concentrated at the wharves, the garret office at the top of the building had fallen into disuse, for the scenery was too distracting for other professions. The eight windows in the cupolacreated a kaleidoscope of the city, with views of the avenues spilling into the watery continents of two rivers flowing into the brilliant blue harbor, whisked into a silvery sheen when the wind rippled the surface.
James Snarky sat on top of one of the window ledges, his legs dangling. Clinton had hired the brash clerk from Armstrong and Clinton, promising him a small raise. What had set him apart from the other dutiful clerks in Armstrong’s office was his connection to the rough-and-tumble world of reporters. Snarky had started off as a writer for the Tribune but switched to a job clerking in a law office because the salary was better and he had an ailing mother to support, but his passion was for the jargon of the city beat. There was nothing that James Snarky enjoyed more than placing bets at the card games that were played on crates in alleyways between the newspaper offices along Park Row. Clinton had assigned Snarky the job of keeping abreast of the reporters and of using his nose for investigation, to get the inside scoops. Released from the moribund atmosphere at Armstrong and Clinton, Snarky came to work each day in the attire of the newspaperman: plaid pants, two-toned shoes, and a bowler hat.
Barnaby Thayer swiveled on an oak chair in front of a rolltop desk, chewing the pointed end of a pen. Thayer was a young trial lawyer who had been a junior litigator for a firm on State Street. At the death of one of the partners, the other retired, leaving Thayer out of work with a young wife and a newborn. He had contacted Henry Clinton, with an inquiry about employment. It was Elisabeth who had remembered the overture by the ambitious young man. Thayer’s credentials and letters of recommendation were impressive, including high praise from a circuit judge. At Columbia Law School, he had studied under Dr. J. W. Gideon, the dean of Medical Jurisprudence, which was a newly formed discipline that applied the knowledge of anatomy and medical science to criminallaw. Now employed by Clinton, Thayer had been assigned to enlist Dr. Gideon as a defense expert. Thayer also oversaw a laboratory at the Medical College of technical men skilled in the new science of forensic analysis. They could identify the corpuscles of blood by microscope, or isolate a red stain on a silk dress and determine if it came from wine, grape juice, or the blood of an ox. Thayer had also enlisted a squadron of undergraduates who buried themselves in the Columbia Law Library, doing the voluminous case research and acting as clerks for the case, preparing the motions that would be needed as the case moved to trial.
Thayer wore a wrinkled tie, hastily knotted. His jacket had been quickly brushed, most likely in a dusky room, for it showed signs of missed lint and what appeared to be stains from his baby on the right shoulder. In his late twenties, he still looked like a freshman. His hair was thick and slightly unruly, flopping forward over his face. He had a strong jaw that flashed the winning combination of a broad smile and straight teeth. Clinton did not have the means to engage a top litigator, so this promising, but slightly unkempt, young man would have to do.
Clinton paced the room, looking through legal briefs that were spread everywhere on wide tables.
“The Herald got the best dispatch on her,” said Snarky, from his perch on the windowsill. “All the papers will be scrambling after it tomorrow.”
“I dread to hear it,” said Clinton.
“Begins something like this—Emma Cunningham Burdell, born Emma Hempstead, in Brooklyn—was remarkable chiefly for a well-developed bosom, and voluptuous form. She had more than ordinary powers of fascination over men and was known to give a man a favor…”
“I am sure such a flattering portrait has nowhere to go
James Snarky sat on top of one of the window ledges, his legs dangling. Clinton had hired the brash clerk from Armstrong and Clinton, promising him a small raise. What had set him apart from the other dutiful clerks in Armstrong’s office was his connection to the rough-and-tumble world of reporters. Snarky had started off as a writer for the Tribune but switched to a job clerking in a law office because the salary was better and he had an ailing mother to support, but his passion was for the jargon of the city beat. There was nothing that James Snarky enjoyed more than placing bets at the card games that were played on crates in alleyways between the newspaper offices along Park Row. Clinton had assigned Snarky the job of keeping abreast of the reporters and of using his nose for investigation, to get the inside scoops. Released from the moribund atmosphere at Armstrong and Clinton, Snarky came to work each day in the attire of the newspaperman: plaid pants, two-toned shoes, and a bowler hat.
Barnaby Thayer swiveled on an oak chair in front of a rolltop desk, chewing the pointed end of a pen. Thayer was a young trial lawyer who had been a junior litigator for a firm on State Street. At the death of one of the partners, the other retired, leaving Thayer out of work with a young wife and a newborn. He had contacted Henry Clinton, with an inquiry about employment. It was Elisabeth who had remembered the overture by the ambitious young man. Thayer’s credentials and letters of recommendation were impressive, including high praise from a circuit judge. At Columbia Law School, he had studied under Dr. J. W. Gideon, the dean of Medical Jurisprudence, which was a newly formed discipline that applied the knowledge of anatomy and medical science to criminallaw. Now employed by Clinton, Thayer had been assigned to enlist Dr. Gideon as a defense expert. Thayer also oversaw a laboratory at the Medical College of technical men skilled in the new science of forensic analysis. They could identify the corpuscles of blood by microscope, or isolate a red stain on a silk dress and determine if it came from wine, grape juice, or the blood of an ox. Thayer had also enlisted a squadron of undergraduates who buried themselves in the Columbia Law Library, doing the voluminous case research and acting as clerks for the case, preparing the motions that would be needed as the case moved to trial.
Thayer wore a wrinkled tie, hastily knotted. His jacket had been quickly brushed, most likely in a dusky room, for it showed signs of missed lint and what appeared to be stains from his baby on the right shoulder. In his late twenties, he still looked like a freshman. His hair was thick and slightly unruly, flopping forward over his face. He had a strong jaw that flashed the winning combination of a broad smile and straight teeth. Clinton did not have the means to engage a top litigator, so this promising, but slightly unkempt, young man would have to do.
Clinton paced the room, looking through legal briefs that were spread everywhere on wide tables.
“The Herald got the best dispatch on her,” said Snarky, from his perch on the windowsill. “All the papers will be scrambling after it tomorrow.”
“I dread to hear it,” said Clinton.
“Begins something like this—Emma Cunningham Burdell, born Emma Hempstead, in Brooklyn—was remarkable chiefly for a well-developed bosom, and voluptuous form. She had more than ordinary powers of fascination over men and was known to give a man a favor…”
“I am sure such a flattering portrait has nowhere to go
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