We are here on a most sacred mission. We are here to honor our system of justice, whereby, in a capital case, the accused party, if found guilty, is sentenced to death. Your judicial duty is always sacred, but when the crime and punishment are equally grave, the jury must take steps to rid themselves of all prejudice, they must deliberate on the evidence, and be just and generous. Although I am accustomed to addressing juries in capital cases, I have never before risen to address a jury where the prosecution—the District Attorney—has given such an unjust and ungenerous opening beyond all conscience and tact.”

He took a few steps and then stopped before the prosecution table, hovering a foot away from Oakey Hall. Hall shuffled in his seat and settled into a position with his arms crossed that was not
unlike a physical sneer. Clinton gazed past him and continued: “The District Attorney—in opening this case to you, gentlemen—supposes that this defendant, Mrs. Cunningham, also known as Mrs. Harvey Burdell, is, in advance of all evidence, already proved to be the worst woman that God ever created.” Again he paced and then stood still again before Oakey Hall, just inches away from the defense table.

“The abuse heaped upon this defendant by the District Attorney is so outrageous that it would render me unworthy not to mention it. Our District Attorney has overstepped all bounds of decency by ransacking the classics, both sacred and profane, with a view to selecting demons—female fiends if you will. According to Mr. Hall’s account, this woman is the agent of the monarch of hell himself, the Devil’s special vice-regent upon this earth, and by inference a murderess, none other than Lady Macbeth.”

Clinton walked briskly over to the jury box, then half-turned, so that he was still addressing the entire room. “And yet the District Attorney knows that when it comes to the evidence to prove this charge of murder, no such evidence exists. There is no proof that she planned and schemed this murder, or that her motives toward this man were anything but pure. We are barred here from discussing the connections by marriage of this couple, for that is being litigated in another court, but I can attest that her actions were at all times consistent with a woman who was devoted to the needs of her children and to the man of the house. Her actions were consistent with the role of mistress of the house, and she believed her role to be both noble and fulfilling, a role that enriched and benefited everyone in the household.

“On the evening of Doctor Burdell’s death, she was in her own bedroom, having instructed the servants at their tasks. She had ordered the cook to bring his water basin for his nighttime wash,
and was sewing in preparation for her daughter’s return to boarding school. What woman would perform these acts of housewifery at the very same time that she was plotting a vengeful murder, and would be able to carry out such a mortal deed with her children, unaware, in the room above?

“There is no proof that she was waiting for him in his chamber that night, nor that she emerged covered in blood, or burned any clothes in the stove inside the house. In fact, the scientific evidence proves otherwise, that she did not commit this act.

“The District Attorney told you that Mrs. Burdell is a ‘veiled picture of sorrow,’ and that all the sufferings which she exhibits are entirely feigned.” Clinton gestured directly toward Emma. “She comes before you, gentlemen, a ‘picture of sorrow’ and she comes before you with the weeds of widowhood. It is not the first time she has grieved the loss of a husband. She has faced affliction before, but, unfortunately, the star of her destiny drew her to an ill-fated union with a man who had many adversaries—Dr. Harvey Burdell.” Clinton heard a sharp sigh from the back of the room. Such noises were audible tics that signified disagreement or disbelief.

Turning, he took a step closer and looked directly into the faces in the jury box. As was the habit of juries during opening remarks, they directed their gaze back with the keen intensity of students. “As you are fair, intelligent, thinking men, I say you will put aside these stories of infamous females, and not allow them to prejudice your thinking in this case. The District Attorney stated to you that this defendant haunted Dr. Burdell, that she dogged him—that she was his shadow, his persecutor, and his tormentor.” He lowered his head and scratched his chin, then glanced quizzically at Hall. “Gentlemen, will the counsel prove any such facts?”

