Page 30 of The Girl from Greenwich Street

Some conversation arising as to when the muff was found, it was admitted by the Attorney-General that it was found some days before the body was discovered.

—From Coleman’s report on the trial of Levi Weeks

New York City

April 1, 1800

“I’d say Weeks’s horse is a good goer,”

said Mr. Cross. “He could go a mile in five minutes.”

From his place at the front of the room, Cadwallader could see Hope Sands twisting in her seat. The witnesses were fidgeting, the jury getting restless. Cadwallader was so tired they seemed to double in front of him, twenty-four grumpy men instead of twelve.

Maria had sent in a pot of coffee to him that morning as he’d started nodding off over his papers. There had been an ink stain on one cheek that he’d thought he’d mostly managed to scrub off. Hopefully everyone else was so tired, they wouldn’t notice either.

He’d known his medical experts were not the best they could be. The doctors who had performed the autopsy had all hemmed and hawed and said they couldn’t attest to signs of violence, so Cadwallader had found other doctors who would, even if one was only a dentist.

Cadwallader hadn’t thought it would matter. They all knew Elma had died in that well. He’d shown she hadn’t flung herself in there of her own volition. That much, at least, he had achieved. The defense’s allegations of melancholy had been thoroughly rebutted.

But as to the rest, somehow the story that had seemed so clear to Cadwallader—the seduction, the sleigh, the well—didn’t seem nearly so clear to the jury. He’d seized on one last hope. He could demonstrate that Levi had known where Elma’s body was before he was told. It was conclusive evidence of his guilt.

Until it wasn’t.

In desperation, Cadwallader reverted to the sleigh. His prize, his pride, the center of his case. But it was past two in the afternoon, and the general reaction to Buskirk’s testimony that they’d performed a sleigh trial and made it to the well and back in fifteen minutes appeared to be more irritation than awe.

Cadwallader could remember that day, the triumph he’d felt.

And here he was, cold with exhaustion, sweating with anxiety, clammy and dizzy, not sure what he’d already said and what he hadn’t, calling witnesses just because they were there, even though each one seemed to have a diminishing impact.

“Do you have any other witnesses, Mr. Colden?”

asked Chief Justice Lansing. “Or is the prosecution ready to rest?”

His tone implied that there was only one suitable answer.

Rest. He hadn’t had anything like rest for days. On the other side of the room, he could see Hamilton, Burr, and Livingston, like greyhounds in the slip, just waiting to be let loose and cry havoc. Or was it cry havoc and let loose the dogs of war? His brain felt as cluttered as an ill-kept house. Not that Maria would ever allow an ill-kept house. He wondered if Maria would keep him.

Cadwallader reached inside the pocket where his speech should be—and pulled out a list of books he’d meant to get from the New York Society Library.

He’d taken the wrong paper.

Cadwallader cleared his throat, desperately trying to remember what he’d intended to say, all those words he’d written and scratched out and rewritten. “You see, gentlemen of the jury, we have only circumstantial evidence to offer you in this case, and you must also perceive that by its nature it admits of no other.”

Cadwallader paused. His mind was blank. All he could see was little squiggles of black ink.

“The authorities agree that in a case such as this, circumstantial evidence is sufficient to warrant a conviction.”

Cadwallader fumbled for one of the books he’d brought with him, peppered with scraps of paper. “As Morgan tells us in his Law of Evidence, circumstantial evidence is all that can be expected and indeed all that is necessary to substantiate such a charge. In such a case as this, it must be received because the nature of the enquiry, for the most part, does not admit of any other; and, consequently, it is the best evidence that can be given.”

The book was solid and reassuring in his hands. Even Livingston couldn’t dispute the authority of Morgan. Cadwallader knew there were other things he should be saying, could be saying. But he couldn’t remember a word of it.

“The prosecution rests, Your Honor.”

Colonel Burr stepped forward. Cadwallader supposed that meant he was to deliver the opening statement, and he could only be glad it wasn’t Brockholst Livingston. Although that was like being glad that one was being mauled by a mountain lion rather than devoured by a wolf.

