The Commodore attempted to raise his posterior out of the chair but decided against the effort. "Enchanted, my dear. You are most enchanting."

Emma left and closed the heavy parlor doors behind her. Then she paused, and leaned gently against the door, and turned her head so that her ear was close to the thick wood. In the deep pile of the carpet in the hall, her footfall made no sound; she could hear the Commodore's voice clearly-he spoke with a robust baritone. Dr. Burdell mumbled, and his part of the conversation did not carry.

"I want this land to build factories for steel and iron, where I can connect to the railroad," she heard the Commodore say. "I cannot find that on the Manhattan side of the river. I'll buy the land in a simple sale. But I do not want to give you a share of any business, if that's what you are angling for." Harvey mumbled something and the Commodore continued, "I will give you a fair price. A premium." Emma dipped her head closer. Dr. Burdell spoke, again too softly to hear.

"You say you have Southern buyers?" boomed the Commodore. "Balderdash. Why would you want to go into business with them? It's Northern companies that run the South. We distill their rum, process their sugar, roll their tobacco. If the spindles and looms in Ma.s.sachusetts were to go silent, the Cotton Zone would dry up overnight. The only thing the North doesn't own are the depleted cotton fields and the slaves, but we make more money insuring them."

"The Southern contingent has made me a very lucrative offer with ongoing profits as a part of the deal." Dr. Burdell made this point with a raised voice.

"Your Southern friends are looking for a Northern port because they are stuck with New Orleans. Let it sink!" the Commodore said, howling with laughter. "I could run the whole Southern economy from this armchair."

Dr. Burdell mumbled again.

"When you met with me last night at Delmonico's," said the Commodore, "I was intrigued by your proposition. But I know the men you speak of, and I understood you to propose that you join my venture, but I am only interested in the land." So he had been at Delmonico's, Emma thought, explaining his absence from the opera, detained by business, as Mr. Wicken had suggested.

Emma jumped away from the door when she heard the Commodore say, his voice perilously close to the other side, "I'm done now, I want an answer by next week, or we're off." As Emma backed away from the door, she spotted Alice, the chambermaid, on the staircase. It was clear that Alice had been watching her.

Emma hurried to the stair, and as she approached the girl, she grabbed her by the arm. "Don't you say anything," she whispered.

The servant girl looked at her askance. "You let go of my arm or I'll tell the master you been listening," she hissed.

"Do I smell whiskey on your breath? He won't abide that now, will he?" Emma replied. Alice scurried away and disappeared, descending to the kitchen stair, and Emma swiftly climbed toward the second floor but stopped at the turn on the stairwell, and waited, hidden on the landing. The door of the parlor opened, and she heard Dr. Burdell come into the hallway and lift the Commodore's coat from the peg near the vestibule.

"That northernmost tract is worth fifty thousand dollars to me. It has the high ridge in the center of the marsh and the freshwater stream. That is the plot I want," boomed the Commodore.

"The Southern party is offering me a deal of ongoing business profits from an active port and depot," repeated Dr. Burdell, with a stubborn resistance.

"I shall not offer you any profits, but I'll double my offer for the land, here and now. Make it one hundred thousand dollars."

"I shall let you know," said Harvey dryly.

"Just understand, a clean deal is the only deal I make. You hand me the deed, I pay you the money." The Commodore was squeezing himself into his coat. "You have until this time next week, and no longer." Emma heard the front door open and shut behind the Commodore, without a word of farewell. The northernmost tract with Bound Creek weaving through the salt marsh-that was her own plot. Isn't this what Dr. Burdell had been waiting for? One hundred thousand dollars was an enormous sum. She felt elation rising in her breast and wanted to rush downstairs and dance with Harvey. It didn't matter what other deal was pending, he should embrace this offer-they would be rich, plenty rich. As she turned the bend in the staircase and headed down to the hall she heard the front door close again and realized that Dr. Burdell had put on his coat and had gone.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

Murder after thus stalking abroad unpunished, at length, enters houses, enters them as if in defiance, while the streets are ringing with sleigh bells, the side walks full of pedestrians, and the window of our dwellings are yet bright with their evening illumination, enters and does his frightful work and departs untracked.

