A Respectable Actress (23 page)

Miss Bryson took her oath and made a production of arranging her skirts just so
before turning to smile at the men in the jury box.

“Now, Miss Bryson,” the prosecutor said. “Will you tell these gentlemen what you
were doing at the Southern Palace the evening Mr. Sterling was shot?”

“I most certainly will.” The understudy glared at India. “I was understudying Miss
Hartley's role in case she was sick or something and couldn't perform. Mr. Philbrick
required me to be at every performance. So I was there, and he told me about the
change he wanted to make in the performance that night, and he said Miss Hartley
was angry about it and if she didn't want to cooperate I could go on in her place.”

“All right. What happened then?”

“I went to find Arth—Mr. Sterling, and he was talking
to Miss Hartley about it.”
The understudy sent India another withering look. “She hated him because she thought
he was upstaging her all the time.”

India glanced at Philip. Surely he would object to that last statement. But he kept
his seat, his tawny gaze focused on the witness.

Mr. McLendon nodded. “Then what?”

“Mr. Sterling and I left for his dressing room, and”—her voice cracked—“the play
began. I was watching from the wings when she shot him and—”

Now Philip rose. “Objection, Your Honor. It has not—”

“Sustained.”

Judge Bartlett motioned to the prosecutor. “Mr. McLendon?”

“I don't have any more questions for this witness.”

Philip lost no time in approaching the witness box. “Miss Bryson. I wonder if you
can tell the jury how long you knew Mr. Sterling.”

“Almost a year.”

“And what was the nature of your relationship?”

Victoria Bryson blushed and fussed with her skirt. “I'm not sure I know what you
mean.”

“I think you do, but I'll be more direct. Were your dealings with Arthur Sterling
strictly professional, or were the two of you romantically involved?”

Mr. McLendon rose. “Point of relevance, Your Honor?”

“I'll allow it. Go ahead, Counselor.”

Philip waited while the understudy fidgeted in her chair. “Well, I admired him greatly,
and he was trying to help me with my acting, and . . . and he was the kindest and
most gentle man
I've ever known.” She fumbled for a handkerchief and blotted her
eyes. “And this . . . this stranger who thinks she is better than anyone comes to
our town, and all she does is complain about him. She wanted him out of the way,
and she killed him, and if you men can't hang her for murder just because she is
beautiful and famous, you are all traitors to Savannah and a bunch of cowards besides.
You are all as guilty as if you yourselves fired that gun.”

She collapsed and began to sob.

“No further questions,” Philip said.

Mr. McLendon motioned to a young man, who escorted Miss Bryson from the room.

Philip resumed his seat and murmured to India, “Quite a performance.”

Judge Bartlett waited until the door closed behind her. “Are you ready with your
next witness, Mr. McLendon?”

The prosecutor shuffled his papers and called a policeman to the stand.

“Now, Officer Avery,” he began. “You were the first on the scene at the theater that
night, were you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And after Mr. Sterling was taken away, what did you do?”

“What we always do. I made a search of the premises to gather evidence.”

“Did you find anything of significance?”

“A pool of blood on the floor of the stage. The weapon itself, of course. The defendant
dropped it after she shot the actor.”

“Objection.” Philip rose from his chair. “The officer is stating a conclusion that
has not been proven.”

“Sustained.” Judge Bartlett leaned forward and frowned at the policeman. “You know
better than that, Officer.”

Mr. McLendon cleared his throat. “Aside from the weapon, did you find anything else
of significance?”

“No, sir. After Mr. Sterling was taken away, we cleared the theater and closed it.”

The prosecutor nodded. “Thank you, Officer. That's all.”

Philip approached the witness with a barely suppressed urgency that lifted India's
spirits. She poured herself a glass of water and took a long sip.

“Now, Officer,” Philip began. “Would you tell the jury how long you have served as
a policeman here in Savannah?”

“Eleven years come next summer.”

“And in that time, how many cases would you say you have investigated?”

“I don't keep count.”

