31 Bond Street (25 page)

May 15, 1857

T
he entire city had come out for the last day. People arrived in droves, filling up the courtroom until the bailiffs threw open the sliding doors to the Marine Court room next to the Supreme Court, so that entire room filled as well. So dense was the crowd on the stairways and in front of the buildings and in the adjoining rooms, that the courthouse seemed packed with half of the population of the city. A file of people climbed up the tight spiral stair to the balcony so that there was not an inch of standing room unoccupied, with men squeezed tight between one another’s elbows. James Snarky found a spot on the floor at the railing and sat with his legs dangling over.

The anticipation ended when the Judge’s gavel dropped, introducing the final speeches, with the prosecution having the advantage of closing last. Henry Clinton placed his notes on a small podium and walked away from them as he launched into his speech from memory, facing the twelve jurors, speaking with passion and conviction, pausing only for emphasis and effect. He asked the jury to be as certain of Emma Cunningham’s innocence as he was, and
as were her daughters sitting beside her. He asked them to entertain all of the scientific certainties that eliminated her participation in this murder: notably the lack of a murder weapon and the brutality of the attack. She had no means to dispose of the weapon, nor of the bloody clothes. And he asked them to entertain the inconsistency of the motive: if she murdered from passion or greed to obtain the Doctor’s wealth and possessions, why would she do it in the very home she hoped to acquire, in the presence of her children?

Clinton had no doubt that the twelve men were attending to his words carefully, for this is when juries listen most deeply, and he knew to appeal to their strong intuition and principle. After an hour-long speech, he asked them to seek truth with the best of their ability, and he knew by the scrutiny and resolve on their faces as he took his seat, that they would give it their very best try.

When it was the prosecution’s turn, Hall stood close to the jury box. He spoke intimately with his silky voice, his delivery more modulated than his thunderous opening. He laid out the complexities and irregularities of the facts of the night, and those of the relationship between Emma Cunningham and Dr. Burdell. “Do not be fooled into believing that motherhood is intrinsically sacred,” he intoned softly, with both hands on the jury’s bar as he played upon the mysterious idea that motive lies far under the surface of things. “Even a frail woman, a mother, can be led to engage in the most base human actions.” Hall’s skill had an impact, and the jury was rapt. Hall knew that for simple, God-fearing men, there was nothing more painful than to reconcile a divided point of view.

Mrs. Cunningham wept during the Attorney General’s summing up, and she sat bowed under the weight of her veil, as if her physical system had become prostrate. After the summaries were completed, Judge Davies gave his charge to the jury:

“Gentleman of the jury, you will now retire to deliberate amongst yourselves, and form a decision in the case of
People versus Cunning
ham.
The prisoner at the bar stands charged with one of the highest crimes known to the law, that of taking the life of a human being—Harvey Burdell—on the night of the thirty-first of January last.” His words seemed to reverberate beyond the courtroom, throughout the silent city. “For those members of the jury who have read this story in the newspapers before this trial began, do not be misled by anything but what you have heard in this courtroom. I must emphasize that the jury may not discuss any evidence or testimonies besides what was presented to you here.”

He clarified his instructions with regard to the points of law for malice aforethought, premeditated design to kill, and circumstantial evidence. “The circumstances all taken together must be of a conclusive nature and tendency, and producing a reasonable and moral certainty that the accused, and no one else, committed the offense charged. In the case of doubt, it is imperative to acquit than to condemn.”

It was precisely four o’clock when the jury returned. It was generally believed that the jury would arrive at a conclusion that afternoon, and after having been out for three hours, they returned to the courtroom and announced that they were in agreement. The folding doors to the adjoining Marine Court room were closed, to keep any massive outpouring of feeling at the rendition of the verdict. Thus, some hundreds of people, who had been in attendance earlier in the day, were deprived of witnessing the most important scene of all.

James Snarky sat in the balcony, mashed up against the railing, his legs dangling over the side, watching the swirl of activity below. The bailiff rushed over to the jury room door and opened it with a flourish. Judge Davies tugged on his robes, Oakey Hall stared solemnly at his notes before him, and shifted the weight of his crossed legs. Barnaby Thayer ran his hand through his unruly dark hair.
The jurymen filed in, each one walking with the peculiar gait and personality of the man’s age and occupation. The room was deadly quiet, and yet it was a ballet of anticipation.

