31 Bond Street (22 page)

May 14, 1857

I
t was the eighth day of the trial. The prosecution had closed its case after testimony on Emma’s first marriage and her compromised financial situation; by shopkeepers who saw her spending lavishly; exhibit boards showing the position of the coal stoves in every room, where she might have burned her bloody clothes; and a neighbor’s report of burning wool late on the night of the murder. Now the defense was at the bar. “Did it appear that the person who administered the blows had anatomical knowledge, or are you of the opinion that they were struck at random?” Henry Clinton paced before a medical expert.

“The knife wound severed the carotid artery and the great vessels of the neck,” said Dr. Jeremiah Gideon, the doctor and scientific scholar from Columbia University, with degrees and titles in Latin. “The gash wrapped around the front part of the neck, as deep as six or seven inches. The neck wound appeared to be inflicted with skill, much the way a butcher cuts the throat of a calf.”

“Was the neck wound the fatal blow?”

“That blow was not instantly fatal, for the victim was still able to stagger forward, as we can see by his footprints in his blood.”

Clinton walked to an easel with an exhibit on plasterboard. The board showed Dr. Burdell’s office, painted realistically, accurate down to the placement of furniture and the pattern of the wallpaper. The artist had placed the corpse on the floor and used red ink to make the surrounding splatters of blood that splashed up along the door and along the walls.

“Can you estimate how much time elapsed after the neck was cut?”

“Perhaps one or two minutes elapsed. The release of blood from the neck artery made the most profuse expulsion. The heart was pumping rapidly, propelling the blood from the neck like a fountain, which is why we see large masses of blood—as much, I would guess, might have weighed half a pound, to a pound and a half of coagulated blood all over the walls.”

Clinton pointed to the easel with a pointer to indicate the blood on the walls. The rendering of the blood had a troubling effect on the jury.

He moved the pointer down. “Is this the spot in the room where the neck was cut?”

“Yes. Dr. Burdell was standing by the cabinet of his washbasin, for that is where we see the blood high up on the wall,” Dr. Gideon continued. “The victim then staggered to the center of the room, and as he reeled, the killer thrust the knife again. This time it was expertly aimed into the heart. Those who attack the heart with skill know to start from below the rib cage and strike in an upward motion.”

“And was that the fatal blow?”

“Yes. After the victim collapsed, the heart stopped pumping and the blood seeped slowly on the carpet from the lesser veins.”

During the course of the questioning, Clinton kept his eye on the jury. With scientific experts, it was a challenge to avoid numbing the jury with technical matters. During the last two days of the defense testimony, Clinton and Thayer had questioned numerous experts about physical evidence, all carefully examined by microscope. There was a nightgown with blood that proved to be menstrual, a knife with red stains that proved to be rust, and remnants from the stove ashes that was a fragment of a discarded apron belonging to the cook. The results of the studies were placed on boards to show the jury. Other boards outlined the crime in intricate detail, including the timeline and execution of the attack.

Today, the jury scrutinized the painting of the office earnestly, their eyes moving back and forth from the picture to the witness. It was only the produce dealer, an elderly man, whose chin nodded into his chest, but he had been plagued by narcolepsy from the beginning. With careful guidance, Clinton knew that a clear story of the events would unfold. With matters of science, one was dealing with the authority of facts.

“Can you tell us anything about the perpetrator from the nature of the wounds?” asked Clinton. Dr. Gideon’s expertise was that he had devised a method of determining the physical character of a murderer by looking at the pattern of his blows.

“The person who inflicted the wounds was taller than Dr. Burdell. The first strikes were from behind, with stab wounds to the back and shoulders. I measured the wounds with calipers, and from the measurements I can deduce that the thrusts were downward, penetrating deeply at an angle, determining that the attacker stood several inches taller.”

“And what could you say about the strength of the attacker?”

“The attacker had considerable strength. As the victim was repeatedly attacked from behind, the victim cowered forward, cov
ering his head with his arms.” Here the doctor demonstrated, bending forward and placing his arms over his head. “This resulted in wounds to the backs of the arms and shoulders. Then, the attacker moved in close, and pulled back the victim’s head, making a rapid motion with the knife across the throat, cutting from the right ear, slicing across the neck to the left carotid vein, creating the large neck wound.”

