“Oh, tiger’s heart, wrapped in a woman’s hide.”
William Shakespeare, Henry VI
“It is rather challenging for a woman in 1862 to achieve more than motherhood.”
Sam Lee, Esquire
CHAPTER 1
Judgment Day
Baltimore, Maryland, Thursday in the late forenoon, June 12, 1862
Quietude refused to reign in the courtroom of the Honorable Judge Henry Wainwright. He raised his gavel and surveyed the gallery, but still the murmuring continued. He brought the ceremonial mallet down hard on its sounding block. “The requested recess has ended, and this court will now come to order!” He fixed his steely gaze on me. “I do believe this is your witness,” he intoned, each word dominating the now subservient silence.
Mark Anthony! The long-awaited moment has arrived. Seated before the anxious court gallery, I felt the expectant, judgmental eyes of the assembled spectators ready to evaluate my every utterance and movement. I stole a brief glance next to me at Mr. Benjamin Talmadge Sage, Esquire—my trusted mentor whose quiet nod steadied my resolve. You have been a most agreeable guide in my understanding of jurisprudence, and I will not disappoint you.
Rising from the prosecution table, I began my measured march forward—every step precise and deliberate as I approached the witness stand. Remember Mr. Lincoln’s advice … ‘Your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other thing.’
Mr. Runnels, a rather slovenly man with a face as unruly as his appearance, grinned with a mouth full of large, yellowed teeth. Leaning far to one side in his witness chair, he gnawed and sucked at the bulge in his cheek. He smacked his fleshy lips, revealing a plug of tobacco continuously oozing dark-brown juice from one corner of his mouth. His once-crisp button-up shirt now bore several stains, a testament to years of neglect.
“Well …?” Judge Wainwright’s commanding tone penetrated my thoughts. “Have you decided on a staring contest as your mode of cross-examination?” A ripple of mild snickering danced through the gallery.
Mr. Runnels snorted, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on the judge. “You ain’t trying to yank my legs clean outta their sockets, is you?” He pointed a calloused finger at me. “A female lawyer? The courts ain’t been overrun by insane asylum escapees, has they?”
The judge’s gavel boomed sharply. “You shall be civil whilst in my court, Mr. Runnels. Miss Samantha Lee has endured two years of rigorous training as an apprentice. How well she performs today on her first unassisted cross-examination shall determine whether she stands before the bar Saturday next.”
“Saturday?” Mr. Runnels scoffed, whisking a hand through his grimy, thinning hair. “This court ain’t open Saturdays!”
“This court is open every Saturday for all business except jury trials … and has been for years.”
Mr. Runnels let out a derisive laugh as he pointed at me. “She’s gonna see you on Saturday, and you’re gonna hand her a law license?” His eyebrows drew together. “You let a woman in the courts, and trials is gonna take twice as long.” He harrumphed. “Twice as long, I tells ya.”
Judge Wainwright’s gaze hardened as he pointed his gavel in a threatening manner at Mr. Runnels. “Cease your idle chatter and answer her questions.”
“All right.” Mr. Runnels relented, though his tone retained its defiant edge. “But she better let me get a word in edgeways.” A stifled chuckle rose from the gallery.
“Please continue, Miss Lee,” the judge prompted with an imperious nod.
Here I am, the sole attorney ever to navigate a courtroom in skirts … a pioneer of my own making. I endeavored to imagine the manner in which I would be perceived as I glided delicately in my frilly white blouse paired with a vibrant green skirt, my red hair flashing like a beacon in a storm. Approaching the witness with a deliberate, confident smile, I leaned in. “Mr. Runnels, where were you on April nineteenth, eighteen hundred and sixty-one?”
“You know where I was,” he drawled. “Your first question …,” he waved a dismissive hand at the judge, “… and it were a stupid one.” The gallery erupted in raucous laughter.
The judge’s gavel struck again, silencing the room as I raised a cautious hand in deference. “It is all right, Your Honor. It shall gladden me to enlighten him should you have no objection.”
“Please do.”
Looking back at Mr. Sage seated at our prosecution table, I pointed to a man seated at a small desk to his left. “This gentleman is Mr. Styles.”
Mr. Styles looked up and lowered his pen with an almost imperceptible nod.
I stepped towards him. “He is the official stenographer. He sits there with his four-dollar Esterbrook gold pen, an artifact whose price has soared since the war began last year. Every spoken word is captured with meticulous care.” I edged forward and swung my hand towards the defense table to the right of ours, in the gallery’s direction between, and back to Judge Wainwright. “I ask questions to which everyone, doubtless, knows the answers so Mr. Styles can enter them into the official record.”
Lowering my hands, I clasped them before me. “Now, if you will, please answer the question.”