After the jurors took their seats, the jury foreman called upon them to answer to their names. When this was done, the Judge asked:

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?”

The foreman replied, “We have.”

An officer of the court asked Mrs. Cunningham to stand up, remove her veil, and turn her unveiled face to the jury box. She stood, stooped forward, her hands gripping the railing in front of her box. Helen and Augusta sat on either side of her. Augusta’s eyes were trained at a spot upward at the ceiling biting her lip, whereas Helen’s eyes were trained on her mother, as if ready to catch her if she were to drop. Then the clerk said: “Prisoner, look upon the jurors; jurors look upon the prisoner. How say you, gentlemen? Do you find Emma Cunningham, otherwise called Burdell, guilty or not guilty?”

The foreman said, in a not very distinct voice, “Not guilty.” Mrs. Cunningham appeared not to hear the foreman’s reply. She stooped down and asked Helen what the verdict was, and on being told, fell back into her daughter’s arms. There were some attempts at applause that were immediately suppressed.

Judge Davies said, “Gentlemen of the jury, you say that you find Emma Cunningham, otherwise called Burdell, not guilty of the murder and felony of which she stands indicted, so say you all?

One after another, each jury member read the verdict of “not guilty.”

There were no cheers, as often trials become like cockfights, with spectators picking a winning team, but there was excitement in the room as the conclusion was repeated from man to man. The
Judge then thanked the jury for the attention that they had bestowed upon the trial during each stage of its progress, and discharged them from further attendance.

Emma was supported out of the court and taken to one of the judge’s chambers, where a crowd immediately hastened to swarm around her, curious to see her response to her sudden acquittal, but she was hurried inside, with her daughters and her legal team. She was kept behind closed doors until much later, when she was hustled to a back entrance where a shiny black carriage had been brought up. Across the city, the newsboys crowed. The newspapers had kept the presses stoked, and within minutes, had printed up flyers with the verdict, and the boys ran around town screaming the news, tossing the flyers. “Buy your paper tomorrow and read all about it,” they wailed. The stealthy exit was successful, for the carriage pulled away from the courthouse unnoticed. Emma sat next to her daughters, her veil lifted up as she looked out the window with stunned confusion at the passing lights and buildings, the city blurring through her tears. She was heading back home, finally free.

Late into the night, small knots of people gathered in front of 31 Bond Street with the expectation that Mrs. Cunningham might appear at the windows. They were disappointed. Occasionally they would raise a feeble cheer, with the intent to draw her forth. The shutters and curtains remained closed, and she did not make herself visible, and after the dusk had darkened into night, the last disappointed straggler departed.

“City of New York,” sketched and drawn on stone by C. Parsons. Published by N. Currier, 1856. Library of Congress.

July 29, 1857

H
enry Clinton crossed the large open room, surrounded by tall windows at the level of the treetops. There were planks of wood laid across sawhorses and workmen’s boxes filled with tools. Just outside the window, a flag drooped on its pole. The room was empty of workmen, who had taken off for lunch. Sawdust hung in a yellow haze, suspended in the sultry summer air. He opened one of the windows wide, heaving it up to the level of the top sash, but the air outside was still and offered no relief. His new office on Astor Place was just a jumble of construction, but by the beginning of September it would have room for a junior staff and twenty clerks. With the success of the verdict, a deluge of cases had come his way. Criminals love a sensational trial, and they flock like gamblers to a winning firm. There were enough clients flocking to him, so that he could pick and choose his cases, and expand the firm as large as he would like. And he had chosen the location on Astor Place because he had promised Elisabeth that the new firm of
Clinton and Thayer
would be within walking distance of home.

He placed a pile of papers on a makeshift desk on a plank of wood. That morning, he had been to a brief session at Surrogate’s Court for a hearing on the estate of Harvey Burdell. The Burdell family was litigating Emma’s claim as his spouse to receive his property, and the unfinished business had droned along during summer sessions as various members of the bar vanished from the city, escaping the heat. Bit by bit, presentations were made. The newspapers followed the proceedings on back pages, but the interest in the murder case had not entirely dissipated. The papers ran readers’ letters with sharp opinions about the verdict, and opinions on Emma’s guilt or innocence. Many New Yorkers believed she had escaped prosecution through the cunning of her lawyers, escaping punishment for her infamous deed. Others believed the verdict to be entirely justified. Occasionally, in an effort to drum up circulation, the
Herald
or the
Tribune
ran a front-page headline: “Who killed Dr. Burdell?”