“Well, give us an estimate. Dozens, would you say? Hundreds?”

“Hundreds, I guess, but not all of them for murder, of course.”

“Hundreds. So you have some experience in collecting evidence.”

“I reckon so.”

“Would you consider yourself a thorough investigator?”

The officer frowned. “Just what are you getting at? Because I—”

“I'm asking you how carefully you search for evidence.”

“I know how to do my job.”

“So when you finished your sweep of the Southern Palace Theater you were confident
you'd found everything pertinent to this case.”

The officer let out a gusty breath. “I had the weapon. I had a bloodied victim and
a suspect who fired in front of hundreds of witnesses. Of course, I looked around,
but I didn't see the point of wasting time looking for anything else.”

“I see.” Returning to the table, Philip picked up the paper bag and the note from
the police sergeant. “Officer Avery. I wonder if you'd be good enough to read this
note aloud to the jury.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” said the prosecutor.

“Overruled.”

Philip nodded to the judge. “Now, Mr. Avery?”

The officer took the paper. “‘The lead ball enclosed herewith was taken from the
Southern Palace Theater on the afternoon of Sunday last, in the presence of Mr. Sinclair,
Miss Hartley, and Officer McGee.'” He looked up at Philip. “What are you trying to
prove?”

“That this ball was overlooked in your initial search of the theater.”

“So? That don't prove it had anything to do with this case. It coulda been there
for ages.”

“Or it could have been fired that very evening and been overlooked. Isn't that possible?”

The officer thrust the paper at Philip. “You can say whatever you want, but I did
my job, and we got the right person on trial here. Just 'cause she's pretty and more
famous than God Himself don't mean she ain't guilty as sin.”

C
HAPTER
19

J
ANUARY
31

T
HE NIGHT SEEMED ENDLESS
. I
NDIA LAY ON HER LUMPY
cot in her cell, alternating between wakefulness and dark, terrifying dreams. She woke, stiff and gritty-eyed, to a sliver of sunlight creeping across the floor and the hollow clanking of metal in the corridor. She lay quietly for a moment, waiting for her thoughts to clear. Yesterday, after Officer Avery read the note from the sergeant into the record, she had allowed herself to hope the judge might dismiss the charges against her. But it hadn't happened. Instead, Mr. McLendon had abruptly rested his case. Today, Philip would present his witnesses, and then her fate would be in the hands of the jury.

An officer unlocked her door and hurried her, along with three other women, through
their morning ablutions. India splashed water on her face and hands and combed out
her hair, grateful for the gift of the rosewater. Amazing how such small niceties
mattered, when one was deprived of almost everything.

“Come along,” the officer muttered when the last of the
women had taken her turn
at the washbasin. “We don't want your ladyships' breakfasts to get cold.”

The morning meal consisted of lukewarm grits and a hard biscuit washed down with
weak coffee. India managed a few bites before her stomach rebelled. She set aside
the tray and paced her cell, six steps up, turn, six steps back.

The woman in the cell across from her watched with an air of amusement. Cupping her
hands around her tin coffee cup, she offered India a gap-toothed grin. “First time
in, sweet pea?”

“I'm not a criminal.”

A burst of laughter and then: “Of course you aren't. Ever'body in here is innocent.”

India ignored the woman and tried to estimate the time. Court would convene at eight.
Surely it was now past seven, and someone would come for her at any moment. She dreaded
what was to come today, but if she didn't get out of here soon, if she couldn't see
the sky and feel the sun and wind on her face, she would die.

“Say,” the woman went on. “I know you. I heard the officers talkin' about your case
last night. They say you'll hang for shooting the beloved Mr. Sterling.” She slurped
her coffee and tossed the cup aside. “Not that he didn't deserve it. From what I
hear anyway.”

India balled her fists and concentrated on taking one breath, then the next.

“You got a good lawyer?”

India was spared further conversation when the officer who had escorted her yesterday
morning returned. “Ready, Miss Hartley?”