A murder so frightfully atrocious, committed at an hour and place which should seemingly make it easy to detect the perpetrators, will, if it goes unpunished, greatly encourage the practice of a.s.sa.s.sination.

New York Post, MARCH 15, 1857 March 15, 1857 Clinton and Thayer walked up Centre Street to the Tombs. The sky, which had been so blue earlier, now had patches of yellow light bleeding through clouds the color of greyhounds. The city prison loomed like a stone ziggurat. Designed like a mausoleum in the Egyptian style, it had high facades of granite, and a portico of four columns, topped with palm fronds.

The usual throng mixed along the street. Since the incarceration of Emma Cunningham, a thin a.s.semblage of crime reporters and hangers-on lingered around the doorway all day. A soapbox orator had placed a carton near the crowd and was sermonizing to no one in particular: "It's the crime of the century!" he cried. "Every now and then a tremendous explosion blows off the covering and lets us look in upon the rotten heart of a certain style of city life. We have looked inside this house at 31 Bond Street with loathing. We see the bitter end of a man's career, his very life, which came about when he traded the sweet caresses of domestic purity for the polluting caresses of a 'black-hearted woman.'"

"This fellow sounds like he's been sacked from the Herald," said Clinton as the two headed up the granite stairs.

Thayer, who had seen Emma the day before, replied, "I'd say she's feeling black hearted. Prison life is taking its toll, now that the prison routine has set in. There has been a marked difference since the reporters' visit." Emma had been arraigned and charged, and a full indictment for murder in the first degree swiftly followed. The grand jury had found the case to be largely circ.u.mstantial, but even without physical evidence, a weapon, or an eyewitness, they determined that Emma Cunningham had the means and the motive to commit the crime.

The press had clamored for an opportunity to interview Emma in jail, and after pondering it carefully, her defense team decided to oblige them. A stream of reporters was handpicked from each newspaper, with a select group chosen to ask the questions. The most notable benefit was that at the first mention of the press, the Chief Warden, knowing that the city prison was a favorite source of journalistic condemnation, shifted Emma permanently to one of the largest and most commodious cells, then provided her with a good bed, a carpet, and a writing desk and chairs. She was permitted to have some personal effects brought in and special meals. For the day of the interview, Emma was given the advantage of her own wardrobe, some books, an embroidered pillow, and a navy blue bombazine silk dress.

Clinton had calculated that the brief personal interview would humanize her to the public, after a month of caricature and misleading reports that were being issued by the newspapers and the District Attorney's office. While Emma had been sequestered in house arrest in her bedroom, she was not seen by anyone, and her image was that of a mysterious recluse, upon whom all evil intentions could be fixed. In the interval before the jury was to be selected, it was essential to create a picture of sympathy and an antidote to the hearsay and rumor. By giving the newspaper readers a brief encounter, he hoped to present her as respectable and sympathetic, a woman in the flesh.

The public fascination with Helen and Augusta was almost as strong as with Emma. Two attractive girls, well acquainted with the art of fashion and seduction, had inspired a public curiosity usually granted a celebrated actress, even though they had done nothing more than huddle near their mother, crying, wearing the latest hat. When their mother was incarcerated they were placed with a distant relative, a stern woman who lived on Second Avenue. After a day or two, Augusta had chosen to separate and requested to stay at the home of a childhood nanny, an old lady who lived by the river on Bedford Street in Greenwich Village. On the appointed day of the press interview, the two girls were brought to the jail through a back entrance. They came well coiffed and wearing their nicest dresses.

The pressmen crowded down the stone corridor in a pack. Helen and Augusta were brought in first, for a quick visit. Under the watchful eyes of the reporters, they did not disappoint. They fell into a tearful embrace with their mother, as the scribes noted every detail. When the girls were led away, Emma stood erect, facing the reporters from behind the bars, ready to address their questions. Reporters in the back of the crowd bobbed up and down, trying to spot every item and book t.i.tle in her cell. She answered their questions, one by one, holding her hands clasped before her, responding with respect and candor.