At home, Elisabeth set to work putting the household back in order. Maids had been rehired, and Mrs. Fullerton was cooking around the clock. When the trial ended in May, Elisabeth had wistfully waited for John to return. “When will he pay me a visit?” she asked. When he never appeared, she decided to contact his mother to inquire after him. Clinton had Snarky find the address. Elisabeth sent a letter to the address Snarky provided, 25 Rector Street. When the letter was returned with a red pen scratched across the address, “No longer in Residence,” she became even more determined, so she went down to Rector Street herself. The landlord of the little house said that John’s mother had moved away, but he didn’t know where. He hadn’t seen her son in a long while, but the woman was doing poorly with rheumatism, and a relative had come and taken her away.

Clinton tugged at his collar, which chafed in the heat. He was sweating in a linen suit. A vest had been necessary for the morning
appearance before the Judge. The final papers had been submitted, and if successful, Emma would be granted a share of Dr. Burdell’s estate. The Judge himself was about to take a holiday and would return with his decision in mid-August, so Clinton planned to leave now for a week at a cottage in Hastings-on-Hudson. At the house in Hastings, there were rocking chairs on the porch and gingerbread along the cornices and roses that climbed the porch pillars. Stiff breezes came up the hill from the Hudson and flapped all the curtains. Clinton and Elisabeth sat on the porch at night long after the fireflies and the moon came out.

The workmen reappeared and took up their tools. Saws started to grind away, blending in with noises from the street. Clinton directed the men to various tasks that needed to be completed while he was gone, and then he gathered up his files. First he would stop at Bond Street to see how Emma was doing before he left the city and to give her the latest news.

As he made his way down Bond Street, the arcade of lindens and Dutch elms drooped in the still air. He arrived at the house and lifted the latch on the iron gate that hung crooked on its hinge. One of the stoop ornaments was missing, and the black paint on the front door was worn and scuffed. The bell pull was broken, so he rapped the knocker against the door. After rapping and pausing several times, he heard footsteps. Emma opened the heavy door, looking smaller than he remembered. She wore a dress that seemed dusty and slightly soiled. Her hair was pulled back, but there were pieces that were adrift across her face. She pushed them away.

“Henry, it’s very nice to see you. I am so pleased that you have dropped by.”

“I sent a note over earlier, to let you know I was coming,” he said.

“A note? Oh, yes. There are so many calling cards, that they get buried in the pile.” She opened the door wide and stepped aside.
“Come in.” He walked into the hall and looked for a place to put his hat. He seemed to remember that there had been a hat rack, but now there was no furniture in the hall, except the tall clock, its pendulum still, so he kept his hat in his hand and went into the parlor. The room was warm and airless in the July heat. He wondered how she was managing.

“Please sit down,” she said in her most engaging voice. She pulled her skirt aside delicately and sat on one of the parlor chairs. He placed his hat on a table and looked around. The parlor looked as if Emma had tried to clean it. There was a dustbin abandoned in the corner, with scraps, and a rag on the mantel with a bar of lye soap. The wool weave of the carpet was worn through in large patches from the hundreds of feet that had trampled it during the winter months of the inquest. In some places, the floorboards were bare. Smoke stains left cloudy trails along the top of the walls, leaving the plasterwork mottled and grey. The windows facing the garden were streaked; it seemed that Emma had begun cleaning them, and abandoned the job, half-finished.

“How are Augusta and Helen? Are they well?” he asked. In the cavernous silence of the upper floors, there was no sign that anyone else was home.

“Oh, quite well. Augusta has a beau. I try to have her entertain at home, but she is always invited everywhere.”

“Really? I am pleased,” he said, though he could hardly imagine Augusta, who had been the most damaged by events, entertaining anyone, especially a suitor.

“Can I get you some tea?” she asked.

“Is it iced?” The minute he asked, he regretted it. Ice delivery would be a luxury she could hardly afford.

