“Come in, Mrs. Hunter,” I heard Mr. Picton call. “Thank you, Henry. I’ll send someone down when we’re finished.”
“You don’t want me to wait?” the guard asked.
Mr. Picton just sighed. “Henry, am I speaking Greek? If I wanted you to wait, I’d ask you to wait. Go back downstairs, and I’ll send someone when we’re finished, thank you very much!”
Looking the way he always did when Mr. Picton gave him a hard time—like some kind of injured animal—the guard glanced at Libby again, and she nodded at him once. Only at that signal did Henry turn around to storm moodily out of the room. As for Libby, she went on in and took a seat before Mr. Picton’s desk next to Mr. Darrow, while Mr. Maxon closed the door on the rest of us.
“All right, Stevie,” Mr. Moore whispered. “Up you go!”
In a quick move I stepped into a cradle what Marcus made with his hands, then grabbed Cyrus’s hands and let him pull me onto his shoulders. Once comfortably seated, with Cyrus holding on to my legs, I carefully moved my face up to the transom, which was open just far enough for me to see all the players in the room, along with a swatch of Mr. Picton’s desk. Whispering down to the others at regular intervals, I witnessed and narrated the following scene:
“Why’ve I been called up here at this hour?” Libby asked softly and sadly. Her expression, what I could only see in profile, looked much more timid than it had in the outer office. “Is it Clara? Has something happened to my baby?”
“Now, now, Mrs. Hatch,” Mr. Maxon said, putting a hand to her arm. “I beg your pardon—Mrs. Hunter. Please, calm yourself.”
“Yes, do spare yourself the effort, Mrs. Hunter,” Mr. Picton said, without any trace of sympathy in his voice. “You’re not in court now, nor are there any members of the press lurking about. Your usual histrionics are not required.”
“Instead of being insulting, Picton,” Mr. Darrow said, crossing one leg over the other and then leaning back in his chair, “you might tell us what the hell it is you want.”
“Yes,” Mr. Picton answered, lighting his pipe with quick little moves of his arms and hands. “I don’t see that there’s any reason to beat around the bush.” Letting out big blasts of smoke, he sat forward. “The raspberry bush, to be precise, Mrs. Hunter—the one behind your family’s barn in Schaghticoke.” He opened his eyes a bit wider. “Or weren’t the bushes there when you were still living at home? No, I don’t suppose they would have been—too difficult to get under them to do all that digging. Still, they grow like weeds, do raspberries—quite tall, now. They almost hide the thing. Almost.”
Libby’s head had frozen, and her hands were clutching tightly at the arms of her chair. I could only see one of the golden eyes, but it had opened wide, wider than I’d ever seen before: wide enough to make me believe that for once she might have been truly surprised and at a loss.
“Picton,” Mr. Darrow said, scratching at his head and looking very annoyed, “have you taken complete leave of your senses, or does all this babbling actually mean something?”
But Mr. Maxon’s face revealed a very different kind of reaction; he may not’ve understood exactly what his opponent was talking about, but he obviously knew that the assistant district attorney didn’t spend a lot of time ranting pointlessly about nothing at all.
“Picton,” Mr. Maxon said quietly, “do you have new information you plan to introduce?”
Mr. Picton didn’t answer either of the questions, just continued to stare at Libby, his grey eyes turning that strange silvery color they did when he was excited. After a few seconds, he started to nod. “Yes, Mrs. Hunter. We’ve found them—your mother, and your brother Elijah. And, more importantly, we’ve found it, and heard the whole story.” This last statement contained a bit of a bluff, I knew—but all good lawyers know the value of a calculated bluff.
Libby continued to say nothing, causing both of her counsels to turn to her in some concern. “What’s he talking about?” Mr. Darrow said, his deep voice sounding like he, too, was beginning to suspect that Mr. Picton might have hold of something real.
Libby just kept staring silently at Mr. Picton; but she seemed to sense that he wasn’t the real cause of her predicament, and soon the golden eyes moved over to fix on the Doctor.
“Who—what in hell are you?” she near whispered, in a voice so icy-mean that it seemed to shock both Mr. Maxon and Mr. Darrow.
