The River Rose (43 page)

"Miss Jeanne, please allow me to accompany you," Vince said formally. "Clint's like a brother to me, he has been all of our lives. I want to do something to help him."

"I would appreciate your company very much, Vince," Jeanne said warmly. "As far as I'm concerned, we're all like family."

"Miss Jeanne," Ezra said with some difficulty, "I cain't tell you how sorry I am this has happened to you. I'd give anything if I woulda knowed that maggot was aboard. I'm telling you I woulda shot him dead and niver been sorry for it."

All of them had been giving her appalled looks; when Roberty first saw her, tears had come into his eyes though he had quickly dashed them away. Jeanne hadn't looked in the mirror and she realized now that her injuries must be very shocking. She said quietly, "I know that all of you feel guilty. But don't. I certainly don't, and Clint is completely guiltless too. I know—knew Max, and it never occurred to me that he would do something like this. He is the only one who should feel guilty. And—and—" she lightly touched her face, "it looks worse than it feels, I assure you." She rose and said, "Would you heat me some water, Ezra? And when that's ready, please bring Marvel some breakfast."

Jeanne felt better after taking a nice warm bath. Already the morning was like early autumn, cool and damp. She decided to wear her dark blue skirt and black winter shawl with a sky-blue bonnet she had bought, trimmed with black silk rosettes and jetbeads. Now she was glad of the bonnet's deep brim that hid her bruised face.

As she and Vince were leaving the
Helena Rose
, Jeanne was bemused to see Nathaniel Deshler just arriving at the gangplank. He looked as trim and dapper as always, his mustache and beard short and perfectly trimmed, in a gray striped frock coat and maroon waistcoat. He came forward to bow to Jeanne. "Mrs. Bettencourt, how glad I am that I managed to get here early enough to catch you. Good morning, ma'am."

"Good morning, Mr. Deshler," Jeanne managed to say. "Vince, I have the honor of introducing you to Mr. Nathaniel Deshler, Esquire. Mr. Deshler, this is my friend, Vincent Norville."

They exchanged handshakes and Jeanne said, "Mr. Deshler, I'm so surprised to see you. Vince and I were just on our way to your office."

"Good," he said, eyeing Jeanne's face with narrowed, sharp gray eyes. "I assume it was to engage my services, and that is exactly why I'm here, to offer them. I consider it an honor to act as Mr. Hardin's defense attorney."

The three of them went up to Jeanne's cabin, and Roberty brought them coffee and tea. "Ah, I do love black tea," Deshler said with satisfaction. "Now, I know you're wondering how it is that I'm here. As it happens, Sheriff John Latimore is a close friend of mine. The sheriff's office works very closely with my firm. We get the notices of arrest every morning. When I saw that Mr. Hardin had been arrested, I immediately went to the jail and offered my services. I'm glad to say that he engaged me."

"I was going to ask you," Jeanne said. "But I was under the impression that you weren't exactly a criminal lawyer."

He gave her a small neat smile. "I rarely take any criminal clients any more. But I made an exception in this case, since I am acquainted with Mr. Hardin and with you, Mrs. Bettencourt. And please don't worry. Even though it's been many years since I've defended a client with these charges, I assure you I will do my utmost to defend Mr. Hardin. I'm actually a very good lawyer."

"Clint knew that for sure," Vince said firmly. "He told me all about you, Mr. Deshler. He had you checked out up, down, and around when this thing with the
Helena Rose
came up, and he said you've got a fine reputation as a smart, honest man. So what exactly are the charges against him?"

"Assault and battery of Maxwell Bettencourt, and the attempted murder of Maxwell Bettencourt."

"That's tripe!" Vince said heatedly. "That swine was assaulting Jeanne! Clint was only protecting her, and Bettencourt pulled a gun on him and it went off before Clint could take it away from him!"

"I know that, sir," Deshler said quietly. Then he turned his intense gaze on Jeanne. "I can tell you now, Mrs. Bettencourt, that you could very easily have Max Bettencourt charged with assault and battery. The evidence is plain to see."

Jeanne considered for long moments. "I—he is my husband, Mr. Deshler. Would it make any difference if I did charge him? Would it help Clint at all?"

