“It will be possible,” she said. “I will see to it.”
• • •
SOPHIE AND MARY Putnam left with the jurors and the coroner to make the trip to Bellevue while Anna stayed just where she was. She said good-bye to Conrad and his law clerk and spoke to the friends who had come to lend support, but she never moved from her seat.
Finally the reporters approached her, but she sent them off with a sharp shake of the head. She had no answers for them, but she did have an unanswered question of her own, one that had been growing in her mind since her aunt put it there: Ubi est morbus?
It was the right question to put to the jury, and she had come very close to saying as much. Then Comstock had interrupted her with his outrage over that pamphlet, one he claimed to have found in Mrs. Campbell’s dresser. Nothing Comstock had to say was a surprise, but the pamphlet had been something of a shock, because she really had never seen it before.
From that fact followed two questions: what happened to the pamphlet Sophie had sent to Mrs. Campbell, and where had the one Comstock showed her come from? Which made Anna wonder what else she had gotten wrong from the start. It should have occurred to her that Mrs. Campbell would visit other doctors and midwives in the hope that someone would give her the help that Sophie would not provide.
Contrary to what Comstock and the physicians on the jury seemed to believe, women in distress could find a way to end an unwanted pregnancy, so long as they could pay for it. For every case that came to public view because something went terribly wrong, there were a hundred or more that remained a private matter. Though she had not said as much to Jack, Anna knew of three midwives and two male physicians who performed the procedure as a matter of course, and without ever having lost a mother. She knew another, who was retired, very well: her own cousin Amelie had cared for women in the city for forty years.
It occurred to her now that she didn’t know who had delivered Mrs. Campbell’s first three children. More than that, it was possible, she admitted to herself, that in her desperation Janine Campbell had put herself into the hands of a charlatan, one of the men and women who worked the darker corners of worst neighborhoods. Someone who took her money and promised results but had not the slightest training or interest in anything but the coin to be had.
Ubi est morbus?
Janine Campbell’s social standing and income made it unlikely that she had ventured into the tenements to find the help she needed. And so Anna found herself back at square one.
By the courtroom clock she saw that she had an hour and a half until the inquest reconvened. A lot could be done in that amount of time, and so she left, slipping through one of the side entrances onto the street, where she hailed a cab to take her back to the New Amsterdam. If she thought about something else hard and long enough, often the answer to a difficult question that evaded her would present itself.
• • •
WHEN JACK FINALLY got to the New Amsterdam he found he had missed Anna by a quarter hour. She had gone back to the Tombs, where the inquest was about to reconvene.
Oscar hailed a cab and they reached Judge Benedict’s courtroom just as the jury took their seats. From their expressions it seemed to Jack that they had not come to any kind of concord, which might mean another hour or more before the coroner closed deliberations for the day.
Anna sat in her usual spot beside Sophie, both of them in conversation with another woman Jack didn’t know. Conrad was listening closely while his clerk took notes.
Jack followed Oscar to the back of the room to stand against the wall, the usual spot for any police officers who had an interest in a trial or inquest. He watched Hawthorn, who stood behind the bench, thumbs tucked into his vest pockets while he stared at the floor. His complexion had gone the color of old cheese, and even from the back of the room the perspiration on his brow was obvious. Jack had the idea that he wouldn’t be eager to watch another autopsy anytime soon.
Hawthorn cleared his throat a number of times before he could be heard. “I am going to poll the jury on a single question, before we proceed. Gentlemen of the jury, on the basis of the evidence you have just seen, do you concur with the testimony of Dr. Savard, in which she stated her opinion that it was Mrs. Campbell herself who performed the operation to end a pregnancy?”
There was silence for a long moment, and then Abraham Jacobi spoke, his tone modulated and professional. He was not a big man, but his voice was deep and had a rasp, as was sometimes the case with men who were too free with tobacco. His German accent was strong, but there was nothing in the least inarticulate about the way he expressed himself.
He said, “I agree with Dr. Savard that the operation was done in a violent way, and I find it hard to imagine any practitioner, even a new or poorly trained one, could have done such damage. For those reasons, I am satisfied with a ruling that identifies Mrs. Campbell as the cause of her own death.”
Three of the physicians followed this lead, but the rest of the jury—Comstock the most vocal—did not. They wanted to hear the rest of the testimony, especially that of Mr. Campbell himself.
“Given the missing Campbell boys,” Stanton said, “it seems sensible to interview the father, especially.”
“Very well,” said Hawthorn. “As Mr. Campbell is still out of the city looking for his sons, we will continue with Dr. Sophie Savard Verhoeven.”
The whole room seemed to lean forward as Sophie left her seat and approached the dock. Even when she had taken her place, there was an expectant hush. Jack had the idea that they would be disappointed, if they were looking for drama. Sophie was utterly calm, her expression neutral. She wore a gown of leaf green, some kind of figured brocade, Jack thought, cut loose in the style his sisters called rational, for some reason he had never been able to pinpoint. The only jewelry she wore was a brooch at her throat and most probably a ring or two, but like Anna she hid her hands with gloves.