Mr. Runnels shrugged and lifted one hand, palm up. “You took so dad-blamed long I plum forgot the dang question.” Mild laughter rippled through the courtroom, and the gavel sounded again.
The judge glared at the gallery. “Do not encourage this witness in his rude behavior.”
I edged around to face the witness. “Where were you on April nineteenth, eighteen hundred and sixty-one?”
Mr. Runnels wrapped his forefinger and thumb around his stubble-ridden chin and rubbed. “Let’s see … that was over a year since.” He brightened and shoved his index finger upwards. “Ah, I was near that there train station where them Massachusetts troops come in on.”
“The Massachusetts sixth?”
“I don’t rightly know what number they was,” he admitted with a nonchalant shrug.
I dropped my hands to my sides, pivoted, and stepped away. “Let us understand you better. You refer to the President Street Station of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad.” Stopping, I swiveled back. “Is that correct, sir?”
He bobbed his head.
“Please speak up.”
“I s’pose that’s the station,” he mumbled, punctuating it with a guttural sound akin to a pig clearing its throat. “Anyways, I was up on Pratt Street a little ways watching them Union troops marching alongside the train cars.”
I approached him. “Are you from Baltimore?”
“I sure as hell ain’t.”
“From where, then?”
“Arkansas. Fort Smith.”
“And what were you doing in Baltimore?”
Pressing his pudgy lips together, he tilted his head slowly, the rolls of fat on his neck expanding with each measured word. “Oh, I don’t know. It seemed like a nice place to visit.”
I stepped to the side and faced the jury. “Is it because Baltimore is a city awash in Southern dissent … or because you were disillusioned that Maryland did not secede from the Union?”
He leaned towards the judge and pointed at me. “Does she have to talk like a confounded book?”
“Yes,” Judge Wainwright insisted. “If she continues to talk like a book, I allow that she may very well receive her law license Saturday next.”
Mr. Runnels leaned back, a snicker escaping his lips. “Funny, I ain’t never heared no book say the first word.” Again, laughter stirred in the gallery.
The gavel banged once more. “Mr. Runnels, do not mock my court, or you shall warm a jail bench for a few days.” His glare swept over the gallery with icy precision. “And those who deign to encourage the witness’s antics will, likewise, be encouraged straight out of this courtroom.”
After Mr. Runnels’s face sobered, I approached him. “Did you travel east to cause dissension?”
He narrowed his eyes, his voice thick with dismissive disdain. “Course not. I don’t give a hoot about no dad-blamed war.” He laughed. “I’m a man of peace, I am.”
I eased my left-hand fingers to my lips, then lowered them enough to speak. “Do you suppose, Mr. Runnels, that it was just a coincidence that your nice visit to our fair city came just seven days after Fort Sumter was captured by the Confederates?”
Mr. Farmer shot to his feet. “Objection, your honor.”
“State your objection.”
“Miss Lee is editorializing, despite its being in the form of a question.”
“Sustained.” Judge Wainwright glowered at me. “Don’t waste your time with frivolous questions you know will be targeted by opposing counsel, Miss Lee.” He shook his head. “Continue, please.”
I sauntered to the prosecution table, where Mr. Sage handed me two sheets of paper. I took one to Mr. Farmer’s defense table and the other to the judge. “Your Honor, please allow me to enter this document into the record. You hold an intercepted note concerning Mr. Runnels’s genuine reason for being in Baltimore. Your Honor, you have the original note.” I beamed at Mr. Farmer. “And you, sir, have a transcribed copy.”
I edged towards the jury and surveyed their expectant faces. “This note is from Mr. Quarrels, a known Confederate agitator. It contains information on the meeting places of Southern dissidents who contrive to harass Northern troops passing through on Baltimore’s railway system.”
Facing Mr. Runnels again, I continued with measured deliberation, “Anyone arriving at the President Street Station, whose destination is south of Baltimore, must disembark and wait for the railroad cars to be detached. Horses then draw the cars along the Pratt Street tracks to Camden station. Usually, passing troops congregate and proceed on foot alongside the cars, thus rendering them susceptible to harassment. Is that not so, Mr. Runnels?”
He squinted. “Susceptible?”
“Vulnerable,” I clarified.
“Vulnerable?”
I folded my arms. “Then, if you please, allow me to rephrase. Bystanders can easily throw rocks at these troops.”
He sighed, his eyes wandering. “I s’pose they can.” He stabbed a thumb onto his chest. “But I didn’t.”
I pounded a fist into my palm. “Come now … is that not the real reason you journeyed all the way from Arkansas to Baltimore?”
He threw his head back and glared down his nose. “It ain’t.”
“Did you bring a weapon with you from Fort Smith?”
“No gun,” he grumbled.
“What then?”