“Would you match the stature of this attacker with the diminutive woman that you see in this room?” asked Clinton. Here he pointed to the defendant. In her veil and black garb, Emma Cunningham was nothing more that an outline, the lace covered her head and shoulders entirely. She made no movement as every eye in the room turned to look at her in the box.

“I would infer that the attacker had a very strong musculature, that of a strong man,” replied the doctor.

“Madame, would you now stand?” Clinton asked. Emma stood slowly and remained standing as she was studied. “Is her height the same as the height of the presumed intruder?”

“From the way the blows were delivered, I am concluding that the murderer stood taller than Dr. Burdell, who we know to be five foot eleven. This woman is considerably shorter than that.”

“Is it your opinion that the assassin and Emma Cunningham are one and the same?”

“It is my conclusion that this deed was perpetrated by a male with a strong and well-developed physique, who was taller than the victim, and able to subdue him with the force and the rapid nature of the blows, so that the victim was unable to flee before the fatal thrust to his heart.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Clinton said, in conclusion, returning his seat.

Oakey Hall sprang from his seat to engage in a cross-examination.
“Dr. Gideon,” he called out. “Mrs. Cunningham, the defendant, is left-handed. Is it possible to determine whether a left-handed person made these wounds?” he asked.

“The knife used was a double-sided blade, so it is difficult to make a judgment as to which hand was gripping it. We can usually tell the direction of the thrusts from the mark on the flesh by the sharp end of the blade, but when the knife is sharp on both sides, it is difficult to tell.”

“So could a left-handed person have inflicted these wounds?”

“It is in the range of possibility, yes.”

“Sir, you told the jury that the attacker was taller than Dr. Burdell. Wouldn’t it be possible for a shorter person to make the shoulder and neck wounds, if the victim had been crouching? If he had been kneeling at his safe, or perhaps seated at his desk.” The stenographers were furiously writing. The produce dealer was alert.

“I might entertain such a scenario.”

“Wouldn’t that explain how a shorter person could inflict wounds from above?”

“Again it is remote, but in the realm of scientific possibility.”

“You said that the attacker was a muscular person who stuck with deliberate force. But since you have studied the character of persons who commit such crimes, you must know that such heinous crimes are often guided by passion. And passion can summon a force not present in a person during regular circumstances. Couldn’t one surmise that sixteen wounds randomly inflicted, indicate an attack executed in passion, angry and random?”

“Well, the smaller wounds and stabbings seem randomly inflicted. It was the cutting of the throat and the thrust to the heart that I claim are deliberate.”

“Have you heard the expression, ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, and hell has no fury like a woman scorned?’” Clinton
had trouble controlling his expression of disbelief at the invocation of the phrase. That well-worn line had been used at every criminal trial with a female defendant since it was first delivered onstage in 1697.

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“When a person is in a state of impassioned fury, even a frail woman, isn’t it possible that they could gain the momentum or strength of a much stronger person? Wouldn’t you agree that under such circumstances, random and helter-skelter acts may have as deadly and mortal an effect as those perpetuated by strength or coercion?”

“Again, the smaller wounds were opportunistic, but the heart wound was the mortal wound, and it appears to have been executed with purpose and skill.”

“But do you agree, that when someone is driven by anger or malice or greed, even the one unskilled with a knife can accidentally approximate a deadly skill.”

“Well, I can only say to you, that is possible.”

With the use of literary devices, Hall had supplanted the defense’s picture of a strong male attacker with one of a furious Emma, stabbing randomly and thrusting the knife with wild abandon. The use of such images and devices were the currency of a successful trial. Clinton knew that it would take his remaining hours at the bar, going over the blood splatters one by one, along with further analysis, to eliminate the image of Emma as the certain perpetrator, beyond a reasonable doubt. In the end it would be the use of logic, between jury members, when they were arguing among themselves, that would determine if the defense had been successful painting a picture of another killer in their minds.

At that moment, from the corner of his eye, Clinton caught sight of the door to the Judges’ corridor creaking open. A clerk shuffled
in, his britches scratching as he moved toward the dais with some papers in hand. He placed the papers before the Judge, who lifted his bifocals to glance at them.