Her manner was polite and professional as she answered questions. There were a lot of them, far more than Anna had gotten from the jurors. And they were more personal, about her childhood and the reasons she came to New York, her experiences of the war.
Abraham Jacobi changed direction and asked her very specific questions about her training as a doctor, and she answered those questions with more warmth.
“You are in private practice,” Stanton said to her. Not a question, by his tone.
“I am attached to the New Amsterdam and the Colored Hospital as well as a number of clinics and infirmaries,” she corrected him. “And I am sometimes called to consult on difficult cases.”
Stanton gave her a doubtful look. “Oh really? And who calls on you for your”—he paused—“expertise?”
Just a flicker of anger on Sophie’s face, but before she could answer, the doctor who ran the German Dispensary spoke up.
“She has consulted on a number of cases for me,” he said. “And with great success.”
Stanton made a muffled, disbelieving sound, and Thalberg took the chance to say more.
“Dr. Savard Verhoeven is especially skilled when it comes to problematic presentations. I have seen her manage deliveries I thought impossible. She is also an excellent diagnostician and professional in all her dealings.”
Before the conversation could be taken any further, Hawthorn interrupted.
“In that case,” he said. “I would like to hear Dr. Savard Verhoeven’s diagnosis of Mrs. Campbell’s condition.”
The room was very silent while Sophie considered, her gaze on her own folded hands.
Finally she looked directly at Hawthorn and spoke to him alone. “She gave birth to a healthy boy when I attended her on Easter Monday. Her labor was long but not particularly difficult. It was her fourth full-term delivery and she coped quite well. The word diagnosis is used when there is some kind of disease or injury. A woman who is pregnant and gives birth without trouble
is not ill or injured in any way. What I can say is that I noted symptoms of extreme melancholy and even depression in Mrs. Campbell after the birth of her son.”
“And that is unusual?”
“Not in and of itself,” Sophie said. “Women react in different ways to giving birth. But Mrs. Campbell was very forthright about her feelings.”
“She told you she was unhappy.”
“Yes.”
“In what way?”
Sophie paused. “She talked about her husband’s insistence that they have six boys. The idea frightened her, because she believed he would not—” She cleared her throat. “He would not desist in his attentions until he had reached that goal. She said it was a competition he had going with his brothers.”
“Which brothers?” asked Comstock, as if to catch her up in a lie.
“She didn’t say,” Sophie answered him. “She only said ‘his brothers.’”
“Did she tell you she was frightened?” asked another juror, the one with the beard the color of tobacco juice.
“She said that it would kill her to have another baby too soon, that she couldn’t bear the thought.”
“She was asking you for contraceptives,” Comstock announced to the room.
“Yes,” Sophie said. “She was.”
“And you gave her—?”
“Nothing,” Sophie said, quietly. “Because of the laws that forbid me to provide her with the help she needed, I gave her nothing, and now she is dead.”
“She is dead because she violated the laws of God and man,” Comstock shot back at her. “She reaped the terrible harvest of her sins. And somebody helped her, at least as far as providing the information she needed. Was it you?”
Conrad stood to speak, his voice projecting easily through the room. “My client has rights under the law, and I am here to see that they are protected.”
Hawthorn said, “Mr. Belmont, I assure you, we see eye to eye on this matter. Now, Mr. Comstock. Dr. Savard Verhoeven has not been accused of any crime, nor is there any evidence to indicate that such an accusation is forthcoming. Mind your manners, sir.”
“I will mind the word of the Lord my God,” thundered Comstock. “I will mind the laws of this great country. You, sir, are in no way equal to either of those authorities.”
“But I have been appointed coroner and this is my inquest,” said Hawthorn mildly. “If you will not desist, I will remove you from my jury. And that I swear to God.”
Comstock’s whole body was shaking in anger. For a moment Jack wondered if he would lose his infamous temper and be thrown out, but then he took his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.
Sophie said, “I am happy to answer the question. I did not give Mrs. Campbell contraceptives of any kind, nor did I give her information on how to end a pregnancy. I did remind her that the law would not allow it.”
Abraham Jacobi said, “And when she came to your office a month ago?”
“Yes. At that visit she was convinced that she had already fallen pregnant. She may have been right, but it was far too early for any clinical signs.”
The man from Bellevue leaned toward her. “You did a thorough manual examination? What were your findings, exactly?”
“I observed no changes to the cervix or the uterus. Changes to the breasts would be difficult to determine, as she was still nursing. But there was ample evidence of recent sexual activity, in line with the history she gave me.”
Hawthorn wanted clarification, which made all the doctors in the jury shift uneasily. Sophie didn’t seem to notice.
“Mrs. Campbell told me that her husband resumed sexual activity almost immediately after she gave birth. She used the phrase ‘morning and night’ to describe his attentions.”
“Coroner Hawthorn!” A man in the gallery struggled to his feet with the help of a cane.
“There’s a question in the gallery,” said the clerk. “Your name, sir?”
“I am a retired physician. Cameron. James McGrath Cameron, and I do have something to say. I cannot believe that a woman is allowed to speak of such private matters in a public court of law. What a man does with his wife in the privacy of his home is no one else’s concern or business, and certainly not a matter for discussion here, by a—a—woman, no less. Shame on you, sir, for allowing it.” With a triple thump of his cane, he sat down again.
