“You think she would lie under oath and be damned for it?” said Miss Mary.
“So it is argued.”
“Is it better that she should say nothing and be hanged for it?”
I had no reply to this, and Miss Mary did not wait to hear one.
When court resumed that afternoon, the prosecutor called more witnesses from the search party that had scoured the woods for Charlie Silver’s remains. No new revelations came to light. The only purpose of the afternoon sessions was to hammer home the two themes of William Alexander’s case: that the murder was pitiless and horrible, and that the defendant had repeatedly lied.
At last, as the afternoon light thickened into evening, he announced that he had no further witnesses to call. Mr. Nicholas Woodfin might now present his case.
I had doubted that Woodfin would call any witnesses of his own. What on earth could they say? No one had said anything to the detriment of the character of the defendant. Those who took the stand had all admitted, however grudgingly, that young Mrs. Silver was hardworking, sober, altogether a dutiful wife and mother. There were no past incidents of violence or wanton behavior to explain away.
Was she mad, then? I could not believe that anyone present in that courtroom would think so. Frankie Silver had sat solemn and silent through the day’s grim proceedings, her behavior unmarked by fits or laughter, and her person as seemly and fair as a maiden in a church pew. He had nothing to deny then, except the sworn testimony of half the frontier community: Frankie Silver had lied. I saw no way around it unless he put her on the stand, and that he was not permitted to do. A bitter outing for a newly minted lawyer, I thought. God help him.
Nicholas Woodfin took a deep breath as he rose to face the judge. “Your Honor,” he said, “the defense rests.”
Burgess Gaither
VERDICT
By the time the shadows were lengthening on the lawn outside the courtroom, both attorneys had concluded their closing arguments. I had spent much of the afternoon gazing out the window at the trees and the clabbered sky above them, letting the words wash over me, as they would surely drown Frankie Silver.
Judge Donnell delivered his own ponderous summary of the evidence and the jurors’ obligations, and then he sent the jury out to deliberate. They would report back promptly the next morning to deliver their verdict. Court was adjourned until then. I wondered if His Honor would sleep any better than the rest of us, awaiting the morning’s decision. Mrs. Silver was led out of the courtroom to return to her cell for a night of dread that could scarcely be worse than the gallows itself. I watched her square her thin shoulders as she paced along in front of her jailer, head high, sparing not a glance for the crowd, and I resolved to murmur a prayer for her that night.
The jurors trooped off to be sequestered in the courthouse jury room, which was little bigger than the wooden table contained in it. For the duration of their deliberations they would be “without meat nor drink nor fire,” as was the custom from time immemorial. Men who are without food or drink will be more likely to reach a prompt decision. While the jury was thus deprived, considering the evidence against Frankie Silver, the rest of Morganton repaired to the taverns to retry the case in a dull roar over whiskey and tankards of ale. This convivial court of tipplers argued and analyzed the fine points of the trial in preparation for a later recital of the events before the ladies at dinner that evening.
I found the attorneys at McEntire’s, all seated together at a table in the far corner. They had been accorded this semblance of privacy out of respect for the solemn nature of their task, and the revelers at the bar had thus far not intruded upon the members of the bar.
No doubt a layman would have been surprised to see these men who had been bitter adversaries two hours hence conversing over tankards of ale with genial complacency, but as a fellow attorney, I expected nothing else. The battle was over now; the matter was in the hands of a jury, and the rival lawyers would live to fight another day. They left their animosity, as always, within the courthouse walls, for legal careers are long, and today’s opponent might be tomorrow’s colleague, or judge, or influential friend in the legislature. There is no graver courtesy than the respect born of ambitious self-interest.
Even so, Nicholas Woodfin was poor company that evening. He showed no rancor toward his companions, but he sat before an untouched glass, and stared at nothing, answering only in monosyllables if one addressed him twice-loudly.
“I thought you did well,” I told him, as I settled into the empty chair beside him. “You spoke eloquently and with great conviction. Altogether a moving performance.”
“But not enough,” Woodfin said, resting his forehead on the heel of his hand. I saw how tired he looked, and how careworn. There was a stubble of beard on his normally clean-shaven chin, and his clothing was more full of sweat and creases than a fastidious gentleman would permit in ordinary circumstances. No doubt he would change before the dinner hour, but just now he seemed too cast down to care about how he looked. Anyone would think that he had been the one on trial today, rather than merely a learned laborer doing the job for which he was hired.
“Come on, Woodfin, give over, won’t you? The lady is in God’s hands now,” said Mr. Wilson, who was considerably more sedate than his colleague. When this bracing speech brought no response, Wilson remarked to the rest of us, “In legal matters, our young friend has not yet learned to keep his heartstrings as tightly drawn as his purse strings.”
William Alexander, whose joviality was tempered only by his courtesy, raised his pewter tankard in a toast. “No, no,” he said heartily. “Don’t scold my colleague for his sensibility, Uncle Wilson. I like a man who believes in his causes. His loyal heart does him credit. To his health-if not that of his client!”
We all laughed politely at his jest. Even Woodfin managed a wan smile, but I could see that he was still troubled. “She may escape the gallows yet,” I told him. “The evidence is purely circumstantial.”
“So is the evidence that the sun will rise tomorrow,” Mr. Alexander drawled. “But I believe it all the same.”
Mr. Wilson laughed at this flippancy, and the two of them bent their heads together to talk of other matters, concerning family, I believe, for they were related by Mr. Alexander’s marriage to Wilson’s niece.
I turned my attention to the anxious young defense attorney. I thought it would be useless to try to cheer him up with a change of subject, so I resolved to be a sympathetic listener to his woes about the case. Besides, the conversation I’d had with Miss Mary Erwin that afternoon hovered in my thoughts. “Has your client told you anything about the death of her husband?” I asked Woodfin. “People feel that there is a great deal to the story that we do not yet know.”
Nicholas Woodfin groaned. “I wish she had told me something. I could have used it in her defense. But Frankie Silver keeps her own counsel. She is a brave little thing. I cannot look at her without thinking of the little Spartan boy with the fox in his tunic, gnawing out his innards. She will keep silent if it kills her. And it will.”
“Still, you represented her well. You cast what doubt you could. Do you wish that she could have taken the stand herself?”
Woodfin assumed the blank gaze of one who looks at events unfolding in his mind’s eye and sees nothing of the world around him. “I wish she could have testified,” he said at last. “I’m very much afraid that she would have chosen silence, but by God I wish I’d had the opportunity to let her speak.”