Fat bulged again as he rocked his head from side to side. “Uh … I always carry my Arkansas toothpick.” He thrust forward. “But that ain’t no weapon.”
I stepped towards him. “No? A long-bladed Bowie knife … and you do not consider that a weapon?”
“No, it’s just a tool.”
“A tool indeed,” I scoffed. “A formidable implement capable of piercing a man’s torso, would you not agree?”
“I ain’t never used it for that.” He shot back.
“What then … for picking your teeth?”
Mr. Farmer jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, I must object.”
I swiveled towards the bench. “I will withdraw the last question, Your Honor.”
Mr. Farmer remained steadfast while leaning on his table with both hands. “I still object.”
“And what is the nature of your objection, Mr. Farmer?”
“Mr. Runnels is not on trial here. We are seeking to determine Mr. Baines’s guilt or innocence.” He pointed to his client seated next to the other defense attorney. “He is accused of throwing a few pebbles at some Massachusetts regiments.”
Mr. Sage rose. “Scarcely pebbles. Rocks, all of them … except for the half-brick that struck one soldier in the head.” Mr. Runnels scowled at the judge as Mr. Sage continued, “This vile act resulted in a vicious wound, which detained the soldier for weeks.”
With muted determination, I approached the bench. “Your Honor, it goes to the intent of this witness … his potential lack of political impartiality.” I slowly turned to observe Mr. Farmer. “How can one who comes here fraught with fervent Confederate sentiment offer impartial testimony at an event where citizens assailed U.S. troops?” A furious repartee erupted at the defense table.
The judge’s gavel resounded sharply. “Overruled. It goes to the witness’s credibility, and this note will be accepted into the record.” The lawyers reseated themselves.
I turned my attention to the beleaguered witness. “Please remain focused on the task at hand, Mr. Runnels. Now, can you describe the actions of the defendant?”
Pointing vaguely towards the defense table, he mumbled, “Mr. Baines?” His hand dropped to his lap. “Right. I watched the goings-on when I seen this man, the one that was Baines …. I seen him scurrying about with the common people picking up stones and stuffing them in his pockets. Other folks was yelling foul names and cursing … some throwing rocks. Bigguns too!”
I folded my arms. “And what did Mr. Baines do with his rocks?”
Mr. Runnels lowered his gaze and furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? I done told you. He just shoved them rocks in his pockets.” The gallery laughed.
I drew a deep breath. “My meaning concerns what he did with the rocks once they were in his pockets. So, what did he do with them?”
He hesitated. “He looked about for a spell … then ran off. I follered him, and some few streets away, he took them stones and pitched them in a ditch.”
“And where did he go thereafter?”
He executed a dismissive swing of his hand to one side. “Away. He walked away from the ruckus. I figured he was done, so I just moseyed on back to my hotel.”
“But you do not know for certain that he returned to his home, do you?”
He squirmed. “I said, I figured he did.”
“Then tell us, is it true that figuring is not necessarily knowing?”
Drawing his elbows in and letting his shoulders rise in defiance, he retorted, “I don’t know the law. That’s for you pettifogging lawyers to know.”
I ambled towards Mr. Sage and raised my eyebrows. He nodded slightly, and I spun back towards the witness. “Mr. Runnels, do you know a Mrs. Strudelmeier?”
“No,” he quipped.
“Were you aware that she testified for the prosecution?”
“Course not. We ain’t allowed in the courtroom ’cept to testify. We dunno nothing ’bout the case ’cept what we know.”
I stepped towards Mr. Runnels. “Please give me leave to restate your answer.” Slowly, I turned towards the jury, letting my voice resonate clearly. “Any witness knows what occurs in a courtroom only during the brief time of their testimony.” I pivoted back towards the witness stand. “Mr. Runnels, you know naught about the trial except for what you witnessed today. Is that correct?”
His face contorted as he scrunched lower, muttering, “S’pose so.”
I inched closer. “You appear to be in a rather bad way. Could you speak a little louder, sir?”
He stiffened, his voice rising slightly. “That there’s how it were. It ain’t my fault.”
Mr. Farmer sprang to his feet. “Accounts of trials are reported in the tabloids. Is that not correct, Mr. Runnels?”
“Course.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Farmer sternly reseated himself.
I redirected my attention to Mr. Runnels. “Are you literate?”
He squinted and glanced toward the judge as if seeking confirmation. “I ain’t got no idea what you’re blathering on about.”
I leaned on the rail between us. “Are you able to read?” His body stench reached my nose, inviting me to take a step back.
“Uh ….” He scanned the room. “I ain’t never had no book learning, if that’s what you mean.”
Mr. Farmer stood. “I object, Your Honor.”
“State the nature of your objection.”
