“Defense witnesses?” Miss Howard asked.
Marcus nodded, then looked to his brother. “They’re bringing in Hamilton, Lucius.”
The younger Isaacson’s eyes went wide. “Hamilton? You’re joking!”
Marcus shook his head as Mr. Picton asked, “And who is ‘Hamilton’?”
“Doctor Albert Hamilton, of Auburn, New York,” Marcus said. “Though there’s no proof that he actually has a doctorate of any kind. He used to sell patent medicine. Now he passes himself off as an expert in everything from ballistics to toxicology to anatomy. A complete charlatan—but he’s made quite a name for himself as a legal expert, and he’s fooled a lot of smart people. Sent a lot of innocent ones to the gallows, too.”
“And Darrow’s engaged him?” Mr. Picton asked.
Marcus nodded. “My guess is, you’ll get a request for the gun and the bullets first thing in the morning, so Hamilton can run his own ‘tests’ on them.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” Lucius said. “Hamilton will say anything the people paying him want him to say!”
“Which is the easiest way to become a successful expert witness,” Mr. Picton grunted. “Anybody else?”
“Yes,” Mr. Moore answered. “And I do not like the possibilities involved with this one. Darrow wants somebody he can present as an expert on feminine psychology and character—someone fairly local, who the crowd’ll be familiar with and maybe even sympathetic to.” He turned to Miss Howard. “It’s your friend Mrs. Cady Stanton, Sara.”
“Mrs. Cady Stanton?” Miss Howard repeated.
“But she was there,” Cyrus commented, looking worried. “When we had the sketch made—she knows we’ve been after the woman.”
“Exactly why Darrow wants her, I suspect,” Marcus said. “He’ll try to paint this as a witch-hunt on the Doctor’s part.”
“He won’t get far,” Mr. Picton pledged firmly. “Your earlier meeting with Mrs. Cady Stanton relates to another case, an unproved case that has yet to be officially investigated, and I can use that to our advantage here. If Darrow evens hints at what you were up to in New York, I’ll get Judge Brown to slap him down for going outside the merits of this case.”
“Yes,” Miss Howard said, “but the fact that she knows we’ve been after Libby for so long is likely to make Mrs. Cady Stanton hostile—and she can be very persuasive when her blood’s up.” Considering the possibility, Miss Howard kicked at one of the posts that held up the roof of the porch. “Damn it, that man’s clever.”
The Doctor had heard all of this, but hadn’t commented on it: he was too busy reading his note from Dr. White, which seemed to cause him much concern.
“More good news, Kreizler?” Mr. Moore asked, seeing the worried look on the Doctor’s face.
“It’s certainly not what I was hoping for,” the Doctor answered with a shrug. “White says that, given the circumstances, he doesn’t think it would be a good idea for us to meet before he’s given his testimony. It’s not the sort of attitude he would typically take.”
“Maybe not,” Mr. Picton said. “But it’s consistent—Darrow’s keeping a tight lid on everything and everyone connected to his case. I think he’s been a little surprised by how prepared we’ve been, and wants to make sure he can offer some surprises of his own in return. That’s certainly what we saw today.”
“Well, surprisingly enough, it seems that we don’t need to overreact to what happened today,” Marcus advised, heading inside. “At least, not according to the betting line at Canfield’s.”
“Where does it stand now?” Cyrus asked, following Marcus into the house.
“No change,” Mr. Moore called after them. “Still sixty to one against a conviction—and Canfield’s finding a lot of takers, even at those odds.”
Without moving his eyes from the note he’d received, the Doctor asked, “And how much did you lose while ascertaining that information, Moore?”
Mr. Moore headed for the screen door. “It could’ve been worse,” he said as he entered the house, in an embarrassed way what led me to believe that it couldn’t have been very much worse.