“Well, perhaps,” she said thoughtfully. “I have been drinking hot tea all day long.” She grinned broadly, as if something were funny or amusing. “I shall ask if I can get you ice for the tea. Perhaps I can
just ring.” She started to get up from her chair, but as she rose, she appeared to be having difficulty, and she swayed slightly.

“Please, never mind. I am fine without tea, hot or cold,” said Clinton. “I would rather concentrate on the business at hand. I will be leaving for a week, and I want to let you know how things stand.”

“Are you going to Saratoga?” she asked, pleasantly.

“No, we go to Hastings, along the Hudson.”

“Oh, that must be lovely.”

“Well, it will be, for Elisabeth. She loves roses, and there are a profusion of them. She spends all morning cutting away, and then more bloom overnight.”

“Pink or red?” asked Emma, as if nothing delighted her more.

“Pink, I think.” He was surprised at her composure. She looked haggard, but her spirits seemed gay.

“You might want to get away yourself. You are looking tired, and the country air is the best tonic.”

“I am afraid I cannot leave. I have some pressing social engagements involving my daughters. I have lost so much time.” There could be little in the city in the way of social engagements, and he doubted she had much to occupy her besides the household, which was crumbling around her. “I will be back next week,” he said, “and that is when the magistrate shall determine the decision on the house and possessions, so perhaps I can convince you to take a trip then.” It seemed as if the windows hadn’t been opened since January. Dust motes floated weightless in the rays of flat yellow light that managed to come through the blinds. An oily film sat on top of everything. “The Surrogate’s Court has nearly finished hearing the case,” he told her. “But there has been no judgment because the judge will take a holiday, but when he returns, he shall deliver his verdict. Fortunately for us, Dr. Burdell’s family did not present much of a case.”

“Harvey had no use for his brothers,” said Emma, solicitously. She spoke of Dr. Burdell as she always did lately, as if he were about to walk into the room any moment and enter into familiar banter.

“Nor they for him. I think their feuds dismiss the claim that he desired his estate to go to his family. There is no proof that he ever made a will at all.”

“For someone who was so businesslike, Harvey was often careless about personal matters,” said Emma, primly.

“It is a good chance the judge will rule in your favor. A widow without heirs inherits one half the property. The other half will go to the family. I want to warn you, unless we uncover some of the other assets, perhaps the house will need to be sold to make payments to the family.”

“Well, he did want to sell the house,” said Emma, seeming tired and confused, “so we could move to Fifth Avenue.”

“There is no need to worry about a sale yet, I am sure you will be here a while–as a matter of fact, it is best that you keep the house occupied so that others do not take liberties. I hope it is not too difficult for you, staying in this large house.” She looked thin and did not seem to be eating well. It was too hot to use the ovens. He wondered how often she was getting out.

“Oh no, not at all. I have plenty of company, and I occasionally go to the market myself.” She wearily moved the stray hairs from her face again, and he saw a streak of dirt across one of her cheeks. Was she trying to convince him of her fortitude? It was a folly to think that she could maintain this house without servants.

“Do people still notice you, at the market, or along the streets? I should think they would have tired of you by now.”

“All the neighbors are so kind to me.” She touched her fingers to her temple, as if she had a sudden headache. Her isolation must be complete, he thought. Almost every house on Bond Street was
shuttered for the summer, and those few remaining would hardly be embracing their infamous neighbor.

Emma touched her forehead again, and Clinton sensed that he was wearying her.

“Well, I should be off.” He stood up. Rivulets of sweat had formed along his neck and into his collar. “I am glad to find you managing. I will be back next week. We shall know the decision by then.” He made a slight bow, and she stood to follow him out.

On the stoop, he placed his hat on his head. The house at 31 Bond Street would be difficult to sell. It would most likely stand empty for many months, a tarnished blight on this polished block, a house of infamy, causing the neighbors great concern. After a while, the stigma of the murder would lessen and a buyer would come along who would restore the insides with fresh paint and finally purge the house of its notoriety. With the sale of the house, there would be enough to see that Emma would be taken care of. Depending on what remained, he might be able to shave off some for his costs, although the success of the trial made a fee unnecessary. But first, he was glad to be departing for the country. He greatly needed the rest and the time alone with Elisabeth.