She emphatically proclaimed her innocence. She claimed that she was unaware of the horrific occurrence in the bedroom below until the following morning. She pointed out that on the night of his death, between the hours of five and midnight, the whereabouts of Dr. Burdell were unknown. She declared that surely there were others who had been with him that night, and whoever those companions were, they were highly suspicious, by the very fact that they had not stepped forward as witnesses. She spoke about her personal distress at the slanders that had been leveled toward her during the Coroner's inquest, and told the reporters that she was nothing more than a dedicated mother and a n.o.ble wife to two deceased husbands. "I was fit to be his wife," she insisted of Dr. Burdell, "despite all that is said about me," and tears sprung to her eyes. "I have suffered so by the indignity of the comments delivered by servants and others who do not even know me."

The performance went brilliantly and ended when the Warden banged on the bars and the prison officers herded the reporters away. The following morning, the New York Times mentioned her bombazine silk dress and the encounter with her daughters. "Her features are regular," the paper noted, "her eyes green. Her hair is a dark black and brushed plainly away from her temples. The expression of her countenance when she is speaking is amiable and prepossessing, that of a well-bred woman. She certainly bears herself with a degree of self-possession and with great composure. Whether she be ultimately found guilty or innocent, we remark here that none of the previously published newspaper portraits have given the true sense of her personal appeal and charm." Clinton was pleased at the report but knew that her performance had been nothing short of a spectacular feat of will.

A light dusting of snow began to fall on Centre Street. It was the middle of March and spring was late. When Clinton and Thayer pa.s.sed through the Egyptian portal, any a.s.sociation to the pharaohs ended. The interior of the penitentiary was dank and foreboding, with a central court that rose upward four stories high, with occasional murky shafts of daylight entering through openings in the fortresslike walls. Tiers of balconies circled the inner courtyard in rings, and iron stairs zigzagged upward between them. From the balconies came the distant whine of prisoners, the clanking of bars, and the sharp rebukes of wardens.

The two lawyers started the climb to the top where Emma was held along a special corridor. They had to follow along the balconies, pa.s.sing rows of inmates, who appeared hungrily at the bars, with thin arms holding out tin bowls for food. The first tier was for minor offenders: brawlers and knuckle-busters, pickpockets, inebriates, and gin thieves and a whole row for prost.i.tutes, who lounged on thin cots and called back and forth to one another. The next level was for the more infamous: burglars and arsonists, ruffians, gang members, and dirk men, who made dexterous use of ropes and garrotes to accost honest people on their way home in the dark, and deprive them of their possessions.

The third tier had an aisle known as the Murderer's Block, for those who had already been sentenced to death. Each cell had a small window in full view of the prison yard where the scaffold stood. The final ceremony required a solemn roll of a drum, and then a shroud was placed over the condemned man's head. When the spring was touched, an iron weight fell toward the ground, which jerked up the other end of the rope, and the hatch lifted, launching the criminal into the air, leaving him dangling, in a fresh suit provided by a charity. The only motion was a slight kick of the feet, like a person who had lost his footing and was endeavoring to find a more secure terrain. Then whispers and cries would come up from the cell blocks below that had no view, calling, "Have they jerked him yet?"

Emma was still detained on the isolated hall reserved for special prisoners, those with well-connected families, or politicians who had been on the dole. The chief matron hurried toward them with a key, allowing them entry. Emma was pacing about. Her face was still lovely, but the prison air had left a grey cast upon her complexion and dark shadows under her eyes. In this light, it was not hard to picture her skin becoming papery and lined with age.

"My daughters were here this morning to visit," she began, "and they say they continue to overhear the most slanderous lies."

"You must put your best face forward, and try not to pay attention. You must remain strong," Clinton said.

"But the accusations still tear me up inside. They vilify me." She was agitated, walking back and forth, wringing her hands.

"The trial will be more of the same, perhaps worse. A desperate prosecution is the cruelest."

"G.o.d knows I was fit to be the wife of Dr. Burdell!" she said. "They say I was not. He need not ever have been ashamed to call me his wife!" Clinton and Thayer glanced at each other. She was caught up in the plight of prisoners-too much time alone to spin endless scenarios to their own defense.

