“What?”he called back to me, touching his ear.

“I said, have you heard anything from Canfield’s about the odds?” I shouted back.

He nodded. “Fifty to one-and I’m sure it’d be higher if someone other than Rupert were arguing the state’s case!”

I whistled, glancing at the floor; then, as an idea hit me, I looked back up. “You don’t suppose we could get any bets down through a third party, do you?”

Mr. Moore smiled but shook his head. “I already thought of that, but I promised Rupert we wouldn’t! He’s superstitious-thinks it’ll put the Jonah on his chances!”

I smiled back and nodded: any gambling soul would’ve understood exactly how Mr. Picton felt.

Just then a door in the back wall of the big room opened and the bailiff walked in, looking like he was ready to take on any and every person in the room what might have thoughts about trying to turn his court into a circus. He was another big fellow, was Jack Coffey, with the kind of steely eyes what you might’ve expected to find in a frontier barroom instead of an eastern court house; but when I caught sight of Judge Brown, I began to understand why he’d retained the services of such a beefy bailiff. So small he almost disappeared behind the bench as he walked up the little flight of stairs to take his seat behind it, Charles H. Brown had big ears what stuck out like a monkey’s, a short but full dusting of pure white hair over his head, and plenty of wrinkles in his aged clean-shaven face. But his eyes matched the bailiff’s in their determination and their open warning that he would put up with absolutely no nonsense, while the firm set of his thin, wrinkled lips and square jaw told of just how much justice he’d dealt out, over his years.

I was even more glad, looking at him, that it wasn’t me sitting in Libby Hatch’s chair.

“All rise!” boomed Bailiff Coffey from deep in his barrel chest, bringing everyone to their feet and instant silence to the room; and as he went on to announce the exact number of that session of the court, he kept glancing up at the crowd, still looking for some wise mug what might think he wasn’t in the presence of the full power of the state of New York. Holding a clipboard up in front of him, Coffey next announced the first order of business for that day: “The People of Saratoga County versus Mrs. Elspeth Hunter of New York City, formerly Mrs. Elspeth Hatch of Ballston Spa, formerly Miss Elspeth Fraser of Stillwater-on the charge that she did, on or about the thirty-first day of May, eighteen hundred and ninety-four, willfully and with premeditation murder Thomas Hatch, three years old, and Matthew Hatch, four years old, and that at the same time she did willfully and with premeditation attempt to murder Clara Hatch, five years old, all in the township of Ballston Spa.”

The charge sent a ripple of mumbling through the room, one what Judge Brown brought to an end with a sudden, savage rap of his gavel. From his cushioned leather chair-which, high as it was, still only raised him clear of the bench from the chest up-Judge Brown scowled around the courtroom.

“The court,” he eventually said, in a tough, gravelly voice, “would like to make it clear from the start that it is aware of the amount of interest the public takes in this case. But the court has never allowed public interest to interfere with the pursuit of justice, and it is not about to start at this late date. I would therefore remind those of you in the galleries that you are the guests of this court, and warn you that if you behave as anything else you will feel the court’s boot in your collective backside.” There were a lot of smiles at that, but only one man at the back of the room actually threw out a laugh-and he soon regretted taking the liberty. Judge Brown’s eyes fixed on the fellow quicker than spit, as his wrinkled, thin hand brought the gavel up and pointed it. “Remove that individual,” the judge said, “and make certain he does not again attend these proceedings.”

The guard Henry grabbed the man by the collar and, before the stunned victim had a chance to protest, got him out through the big mahogany doors.

“Now, then,” the judge went on, looking around to be sure he’d made his point. “Is the accused present?”

“She is, Your Honor,” replied Irving W. Maxon, his voice a little shaky.

“You have heard the state’s charge,” the judge went on, looking to Libby Hatch. “How do you plead?”

“If it please the court,” Mr. Maxon answered, before Libby could say anything. “We beg a few moments’ indulgence, as we are awaiting-”

Judge Brown cut him off with a big, loud sigh, one what turned into a groan as he rubbed a hand over the short white hairs on his head. “We are all of us awaiting something, counselor. I myself have spent my life awaiting a trial that is free of unnecessary delays.” The old eyes bore in on Mr. Maxon. “I am still awaiting.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon replied, his nervousness growing under the ancient stare what showered down from the bench. “If you’ll only allow me to explain-”

Just then the gentle clap of the mahogany doors closing was heard, and Mr. Maxon turned along with the rest of us to get a look at the newcomer who’d produced the sound:

Even from a distance, I could tell that it had to be Clarence Darrow, being as he so completely matched Marcus’s description of the man. Unlike lawyer Maxon, Mr. Darrow’s clothes were of an ordinary variety-just a plain, light brown suit and white shirt, with a simple tie knotted carelessly at the neck-and they looked as if he’d slept in them on the train. Though not as thoroughly sloppy as it would one day become (Mr. Darrow had only begun to establish a disheveled appearance as one of his trademarks), this look was still very different from that of the other officers of the court, as was his way of walking: slow and stooped over, a kind of loping movement what was especially noticeable given his considerable size. His hair, as Marcus had told us, was uncombed, and a lock of it hung over his forehead. The face wasn’t as wrinkled, naturally, as it would become during his years of greater fame, but it was still weathered and rugged; and the eyes had the same light color and sad, searching expression that would also become so legendary in the future. The soft mouth was pursed in a way what matched a pair of big circles under the eyes: a way what seemed to speak about the high price of wisdom bought by too much exposure to man’s inhumanity to his fellow man. As he moved down the center aisle, Mr. Darrow took in the crowd with a steady, strong gaze what was different from Judge Brown’s, but produced just as much of an effect: by the time he’d reached the railing, every eye in the place was locked on him.

It was a performance, of course; but I’d been in a lot of courtrooms, and it was one of the best I’d ever seen-good enough to let me know right away that we were in more trouble than we’d figured on being.

Clutching an old, beaten-up briefcase, Mr. Darrow signaled to Mr. Maxon, who said, “If the court will excuse me for one moment,” and rushed over. Judge Brown didn’t look happy about that, but he sat back with another sigh and waited as Mr. Maxon opened the railing of the gate and let Mr. Darrow over into the business side of the room, where he quickly shook hands with Libby Hatch.

“If it please the court,” Mr. Maxon said, smiling now.

“It does not please the court, Counselor,” Judge Brown said, sitting forward again. “Just what are you about, sir?”

“Your Honor,” Mr. Maxon went on quickly, “I should like to introduce Mr. Clarence Darrow, attorney-at-law from the state of Illinois. It is the defense’s request that the court allow him to appear, pro hac vice, as the defendant’s primary counsel.”

“Darrow, eh?” Judge Brown said. “Yes, I’ve had some communications about you, Mr. Darrow. From downstate.”