He now gestured toward Hall whose long legs were stretched out, crossed. “I believe that you will agree with me, that the District
Attorney is in error. He neglected to tell you that Harvey Burdell sought Emma Cunningham’s favor—which he pursued with all of his attention; that he courted her—he paid her every courtesy that an honorable suitor would pay to an honorable and high-minded woman. Why did he say she hunted him for his fortune?”

Clinton shook his head. “Does he expect to prove anything of the sort? Does he expect that intelligent men would base their judgment in a capital case on gossip from servants? Why would he open this trial with a case that builds upon biblical allusion and innuendo? Is it to distract you from your ability to perceive the truth? And does the District Attorney think that twelve intelligent men will be diverted so shamelessly?”

Clinton paused here to gather his breath and made a quick glance around to gauge the effects of his words. His crinkled lips pursed together like a stern headmaster, Judge Davies was looking at Oakey Hall, who was staring at his notes, his usual cocky posture deflated, scornful as a schoolboy. The court stenographers paused when Clinton paused, their pens held in the air midsentence. A sign of a captivated audience was the amount of white he could detect in eyes of the crowd; drooping lids were a sign of suspicion or disengagement. The eyes across the room were wide and alert.

“I will not now outline all of the evidence of this case,” he resumed, raising his voice to the back of the balcony, “but I will say that we shall prove by evidence and rules of law that Emma Burdell could not and did not commit this murder. We shall prove with scientific certainty that this is so. We shall prove that someone with ten times the brute strength of this woman entered the chamber on that night and fought the victim. We will show you that the victim fought back with all his strength, up to his last bloody and desperate moment.”

Clinton raised his voice, now to a pitch. “We shall scientifically
prove that no evidence from that bloody battle was found upon this defendant, or in any other portion of the house. This woman did not murder Dr. Burdell. Someone entered that room with vicious and malicious intent, and if you have any reasonable doubt of this woman’s guilt, or any idea that there were others who may be guilty, you must acquit. For certainly there were many who held this man in deep contempt—for he was a man with many enemies, including several members of the victim’s own family.”

Clinton walked slowly away from the jury, and then circled back again, as if he remembered another point. “The rule of law which governs you in this case, gentlemen, is simply this: if the circumstances include any other hypothesis than guilt, it is your bounden duty to acquit. As reasonable men, you must give all your weight to any reasonable doubt that this woman committed this vicious crime. I do not regret putting this case to you, for I wish not only that Mrs. Burdell should be acquitted; I wish that she be vindicated.

“Let me remind you, that an error in judgment, hastily made, on superficial grounds in this verdict brings a penalty of death. It would not rest upon good men’s souls to make such a judgment of guilt when there is no evidence of such, no direct witnesses, no motive, and no weapon recovered.”

He took a deep breath, and hardened his tone. “I say you will render an acquittal in this case. I know that for certain, because I am convinced that you will act upon the evidence, that you will act upon the law, you will act with your conscience—in other words, gentlemen, you will act as men.”

He turned to walk to his chair. He might have elaborated upon the technical details or the virtues of the defendant. He had taken a gamble by keeping it short and chancing a plea to the jury’s honor. He sat at his table, pulled in his chair, and waited for the judge to
make his next order. A glance at the jury framed them in a tableau: wide eyed, with mouths hung open, still wrapped up in his words. The spectators were just beginning to shuffle in recognition that the speech was finished. By the delayed reaction, he sensed that his gambit had had its desired effect. He had lifted his bow, drawn the arrow, and hit the mark.

January 31, 1857

E
mma woke before dawn, then fell back to sleep. When she next awoke, it was almost seven, and she was in a cold sweat, frightened by a vivid dream. In the dream, she stood on the stoop of an elegant home. Harvey Burdell appeared at the door and handed her a bundle. The bundle was an infant, wrapped tight—an exchange for something that was not clear. Below at the curb, a carriage waited, and Samuel beckoned, from the top seat. She saw that he was waving a bloody knife. She looked down, and there was blood on her hands and on the baby’s blanket. Samuel had cut the umbilical cord, and the baby was bleeding through the blanket. Shaking, she woke, and shook off the strange dream.

