The judge blinks at him, then at me. “Is that your request, Mr. Randolph?” McKinnon’s tone is weary.
A dozen things want to fly out of me—anger, pride, the urge to spit—but I keep my jaw nailed shut. I nod once. “Yes, sir.”
The US Attorney pounces before the clerk can finish penciling the remark. “Your Honor, with respect, this is a dangerous man. I protest for the safety of the court and the public.” He looks to the gallery as if to find applause.
I glance quick at the door. There are men—more than I thought. Faces I don’t know. Plain suits and uniforms. A marshal’s flat badge glinting under a vest. They’re spread: two at the double doors, one by the jury, another near the judge, one close to the side door.
Wallace swallows. “We’ll accept marshals close by, Your Honor. We merely ask, let my client sit before you as a man, not a caged animal. The prejudice is enormous, and it strikes at the very fairness of the proceeding.”
I can tell by the judge’s face he hears the law in it, not the whiskey.
McKinnon steeples his fingers and regards the room. “Marshal, is the court’s security sufficient to permit removal of visible shackles while keeping the defendant under guard?”
The marshal near the door steps forward like a soldier, square and steady. “Your Honor, there are ten men on duty inside and ten outside.”
The judge nods, seemingly satisfied that I’m sufficiently outnumbered. “Very well. The Court orders the wrist shackles removed for the duration of the day’s proceeding.” Then mutters, almost under his breath, “Ain’t gonna make a difference.”
Wallace sits back down.
I’ll be damned. The bastard actually did something right.
The judge calls for the jury, and they file in like a line of ants. Shopkeepers and dockmen with stiff collars, farmers with sunburned necks, all of ’em sneaking glances at me like they’ve already read the verdict in this morning’s paper.
McKinnon rattles through the charges—murder, robbery, derailment, kidnapping. Etcetera, etcetera. Each word hangs like a block around my ankles ’fore I’m tossed in the Gulf.
Then the US Attorney rises, tall and cocky, voice smooth as a fiddle bow. “Gentlemen of the jury, today you will hear a case that strikes at the very heart of our civilized nation. The defendant, Archibald Randolph, known as ‘Kodiak’ for his size and brutality, is a ruthless outlaw who has left blood on every road he’s traveled. But this case is not just about railroads and stolen payrolls. This case is also about a woman. A virtuous and dutiful wife, torn from her home, carried across state lines, made to suffer as the prisoner of this man.”
The jurors mutter with disapproval, shifting in their chairs.
“And you will hear from Mrs. Alice Sherman herself, the widow of Joseph Sherman, who was murdered in cold blood.”
The words rip through me like a .45 slug. My head snaps up.
Alice is alive.
For the first time since I made my bargain with God, something like gratitude blooms in my chest. I don’t hear the rest of his speech. Don’t hear the threats or the curses he lays at my name. All I can think is that she made it. She’ll be here.
God help me, I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth.
The jury don’t miss it. They catch my grin. Half of them whisper to each other, and the other half got their lips curled up in disgust. To them, it ain’t the kind of joy that hits a man when he knows the one he loves draws breath. Far as they’re concerned, I’m positively tickled by the memory of making that woman suffer.
Wallace nudges me, sweat shining at his temple. “Don’t smile,” he hisses. “For the love of Christ, don’t smile.”
I drag my jaw shut, but it’s too late. The damage is done. They’ve already got their story.
The US Attorney presses on, painting me more like Lucifer with every breath. “This trial will show you the defendant’s callous nature, not just in what he has done, but in the cold indifference with which he carries himself, even here before the bar of justice.” His hand sweeps toward me like I’m a carnival display. “You’ve already seen it. That is the face of a man without remorse.”
The jurors’ scrutiny burns through me. My blood boils under the heat of their hatred, fists clenching under the table, but I choke it back. Don’t give him what he wants.
Finally, he closes his book with a snap. “When you have heard all the evidence, gentlemen of the jury, we will ask you to return the only just verdict: guilty on all counts.” He nods to the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
The judge turns to Wallace. “Defense may proceed.”
My lawyer clears his throat, stands too quick. “Gentlemen of the jury, my client, Mr. Randolph, stands accused of grave offenses. Very grave. But I ask that you remember the burden lies with the—” He stops, face turning green. Looks like he’s holding down a belch or wrestling with his breakfast. With a pause, he seems to get a leg up on it and composes himself.
“With the prosecution. You must weigh evidence. Not sentiment, not sympathy, not stories.” He wipes his brow, blinking down at his bent notes. “You will see that much of what is presented will not withstand the light of reason. Witnesses may contradict themselves. Memories fade. And above all, there is doubt,” he says, wagging a finger. “Reasonable doubt.”
That’s it. That’s all the poor bastard’s got. He sits, shoulders slumped, while the US Attorney writes something smug in his notebook.