He unlocked the door and took out his shackles. “I'm sorry about this, but there's
a passel of reporters outside, and rules is rules.”

Wordlessly she held out her hands, and the manacles closed around her wrists. Outside,
the officer halted while the police wagon was brought around. The reporters surged
toward her, calling out questions. A photographer stepped behind the camera he had
set up near the entrance. India was not about to stand stock still while a photo
was processing. She turned abruptly. The officer boosted her into the police wagon,
and they returned to the packed courthouse.

Philip was already in his chair at the table. He rose and clasped both her hands
as the manacles were removed. “India. How are you? Did you sleep at all?”

“A little.” She rubbed her wrists and surveyed the crowd. She recognized several
faces from yesterday. But Mrs. Mackay was not among them. “It wasn't the most restful
night I've ever had.”

“Did they give you any breakfast?”

“Grits and biscuits. I wasn't very hungry.”

“When was the last time you ate an actual meal?”

She shrugged. If the woman at the jail was right, and she was to die, what difference
did it make?

His amber eyes searched her face. He looked tired too. And worried. “You can't starve
yourself to a not-guilty verdict.”

“I'm too frightened to eat.”

He offered a gentle smile. “Today it's our turn. And we have a good chance. A very
good chance.”

“All rise,” the court clerk intoned, and everyone stood.

Judge Bartlett swooped in, his black robe billowing like bats' wings. “Court is in
session. Are you ready, Mr. Sinclair?”

“I am, Your Honor.”

“Mr. McLendon?”

The prosecutor bowed. “All set, Your Honor.”

Judge Bartlett sipped from a glass of water. “Very well. Mr. Sinclair. You may proceed.”

Philip began by describing for the jury India's childhood in the theater, the death
of her mother immediately following India's birth, and then the loss of her aunt
when India was ten. In the absence of live witnesses, he read a few of her theater
notices praising her talent and the letters he'd solicited from her friends in Philadelphia
and New York. He stressed that she had never before been charged with any crime.
One by one, he handed the letters to the clerk, who then passed them to the judge.

Judge Bartlett flipped through them and set them aside. “These seem to be in order.
Duly witnessed and so forth.” He looked down at Philip. “Have you any live witnesses,
Counselor?”

Philip nodded. “The defense calls Colonel Joshua Culpepper.”

India turned with everyone else to watch as a tall, bearded man, shoulders squared,
his back ramrod straight, walked down the aisle. The clerk swore him in.

“Colonel Culpepper,” Philip began. “You served in the Confederate army, I believe.”

“I did indeed, sir. With the Chatham Artillery.”

“Artillery. So you're an expert in weaponry.”

“Some say so, yes.”

Philip walked over to the table where the evidence lay in
view of the jury and picked
up India's gun. “I wonder if you can identify this weapon for the jury.”

The colonel barely glanced at it. “That, sir, is a .44 Colt revolver.”

“You're familiar with it, then.”

“Of course. It was one of the most popular revolvers made during the war. There are
thousands of them still in use, I expect.”

“Can you explain for the jury how this weapon works?”

“It uses black powder as a propellant. You need a percussion cap to provide ignition
for the ball.”

“By the ball, you mean the round lead ball that is propelled from the barrel when
the weapon is fired.”

“That's right.”

“Is this a weapon that's quick and easy to load?”

The colonel shook his head. “Anybody who uses one can tell you it takes time, a steady
hand, and considerable strength to do so. And it's cumbersome to reload. Heaven knows
we paid a price for that on the battlefield.”

“I see. Does the Colt .44 use any other type of ammunition?”

“Not to my knowledge. Colt tried converting to metal cartridges a couple of years
ago, but the results were quite disappointing. And in any case, a metal cartridge
wouldn't fit a .44 manufactured ten years ago.”

Philip returned to the table, picked up the bag containing the ammunition he'd found
at the theater. “Colonel Culpepper, this ball was taken from the theater two days
ago. In your opinion, could it have been fired from Miss Hartley's Colt .44?”