"That brings me to our business today, Madame," said Thayer. "Can we discuss a few incidents that have come to my attention?" Thayer had a list of questions-loose ends that he was pursuing to counter the prosecution's case. Almost every person that had known the victim had been interviewed by the Coroner or discovered by the press, and it was important to prepare against testimony from future witnesses. The defense needed to close all holes, but this was going to be difficult, given her state of mind.

"First off, let's all have a seat," said Clinton. Thayer and Clinton sat in hardback chairs, and Emma sat on her cot, facing them.

Thayer hesitated, then began: "Were you aware that Dr. Burdell had a mistress?"

Emma looked taken aback. It was the look of someone who is ready to flee from danger, Thayer being the danger at hand.

Thayer quickly interjected: "This has no reflection on your own character, in our eyes as your counsel, and we have no intention of disturbing you with unpleasantness from the past. However, we have it upon good information that Dr. Burdell had a mistress and was seen with her often. I am sorry if it is painful for you, but our understanding is that if the prosecution called this woman as a witness, her existence might prove the motive of your jealousy."

Emma still looked stunned. Her eyes darted about, as if she was groping for a way to react to the news. It was never easy for a woman to listen to the details of her own debas.e.m.e.nt.

"No, I knew nothing of that," she said. As Clinton watched, he saw her pause, and wondered if she was telling the truth. "Now," said Thayer, looking down at his page, to continue. "Fortunately for us, her husband, having becoming aware of this scandal, has whisked her far from the city, where I believe she will remain. I suspect she will never testify, but we need to plan for the remote possibility."

Thayer flipped through his pages, and continued. "Do you know if there was money that Dr. Burdell owed, or any parties in particular that might have been aggrieved by his business pursuits."

Clinton watched Emma carefully. Again, Emma looked stunned, as if the probing was a personal a.s.sault. "He was a very private man, in all matters, both business and personal, he kept such information to himself. He conducted his business in his office or private rooms. As for these a.s.sociates you are asking me about, I cannot tell you what went on behind closed doors."

"You lived in that house, didn't you?" asked Thayer. "We know that in the past, Dr. Burdell was engaged in certain business ventures, not all of them above board. You would have had a peek behind those doors, wouldn't you? You might have seen some of the goings-on?"

Clinton tapped his foot impatiently. It was a warning for Thayer to tread lightly. The young man had a litigator's instinct, but he needed to be trained to save it for the courtroom. Only the poorest of defense lawyers unleashed it against their own clients, and the most disreputable hoped to rattle their clients and raise their fees.

"I'm sorry, Madame," Thayer said. "With all due respect, I recognize that you trusted Dr. Burdell, and it must be distressing to learn the many ways that he was not worthy of that trust. In bringing up these difficult matters, as your counsel, we are looking for clues to other individuals or actions, all with a motive to vindicate you."

Clinton interjected, "We need you to trust us and think hard, and tell us what you might have seen or heard."

"I know there were individuals that he was meeting to do business with on the night of his death, but I do not know who they were. He did not confide that matter to me. I know that he was dealing in matters to do with land. I fell asleep and woke only briefly when I heard the carriage outside, and immediately fell asleep again. He had probably been in some improper place on Friday night, I do not know who he was with."

This was the spot when Emma's story always became the most dramatic, and sure enough, she began to sob. "I am so worried for my daughters, and the things they are hearing. My whole life has been guided by the aim to be a n.o.ble woman, to bring them up, as respectable girls. G.o.d knows I was fit to be the wife of Dr. Burdell. To slander me as they do...when we were going to live happily together. When we were going to go to Europe."

"The marriage was not witnessed by others, and there is no record besides the minister. His memory is not certain. Was there any other way that the marriage was known to the public?"

"We were seen publicly all around the town and at the theatre, and his intentions to marry me were plain to everyone. As far as his intentions to my family, they were clear as well. He paid for the tuition for my daughter at her school."

"Is that so? Can we verify that?" asked Thayer eagerly.

