Parlor Games (43 page)

“A professor,” I said, taking up my glass of champagne. “Then your capacity for retention must serve you well.”

He cocked his head in reluctant assent. “I suppose it does. In the classroom, at least.”

“Are you on holiday or business?”

“A bit of both. I’m on leave from the University of Minnesota.”

How quaint, I thought—a lowly professor—though I did wonder how he managed to dress so regally. This evening he sported a midnight-blue tailcoat, bronze-colored waistcoat, white silk bow tie, and wing-collared shirt. Maybe he had inherited or married well and, with monetary matters conveniently settled, found himself free to pursue his medical interests. He might well be a learned man of integrity who also chose to enjoy what was possibly a modest fortune. Daisy would probably urge me to seek a more promising match, but I found myself falling easily into the company of this educated and unassuming man of approximately my own years. With him I felt no need to posture or worry about business machinations. So when he asked, “May I escort you to the dining saloon?” I readily assented.

We made a compatible threesome—Ernest, Daisy, and I. Once or twice Daisy sought him out for her afternoon stroll; the three of us regularly lunched together; and Ernest and I took to dining in the ship’s impressive Italian-style dining saloon, relaxing under its three-story-high skylight dome in the midst of Spanish-mahogany walls carved with pilasters and inlaid with ivory. Ah, such luxury.
There is nothing quite like a transatlantic crossing to help one forget the worries of the world.

Meantime, unbeknownst to me, Daisy had been gathering intelligence. Over breakfast two days from port, she informed me, “Ernest told Mr. Simon that he has an antenuptial agreement with his former wife. As long as he doesn’t remarry, he collects ten thousand dollars a year. What do you think of that?”

Daisy had yet to take up her coffee cup. “I’d say you’re quite excited about it.”

“Don’t you see? He’s not free to marry, either.”

“My word, Daisy. Who’s thinking of marriage?”

“That’s the beauty of it. No one.”

Of course I understood the ramifications of Ernest’s circumstances, which fortunately resembled mine, at least insofar as remarriage was concerned. But I wasn’t as quick as Daisy to make the leap to any liaison. After all, his steady attentions and efficient command of daily arrangements afforded me the leisure of merely drifting along and reveling in his generosity, free from any complications. If only it had stayed that way.

THE TRIAL
THE PROPER WAY TO CONDUCT A TRIAL
MENOMINEE—JANUARY 29, 1917

M
onday morning found us back for week two of the trial, with me in my heather-green tweed suit—the very thing a reputable businesswoman might wear to court—and poor Judge Flanagan drumming his fingers on the table. He’d hoped to conclude the trial in a week, but as Frank’s days on the stand multiplied, he should have surmised that was out of the question.

My attorney launched the day by calling Frank back to the stand, intent on demonstrating that she had prevaricated on the matter of accepting loans from me. Mr. Powers approached the witness box, brandishing a folded paper. “Miss Shaver, earlier you explained that you gave the Baroness shares of Westinghouse stock valued at about thirty-six thousand dollars, expecting to be reimbursed.”

“That’s correct.”

“And this occurred in London, in early 1913.”

“Yes.”

Powers unfolded the paper and handed it to Frank. “Would you please review this memorandum?”

Frank’s eyes darted over the paper with the ever-increasing speed of a runaway car. She jerked her head upright and glared at me.

Powers said, “Is that your handwriting?”

“It appears to be.”

“Would you please read the document?”

“It reads, ‘As security for a loan of two thousand eight hundred pounds provided to me by May de Vries, I hereby submit two hundred shares of Westinghouse stock, to be held until such time as the loan is repaid.’ ”

“And it is signed by you, is it not?”

“Yes, but I’ve never seen this document.”

“Did you borrow two thousand eight hundred pounds from the Baroness in London?”

“No, I did not.”

“Then how do you explain this document?”

“I have no idea where it came from.”

“You did not provide two hundred shares of Westinghouse stock as loan security?”

“No, the suggestion that I borrowed money from May is absurd.”

“So you deny borrowing two thousand eight hundred pounds from the Baroness?”

“Objection, argumentative,” came the predictable complaint from Frank’s attorney, and “Sustained,” the routine refrain from Judge Flanagan.

With that, my attorney concluded his cross-examination. Frank’s attorney, Sawyer, then sought to undo the damage to her reliability via his redirect, during which time Frank parroted various versions of her contention that she had neither borrowed money from me nor signed any document naming stock as surety.

At the conclusion of the morning’s testimony, Judge Flanagan ordered a shortening of the luncheon recess, requesting everyone’s prompt return at one-fifteen: “This isn’t the only case on the docket, nor should it be taking so much of the court’s time.”

Upon my return, I found Frank and her attorney seated side by side at the plaintiff’s bench, their heads bent together in somber exchange. I detected the aura of desperation about their manner, which surprised me not at all after my attorney had chipped away at Frank’s credibility on the matter of borrowing from me.

Once the judge had called the court to order, Sawyer rose. “Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

Judge Flanagan, no doubt sensing another obstruction to his design of moving the trial forward, intoned, “If you insist.”

A whispering campaign ensued. I only caught a tiny snippet—something about a fake document—before the judge invited my attorney to join the conference. The whispers increased to hushed barks, until the judge finally splayed his hands to quiet the rival attorneys and announced, “Gentlemen, this is not a conversation to be had in hearing of the jury. I will have the jury leave.”

