Accidents of Providence by Stacia M. Brown Page B

didn’t say anything of that nature in her interview with you, what makes you think she would try it in a court of law?”
    “Mrs. Lilburne was too busy dodging my questions to be sufficiently cunning in her interview. By the time the trial starts she might be thinking more clearly.”
    “Then I won’t call her to the stand.”
    “You don’t have to call her to the stand,” Bartwain said with grim satisfaction. “She can call herself to the stand. Witnesses with relevant information can volunteer their testimony.”
    Griffin shrugged. “She’ll be intimidated up there. She’ll faint in front of all those spectators.”
    “You have not met Elizabeth Lilburne.”
    “I tell you I’m not concerned. Whatever that woman tries to do, whatever
either
woman tries to do, will be without a counselor’s help.” The prosecutor reminded Bartwain that the Council of State did not permit defendants to bring legal representation into the courtroom. Rachel was going to have to defend herself.
    You have never eaten too much boiled crab or undercooked custard in your life, Bartwain thought. You have never been outwitted in your kitchen by a mouse. You have no idea about the world. “Don’t underestimate your opponent,” he said. “You recall Freeborn John Lilburne’s recent achievement in the courtroom at Guildhall?”
    “Yes. He defended himself against charges of treason and won a full acquittal.”
    “Exactly. And his wife doesn’t gripe and carry on like he does. If I were you I would be careful.” It was the first time Thomas Bartwain had spoken highly of any woman besides his wife.
    Griffin stepped into the sunlit street. “I appreciate your help, Investigator,” he called over his shoulder. “I mean, think of it: you’re more than twice my age but still taking on cases. You’re an inspiration.”
    Bartwain delivered a black cloud of a look.
     
    The investigator returned home to a wife who had remembered her earlier interest in Rachel’s case—or, more precisely, her earlier interest in her husband’s
handling
of the case. He did not feel like answering her latest questions, so he told her to go ahead and read his transcript notes if she was that interested. She surprised him by doing so. Afterward, padding into the kitchen, her white hair frizzing out of her nightcap, Mathilda proceeded to stand and wave the court papers over him as Bartwain sat on the kitchen floor and repaired one of his mousetraps.
    “You have no idea what to do with this woman,” she declared.
    “I have ideas aplenty,” he retorted. “But what I think doesn’t count anymore. My part is over, except for my final report. The rest is up to the jury.”
    She folded her arms and fixed him with a glare.
    “What?” He could not stand it when she stared him down that way.
    “You are making a mockery of the law.”
    This was too much. “I do not mock the law,” he shouted, rising to his feet one stiff leg at a time, abandoning his mousetrap. “I follow every jot and tittle!”
    “But that is your problem. You never bother to check the jots and tittles. You never ask if they still make sense.”
    “And what do
you
know?” he growled, his nose reddening. “I’ll tell you, Mrs. Bartwain, if you get sidetracked into asking such questions, you will lose your bearings. Trust me; I have learned this from experience. The law protects us from the insidious and irrational aspects of human nature by asking us to determine only
if
the suspect in question committed the hideous deed. To ask
why
she did it, to wonder about her life, to circumvent the parameters of law by probing whatever secret and inward instincts lie beneath each human surface, is to show pity where none has been merited; it is to place a higher value on the perpetrator’s life than on the victim’s!”
    “You’re frightened, aren’t you?” Mathilda said, not unkindly. “You’re frightened and you’re tired.”
    Then she wheeled around and marched back up to her