For his part, the Doctor just shrugged and stared back at the woman. “Only a man who knows what you are capable of, Mrs. Hunter. Nothing more.”
Growing very uneasy, Mr. Darrow stood up and shoved his hands into his pockets. “All right, look—is somebody going to tell us what’s going on here, or not?”
“It’s fairly simple, Darrow,” Mr. Picton answered, finally looking away from Libby. “Though horrifying, in its simplicity. Ten years ago—I’m afraid I can’t give you an exact date, though we suspect it was in the spring—your client bore a child. An illegitimate child. She murdered it, and buried the body behind her family’s barn in a coffin that also contained the body of her dog. Which, I’m sure, she also killed, to provide a cover for the burial. We’ve seen the grave site, and have corroborating statements from members of her family. We’re prepared to discuss a deal.”
Mr. Darrow’s eyes went wide. “Well, of all the desperate, eleventh-hour tricks—”
He stopped as Libby silently raised a hand to him. “And if we don’t take your deal?” she asked.
“Then,” Mr. Picton replied, smoking again, “we exhume the child’s body, making your mother—who is still, by the way, ignorant of our discovery—fully aware of the crime, and arrest you as soon as the current trial is over. We may also arrest your brother as an accessory—he did, after all, build the coffin and dig the grave—”
“He knew nothing about it!” Libby said without thinking.
Moving automatically, Mr. Darrow put a firm hand to his client’s shoulder. “Say absolutely nothing, Mrs. Hunter.” Satisfied that she would obey him, Mr. Darrow turned to Mr. Picton again. “Are you finished?”
“Yes, just about,” Mr. Picton answered.
Sitting back down and rubbing his furrowed brow, Mr. Darrow studied Libby’s face carefully for what seemed like a long time. There was obviously something there what he didn’t like, something what told him that maybe Mr. Picton wasn’t talking through his hat. “Hypothetically speaking,” Mr. Darrow said slowly, without turning away from Libby. “What kind of a ‘deal’ are you talking about?”
“We will reduce the charge in the current case to second-degree murder if she will change her plea to guilty.”
“And,” the Doctor added carefully, “contact her associates in New York tomorrow morning, and instruct them to release the child Ana Linares into our custody, when we return.”
Mr. Picton nodded. “In return, she receives a life sentence without the possibility of parole.”
Libby seemed like she was about to respond; but Mr. Darrow moved one of his big hands back to her shoulder. “Don’t say anything,” he told her again, even more firmly this time; then he glanced over at Mr. Picton. “Do you suppose Mr. Maxon and I could discuss this privately with our client—maybe have some time to think about it?”
“You can discuss it in this office for the next fifteen minutes,” Mr Picton answered. “That’s how long the deal’s good for. The Doctor and I will leave you.”
Rising, Mr. Picton nodded to the Doctor, who slowly followed him toward the door. Not wanting to get caught spying, I quickly slipped off Cyrus’s shoulders and jumped to the floor with a bump. When the door opened, I’d just managed to get myself upright again; and as the Doctor came out, he gave me a curious look what said he suspected I’d been up to something. When Mr. Picton closed the door, though, all attention turned to other subjects.
“Well?” Mr. Moore said; though I’d already told him and the others where things stood, I guess he figured he ought to observe the formalities.
“Well,” Mr. Pic
ton echoed quietly in response, “I think we’ve got a very decent chance. She seems to be taking us quite seriously. I don’t think she wants to have her mother made aware of what her only daughter’s done with her life, or dragged into court to testify about an infanticide that took place right under her nose. The possibility of her brother’s being prosecuted seemed to strike a nerve, too.”
“There’s no reading the woman, though,” the Doctor added, considering it. “Something in her tone was—wrong. She was shocked, certainly, but—she doesn’t have the manner of someone who feels the trap closing. Not yet.”
“Maybe what you said is true, then, Doctor,” Lucius answered. “Maybe some part of her unconscious mind is drawn to the idea of prison.”
