“Mr. Darrow,” Judge Brown said, “I thought we had seen the last of insinuation, here-”

“And so we have, Your Honor,” Mr. Darrow answered obligingly. “I have no further questions for this witness.”

There was a long pause, during which Mr. Picton watched Mr. Darrow sit back down with a combination of anger and temporary confusion in his face.

“Mr. Picton?” Judge Brown finally said. “Do you wish to redirect?”

Mr. Picton turned to the bench. “No, Your Honor.”

“Then the witness is excused,” the judge said, at which the shaken Mrs. Wright made her way down from the stand. Judge Brown looked to Mr. Picton again. “Do you have another witness for us, sir?”

Trying to get himself fully composed, Mr. Picton looked anxiously to the door and then to Sheriff Dunning, who only shrugged once. “Actually, Your Honor,” Mr. Picton replied, “the state’s next witness has apparently not arrived yet. He was due to be escorted to town by two of Sheriff Dunning’s deputies, but I don’t know-”

Just then a young boy slipped through the mahogany doors. He was wearing the uniform of the Western Union company, and in his hand he was clutching an envelope. After asking the guard at the door a question, he was directed toward Mr. Picton’s table, and made his way down the aisle.

Seeing him, Mr. Picton said, “This may be word of the witness now, Your Honor-if I may have just a moment.”

“A moment, Mr. Picton,” the judge said, sitting back.

The delivery boy passed by our two rows of seats, then handed the envelope to Mr. Picton and asked him to sign for it. Doing so quickly, Mr. Picton tore the telegram open and read it quickly; then he read it again, as if its contents made no sense to him. Finally, on the third reading, his face lost all its color, and he sank into the chair behind him.

“Picton,” the Doctor whispered, watching him, “what is it?”

Judge Brown leaned forward in his chair, looking both concerned and a little irritated. “Mr. Picton? Are you well, sir?”

“Your-Your Honor,” Mr. Picton breathed, struggling to get back to his feet. “I-” Staring at the floor underneath him without really seeming to see it, Mr. Picton finally caught his breath, cleared his throat, and looked up. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. At this time the state was to have called the Reverend Clayton Parker. He was due to take the early train this morning in the company of two of Sheriff Dunning’s deputies. Apparently there was an-accident-”

“An accident?” the judge echoed. “What kind of an accident?”

Pausing and looking at the telegram again, Mr. Picton said slowly, “Apparently Reverend Parker fell under the wheels of an approaching train at the Grand Central Terminal this morning. He was severely injured and taken to a nearby hospital. He died there forty-five minutes ago.”

The news hit the room as hard as the train must’ve hit the reverend. The people in the galleries-some of who’d been members of Parker’s congregation-broke into open commotion, and a few were moved to tears. As for our group, we were all too stunned to say or do anything at all. There was no confusion among us, of course: we all knew that there was no chance that the death had actually been an accident. Getting killed by a train at Grand Central was almost impossible, unless somebody was helping you: somebody experienced at such things, somebody strong, somebody crazy enough to pull such a job in the middle of a large crowd, and somebody who wasn’t worried about the presence of two sheriff’s deputies. Somebody wound up on burny, for instance; somebody like a Hudson Duster.

As for Libby Hatch, she erupted with a short, loud sound that I could’ve sworn was a laugh; but when I looked over, she had her face buried in her hands, and seemed to be crying.

Judge Brown went to work restoring order, though he did so more gently than usual. As the crowd started to quiet down, he looked around the room with a somber face.

“The court is indeed sorry to receive this news,” he said. “Reverend Parker was well known and respected in this community, despite any allegations that have been made in this room. Under the circumstances, I would suggest that we call a recess until two o’clock-at which hour, Mr. Picton, you can call your next witness. Or, if you need more time-”

Still looking very shaken, Mr. Picton began to shake his head. “No, Your Honor. Thank you. The state will be ready at two o’clock. With its next witness…”

The judge banged away, and as soon as he’d left the courtroom the place came alive again. Mr. Picton collapsed back into his chair, and none of us made any move toward him, not really knowing what we could possibly say. Once again, things were not going the way he’d planned, and the future of our case looked like it was in doubt-especially in light of the way Mr. Darrow had handled Louisa Wright, a witness whose testimony wouldn’t ever receive corroboration now. Knowing all this, Mr. Picton just sat there in his chair for what seemed a long time, staring at the telegram in his hand; finally, he lifted his face and looked over to the rest of us-and to one of us in particular.

“Well, Doctor,” he said, very quietly. “I hope you can be ready by two, because I can’t let the jury sleep on what they’ve heard today.” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “You’re all we’ve got left.”

The Doctor nodded, realizing, it seemed, just what a tight spot he was now in. But his voice when he spoke was very controlled-calm, even. “That’s all right, Mr. Picton,” he said, touching the hair under his lower lip. “I may have learned a thing or two from our friend Darrow…”

CHAPTER 47

Coming back into the courtroom that afternoon, I took note of a change in the positioning of the guards in the place, one what didn’t make much of an impression on me at the time. The big man who’d usually stood behind Iphegeneia Blaylock was now at the door, while Henry, our old friend with the narrow head and the slow brain, was standing inside the oak railing, near the defense table. Writing the switch off to each man wanting a change of pace, I didn’t, like I say, think much of it; but now, looking back, I can see that it was the first indication of something much more sinister, something that would eventually result in an unexpected and terrible conclusion to the trial. It would’ve saved a lot of heartache if I could’ve seen what the shift really signaled, if any of our group could have; but the only one who might’ve logically been expected to read it correctly was the Doctor, and he was much too focused on his coming showdown with Mr. Darrow to pay attention to those kind of seemingly small details.

Taking the stand at just past two, the Doctor spent most of the next hour answering Mr. Picton’s questions about the work he’d done with Clara Hatch, proceeding from there into a discussion of his assessment of Libby Hatch’s mental condition. The jury, like the people in the galleries around them, were pretty obviously disposed to view the Doctor’s statements with what you might call skepticism, when he first began to speak; but as was so often the case when he appeared in court, he slowly began to win at least some of them over with his clear and compassionate statements, especially when it came to the subject of Clara. Making it clear that while treating the girl he’d simply followed his standard procedure for dealing with such cases-and also making it clear just how many similar cases he had dealt with-the Doctor painted a picture of a very bright, very sensitive girl, one whose mind had been terribly jumbled but not broken by the events what’d occurred on the night of May 31st, 1894. His description of Clara had the effect of softening the jury up to the point where they became interested in the details of his medical diagnosis, instead of being put off by them; and as he talked about spending long days sitting and drawing with her, making it clear that he’d neither tried to force her to speak nor put words in her mouth once she did begin to communicate, those twelve men became more and more what you might call receptive, so that by the time Mr. Picton began to inquire about Libby Hatch, they were ready to hear whatever the Doctor had to say. There was no clever maneuvering involved in all this: the simple fact was that for all the Doctor’s unusual appearance, his accent, and the strange nature of much of his work, when he talked about children his attitude was so honest and caring that even the most skeptical types couldn’t question that he honestly cared about what was best for his young charges.