A resigned frown came over the Judge’s brow. He hesitated and then lifted the gavel. “Counsel and witness. I must interrupt this testimony. Counselors, would you approach?”

May 14, 1857

L
ying by the riverbank, he had fallen asleep for what must have been a full hour. Samuel dozed off in the warm sun, not expecting John back for a while. When John returned, he planned to fill some jugs with freshwater and head out on the river again for a few more days, for the trial would certainly be finished by next week. He awoke to the whisper of a movement that did not come from the leaves above; it was a rustle of soft earth from back near the bramble and sounded like a squirrel running fast. Then, he heard a crashing sound. White men smashed their way into the woods.

He sat up with a wild look in his eyes. He heard the sound again in the bramble. Horses became confused in overgrowth, and he heard branches breaking, as if a horse was moving erratically. A rider would be kicking the horse, and yanking the reins, while searching for a direction through the bushes, while the horse was trying to retreat.

He heard a whinny in the distance. Any minute he would be in view to the rider. Samuel looked left. He needed to dash through the trees and reach the small strip of sand at the river’s edge. His body
felt sick with the reality that he was hunted again. He grabbed his rucksack and raised himself up to a crouch, not fully standing, and half crawled across the ground to the hardwood trees closest to the water, shielded by their trunks. He dared to rise up and glance back. In the acre of bramble, still far at a distance, he saw the head of a man, bobbing on top of a horse, with one gloved hand on the reins.

Samuel sprinted through some trees and slid down the soft earthen bank, shoulder high. He was now hidden below the riverbank, so he started to run along the smooth stretch of sand dotted with pebbles, his feet lightly splashing at the edge of the river. He kept going, and after he passed a bend formed by a boulder, he climbed up the bank again. He was in the old orchard where he could run through the apple trees to Greenwich Street. He hoped the old man who tended the chickens would not be sitting by the coops, so there would be no witness to say,
Yes, I saw a Negro dashing by
.

He made it to the street and felt as if he had run for miles, but it had only been a roundabout circle through the woods and out the orchard, maybe the circumference of a city block. The traffic was indifferent in the bright afternoon sun. He leaned against the wall of a factory building in the long shadows created by the brickwork. He stood close to a group of day laborers as they were leaving the warehouse. They were black men, lounging around, ending the day’s shift. He could be one of them, except for the terror coursing through his veins.

The men started to disperse, and Samuel snuck through the brick archway of the warehouse and ducked into one of the storerooms piled high with sacks on top of wooden pallets. Shafts of light streamed in from windows high up near the beams. He found a spot and hid deep among the maze of stacks. He would wait here for night to fall and then he would go back again to the river and look for the boy.

He listened in his mind to the sounds he had heard, made by the weight of the horse as it pushed through the bramble. The horse had moved into the thicket with its flank to the branches, as if it was protective of something. By the sound of the twigs breaking, Samuel knew the horse had been rearing, trying to buck its master, acting instinctively. This horse was acting like a mare protective of a foal, or the way horses sidestep in the woods to avoid hurting something delicate.

Samuel settled low, surrounded by high sacks of burlap in the cavernous space. Soon, the sounds of horses and cries filled the streets. It sounded like there was a full brigade out, searching the warehouses. He heard the excited yelps of bloodhounds.
Dogs
, he thought.
This time they are bringing the dogs.

Alarmed by the nearby sound of footsteps outside on the cobblestones, he glanced to his right and left. There was no exit but the one that lead back to the street. A dog in the stacks would detect his scent in the warehouse in a matter of seconds. He glanced upward. Crates were piled high against the walls, and above, the high boxes met the wooden latticework that held the crossbeams to the roof. His only chance was to get up into the beams.