Instead of addressing the jury, Burr turned to the bench. “Your Honor, the defense moves for permission to take the testimony of Elizabeth Watkins, who has been brought to an adjoining house but finds herself unable to be in court today.”

“On what grounds?”

inquired Justice Lansing.

“Mrs. Watkins was brought to bed on the sixteenth of March and has been unwell since. Mr. Watkins attests,”

Colonel Burr added delicately, “that her breasts are sore and do fester.”

“Motion granted,”

said Justice Lansing hastily. “I will attend to it personally. Mr. Colden, you will come as well, of course. And for the defense—”

“I’ll go with you,”

said General Hamilton immediately.

“Will this take long?”

asked one of the jurymen. He looked considerably the worse for his night of sleeping on the floor of the picture gallery.

“Constables, if some refreshment might be found for the members of the jury? I suspect we have another long night ahead of us.”

Justice Lansing rose. “Court is in recess until we return.”

At least this time it wasn’t Cadwallader causing the delay. He felt childish for thinking that way, but fatigue seemed to have stripped him to the most base parts of his character. Maybe Maria was right; maybe he should have tried to get some sleep. Maybe it was only exhaustion making everything seem so grim.

Cadwallader breathed deeply of the manure-scented April air. He hadn’t realized just how close the atmosphere was in the courtroom, overheated with all those bodies pressed together, how long they’d been there, until he stepped outside and saw the sun already well over the midway mark.

“How is little David?”

General Hamilton asked.

“Not so little anymore,”

admitted Cadwallader.

“Hmph,”

said Justice Lansing. “They think they’re grown by the time they’re weaned. Last week, Sally went traipsing about the house in her mother’s best French heels. Nearly broke her neck.”

Justice Lansing’s youngest, Sally, was just David’s age. Someday, Sally and David would dance together at assemblies. They might even court. Here, in the sunlight, Cadwallader felt how foolish he had been, how much he had let the unnatural atmosphere of the courtroom wear on his nerves. These men—they weren’t judge and opponent. They were men he had known most of his life; their children were the age of his child. Their wives called on his wife.

The woman they had come to find turned out to be the Rings’ next-door neighbor, ensconced on a sofa with a baby in her arms and a blanket over her lap.

“I would have come to court myself but the doctor said I mustn’t.”

The baby was sleeping, a faint line of drool dripping from her slack mouth. The baby had that wonderful milky smell that Cadwallader remembered from David’s infancy. “I don’t like to be a bother.”

“You’re not a bother, Mrs. Watkins,”

said General Hamilton. “We’re all of us men with wives and children of our own.”

“This is our eighth,”

said Mrs. Watkins resignedly. Cadwallader thought how jealous Maria would be, festering breasts and all. They didn’t need eight; they would be happy with two. Or possibly three. “But you didn’t come here to hear me talk about my family. It’s Elma you want to know about.”

General Hamilton flipped the tails of his coat and lowered himself to a stool that had been placed beside her sofa. “Mrs. Watkins, did Mrs. Catherine Ring inform you of anything respecting Levi Weeks’s character and his behavior in the family, and especially as to any person sick?”

“On Thursday evening—that was after Elma was missing—Mrs. Ring came to see me and said that Levi Weeks was one of the best, most civil, and kindhearted boarders that she ever had, and if any of the children were sick, he was as kind and attentive to them as if they were his own.”

Cadwallader could feel his chest loosen. This was only more of the same, the only argument the defense had to offer, which was that Levi was a young man of good character and not the sort to push a girl down a well. There was nothing to fear here.

“I know this is difficult for you, Mrs. Watkins,”

said General Hamilton winningly, “but I hope you can clarify one further point.”

“I’m happy to help however I can,”

said Mrs. Watkins, cocking an experienced eye at the baby, who was beginning to stir.

Someone had stoked up the fire for the new baby and mother. It was very warm in the house. Cadwallader could feel himself beginning to slide down in his chair, lulled by the warmth and that new baby smell. Until Hamilton asked his next question.

“Did you ever hear anything that induced you to suspect there was an improper connection between Mr. Ring and Elma?”