Hawthorn cleared his throat. “Dr. Cameron. The witness is a fully trained and qualified physician, and she was answering a question put to her by another physician. That is why we are here, to look at the evidence—all the evidence. That is why the general public has not been allowed admission. If you find it disturbs your sense of propriety, I suggest you leave this courtroom now.”
Cameron jumped up again and began to make his way up the aisle toward the exit, stabbing down with his cane with each step. “I will do just that,” he said, his voice rising. “But I want it on the record that I protest. Such things are not discussed in public. I am going home to my supper.”
“I wish you a good evening.”
The door closed behind Dr. Cameron before the sentence was out of Hawthorn’s mouth. He let out a deep sigh. “Dr. Savard Verhoeven,” he said. “I assume you are familiar with the concept of puerperal insanity?”
Sophie agreed that she was.
“Have you ever seen a case in your own practice?”
“I have seen women lose touch with themselves and the world after a difficult birth. Sometimes a woman will exhibit behaviors that would generally be regarded as insanity. While in training I observed a patient who was so disoriented after the birth of her third child that she was confined to an asylum, primarily because she imagined that God was speaking to her so loudly and insistently that she couldn’t sleep.”
“And what became of that patient?” asked Hawthorn.
“She is still in the private asylum, to the best of my knowledge.”
“And tell us now, did you see any such symptoms in Mrs. Campbell? Please take your time in answering if necessary.”
“I don’t need time to consider,” Sophie said. “I can tell you that Mrs. Campbell was greatly distressed, desperately unhappy, and that she was consumed with anger. But she was in her right mind.”
“Consumed with anger?” asked Stanton, a queer half smile on his face. “Consumed with anger at whom? Her husband? The father of her children?”
“Yes,” Sophie said simply. “Mrs. Campbell was very angry at her husband. I saw no evidence that she was a danger to herself or her sons, but I would not have been surprised to learn that she hurt her husband. In her mind, he was the source of all her troubles. And to be truthful, Dr. Stanton, I see a good deal of logic in her view of things.”
“What a remarkably opinionated young woman you are,” said Stanton. “Truly remarkable, for someone of your sex and station and—origins.”
“I concur,” said Comstock. “You should be glad that this jury does not sit in judgment of you, Mrs. Verhoeven. All right, all right, Hawthorn. Dr. Verhoeven. Now I’ve got one last question.”
• • •
OSCAR WAS MUTTERING under his breath. “I’ll knock his little rat teeth down his throat if he insults her again.”
“You’d have to beat me to it,” Jack said. “Look, he’s got that damn pamphlet out. He’s like a dog with a bone.”
Sophie looked up from the pamphlet the clerk had handed to her. She said, “No, I am not familiar with this pamphlet.”
“But you are familiar with other pamphlets of this kind?”
Sophie looked at Comstock for a long moment, her expression thoughtful. “Certainly,” she said finally. “I can show you an example, if you like. This pamphlet—” She drew some folded pages out of her reticule. “This pamphlet was written specifically about methods to inhibit conception.”
Comstock’s mouth fell open in surpri
se, and so Sophie turned to Hawthorn. “Shall I go on?”
“Um,” said Hawthorn. “Well.”
“Please do,” said Jacobi. “I’d like to hear.”
Sophie smiled broadly, and while Jack could not see Anna’s face, the way she held her head made him think she must be smiling too. As a number of the women in the gallery were smiling.
“It’s a very professionally produced piece, as you can see. Twelve pages, with illustrations. The very kind of pamphlet that Mr. Comstock works so hard to keep out of the hands of the innocent. Right here it opens with the proclamation that ‘prevention is better than cure,’ and it goes on: ‘Vaseline charged with four to five grains of salicylic acid will destroy spermatozoa, without injury to the uterus or vagina.’”
She looked at Comstock, her expression utterly grim. “This pamphlet has been in circulation for a few years, I believe. Has your office been successful in bringing the company—” She looked at the cover of the pamphlet, as if she were searching for something elusive. “Yes, here. Colgate is the company that makes Vaseline and printed this pamphlet on contraception. Have you brought Samuel Colgate to court and charged him with violation of your Comstock laws? But wait, isn’t Samuel Colgate the president of your New York Society for the Suppression of Vice? That must put you in a difficult position, Mr. Comstock.”
The reporters were scribbling as fast as they could while the murmur of voices in the gallery grew louder. In the jury box the physicians were waiting, brows raised, for Comstock’s reply. But there was none forthcoming; for once Anthony Comstock had been struck dumb. He sat utterly still except for the tic that appeared at the corner of his mouth, fluttering and jerking.
“Mr. Comstock?” Hawthorn asked. And then, after a long moment. “If this line of questioning is finished, I have an announcement. The officer of the court has brought a note that says Mr. Campbell is returned to the city and will be available to testify here tomorrow afternoon. I hope that his testimony will be enough to allow the jury to reach a conclusion in this matter. And now we will adjourn. It’s already six.”