Deshler looked pained. "I'm sorry to say, ma'am, that even if he is found guilty, the only punishment he is likely to receive would be a token fine. As far as it helping Mr. Hardin's case, the reality of it is that Bettencourt's hearing would likely be long after Mr. Hardin's trial is already over, so of course it would be no use to us at all."

Jeanne looked crestfallen. "Max knew this. It's hopeless, isn't it?"

"Not at all," Deshler said crisply. "I have every assurance that Mr. Hardin will be found not guilty of any charges."

"But how?" Jeanne cried.

In a highly uncharacteristic gesture for him, he reached across the table and took Jeanne's hand. "Mrs. Bettencourt, I want you to trust me. I know what I'm doing. Even though I don't know all of the circumstances of the case yet, I do know this: Clinton Hardin is innocent. And I'm going to prove it."

Deshler went with Jeanne and Vince to the arraignment. The district courtroom was grand, indeed. It held two hundred people on the ground floor, and seventy in the gallery. The benches, twenty on each side, were of walnut. The walls were painted a dark gold, and solemn portraits of presidents, congressmen, and judges lined them. At the front was the high dais, the judge's seat, of gleaming mahogany. To the left was the witness stand, on the right was the court clerk's desk. In front of the railing were two long tables, one for the prosecution and one for the defendant. It was an austere and dark and solemn room, and people's voices rang hollowly up to the thirty-foot-high ceiling.

About twenty people, mostly women, but with a couple of jaunty-looking young men, were scattered around. Deshler seated Jeanne and Vince on the front bench, then said, "I'm going to go to Mr. Hardin. Wait for me until after he's arraigned, please."

The judge came in, and one by one the prisoners were brought in. Two toughs were charged with public drunkenness and disturbing the peace, and then they brought Clint in. He glanced at Jeanne and Vince, and smiled as if he hadn't a care in the world. He looked well, too, considering. He wasn't pale, he was clean, and he stood straight and tall. Jeanne longed to rush to him, to at least talk to him, but Deshler had warned them that this arraignment would only take a minute or two at most, and that Clint wouldn't be allowed to speak to them. Still, Jeanne had insisted that she had to at least see him.

The judge read the charges and asked, "How do you plead, Mr. Hardin?"

"Not guilty," he said firmly.

"So entered," the judge said. "Mr. Deshler, you are representing Mr. Hardin?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'd like to set his trial date for next Monday, the tenth. Is that agreeable to you?"

"Yes, Judge Poynter. Thank you, sir."

Immediately after the arraignment Deshler insisted that Jeanne see a doctor. "But I don't need a doctor," Jeanne argued. "I know it looks horrible, but really it doesn't hurt that badly. I know nothing's broken, my teeth aren't loose or anything."

Deshler said, "I told you that charging your husband with assault and battery wouldn't do us much good. What I didn't say was that the fact that he assaulted you and battered you will indeed help. I want a doctor to be able to attest to it. I know a good man, a well-respected man that has a reputation for being forthright and honest. Now don't tell him the whole story, Mrs. Bettencourt. Just answer his questions."

He took her to an obviously very successful Dr. Augustus Hightower, whose office looked more like a governor's office than a doctor's clinic. He looked familiar to Jeanne, and finally she recalled that he was one of the Calvary Choristers. He must know Clint, and Jeanne knew that if he knew Clint at all, he would know that he was innocent.

The next week was extremely stressful for Jeanne. The newspapers had gotten word of the sensational story, and they came to the
Helena Rose
every single day to shout out questions at anyone that showed their face aboard the boat. Sometimes they were people that looked like ordinary citizens, men dressed in frock coats, well-dressed women, couples who came to goggle at the boat and talk among themselves. Every day for a week some article in the
Memphis Appeal
appeared concerning her, the female riverboat pilot, or the
Helena Rose
, or Clint, entailing his careeer as a master machinist and playing up sensational stories of his astonishing voice.

All parties had been warned not to publicly discuss the case at all, but that didn't stop Max Bettencourt. He gave interviews to all and sundry, bragging about his service in the United States Army and bemoaning the horrors and terrors of being "a prisoner" of the Sikhs. Several articles were written about him, all of them sympathetic. Max Bettencourt was smooth and slyly clever and wholly believable.

The district attorney's office sent two investigators, attorneys who were actually deputized to the sheriff but who wore plain clothes. They crawled all over the boat, and even drew pictures of it, the outside and every single room on the inside. In Jeanne's room they included diagrams of every stick of furniture, every whatnot set around, including Marvel's dollhouse, and even measured the room to the inch.

