For the most part, Jack is relieved to know that the story is out. If Ritchie realizes that there’s another—more probable—version of events, he’ll ask more pointed questions of the actors and work harder to poke holes in their testimonies. Of course, it also means he’s more likely to come after Jack, and Jack has no idea what that will look like.
Ritchie gives Jack a hard look. “You were backstage? Isn’t that what you said yesterday morning?”
Jack’s throat has gone perilously dry. “I think what I said was that you should talk to Placide.”
“Right,” says Ritchie, and Jack can tell he’s disappointed in him, that he mistakenly assumed Jack possessed the same scruples that made his father such an exceptional lawyer, father, and friend.
Ritchie returns his attention to Placide. “You realize that, even as we speak, free and enslaved Negroes from all over the city are being rounded up, questioned, and, in many cases, detained for a revolt that no one—save your own men—actually witnessed?”
If Placide has any regrets, he is in too deep to backtrack now. “We have several witnesses—”
Ritchie cuts him off. “Save it for your official statement.”
Anderson has remained quiet up until now, but he must feel he owes Ritchie something. “We have never tried to mislead you.”
“Is that so?” Ritchie says.
“It is.”
“How nice.”
Jack would give anything to be able to disappear right now.
“I should remind all of you that I am not here in my capacity as editor of theEnquirer, but as head of the inquest committee, which is an official arm of the Common Council.”
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
Ritchie continues. “And it will be to your advantage to forget that you are actors, intent on swaying public opinion, and instead remember that you are human beings who want to provide answers to scores of grieving families.”
Jack isn’t so sure Placide is capable of putting his own self-interests aside, but maybe some of the others can.
“Now, where is everybody?” Ritchie asks, looking around the room at the men.
“They’re right here,” says Placide.
“Do you think I’m a numbskull?” Ritchie says, then turns to Jack. “Where’s that list I asked for?”
Jack retrieves the piece of paper from his pocket and carefully unfolds it before handing it over.
Ritchie peruses it, then says, “Who are we missing?”
“My wife and Mr. Young’s wife are back at the boardinghouse, seeing after the children,” says Placide. “And, as I think we mentioned, the Greens are not in any condition to be interviewed.”
“Yes, and as I thinkImentioned, I’m extremely sorry to hear about their daughter. But I do need to speak to both of them, regardless.”
Something about Placide’s countenance—Jack can’t quite put his finger on what it is—makes it obvious that he has no intention of delivering the Greens to Ritchie.
Ritchie must pick up on it, too, because the next thing he says, in a voice loud enough for everyone in the room to hear him, is: “Are we all clear on what will happen if the inquest committee finds the theater company guilty of either negligence or malice?”
A few men nod their heads, but there are enough raised eyebrows to warrant Ritchie spelling it out for them. “You will open yourselves up to both civil and criminal charges—with penalties that range from fines and jail time to death by hanging.” He waits a moment, to let his words sink in. “Am I adequately expressing the severity of this situation?”
Jack looks around the room, studying the faces of the players. He would say that Ritchie has managed to capture everyone’s attention quite thoroughly.
“Wonderful,” says Ritchie as he claps his hands together. “So, here’s how this will go. I will interview each of you, individually, in the taproom’s snug.” The snug is a small, semiprivate room that sits at the end of the bar. It has high walls and a little window through which the barkeep can pass drinks, and while most men love it because it gives them a place to conduct business away from prying eyes and ears, Jack hates it because it always feels—to him, at least—like the walls are closing in. “You’ll wait here until you are called, and you will not leave the tavern until I say so. Are we clear on all of this?”
The men shift in their chairs. Only Caulfield is bold enough to give Ritchie a resounding “Yes, sir.”
“Now, am I to assume that the mysterious boy Skelton referenced is the same boy who stands before me?”