From her bed, she could hear the servant boy banging the coal buckets as he carried them down the stairs. She got up and pushed hairpins into the places where it had come loose during the night, tucking strands into the folds of her twist while new strands fell forward, as if nothing was willing to hold.

She had stayed up past midnight the night before, saying good-bye to her straggling guests and directing the maids to clean up
after the party. She had been satisfied with the level of gaiety in the parlor and of Ambrose Wicken’s charming interlude with Augusta, but the memory of Dr. Burdell’s departure had left her feeling weary. As she’d prepared for bed she’d listened for Dr. Burdell—he had never returned, and she suspected he was spending the night out of the house. She had gone to the fireplace and torn a bristle from the small hearth broom and made her way down the tall stairway to his door. There was only the faintest flame left in the hall lamp, lowered by Hannah. Emma had placed the bristle of the broom in the lower crack of door, down low, where it sat in the pile of the carpet. If it were unmoved in the morning, she would know that he had stayed out the entire night.

On her way downstairs now, she saw the bristle still on the door, unmoved. He had not come home—and the knowledge instilled a hard feeling of resolve.

She returned to her room and began to dress slowly, putting on her best suit. It was Friday. Today was the day that Augusta was riding with Ambrose Wicken, and Helen was leaving for school the following day. Emma determined that it was time that she took matters into her own hands.

In the kitchen, she asked, “Has Dr. Burdell rung for his breakfast?”

“He has not rung, this morning, Ma’am,” said Hannah. Alice was at the kitchen table slurping some porridge. Both of them seemed to be mocking her, for certainly they knew from the bed linens that he was often sleeping out of the house at night.

“Hannah, would you send John to bring Samuel around. I would like to use the carriage.”

“I don’t know if I should tell Samuel to come around unless that’s the orders from the master,” replied Hannah, making herself an obstacle.

Emma did not have the patience to bicker. “Very well, then I
shall see to it myself,” she said firmly. She gathered her coat and headed out of the house, pulling on her gloves. The stable was at the end of the street, near the Bowery, and she found Samuel inside.

“I will be taking the carriage now,” she said.

“I am waiting for my orders for the day, as I usually do,” he replied.

“I believe Dr. Burdell is occupied and will not need the carriage this morning.”

He gazed at her with a quizzical expression.

“Have you ever driven Dr. Burdell to the home of Commodore Vanderkirk?” she asked.

“I have been to many a home, Ma’am.”

“I want you to drive me there.”

“To Mr. Vanderkirk?”

“Yes, now. I am taking the carriage. You need not wait for any other orders. My own orders will suffice. Do as I say. Hitch up the horse. And put on your livery.” Samuel stiffened, as if confused. He started moving to ready the horse. Emma marched out of the stable to wait on the sidewalk while the carriage was readied, and soon Samuel led the carriage out to meet her. He had put on his red jacket and his tan boots. He opened the door for her, and then he climbed onto the driver’s seat.

They rode slowly north on Broadway. The morning had a wintry pall, with deep clouds that hung low in the sky, sooty as smoke. They turned onto Fourteenth Street and then onto Fifth Avenue. A few blocks farther, at Sixteenth Street, Samuel stopped before an enormous limestone residence, ablaze with light. Emma stepped down and hesitated before the door. Atop the doorway was a carving of a seafaring ship, as if it were a coat of arms. She pulled a brass bell and heard distant footsteps echo across the marble floor. A butler, in formal attire, pulled the heavy door open and said dryly, “Good morning, Madame.”

Emma curtsied, but before she could speak, the butler said, “I regret to inform you that Madame Vanderkirk will not be seeing anyone today. If you leave your card, she will be most obliged to have you return when she is receiving visitors.”

“I am here to see Commodore Vanderkirk,” stated Emma, without preamble. “It is a matter of importance.” The butler faltered, which indicated to her that the Commodore was most likely at home.