Out they marched, a few of them visibly huffing with impatience, or perhaps frustration. They no doubt shared my sentiment: It was high time to put an end to this ridiculous trial. Behind me, I discerned an abrupt buzzing among the onlookers, who no doubt hoped for some saucy surprise.

“Very well, Mr. Sawyer,” said Judge Flanagan. “You may argue your request.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sawyer kept his back to me and addressed the judge, but I could hear the pleading in his voice. “When Dr. Whidbey brought suit against the Baroness in London, she used tactics just like the ones she’s using here. That’s why it’s relevant.”

Judge Flanagan folded his hands, obviously trying to bring patience to bear. “What tactics are you referring to?”

“Deceitful ones. Such as twisting claims and producing papers no one had seen before.”

“And how is that material to this case?”

“It shows that the Baroness was willing to use deceit to fight charges against her. Just as she’s doing here.”

“And do any of the documents in that case bear directly on the specifics of this case?”

“Not directly. But the defendant’s unscrupulous actions are much the same.”

Powers stepped in. “This is prejudicial, Your Honor.”

“Just a minute here.” Flanagan waved Powers off. “Mr. Sawyer, have you explained the full rationale for your request?”

As Sawyer twisted around and glanced at Frank, I noticed his usually sallow complexion had tinted to an excited pink.

“To summarize,” he began, “the charges in the Whidbey case are quite similar to the ones brought here. They show the Baroness has repeatedly wheedled money out of her friends and … ahem … companions. But that’s not the main reason for bringing in this evidence. It’ll show she stops at nothing to dodge justice. She’ll lie. She’ll introduce false documents. She’ll produce witnesses to do her bidding. And that, Your Honor, is why I humbly request to introduce facts from the Whidbey case.”

Clutching a hand over my heart, I shot Frank an open-mouthed I-can-hardly-believe-what-I’m-hearing look. I’d told her about my
troubles with Whidbey, and she had obviously divulged these confidences to her attorney. I’d not, in fact, falsified any documents in that case. Rather, Whidbey’s scurrilous claims required that I fight back and use any and all means to extricate myself from his vicious, unrelenting grip. It had taken years to escape him, and now my own survival strategies might be turned against me. The blood retreated from my extremities. I dropped my head and closed my eyes to still the whirring of my mind.

I heard the judge’s voice. “Mr. Powers, I imagine you have something to say?”

“I most certainly do, Your Honor. But first I’d like to consult with my client. May I have some time to do that?”

“Here we go again,” said Flanagan, rolling his eyes. “Yes, but please be brief.”

Mr. Powers seated himself beside me. I summoned the courage to carry on with my defense. I had previously mentioned the Whidbey case to him, though I certainly hadn’t anticipated its playing any role in this trial. During our ten-minute talk, Mr. Powers zeroed in on the key aspects of the case—after all, he is a fine attorney—and then he rose to approach the judge and Mr. Sawyer.

“Your Honor,” he said and, after bowing to Mr. Sawyer, “my esteemed colleague, I maintain that the Whidbey case has no bearing whatsoever on the one before us. The plaintiffs do not know each other. These are quite separate matters, full continents apart. Although there are newspaper reports of this trial, the case was settled out of court, and thus no definitive ruling was made on either the merits of the case or the nature of the evidence. We have only informal information—hearsay, if you will—to discuss here. Any allegations about my client’s attempts to defend herself are merely that—allegations—to which no respectable court would give serious consideration. My colleague is only trying to delay the proceedings by bringing up altogether irrelevant matters. We have plenty of evidence before us on which to decide this case. The plaintiff is attempting to impugn the reputation of my client. It is not an honorable way to conduct a civil case.”

Sawyer pointed his sharp chin at Powers. “Why, you …”

“Mr. Powers,” said the judge, “I will decide the proper way to conduct this trial.”

My attorney clasped his hands over his waist and shuffled back a tiny step. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Sawyer, do you have any rebuttal?”

Sawyer’s bow legs tautened as he leaned toward the judge. “I say that the pattern of behavior shown by the defendant is relevant here. The charges are strikingly similar. The defense’s flimflamming tactics as well. And testimony on this matter can reveal the defendant’s character.”

“Yes, well,” said the judge, scratching the back of his neck, “the character of the defendant is not on trial here, her actions are. And we cannot assume that actions of the past, which we have no definitive way of determining, reflect on current actions. I deny the request to introduce evidence from the Whidbey case.”

Sawyer tossed his head with swaggering dispatch, as if to imply P. T. Barnum himself had minted some outrageous new hoax.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Mr. Powers.

“Don’t thank me; it’s a matter of legal judgment.”

Powers nodded deeply, then asked, “May I make my motion now?”

“Yes, do get on with it.”

My attorney rolled back on his heels and fanned his hands out. “Of course, Your Honor. At this time, I move for dismissal of the case. I have introduced a release from debt, which the plaintiff admits to having signed in 1915. Although Miss Shaver claims she had insufficient knowledge of the document’s contents, this is a straightforward document, readily understandable to a person without the slightest legal training.

“My admirable colleague has produced no testimony demonstrating the least reason to disbelieve this document. The plaintiff has merely said she was ill at the time of signing. But again, I submit that any person of ordinary capacities would understand full well that it is prudent to read agreements before signing them and that, once signed, such documents are binding.