The Doctor shook his head quickly, struggling with something. “No, there was a different quality. I can’t quite define it. And I don’t think I’ll be able to. Not, at any rate”—he pulled out his watch—“for another fourteen minutes…”
Those fourteen minutes passed in almost complete silence. The three people in Mr. Picton’s office kept their voices very low, making it impossible for us to tell what they were talking about; and as for our group, I think we were all too nervous to speculate any further about what might happen. Both the Doctor and Mr. Picton checked their watches every minute or so, always breathing heavily when they found how little time had passed. Finally, though, the moment did come for them to head back into the office. Mr. Picton gave the Doctor a little nod of his head, and then he rapped on the door gently. Not waiting for a reply, he headed in, holding the door open for the Doctor and then closing it on the rest of us.
“Stevie!” Mr. Moore whispered; but I’d already gotten halfway up Cyrus’s back, and was looking through the transom by the time Mr. Picton said:
“Well, Darrow? Do you have a decision?”
Looking at the floor and going through his pockets in a busy but meaningless sort of way, Mr. Darrow said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to direct your questions to Mr. Maxon from now on, Picton.”
Mr. Picton looked surprised. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Mr. Darrow answered, still not wanting to look either Mr. Picton or the Doctor in the face. “Mrs. Hunter has seen fit to dispense with my advice. Such being the case, I intend to return to Chicago by the next available train.”
Trading what you might call astonished looks, Mr. Picton and the Doctor both did their best not to show any obvious signs of relief or gloating. “Oh, surely not!” Mr. Picton said.
“You can spare me the professional courtesy, Picton,” Mr. Darrow said. “But if you want to crow, feel free—you’ve managed to pull off one hell of a stunt.”
Through all this, Libby Hatch just sat staring straight ahead, with a look on her face what said she’d pretty well had done with Mr. Darrow. As for Mr. Maxon, his usually nervous face showed, for the first time, a certain sort of relief.
“I’ve got to catch the trolley and get my things,” Mr. Darrow went on as he headed for the door. His big shoulders looked more stooped to me than usual, though I could’ve been imagining it. “There’s a midnight train, I think, to Buffalo—I can catch a connection there.”
“Well!” Mr. Picton said, relighting his pipe. “I am sorry you won’t be here—”
“Oh, I’m sure you are, Picton,” Mr. Darrow said, smiling a bit; then, before I had a chance to do anything but rap on Cyrus’s head, the lawyer grabbed hold of the knob on the door and pulled. Cyrus jumped to the left, so that at least the rest of the people in the office wouldn’t be able to see us; but when Mr. Darrow came out and closed the door behind him, he looked up to see me still perched on Cyrus’s shoulders. I half expected him to give out with some kind of outraged lecture concerning the ethics of our behavior; so I was very surprised when he just shook his head, causing one of those locks of hair of his to fall forward, and then chuckled in a very friendly fashion.
“I have never seen anything to beat this,” he said, saluting our group with two fingers and then exiting through the outer office door.
As soon as he was gone, Cyrus stepped back over to his right, positioning me by the transom again. I carefully peered into the office once more, to find that the Doctor, Mr. Picton, and Mr. Maxon were all staring at the still-silent Libby Hatch.
“Mrs. Hunter has decided that she will accept your terms,” Mr. Maxon said, looking calmer by the second. “Mr. Darrow advised against it, but I—”
“You don’t need to explain, Maxon,” Mr. Picton said good-naturedly. “Darrow’s a big-city lawyer who wants to make a national name for himself. Not much publicity in accepting a plea bargain, is there? Not when you had every reason to expect a dramatic victory. But I’m sure Mrs. Hunter knows that you have her best interests, rather than your own reputation, at heart.”
“Thank you, Picton,” Mr. Maxon said with a nod. “That’s very decent of you. Yes, all things considered, I do think acceptance of your terms is the wisest choice. Do you need anything else from us right now, or shall we leave the rest for court tomorrow?”
Shaking his head, Mr. Picton said, “No, I have nothing more—unless Mrs. Hunter wants to make some kind of a statement?”
Still sitting very still, Libby slowly began to shake her head; then, thinking of something, she held up a finger. “There’s just one point,” she said quietly. “My brother Eli. I don’t want you going after him. He didn’t know anything about it.”