"It was the Girl's Seminary, in Saratoga. He paid the tuition in November."

"I'll look into it," said Thayer. "I'll send word to Saratoga to find the bank check with the signature."

"I think we have accomplished enough for today," Clinton said. "We will let you rest."

Emma remained on the bed, and proceeded to dab her face with her handkerchief. "In court, will they say terrible things about me?"

"I am afraid there will be a lot of that, but I suggest you try your hardest not to listen. We will soon pull a jury, a group of decent men. Keep your hopes up, that is the best way."

"I shall try," said Emma. Her response seemed to summon an effort, calibrated to please.

The men bowed and exited with the aid of the warden, who came with the key to slide the door open for them. They hurried out to the street. "I'm off to send the telegraph to Saratoga," said Thayer.

"Meet me at seven for dinner at the Astor House," said Clinton. "We will go over everything then." The two men parted ways, and as Clinton headed toward Park Row, he saw Oakey Hall, outside his office at City Hall, about to depart in a carriage.

"Mr. Clinton, what a propitious day to see you-the Ides of March," said Hall.

"Well it must be a propitious day for you-for it appears you are feasting in tuxedo and tails. I understand tonight is the Tammany Society dinner, at Delmonico's."

They tipped hats, Hall's was the taller, and when he lifted it, he revealed his ornate hairstyle. Hall made a deep bow. "I greatly antic.i.p.ate our encounter in court, but I regret that the verdict will be a sorry conclusion to your already dwindling career." He mounted the carriage. His cape swooped the air, and his elongated profile was outlined in the window as he rode away.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

At the dinner hour, Clinton was at Broadway, and he cursed at the crossing. The intersection was stalled with two omnibuses facing each other, each driver holding back four rearing horses, straining at the reins. A steady procession of workers was hurrying in every direction, bent on catching the evening ferry or train. Newsboys darted under the carriage riggings. They rushed from one pa.s.senger window to another, hawking papers, grabbing a coin and dashing away before the heavy wheels of the bus lurched into motion. The press barons were stoking the demand for news of the upcoming trial, and by evening every newsboy's pocket was heavy with change.

After leaving the jail, he had spent an hour at the office and now headed to meet Thayer for dinner, as planned. He crossed to the Astor House, where twin porters in knee breeches pulled open the door. As he entered, the sounds of the street faded away to a murmur of silk brushing against silk and canes tapping across the marble floor. In the paneled library, empty at the dinner hour, newspapers were folded in an array across a table.

Barnaby Thayer entered the library in a rumpled suit, recently shaved. "I am sorry I am late. I stopped home after the jail, and my wife informed me that my son spoke his first words today. He said 'la la.' She insisted he was saying 'lawyer,'" said Thayer proudly, with his winning smile.

"Congratulations," said Clinton, folding a newspaper and placing it on the table. "We can put him to work between feedings."

"I am afraid he'll need teeth first, to work on this case," replied Thayer.

"I suspect your wife would regret losing both of you to this trial." Clinton pictured Thayer and his pretty wife, the baby crying at night, in a small set of rooms with wooden furniture, in the spa.r.s.e comforts of the newly married, getting by on a junior lawyer's salary, fueled by love and air.

"Shall we eat?" Clinton stood, and the two men walked through the lobby past the telegraph office, ticking with bond salesmen making late trades. At the entrance to the dining room, a battalion of waiters in red waistcoats floated around like dancers under the tinkering chandeliers.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said the maitre'd, bowing deeply at the waist. He snapped his fingers with a crack, and a server rushed away to arrange a table under the balcony. After the men were seated, the waiter deposited a tray of c.o.c.ktails and a mountain of oysters on a bed of shaved ice.

Clinton draped his napkin across his lap, and then poked a fork into the soft belly of an oyster, its pearly sh.e.l.l filling with brine. "Order well, tonight," Clinton told Thayer. "With the trial looming and our expenses mounting, this may well be our last feast."

