sir,” said Clinton. “I am sorry to keep you waiting. My wife has an obsession with breakfast and I regret to say, as her spouse, I am a prisoner of the meal.”
“Mr. Clinton,” said the man, rising. “I was sent this morning to bring these to you.” He bent down to untie the elaborate laces on his satchel.
“Has Mr. Armstrong been into the office yet?”
“No, not yet, sir, just the morning clerk.” Armstrong was Clinton’s partner, his senior by twenty years, who had distinguished himself as one of the city’s top attorneys with formidable legal skills and a permanent air of reproach. The contrasting style of the two law partners was a source of entertainment for the junior staff. James Armstrong was sober and exacting, his clients a roster of the rich and socially connected, while Clinton was impetuous and dynamic. His cases were more exciting, with dramatic consequences at the eleventh hour. The firm of Armstrong and Clinton was one of the most notable criminal firms in the city, built by the reputation of both partners. Clinton had made a name for himself with a string of successes at trial, but he chose his cases differently than Armstrong. He was forward-looking and preferred cases where the principle of the law was at stake, championing the wrongly accused, or the newly arrived, often representing those who could not pay.
The messenger handed Clinton a clerk’s note with the address of Josiah Livingstone, a mansion on Lafayette Place, not far from Bleecker Street. The case was about property disputes, with multiple lawsuits and fractional divisions arranged around lot lines. Such cases bored Clinton, for the outcome was always the same, with the bluebloods getting richer, simply by juggling pieces of earth and air.
“Mr. Armstrong would like you to stop over to Mr. Livingstone’s, sir,” said the messenger, “and witness his signature on these papers. They need to be filed by noon. And here’s a letter for you.”
“This came from the office?”
“Yes, sir, the morning clerk said it’s been at the door since Sunday.” It was a thin envelope on blue paper, with his name in ink across the front, in a shaky hand. When he opened the note he could see that it was written by a woman.
Dear Mr. Clinton,
I have gotten your name from my solicitor and I hope that you might come and see me. I am in need of legal assistance, but am told I can speak to no one, and have not spoken with anyone who can counsel me. This is about a murder, occurring
Friday night, at this house where I am sequestered, perhaps you have heard.
Please respond, as I am confined to house arrest, Sincerely,
Mrs. Emma Cunningham, 31 Bond Street
According to the newspaper, the murder scene had been turned over to a Coroner’s inquest, whereby the Coroner and his minions occupied the crime scene until they finished interrogating all possible witnesses, to gather facts while the crime was still fresh. In Clinton’s view, calling a jury to the scene of a murder was an antiquated custom, descended from English law, no longer suited to crime in modern cities. In addition, he knew that the Coroner, Edward Connery, was a blustery blowhard with a flair for theatrics. In Clinton’s mind, there was no greater obstacle to justice than the reckless ambition of an incompetent man.
Clinton returned to the breakfast room to find the table cleared. It was now eight thirty and his morning was slipping away. Elisabeth appeared with his overcoat.
“I’m off,” he said, distracted.
“Henry,” she said, looking at the envelope. “That’s not about the Bond Street murder is it?” She met his eye, which confirmed her guess. “There is no need for you to get involved—it sounds as if it’s turning into a Broadway melodrama.”
“From the reports, I suspect it is more like a circus, and I pity the animals in captivity,” he said. “You wouldn’t blame me if I stopped by to take a look—as a concerned neighbor, that is.”
“As a concerned neighbor, I fear you will try to give legal aid to every person at the scene.” There had been a recent lull in his workload and she cherished the calm. Elisabeth followed him to the front door, wrapping a white scarf around his neck, tenderly fretting about the cold air. From the street, he took a last look at her, shivering at the door.
“Good-bye, my dear,” he said. “Please promise me you will not make a pilgrimage downtown today to bring me lunch—it’s far too cold. It’s best to remain inside, in the warmth.”
“I will, if you promise to stay away from that murder on Bond Street,” she said blowing him a kiss.
Out on the street, Henry Clinton peered at his watch to fix the time. When he reached Broadway, it was just coming to life. Downtown, the avenue would be deep into the activity of the day, but uptown, at eight thirty in the morning, shopkeepers were still lowering the shutters and cranking the blinds. A block north, a flock of newsboys was hawking their papers to passersby who congregated, their breath mingling in the cold air. As Clinton approached, he saw that the length of Bond Street, with its stately row of residential homes, was lined with a curious crowd. In the course of the early morning, the news of the crime had rippled across the city. Ragged boys in striped mittens and woolen wrappers, idle shopgirls and respectably dressed men passing to work were standing before 31 Bond Street, staring up at the façade, as if there were no entertainment more festive than murder.
Clinton ventured down the block. Policemen were standing like sentinels before the entry, occasionally stepping away to push back the crowd. The front door opened, and a murmur went through the pack as the District Attorney, Abraham Oakey Hall, emerged and paused atop the stoop in the morning sunshine, his silk hat gleaming above the heads of the throng. Hall hoisted his cane and hurried down the steps until he was swallowed into the crowd. He wore a flowing cape, a silk cravat in fuchsia; his shirt linen was deep plum. Known by his middle name, Oakey, Hall had been given the nickname “The Elegant Oakey” by the newspapers for being one of the few dandies in the legal profession. Clinton and Hall knew each other well, for they had tried many cases from opposing sides of the bench. In the courtroom, Clinton found Hall’s rainbow hues to be a distraction, where the law was written, case by case, in black and white.
“Well, well,” said Hall. “If it isn’t Henry Clinton, the illustrious defense attorney, searching for his next case.”
“And here is the District Attorney, canvassing for votes at a homicide,” said Clinton.
Hall put a hand to his breast, pretending offense. “I have come to assure the people of this fine neighborhood that the perpetrator of this abominable act will be brought to justice.” Hall’s voice swelled with traces of the South. As a child, his family had migrated between the North and the South, and the District Attorney could enchant a group of New York ladies at Delmonico’s, speaking with the upper-crust tones of the Northern gentry, and then, chameleon-like, drawl to a visiting congregation of the Southern elite, who had suddenly become numerous at political gatherings all over town.
“I have heard that there are residents of this house, under house arrest, who are being denied counsel,” stated Clinton.
“An inquest is under way, and there is no need for attorneys,” replied Hall.
“A Coroner cannot refuse anyone the right to counsel if they request it,” said Clinton.