“Miss Lee is straying off-topic. She started by mentioning Mrs. Strudelmeier’s testimony.” He extended a hand towards the jury. “A testimony we are all familiar with … and now she drops the subject rather like a hot coal.”
Judge Wainwright raised his hand. “Overruled. Let the coals tend to themselves. I am exceedingly curious as to where Miss Lee is endeavoring to take this line of questioning.” He dug his gaze deep into me. “Please. Do go on … and be brief. The moment I detect a lack of direction,” he held up his gavel, “I will bring an immediate halt to your line of questioning.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Placing my hands on my hips, I faced Mr. Runnels. “So, no book learning means you cannot read. Is that correct?”
He stared at his clenched hands. “S’pose so.”
“Then, is it also correct that you cannot know the circumstances of the trial?”
He glared. “I heared tell.”
“How?”
“I heared talk of it.”
“And where were you when last you heard people discussing the trial?”
“At the Horse.”
I snapped my head back. “The Horse? Baltimore’s most famous, or should I say, most infamous pub?” I spread my arms wide like a magician about to perform a magic trick. “Oh, indeed. The Horse’s Derrière bar in Fells Point.” The gallery burst into uproarious laughter, and the judge had to subdue them with his banging gavel. With the quieting courtroom, I continued, “The Horse … the leading establishment for gossip and slander.” I folded my arms and stepped away. “Scarcely a reliable source.” I lowered my arms and turned. “And how many drunken patrons prattled on about the trial?”
“I object, Your Honor,” Mr. Farmer said without standing. “Miss Lee—”
Judge Wainwright struck his gavel. “Overruled. Hurry this along, Miss Lee. Let us get to the point before dinner.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” I ambled away from the witness. “Mr. Runnels, Mrs. Strudelmeier testified yesterday that she assisted Mr. Baines in collecting rocks and observed him hurling them at the Massachusetts troops.” I pivoted towards the jury. “What say you to that?”
Mr. Runnels shook his head. “It’s a dad-blamed lie. I ain’t seen nothing like that.”
“Did you come from The Horse before happening upon the riot?”
“Course not.”
I took a measured step closer. “You were intoxicated before you showed up to watch Mr. Baines, were you not?”
He stiffened noticeably, his arms tight against his sides. “I weren’t drunk.”
I raised my hands and marched towards the jury. “You were drunk out of your mind and had not a notion of what was going on at the riot. Is that not so?”
His heavy-soled boot pounded the floor. “That ain’t true! Stop putting your own dad-blasted words in my mouth, consarn it!”
Swiveling sharply, I fixed my iron gaze on him. “You are not interested in justice lest it can be found in a bottle, are you?”
Increasing his fervor, he jabbed a finger at me. “That’s a lie! You’re a liar!”
I lunged towards him. “You came along as drunk as Dionysus, witnessed the commotion, and proceeded to investigate. Tell me, did you hurl a few stones of your own?”
He smacked a hand on the rail before him. Thud! “I ain’t never throwed no stones!”
Reaching the witness stand, I pierced his eyes with my glare. “You came here seeking information on how to disrupt such a scene.” I extended my arms to either side. “Your actions and the note from Mr. Quarrels clearly reveal that you had an ax to grind, didn’t you?”
“Well … yes …. Uh, no. I ain’t even got no ax.”
I lowered my arms and edged to the rail. “And is that not a strong indication of how much you loathe Yankees?”
His expression hardened. “I sure do hate them Yankees, but I ain’t lying about Mr. Baines!”
Leaning over the rail, I pressed on, “You hated Yankees so intensely that you were loath to see them on what you perceived as Southern soil!”
He sprang to his feet. “You’re lying!”
“Am I?” I pounded on the rail several times with a forceful rhythm. “There they were, visiting a state that ought to have seceded, and you could not resist availing yourself of the opportunity, could you?”
He slapped his hands on the rail to either side of my stilled ones. “Yes, they was in the South, and I wanted to get them Yankee scum out … but, as God is my witness, I ain’t throwed nothing!”
Ignoring his stench, I leaned forward, nearly nose to nose with him. “So, how much did Mr. Baines pay you to lie for him?”
“Ten dol …!” Withdrawing his hand, he whipped one to his mouth, shooting his brows upward as though a horse had stomped upon his foot.
A glance at Mr. Farmer found his head buried in his hands. I beamed at Mr. Runnels and devoured him with my smile. “Ten dollars. I see.” I strolled towards the judge. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
As I returned to the prosecution table, Mr. Styles offered me a conspiratorial wink. I returned it with one of equal intensity, the silent exchange speaking volumes as the courtroom’s tension dissolved into calm.
END OF SAMPLE
Click HERE to go to the Top
Click HERE to return to the Welcome Page