Thayer reviewed the menu. It featured over sixty choices of fowls and meats served in pies and puddings, roasted and broiled. There was a choice of beef, chicken, veal, ham, or tongue, calf 's head, sweetbreads, pork steak, pig's feet, mutton kidney, and cutlets. Separate sauces garnished each dish: walnut catsup, Yankee sauce, horseradish, piccalilli, chowchow sauce, and mushroom catsup. A second course of game offered snipe, plover, pigeon or squab, and a third fish course offered codfish, salmon, black fish, shad, and five different types of turtle caught fresh from Turtle Bay, where snapping turtles grew to forty pounds. Each meal was served with bottles of wines chosen from the hotel's inventory of Madeiras, sherries, clarets, Burgundies, Sauternes, and Champagnes.

The waiter carried a thin tablet to take their order, and he inscribed their choices, including a soup course, an a.s.sortment of game, potatoes, and prime rib of beef.

"b.l.o.o.d.y, sir?" asked the waiter.

"Pink, not rare," said Clinton as the waiter dashed away. "Oakey Hall is feasting tonight at Delmonico's with the ward bosses and heads of the fire brigades," said Clinton. "It appears that they are planning his move for Mayor."

"Now there's a group that prefers their beef b.l.o.o.d.y," replied Thayer. "Hall, no doubt, attired himself for the occasion. I hear that he wears green gloves on St. Patrick's Day to shake hands with the Irish."

"Beware the chameleon," said Clinton. "His changes of color are merely a distraction. His ambition may take him out of the courtroom, but as a prosecutor, he is a formidable adversary." The waiter brought terrapin soup in a giant silver bowl with a ladle that he dipped into the pungent broth, swimming with chunks of turtle meat the size of a man's knuckles. They took sips from the salty broth.

"I have received word from Dr. Gideon," said Thayer. "And he has finished the examination of the evidence. We can send the evidence to the ill.u.s.trators to make the exhibits." In his mind, Clinton calculated the rising costs-costs that escalated every day-exhibits, experts, fees, salaries, rent, plus the legion of law students clerking and preparing the legal papers. That it was all moving forward was nothing short of a miracle.

"So far, according to Dr. Gideon," continued Thayer, finishing up the last of the broth, "there were many shoe impressions left in the blood by Dr. Burdell, but there are mysteriously few left by the murderer, except for a few marks by a softly padded sole. There is no appearance of a woman's shoe, which would have a sharp heel. Dr. Gideon says that a crime scene reflects the personality of the perpetrator as much as a home reflects the personality of its owner, but aside from the brutality of the act, the perpetrator left very few physical traces."

"How long until these reports are finished?"

"I suppose they are working as fast as they can. He already has two teams on the microscopes. So far, the findings reveal no bloodstains on Emma Cunningham's clothes or in her part of the house. The spot examined from a dress in her closet was wine."

"As I suspected. Science is on our side."

"But what about Burdell's business a.s.sociates? It was known that he shortchanged partners in shady business ventures. Snarky has been doing some sleuthing, trying to discover who he was doing business with at the time of his death. That would be a real lead. If we can call any of those characters to the witness stand, a harsh examination would certainly clinch reasonable doubt for Emma."

"I sincerely doubt any character involved in illicit activity would come forward voluntarily. With our resources stretched, we do not have the investigative tools to chase down every possible suspect," replied Clinton. "As for putting them on the witness stand, unless we have bona fide proof against a person, we are at great risk if we attach anyone with a motive to the crime. It is a high burden, and the judge would be restrictive. If a witness committed any other crime they would be advised to plead the Fifth. Or be uncooperative, or simply lie. As for as our strategy, it is a far more straightforward case if we attack the paucity of the prosecution's case rather than to try to implicate a third party. The physical evidence at the murder scene, presented by our experts, will do exactly that. So, that is why we need to work fast. Speed is of the essence. I want the earliest possible trial date, which should be in early May."

Thayer looked doubtful and dabbed at his mouth with a large napkin. "Well, regardless of how fast we try the case," he said, "there is no doubt that public opinion goes strongly against her character, and that is in the prosecution's favor. By the time we pull a jury for the criminal trial, every man in New York will have his head filled with conjecture from the newspapers. Without another culprit, she's as good as hanged in every drawing room in the city in advance."