Still, expensive as it might’ve been, the news that them what were paying the most attention to the case—the heavy gamblers—didn’t think our cause had been hurt by Mr. Darrow’s antics of the afternoon was encouraging, and we were all able to sleep a little sounder, I think, because of it. Lucius was the last to turn in: he was due on the stand to talk about the circumstantial case against Libby Hatch the next morning, and he wanted to make sure he had all his ducks in a row before he let himself drift off. He was up early, too, and when I came downstairs I found him neatly dressed and pacing around the backyard, mumbling to himself and already sweating. Always cool as ice when it came to the business of investigation and scientific testing, he (much like myself) hated any kind of direct attention from crowds of strangers, and I think we all would’ve felt a little better if his much more diplomatic brother had been the one who was going to handle the testimony. But putting Marcus on the stand would’ve given Mr. Darrow the chance to hint, if not flat-out declare, that he’d been personally scouted by the prosecution prior to the trial, a fact that, while it certainly didn’t amount to anything illegal, might’ve been represented in a way what would’ve made us look desperate.
And so it was Lucius who, at just past ten, took the oath and sat in the witness chair, ready to reveal all the details about Daniel Hatch’s gun that he and his brother had put together during our stay in Ballston Spa. The courtroom had a different feel to it, now, one brought on by the new faces what were visible behind the defense table: Dr. William Alanson White, a young, short man with spectacles; Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton, looking her best; and finally a peculiar-looking mug what tried to make up for his unimpressive size by puffing himself up like a rooster: “Dr.” Albert Hamilton, the well-known ballistics “expert.” Dr. White and Mrs. Cady Stanton only offered the most formal of greetings to those members of our party they knew, making it clear from the outset that they didn’t agree with what we were up to; and I don’t think the strained nature of the situation did anything to help Lucius’s nerves. Still, he held himself together very admirably, sitting and waiting to be questioned like he did it every day of his life.
In fact, during Mr. Picton’s questioning the detective sergeant came off something like impressive: he didn’t leave out any details, didn’t hesitate in his answers, and didn’t even sweat, or, at least, not much more than anyone else on that warm, humid August morning. In a funny kind of way I was proud of him, being as I knew how much he hated the position he’d been forced into; it wasn’t until the very end of his testimony that things started to get a little bumpy.
“Just a few more details, Detective Sergeant,” Mr. Picton said. “You’ve told us approximately when the revolver was last fired, how many shots were expended, how just two bullets could have been responsible for the wounds inflicted on the three children, and how closely the bullet removed from the Hatches’ wagon matches the barrel of Daniel Hatch’s gun. But was there anything you came across during your inspection of the weapon that might lead you to hazard a guess as to who fired it last?”
“Yes, there was,” Lucius answered quickly.
“And what was that?”
“We performed a dactyloscopy test. We compared the results to samples taken from household objects that belonged to the defendant. The match was perfect.”
Once again, Mr. Darrow was out of his chair like a shot. “I object to this line of questioning, Your Honor,” he said. “The state is attempting to enter evidence of a type that has never been accepted in an American court of law, and I’m sure they know it.”
“Quite right,” Judge Brown replied, turning what was becoming his usual critical glance to Mr. Picton. “Unless the assistant district attorney is in possession of some new scientific data that establish fingerprinting—which, for the benefit of the jury, is what he’s talking about—as absolutely reliable, or unless he can
provide me with a precedent for its being allowed in an American court, I cannot permit this testimony to continue.”
“Your Honor need not allow it to continue,” Mr. Picton said. “In fact, the state does not wish to continue. We acknowledge that fingerprinting is not yet accepted in American courts of law, despite the fact that it has been effectively used as evidence in courtrooms in Argentina—”
“Mr. Picton,” the judge warned, leveling his gavel.
“—and despite the fact, as well, that the British government in India has ordered its use throughout that colony by police and prosecutors—”
“Mr. Picton, enough!” the judge yelled, banging the gavel.