He pulled off his shirt, which carried the heaviest scent of sweat. He took a little pot out of his rucksack and spread a waxy potion of grease and herbs along his chest and arms. The Indians had given him this vial when he traveled north. They passed the ointment along to runaways, for it masked a man’s odor during a manhunt and warded off the dogs. He rifled in his rucksack for his letter fold and pulled out his papers and folded them into his pants pocket, and left the shirt and the rucksack in a pile. Then he took a deep breath and crouched to a leap. He scaled the crates against the wall. At the top of the pile, he jumped from one high stack to another until he could grasp a crossbeam above his head. He pulled himself up and climbed to the highest group of beams, now about
thirty feet into the roof, overlooking the entire warehouse from a network aerie. The beams themselves were solid—the width of a man, and he teetered along them until he found a spot where he could wedge himself next to the roof slats, blocked from view by a host of vertical beams. From the vantage of the floor, he was well hidden in the shadows of the cathedrallike ceiling, and he froze as the clamor of dogs and horses on the street became deafening. He heard a voice yell. “In here, inside this warehouse!”

Clinton and Hall stepped close to the Judge’s bench. The late sun slanted through the courtroom. Spectators often strained to overhear a Judge’s conference, but realizing it was not possible, they murmured among themselves and rearranged themselves in their seats.

“I have before me some papers from the sheriff,” whispered Judge Davies. “It appears that the constabulary is in the process of detaining a missing person who is germane to this case. It is the manservant who was present on the evening of the crime. If, indeed, they have detained this missing witness, I want to know if each side needs to prepare new testimony.”

Hall smoothed his cravat and whispered. “Absolutely, sir. The prosecution would most certainly want to reopen our case and question this man in the witness box.” Clinton was flummoxed at the response. Hall seemed too poised, too relaxed.

“Your Honor,” protested Clinton. “To introduce a new witness at this stage in the trial is disruptive and counterproductive. Besides, this witness is a defense witness, not the prosecution’s. If he is detained, we are willing to forgo putting him on the stand.”

“I have recent information, Your Honor,” Hall whispered, “that this witness may have been working in concert with the defendant.
We know that he was in communication with her during the day of the murder and may have knowledge of her various actions and rebut her alibi.”

“Preposterous!” hissed Clinton, unable to contain himself.

“Are you saying that he may be an accessory to this crime?” queried Judge Davies.

“Mr. Hall has knowledge of no such thing, Your Honor,” interrupted Clinton. “He is grabbing at straws,” replied Clinton, disgusted. “There is no reason to bring this man in now, except to sow confusion.”

“Mr. Clinton, please! Let me inquire into this matter without your interruption.” The Judge said this loudly enough to receive glances from the front row. Lowering his voice again, he said, “This is an important matter. Because it is nearly five o’clock, I suggest that we recess for the day. We will meet in my chambers, and each side can state an offer on this matter.” He banged his gavel, receiving immediate attention throughout the room. Judge Davies called out: “The court will be adjourned for the day. I instruct that the jury make no inference from this and be prepared to resume tomorrow morning.” He banged his gavel again, dismissing the room. Various people stood and milled about in giddy confusion. Clinton headed swiftly to the defense table, but instead of sitting, he grabbed his papers and nodded at Thayer to follow. Clinton and Thayer left the courtroom, pushing through the set of swinging leather doors.

Clinton found an empty chamber. As he was about to enter, he spotted James Snarky running toward him, practically skidding across the marble floor. He held the door open, and when his two aides were inside, he slammed the door shut.

“I was up in the balcony, watching,” said Snarky. “What’s happened?”

“A note came through from the sheriff that Samuel has been
located and they are expecting to seize him and bring him in,” said Clinton.

“Where did they find him?” asked Thayer.

“No word yet, just that he is about to be detained. This isn’t good. If they produce him, the prosecution wants to reopen its case and examine him.”

“But the prosecution has no interest in Samuel,” protested Thayer. “Why would they want him on the stand? They leave themselves more vulnerable. Any of Dr. Burdell’s evening activities could create a scenario of reasonable doubt for Emma Cunningham.”

“A new witness will cause delays and confusion in the minds of the jury, and the disruption creates a hole in the trial. Not to mention that the press will pounce on this like dogs to meat.” Clinton spoke with resentment, angry that the flow of defense testimony had been interrupted. He had planned so carefully, in control of a progression that the jury would follow, like a chess game, piece by piece, as it moved across the board. He turned to Snarky. “I told you to stay on top of the search for Samuel. How can it be that the sheriff has discovered him now?”