“May I ask who is calling?” he said. Emma reached into her purse and handed the butler one of the cards that she had ordered for the party that said only “31 Bond Street.” The butler looked at it skeptically, and Emma said, “He will know who I am, and he will know my business.”

“I shall inquire,” the butler said, admitting her into the front hall, which had a black and white marble floor. The butler slowly mounted a tall stairway with her card in hand. To her left, Emma peered into the library, a vast room lined with cases of rare leather volumes. There was a writing table with a felted blotter, and a rack of newspapers, carefully folded, as if they were fine linens. A tray table sat readied before an armchair. It was set with fine china and crystal glassware and had a domed silver chafing dish, with a frost of steam across the top, spread for the Commodore’s breakfast. It appeared that anything the man needed was brought forth to him, and when he was done, it was whisked away.

Emma remained waiting for a long while, examining the surroundings while the brass pendulum in the hall clock swung back and forth. Finally she heard the steady footsteps of the butler returning.

“Come this way,” the butler said. She followed him down a long corridor to a rear wing of the house with numerous closed doors that might be closets or anterooms, used by servants. At the very end was a door, and the butler opened it to the cold air of the out
doors and a private service alley. Her carriage had been moved into this alley, where it sat waiting, and the butler stepped out and opened the door for her. He stood there imperiously in his black uniform, waiting for her to enter. Furious, Emma lifted her skirts and climbed the carriage step, ducked into the carriage, and settled on the seat.

“I am sorry, Madame,” the butler said, “the Commodore is not at home.”

Of course he is at home, she thought, I saw his breakfast waiting. But she could not bear to dignify the insult and manner of her dismissal with a response.

The butler shut the door of the cab, and she heard him whisper instructions to Samuel as the carriage started to move along the narrow driveway, flanked on one side by a wall and on the other side by the enormous façade of the house, which, at this close angle, loomed as large as a hotel. There was a row of kitchen windows at the lowest level, and Emma could see many cooks and servants scurrying about. Vegetables were piled by the sinks, and roasts were lined up beside the large iron ovens, and tarts laid out in rows on baking sheets, as if in preparation for a banquet or a ball. And there, standing to oversee the activity, was Mrs. Vanderkirk, a heavyset woman, recognizable not by her dress, for she was wearing ordinary attire, but by the flash and solidity of her jewelry, the gems on her hands evident, even as the carriage slid by.

The carriage moved several yards past the kitchen windows, under a portico at the corner of the mansion, and stopped. Ahead, Emma could see that the driveway forked left to the stables and right past a glass conservatory where the carriage could exit again on Fifth Avenue. Then the carriage door opened and the corpulent figure of Commodore Vanderkirk climbed in beside her.

“I do not know the reason for your visit, but you compromise me by coming to my house,” he stated without greeting.

Startled by his presence and his tone, Emma faltered. “Sir, you must be mistaken by my purpose. I am here on the very same business about which you recently visited Dr. Burdell at my home.”

“A woman does not come to speak privately at the home of a gentleman. It has a certain significance that would not be appreciated by my wife. She jumps to conclusions when I receive a lady behind closed doors.”

“You must know I have no illicit intention. I am here to discuss the sale of land. There is no other business between us.”

“That matter is between myself and Dr. Burdell. By coming alone, I suspect you are going behind his back. And furthermore I do not conduct business with women.”

Emma found herself emboldened by her own transgression, now that she was cramped in the small carriage beside him. Even if she wanted to, she could not retreat. “Sir, with all due respect, you have come outside to meet me, and so I suspect you have a desire to hear what I have to say.” Her voice was tenuous, and she nervously hastened to speak her message. “Dr. Burdell did not reveal to you the true ownership of the land. If you wish to buy it, I am able to sell it to you directly.”