“Your Honor,” Mr. Picton said, putting his innocent look on again. “I beg the court’s pardon, yet I feel I am misunderstood. I only mention these rather interesting and, to some ways of thinking, important facts. I do not say that the jury should give any weight to them, simply because Argentines, Indians, and Englishmen do. After all, this is America, and things take time to be accepted, here. I do not offer these tests as evidence—I offer them simply as a rather remarkable coincidence that may interest the jury.” Sitting down very quickly, Mr. Picton added, “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
By now Judge Brown was rubbing hard at the leathery, wrinkled skin of his face with both hands. “Mr. Picton,” he said, trying to keep his voice under control, “if I have ever heard such bald sophistry in a courtroom before, I cannot recollect it. You know perfectly well that anything offered by a witness in testimony must be considered evidence, or it is improper! I ought to hold you in contempt, sir—and if you try that kind of semantic trickery again, I will hold you in contempt! You are here to present acceptable evidence, not remark on interesting, un-proven theories!” Turning to the jury box, the judge bellowed, “The jury will disregard everything that was just said, and it will be stricken from the record!” Then it was Lucius’s turn: the judge spun on him and hollered, “And if you mention the subject of fingerprinting again, Detective Sergeant, I’ll hold you in contempt, too!”
Lucius’s forehead began to glow bright under the heat of those words. “Yes, sir,” he said sheepishly.
Hissing in exasperation, Judge Brown turned to the defense table. “All right, Mr. Darrow, the witness is yours! And since I’m in a warning mood, let me tell you, sir—I don’t want to see any hysterical theatrics of the variety that I witnessed yesterday! This trial is going to be run in an orthodox manner from here on out, and if either side crosses the line again I’m going to lock everybody up!” Mr. Darrow couldn’t hide a smile, at that; and the judge pointed straight at his head with the gavel when he saw it. “Don’t make the mistake of taking this lightly, Mr. Darrow, or you’ll find yourself on a train back to Chicago, smarting like a whipped cur!”
Mr. Darrow wiped the smile from his face as he came out from behind his table. “Yes, Your Honor. I do apologize—you’ve been extremely patient.”
“You’re damned right I have!” the judge said, causing the galleries to ripple with laughter. At the sound the judge got to his feet and banged his gavel like a madman, “And that goes for the rest of you, too!” As quiet returned, the judge began to calm down; but only when the room was absolutely still did he sit, mumbling something about “all my forty years on the bench.” Then he pointed at Mr. Darrow again with the gavel. “Well? Get a move on, Counselor, I don’t want to die before this trial is over!”
Nodding, Mr. Darrow approached Lucius. “Detective Sergeant, in how many legal cases, would you say, has ballistics played an important role?”
“In the United States?” Lucius asked.
“Ah, yes, Detective Sergeant,” Mr. Darrow answered, “for the sake of His Honor’s nervous health, I think we’d better confine our discussion to the United States.” There were a lot of people who wanted to laugh, just then, but nobody did.
Lucius shrugged. “There are some.”
“Can you give me a number?”
“No. I’m afraid I can’t.”
“But all this business about your being able to determine when a gun was fired by the mold and rust on the thing—that’s been used before?”
“Several times. It began with the Moughon case, in 1879. The defendant was exonerated when a gunsmith determined that, because of the mold and rust accumulations in his pistol, the weapon could not have been fired in at least a year and a half. The murder in question had taken place during that time period.”
Mr. Darrow shook his head, wandering over to the jury box. “I don’t know, Detective Sergeant—maybe it’s just me, but—I’ve seen a lot of mold and rust, in my life. Seems pretty amazing that you can date its growth as accurately as if it were a living creature.”
“Molds are living creatures,” Lucius answered, taking the chance to needle Mr. Darrow in spite of his nervousness. “And rust is simply the oxidization of metal, which conforms to known timetables. Once you have the training, it’s not terribly complex.”
“So you say, Detective, so you say. And I guess we have to accept your word on it—for the moment. So—the gun was fired about three years ago, give or take a few months. And one of the bullets was found embedded in the wagon.” Mr. Darrow’s face wrinkled up again. “I don’t mean to sound dense, Detective, but what about that? The matching of the bullet to the gun, I mean? How many cases have been solved using those techniques?”