“Surely he suspected something?” Mr. Picton asked.
“Do you prosecute people for being suspicious these days?” Libby countered. “No—I want your guarantee, on that.”
Mr. Picton nodded. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hunter. By accepting this deal, you abort any investigation into the business at your family’s house. If that isn’t too unfortunate a choice of words …” Looking to the door, Mr. Picton then called, “Stevie!”
“Lemme down!” I whispered to Cyrus, who grabbed my arms and lowered me to the floor, more gracefully this time. I opened the office door and stuck my head in to see Mr. Maxon helping Libby to her feet.
“Stevie, would you ask Henry to come back up and escort Mrs. Hunter back to her cell?” Mr. Picton asked.
I just nodded and bolted off again—though this time, I got only as far as the second-floor hallway:
There, pacing nervously, was Henry, smoking on a cigarette what he held in one hand and biting the fingernails of his other paw between drags.
“Say!” I called to him. “Mr. Picton says Mrs. Hunter’s supposed to go back to her cell.”
Throwing his cigarette onto the floor and stamping it out with one of his heavy boots, Henry rushed past me into the office. I didn’t even have time to get back in myself before he’d reappeared with his charge, who looked for all the world as though the roof of her world had just caved in. I had no reason to think that she didn’t really feel that way; and as I watched her wander toward the stairs, my own spirits began to pick up considerably, though in a quiet sort of way. The speedy departure of Mr. Maxon only increased this mood; and when I finally got back into Mr. Picton’s office, I found that everybody else was feeling about the same: happy, yes, but sort of stunned at how quickly the whole thing had turned around.
Mr. Moore was the first one to actually say anything: “Well, what’s the procedure, here, Rupert? Is it time to celebrate, or …” His words trailed off as he looked to his friend.
Mr. Picton just smiled, shrugged, and tried not to look too excited. “Guardedly, John—guardedly. Judge Brown still has to approve the deal, and he’s not very fond of surprises.”
“Still,” Miss Howard said, also not sure just how happy she ought to let herself get, “he can’t quash it, can he? Not when the defendant herself has agreed.”
“I, Sara,” Mr. Picton answered, starting to organize some papers on his desk, “am a particularly superstitious person. Which I’m sure hasn’t escaped you. I would not care to make any predictions about what will happen tomorrow morning,”
“What about you,
Doctor?” Lucius asked.
The Doctor had wandered over to Mr. Picton’s window, and was looking down at the Presbyterian church. “Hmm?” he noised.
“Any prediction to make?” Lucius said. “Or is there still something that doesn’t feel right about it to you?”
“Not about it, Lucius,” the Doctor answered. “About her. The deal itself is quite sound, and I’m convinced that Judge Brown, though possessed of a singularly rigid mind, will approve it.”
Mr. Picton made a little hissing noise; and though he was smiling, he seemed more than a bit uneasy. “I do wish you wouldn’t say things like that, Doctor …”
“Oh, come on, Rupert!” Mr. Moore said, allowing his spirits to rise a bit. “Leave all that mumbo jumbo to the darker regions of the world! You’re the master of your own fate in this case, I don’t know how you could have demonstrated that any more clearly. You and Kreizler—yes, and you, too, Sara. You’ve pulled off a coup, and I say we ought to get back to your house and crack open some of that very excellent champagne I saw hidden away in one corner of your cellar.”
“Hear, hear,” Marcus agreed. “Come on, all of you. We’ve been on the ropes for so long that we’ve forgotten what it feels like to land a solid blow. Solid blow, hell—we’ve knocked the stuffing out of them!”
Watching the Doctor carefully, Cyrus said, “It does seem like the tide’s turned.”
I was starting to get swept up in the growing mood of victory, myself; but then a practical thought struck me. “What about Kat?” I said. “Shouldn’t we try to get word to her?”
“Not yet, Stevie,” the Doctor answered quickly. “Not until Judge Brown has made the arrangement official. Miss Devlin will only put herself in danger, if she makes any unusual moves before we have returned to New York to assist her.”