“This is most irregular,” he said. “And who do you pretend to be? Are you the wife? The mistress? Perhaps it would be useful for me to instruct you that frauds are committed every day and I should have no reason to suspect anything but a ruse.” The Commodore put his fingers together, tapping them impatiently.

She lifted her chin and spoke with the clipped diction of one who has been insulted. “I purchased the deed you desire with money from my daughter’s dowry, left by her deceased father. The land in question is my daughter’s, and I am in a position of authority with regard to her affairs. I shall handle this matter myself. It is my own property, not that of Dr. Burdell.”

The Commodore, pondering her, said, “Your friend, the Doctor,
has many schemes afloat. I saw him just yesterday, and once again, I made him a fair offer for the property, but he refused. He tells me he has other plans for this same plot. He told me that he intends to finish up this sale and then he is going to sail to Europe.” Emma flushed, furious at the reference, for it conjured up an image of the woman from the hotel, strolling with Dr. Burdell along a ship’s deck as they crossed the Atlantic.

Emma took a deep breath and spoke to him directly. “I know that you desire this land for your own ambitions, and it would be well to discuss a price.”

“So now you are a financier! Isn’t this all above your head? Hah,” he said, “certainly, everything has a price in this city—land, political favors, female companionship—”

“I would like one hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” said Emma, interrupting, surprised by her own brashness.

The commodore appeared visibly subdued, and his expression turned sour. “I see you are a profiteer! And if I turn down your sum?”

“I shall marry my daughter to her fiancé. He is from the South and would most likely desire this property to do with as he pleases. But, sir, I would prefer to finalize this deal with you.”

He jostled in his seat and pulled out his gold watch. “I am wasting my time and the money is of little consequence to me. Hand over the deed, and I will give you one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I am tired of bickering over it, I really prefer that this be done,” he ordered.

Stunned, Emma quickly countered, “I will certainly accommodate you, but I do not have the document here. I shall arrange to take the deed to my solicitor, Mr. Billings on Worth Street, and he will oversee the sale for that sum.”

“Very well, then.” The Commodore opened the door to the car
riage and squeezed his large body out. “I shall send my own counsel. Make sure it is there at four o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” then he slammed it shut behind him. Emma heard him pass by the horse and say to Samuel, “Be off, boy. Use the stable gate.”

The carriage veered left into the large stable yard. They sat before the closed gate until a groom came scurrying to lift the latch. The prospect of the Commodore’s offer was almost too large to absorb. Emma slumped back in the seat, still rattled by his indignant tone. But was it possible that her worries were finally over? That she could spend the entire summer at her leisure in Saratoga or Newport? She imagined Augusta in a dress styled after the classical manner, with an Empire waist and a blue sash, standing with Ambrose Wicken at the altar in a dove grey suit. What were the fashions in Paris this year?

The groom pulled open the gate that opened onto Seventeenth Street, a street lined with small buildings and stables that served the mansions on Fifth Avenue. As the carriage turned, a servant from the kitchen appeared with a barrel of remains. She dropped a bit of the trash, and the wind picked it up, and twisted it into eddies around the girl’s feet, then she poured the barrel into a street receptacle.

Some women were huddled, waiting; they rushed forward, wraithlike, their cheeks sallow and bloated, their eyes lusterless, their teeth discolored, and their hair matted with dirt. The women plunged their arms up to the shoulders in the trash bins and pulled out feathers, bits of fat, bones, and entrails of fowl and ate ravenously from the waste.

A little girl, about ten years of age, pulled out a ham bone still pink with bits of flesh. Upon seeing the carriage moving past, she ran up to the window with a taunting manner and paraded before it, mimicking an actress strutting across the stage. Her face was
defiant, and she pulled up her tattered frock to her armpits, exposing her naked body. She laughed at her own impudence and walked up and down before the mansion gate until a group of boys coming along the other side of the street shouted, clapped, then threw sticks at her and the little girl tired of her act. She shouted some half-worded insults, then, with the quickness of a cat, she scurried away.