“Well,” Lucius answered, a bit more uneasily, “gunsmiths having been matching bullets to gun barrels for decades—”
“So it’s an exact science, then?”
“That would depend on what you mean by exact.”
“I mean exact, Detective,” Mr. Darrow said, walking back over to Lucius. “Containing no margin for error.”
Lucius shifted in his seat, and then pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead. “There aren’t many sciences that contain no margin for error.”
“I see,” Mr. Darrow said. “So it isn’t exact. And what about that bullet? Any sign that it was actually involved in the murders?”
“There were traces of blood on it.”
“Any idea what kind of blood?”
Lucius started to sweat even more visibly and wiped his head again. “There—aren’t any tests, as yet, that can distinguish one type of blood from another.”
“Oh.” Doing his level best to look like he was honestly wrestling with the problem, Mr. Darrow moved back to the jury box. “So what you are, in sum, saying, is that we have a gun that was fired about three years ago—by whom we certainly cannot say—and that was found at the bottom of a well behind the Hatches’ house. It may or may not have been the gun that fired a bullet that was found in the Hatches’ wagon—a bullet that may or may not have been involved in the murders. Is that about it, Detective?”
“I wouldn’t characterize it that way,” Lucius said. “The odds are—”
“The odds are high enough to leave room for reasonable doubt, Detective. At least in my mind. But let’s try a question that maybe you can answer a little more precisely: In how many trials have you offered expert ballistic testimony?”
Lucius was obviously taken completely off guard. “How many?”
“It’s a simple question, Detective.”
Glancing down and going at his forehead one more time with the handkerchief, Lucius quietly said, “This is the first.”
“The first?” Mr. Darrow answered, glancing quickly to the witness box, then back at the jury. “You’re jumping into some pretty deep water for your first time swimming, don’t you think?”
Trying to put up a fight, Lucius answered,. “I’ve been studying ballistics for many years—”
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt It’s just that nobody’s thought to ask you for your opinion yet I wonder why.” Finally taking his eyes from the jurors, Mr. Darrow loped back over to his table. “That’s all, sir.”
Lucius started to get up, but Mr. Darrow raised a hand. “Oh—there is one more thing, Detective Sergeant. Y
ou stated during your opening remarks that you’re a member of the New York City Police Department. Would you mind my asking—what’s your current assignment?”
Looking very startled, Lucius leaned back in the witness chair and tried to stall: “My current assignment? I was asked by the assistant district attorney to analyze—”
“I mean for your department,” Mr. Darrow said.
Lucius took a deep breath. “My current assignment is unconnected to this case, and it would be inappropriate—”
“Isn’t it true, Detective,” Mr. Darrow interrupted, his voice rolling in a righteous way, “that you were assigned several weeks ago to investigate Dr. Laszlo Kreizler—specifically, his role in the suicide of one of the children in his care at the Kreizler Institute in New York City?”
The crowd couldn’t keep quiet at that, and as they started to chatter in surprise Mr. Picton bolted out of his chair. “Objection! Your Honor, the state objects most strenuously! What possible bearing can the detective sergeant’s current assignment have on this case?!”
The judge gaveled the galleries back to silence, then grabbed one of his ears and turned to Mr. Darrow. “Counselor, I had hoped that you were leaving the job of insinuation up to the assistant district attorney. What do you mean, sir, by bringing up such an apparently unrelated matter?”
“Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow answered, “I’m afraid I can’t agree with the court’s assessment of this information as unrelated. When the state’s case rests so heavily on the work of one expert, and when that expert’s integrity and competence are the subject of an investigation being conducted by another of the state’s experts—well, Your Honor, the assistant district attorney is not the only man who can spot a remarkable coincidence.”
The judge bashed his gavel down, his eyes getting hot. “Perhaps not, sir—but this court will not tolerate the introduction of coincidences by the defense any more than it will condone similar behavior by the state! If the matters you’re touching on have some direct bearing on this case, then explain it right now, sir.”