They questioned every person, and Jeanne balked when they wanted to question Marvel alone. "I won't allow it," she said stiffly. "Unless you have some kind of order from a judge, I will not allow it."

One of them, a coolly professional older man, said, "Mrs. Bettencourt, she is an eyewitness. She may be summoned to testify. I promise you that we will be perfectly courteous to the little girl. Wouldn't it be better if she were exposed to questioning now, without you at her side?"

Jeanne asked Marvel about it. "It's okay, Mama. I can just tell them what happened, I'm not scared." Jeanne relented.

They talked to her for what seemed like a long time to Jeanne. When they came out of the cabin the detective said, "She's a very smart, observant child."

"I'm so proud of you, little girl," she told Marvel. "You're so grown up, and so smart. I'm very, very proud that you're my daughter."

In a small voice, Marvel said, "Thank you, Mama. I didn't mind talking to them, they were nice. But if I had to tell it in court, would my daddy be there?"

Jeanne hugged her hard. "You won't have to tell it in court, my darling. I promise."

No women were allowed to visit the jail, but they did allow Vince to see Clint. He told Jeanne that Clint was cheerful and confident, and that the most complaining he did was that he couldn't take a bath. "But don't they give him water for sponge baths?" she asked.

"Yeah, but he's like some kinda otter when it comes to dunking," Vince answered. "He's got a bathtub in his cabin. I know you didn't know that. Sometimes it takes him hours to heat up enough water for it, but he doesn't care. He's like a drunkard, only with bathing instead of drinking."

Vince also took paper and pen to Clint, and he wrote Jeanne a note every single day. He never was romantic, for he knew that in spite of what had happened, she still felt in her heart that she was married to Max Bettencourt and she would always be mindful of it. His quick notes were always lighthearted, with some encouraging words for her and Marvel.

The three best things that have ever happened in my life are this: That the Lord loves me and saved me. That I met you, Jeanne. That I met you, Marvel. I love you both very much. No matter what happens, I will love you always. One day we'll all be together, a family. Never doubt it.

On Friday before the trial on Monday, Nate Deshler came to the
Helena Rose
with his clerk. "You remember Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Bettencourt. He's here to document for me, because I'm going to be conducting my own little investigation and I don't want to be distracted by trying to make notes. Mr. Beebe is conversant with the case, and I have full confidence in him and his discretion."

"Mr. Deshler, I do trust you implicitly," Jeanne assured him. "Mr. Beebe, you are welcome here. Thank you so much for helping us."

Deshler went over the boat, but he showed little interest in anything except Jeanne's bedroom. "This is what I want us to do," he told Jeanne and Vince. "We are going to act out that night, exactly as it happened, as closely as possible to the real events."

"I want to be Clint," Vince said, grinning.

"Very well," Deshler said with amusement. "Mr. Beebe will be happy to act as Maxwell Bettencourt."

Mr. Beebe was five feet, five inches tall, with a round prim face and thick spectacles teetering on the end of a long thin nose. He rolled his eyes at Deshler's suggestion, but he gamely took part in the pantomime.

Marvel went through her part, explaining in her high little voice what Max had said to her, and how he had yanked her to the door and thrown her out. "No, Mr. Beebe," she said patiently. "You have to grab my arm this way. We'll play like you yank it hard."

Jeanne started out doing very well, but it became extremely hard for her to even say out loud what Max had done to her. Deshler, sitting by the door in one of Jeanne's desk chairs, said firmly, "Mrs. Bettencourt, I want you to be very clear about these events. Clear and detailed. I must insist."

"Yes, sir," she gulped, and looked at Beebe helplessly.

He said with feeling, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bettencourt, but it really is very important."

"All right. Then—" she took Beebe's right hand, lifted it, and said, "He hit me across the face with the back of his hand. And I fell." She went on, relating everything about those awful few minutes.

Vince acted the part of Clint heroically. Ezra and Vince and Roberty and even Leo duly played out their parts, with a continual dire mutterings from Ezra.

Deshler had Vince take Beebe down the stairs, just as Clint had done to Bettencourt, though perhaps not quite as roughly, and he allowed no one to follow them, since Clint and Bettencourt at that time had been alone.