Love & War (Alex & Eliza #2)(78)
Judging from the harsh stares, however, Alex sensed that today’s audience was far from impartial. Well, it was New York, after all. The city had suffered under military occupation for seven years, and seen the bodies of its native sons wash up on shore every morning, tossed from the prison boats during the night. You wouldn’t expect to find a lot of warmth among the populace for a British sympathizer. And if they did feel it, they’d probably keep it to themselves.
But this wasn’t a jury trial. Alex ultimately need worry about only one man’s opinion: that of Judge Smithson, who had yet to enter the room. Opposing counsel was also still absent. Alex had seen Burr socially two or three times over the last month, but had avoided a tête-à-tête. He’d overheard Burr making jokes about Alex’s “poor loyalist widow” and had to bite his tongue to keep from being drawn out. Burr’s comments weren’t particularly barbed, and he was at least gentlemanly enough not to slander Caroline’s reputation. In a way, that made it worse, because Alex could tell that Burr regarded the upcoming trial as a kind of game, and a low-stakes one at that, like an after-dinner hand of whist or quadrille. If he won, he would gloat for a moment, then forget about it. If he lost, he would be theatrically conciliatory, and forget about that, too. Which is to say, win or lose, in a few weeks’ time the name “Caroline Childress” would probably mean nothing to him, whether she was once again running a thriving business that would see her and her children through life, or was turned out of her home by fiendish creditors. Burr’s opponent in this trial was not the defendant but Alex.
As if on cue, Burr swept into the courtroom. He was looking exceptionally rosy-cheeked this morning, as if he had walked around the block rather than from his house two doors down. The color in his complexion was heightened by his wig, which also did a good job of hiding his thinning hair. His jabot was tied with a flourish befitting a serenading swain, and unlike Alex’s, Burr’s had the sheen of silk rather than wool.
“Does he think he’s playing dress-up?”
Alex didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Caroline said, “Beg pardon, Mr. Hamilton?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing.”
Burr worked his way up the aisle, greeting several people by name, with handshakes all around. Had he packed the courtroom with anti-loyalist agitators?
Stop indulging in paranoia, Alex chided himself. The man is a gadfly. No doubt he knows them the same way a good bar mistress knows the names of the local sots—because they’re always here, clambering for more spirits.
Burr swept up to his own table, at the last moment turning to greet Alex.
“Oh, Hamilton. I didn’t realize it was you. I thought it was the chaplain come to swear the oaths.” He winked mischievously at Alex’s client. “Do not judge your attorney by the quality of his robes, Mrs. Childress. His mind is much sharper than the scissors with which that rather shapeless garment was cut.”
“Good morning, Mr. Burr,” Alex said in his most formal voice.
“Brrr,” Burr said, pretending to shiver. “Is it cold in here? Well,” he added, licking his lips. “I guess the duel is on.”
He turned to his table just as the rear door of the court opened and a bailiff entered.
“All rise!”
Burr was already standing, so that it seemed as if everyone else was following his lead. Alex couldn’t help but wonder if he’d planned it this way. Again, he chastised himself to stop being paranoid. There was no way he could have known the judge would enter now. Was there?
The door behind the bailiff filled with a huge shadow. For a moment, it seemed like whatever was beyond wouldn’t be able to pass through the narrow aperture. Then came a chafing noise as heavy fabric scraped against the wooden frame, and Judge Lewis Smithson was in the room.
The judge was an imposing man in his early fifties. He was at least as tall as General Washington, which is to say six four, and his tightly curled white wig added two or three more inches to his frame. But he was big in a way that Washington was not, as thick around the waist as a vat of whale oil, with legs like sooty Roman columns. Alex had seen the man once or twice outside of chambers, so he knew the man’s bulk was all blubber, but in his black robe and extra-wide jabot he had the appearance of a lichen-covered boulder rising out of turbulent seas, ready to rip a jagged hole in the hull of an unsuspecting vessel.
Beside him, Caroline caught her breath. Alex hoped she would keep her composure throughout the trial.
Judge Smithson mounted the steps to his dais, which creaked and shifted beneath his weight. The dark oiled walnut of the bench only added to his imposing form. He was a snow-capped mountain now, daring Sisyphus to try to scale him one more time.
The judge took his seat and motioned for the rest of the courtroom to follow.
“We are here today to hear the case of Mrs. Jonathan Childress v. State of New York, concerning a property located at Seventeen Baxter Street which the state believes was illegally acquired by the plaintiff during the occupation of New York City by British forces.”
“With all due respect, Your Honor,” Alex said, standing up. “The state seized the property some four months ago, and now merely wishes to codify the transfer of property with an ex post facto legal action.”
“Your Honor!” Burr rose to his feet. “Such an accusation veers on disrespectful to the institution of our government, which many people in this room risked their lives to bring into existence!”