Snarky was jittery and a bit breathless. “Sir, I am as shocked by this turn of events as you are.” He wiped his sweating brow. “I’ve been asking around for news about him but nothing turned up. The only lead I had was the boy. One day I saw John sneaking some food from the basket, and I thought Eureka! He might be taking it to the fugitive, so I decided to tail him.”

“You tracked him?”

“Mostly he just goes to see his mum, who lives in a garret down on Rector Street. But once I followed him all the way to the riverfront, in Greenwich Village. He had a sack of food with him. He ran right into some brambles and broken-down boards. Then I saw a little Indian girl go down after him, and I thought, well, he was
probably just meeting some kids to go look at the boats, so I left it alone.”

“How did we get blindsided by this?” asked Thayer.

“Well, sir, I got something to confess,” continued Snarky. “As you may recall I’ve been playing cards with fellows from the
Herald
; Finnerty was looking for tips. I had a losing streak, and we trade tips when we are short of cash. He asked me about Samuel, if I had any information. I said I didn’t have any, but the boy knew him, and how I tailed him, but it didn’t ever lead anywhere.”

“Where is the boy now?” said Clinton, angry. “You were supposed to keep an eye on him, too.”

“He hasn’t showed up for a few days,” Snarky admitted.

“Is it possible that your tip to Finnerty went straight to the DA’s office and they sent someone out to follow the boy to Samuel?”

“Sir, I didn’t mean no harm, but it could be that my caper backfired….” Snarky was shaking now. “Honestly, sir, I am sorry if this jeopardizes things, I see now, I’m sorry, sir.”

“This is bad,” agreed Thayer. “If Samuel is brought in now, he could be frightened enough to testify falsely.”

Clinton was not listening; he was pacing the room, strategizing. “Let me think.” He moved about with his arms folded tight, pacing and shaking his head.

“We can treat him as a hostile witness,” Thayer offered. “I can take him hostile. It shouldn’t be hard to find a reason that he carried a grudge against his master—that’s easy enough, given what a scoundrel Burdell was. Samuel was the last one to see the victim alive; he had opportunity and motive. If we attack him as a possible suspect, it’s a perfect chance to sow reasonable doubt for Mrs. Cunningham.”

“No,” replied Clinton vehemently, envisioning the sensational headlines if they turned the carriage driver into the prime suspect
on the stand. “It won’t work. They can just as easily play this the other way—Hall’s tactic will be to suggest that he was her accomplice. If Samuel was seen at all with Emma Cunningham in the final days, then the prosecution can assert that she paid him or colluded with him to do her bidding. If a strong man committed the act, in concert with Emma, it unravels our case, as untenable as the claim may be.” He thought of his promise to the Reverend to protect Samuel. What seemed like an easy assurance to the minister at the church was about to vanish.

Snarky still had his head in his hands. “Sorry, boss,” he muttered again, thinking of Finnerty from the
Herald
easing the information out of him, and him falling for the bait. He was worried about John but dared not voice his concern in the heated moment.

Clinton paced some more, thinking things through. “It’s possible that this is a ploy,” Clinton said, “to stop the logical progression of the case in its tracks.” He kept pacing, glancing at the door. “They don’t want this man as their witness; they want an interruption and a distraction. It’s just a smoke screen. I always sensed that ultimately they want Samuel out of the way—eliminated.”

“You mean they are just buying time?” asked Thayer.

“To allow the jury to forget our scientific testimony. They don’t want to have to rebut it. If they have the fugitive in custody, that alone will create an uproar. They could back down and not put him on the stand after all, and still achieve their goal.”

There was a knock on the door. “Mr. Clinton, sir, I have a message from the Judge,” said a court officer. “He is ready to meet in his chambers.”

Clinton took the note. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he said, then shut the door again. “Here’s what I am going to do,” he said to Thayer and Snarky. “Today is Thursday. I’ll go to the Judge. I’ll propose to Hall that we close both cases now. We will offer to drop our remaining testimony. And the prosecution will remain closed, and
neither side will use this witness. I have a strong hunch the prosecution will go for it. They may feel that ending the case quickly could serve the same purpose as disrupting it. Everyone stands to risk if we turn this into a circus and prolong the trial into another week of disruption.”