The US Attorney presses gently, almost tender. “During your captivity, were you subject to violence, to threats?”
My hip throbs where the bullet tore me open. Not his fault. Not his hand.
But their judgment expects it.
“There was…violence,” I say. The word rings false in my ears.
The prosecutor’s brows rise in sympathy. “Against you?”
The room waits. Virgil breathes steady beside me.
“No,” I whisper. “Never against me.”
The room holds its breath. The attorney’s smile falters. Virgil’s fingers dig sharp into my sleeve.
“But you witnessed violence?”
“Yes.” That, at least, is true.
The US Attorney goes on and on, hours of questions—about the inn, Joseph, the Pinkerton deaths aboard the ship. By the time he stops asking me questions, my stomach is raw with acid.
“Your Honor,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. “Might I excuse myself a moment? I-I need the facilities.”
McKinnon waves his hand like I’m nothing more than a buzzing fly. “See to it, Marshal. We will resume when she returns.”
Virgil rises too quickly, his hand already at my elbow. “I’ll accompany her.”
“No.” The word leaves my mouth before I can temper it. His eyes narrow, but I steady myself. “Please. I only need a moment.”
The judge doesn’t even glance at him. “Marshal, take her. Return promptly.”
The marshal nods, but he doesn’t grip my arm the way Virgil does. His pace is slower as we descend the hall, my steps uneven. The courthouse here is quiet, but the noise of the vestibule carries faintly—boots striking marble, clerks calling to one another, typewriters chattering from open offices.
We pass the courtroom doors again and I slow, feigning a wince at my hip. “Might I pause?” I ask, breathless.
The marshal obliges, waiting by the door as I rest my hand on the frame. Inside, the benches stand polished and empty, the judge’s chair looming high above the rail. Light pours through tall windows, gilding every brass fitting, every carved panel of oak.
This is where they mean to condemn him.
I make myself memorize it—the rail, the jury box, the doors where prisoners are brought in chains. My mind counts paces. I note the galleries above, the stairwell beyond, the side hall where witnesses will be kept before they’re called. Every stone in this place is against him, but stones have cracks. And if I mean to help Kodiak, I must learn where they are.
The marshal clears his throat softly, motioning onward.
“Restroom’s this way, ma’am.”
Chapter 35
KODIAK
Two marshals—one on each side, revolvers heavy on their hips—march me in early, irons clinking at my wrists. They plant me at the defense table and leave me under watch. In the jury box, benches stand empty, sunlight pouring through the high windows, cigar smoke and coffee smells both clinging to the oak paneled walls.
Wallace stumbles in a few minutes later, hair wild, coat crooked, reeking faintly of whiskey. He drops his papers on the table with a slap and sits like he’s run a mile and already lost the case. Christ almighty. This is the man meant to save me.
The bailiff calls, “All rise,” and the room shuffles to its feet. Judge McKinnon takes his throne, robes trailing, spectacles perched sharp on his nose. “Bailiff,” the judge starts.
“Your Honor,” Wallace shouts, startling even me.
He scrambles up, wiping his fingers across his brow. “Your Honor,” he says again, voice breathless. “I’d ask the court to consider—erm, if it would please the court—that Mr. Randolph’s visible shackles be removed while proceedings are underway. It’s prejudicial for the jury to see irons on a man at counsel’stable. The presence of shackles begs the question of guilt before any evidence is heard.”
