Chapelwood (The Borden Dispatches #2)(59)

Our small row, in the back of the room, is the last line of defense against something awful, or that’s how it feels to me. It also feels precariously empty, given the circumstances. The room is packed, mostly with angry-looking white men and their smug-looking wives, happy to gaze scornfully upon Ruth for every decision she’s ever made—including the decision to testify against her father.

If Ward were still president and Eagan were still chief, then the situation might appear less dire, even with the numbers stacked against us. We would have some rightfully elected or appointed authority on our side; we would have some shields to protect us, for isn’t that what their badges are made to symbolize?

We would have someone left in power who wished something better for the city, for justice, for Ruth.

Instead we sat there, our allies stripped of their official assets. And the inspector and I, we were strangers, interlopers. Our appearance did not hurt Ruth’s credibility because it could not have been any lower than it already stood. Still, we added little to her store of resources, so far as the court of opinion was concerned.

That was another small silver lining, I suppose: No one knew who we were, or why we were there. No one had any reason to consider us a threat, or to treat us accordingly.

Of course, why would anyone bother? Our foes had an entire city’s worth of bureaucracy, manpower, and friendly sentiment at their behest. We were a band of five civilians, as I sighed to Wolf. He almost argued with me, ready to flash his own badge, I’m certain; but Eagan beat him to the punch.

Having overheard the inspector’s breathy summing up of the matters at hand, he offered his own whispered contribution: “It’s not so dire as that, but you can see it from there.”

“Are there others?” I asked him quietly. “Any other allies we might call upon?”

“Not in this courtroom, but yes.”

I liked his vestigial brogue, and found it reassuring—but not so reassuring that I did not argue with him. “If you mean the colored folks, the Catholics, the Jews . . . I meant the kind of allies who might prove peers to the reverend or the commission president, you understand.”

He gave me a sidelong look that I no doubt deserved, but I was only trying to be realistic. “Aye, we have all those folks in our corner, and you’d be ill-advised to count them out. Their numbers alone might aid us in time; but yes, there are still good men in positions of service. We might find a few, and call upon them.”

“I think we must,” I said anxiously. “For as it stands, I’m not sure our merry little band is enough to protect Ruth, or your city, or anyplace else from whatever weird threat presents itself.”

At the end of the row, George Ward made a harrumphing sound. Under his breath he added, “Weird threat . . . Madam, you have no idea.”

I leaned forward, around the old chief’s chest, so that I could whisper my answer more directly. “Oh, but I might surprise you, sir.”

“You surprised me by coming at all, but there’s more to this . . . there’s more to Chapelwood . . . ,” he muttered, not speaking to me anymore. Speaking to himself, I believe. He did that quite a lot—the mumbling under his breath. It worried me, I confess. It reminded me too much of dear Doctor Seabury in his later days . . . that rumbling grumble that threaded through his every conversation, editorializing everything he meant to say aloud.

Wolf saw my frown, and gave me a nudge with his elbow. “We should chat, when this is finished.”

Finally, at what surely seemed to be long last, a fellow seated in front of us turned around and said, “You’ve been chatting for the last twenty minutes. Save it for the close of day, would you? Some of us are trying to listen.”

He was right, of course. It was rude of us to natter on, even in our most precious whispers. This was not the place to conspire, whether it felt like the thing to do or not.

Regardless, I appreciated Wolf’s loose sketch of the players on this chessboard . . . for all that it made me feel ill to consider our perilous position in this game. Or it isn’t a game, but you know what I mean, don’t you, Emma?

I’m sure you would, if you were here. I’m sure you do, if in fact you haunt me.

We spent the remainder of the day’s testimony in silence, and again I was struck by the strength of Ruth Gussman. She was getting tired and impatient, something I recall all too well about my own time on the stand; she was hounded and harangued by the lawyers, who asked her the same questions again and again, phrased differently by a word or two—just in case she’d trip over herself and say something incriminating.

No, not incriminating. She wasn’t the one on trial.

But you know what I mean. You once sat where I’m sitting, Emma. You’ve seen it yourself.

I observed her struggle and was pleased to see her remain steadfast, and I thought about how they treated her just as badly as they’d once treated me, when I’d sat vulnerable and afraid with everyone watching. It’s an awful thing, if you aren’t accustomed to being watched. For someone who’d spent time on the stage, or now in the “movies” as they call them . . . for someone like Nance, I don’t know. She might have seen it as an opportunity for performance, and taken some grim glee in the proceedings. Or then again, she might not have. I wish she were here. I wish I could ask her.

But back then, I was not accustomed to having so many eyes upon me, and I know that Ruth wasn’t, either. She was sweating, but we all were sweating a little by the end. She tried not to look at the defendant’s desk, where her father glared, nearly unblinking. I could see his profile, just barely—I was at just the right angle to glimpse his hateful scowl fixed upon her like a lamp.