Chapter 34
ALICE
Just a fortnight after Virgil’s visit, the carriage sets us down on Tremont Street at the foot of the federal courthouse.
The stone columns rise tall as oaks, pale against the Gulf sky.
My hip aches, but I can manage. The bullet passed clean through the fleshy part, sparing the bone, but it sliced a minor artery.
The doctor said it was a miracle I survived, given the blood I lost. Had Kodiak not carried me to the hospital when he did, I’d have perished for certain.
Now he’s locked in a cage, facing certain death, and I cannot allow him to trade his life for my own.
Virgil nods at the marshal who meets us at the door and steers me across the vestibule.
The air smells of ink and cigar smoke. Clerks hurry up and down the marble hall, folders clutched in their hands, the echo of boots clapping under the vaulted ceiling.
Brass lamps flicker. Portraits of men line the walls, stern faces fixed in gilt frames.
Will he be here? Nothing would give me more peace than to look upon him. If I could see him, speak freely, we could stage a plan.
We pass open double doors. I catch a glimpse of the courtroom—polished benches, a high wooden rail, the judge’s chair looming above like a throne.
The marshal presses onward, up the stairwell.
Judge McKinnon’s chambers are paneled in oak, heavy curtains drawn against the sun.
He sits already at his desk, round spectacles perched on his nose, a cigar smoldering in a tray beside him.
The US Attorney rises politely, and a stenographer shifts, hands poised on his keys.
No Kodiak.
The judge looks me over like a stack of canned goods at the general store. “Well, Mrs. Sherman, I expect we’ll have this villain’s neck stretched in short order. Men who lay hands on women such as yourself don’t deserve another sunrise.”
The marshal guides me to a chair. I sit, folding my skirts tight, my pulse a drum in my throat.
My voice is meant to be sworn, measured, captured in neat little lines for the record.
But all I can think, staring at the judge’s blunt certainty, is how every stone in this house has been stacked to see Kodiak condemned.
And if I mean to help him, I will have to find a way inside these walls.
The US Attorney speaks. “Would it please the court to set the trial date in the next week or two?”
A clerk clears his throat. “Mr. Randolph’s attorney has not yet arrived.”
For a heartbeat, I imagine Kodiak in the doorway—eyes wild and burning, blade in hand ready to deliver retribution—but there’s nothing. Just the hush of the room and the judge watching everyone, as if he can read our intentions by our faces.
Judge McKinnon looks over his spectacles. “Where is counsel?” His voice is a gavel unto itself.
The US Attorney shakes his head. “I do not know, Your Honor. The government is ready to proceed, however.”
“Given the gravity of the charges—and the public interest—I ask the court to set the earliest practicable date,” Virgil says.
“And who are you?” the judge asks.
Virgil straightens his posture. “I am Virgil Sherman, Your Honor. Of the Sherman Hospitality Company. My brother Joseph was murdered by this Randolph beast. My dear sister-in-law Alice,” he says, tipping his chin toward me, “was kidnapped. Defiled and forced to witness truly gruesome atrocities.”
The judge nods, his expression softening from offense to sympathy. “I see. Mr. Sherman, the wheels of justice do not usually move so swift, but I can assure you, holding this criminal accountable is the message we need to send to all outlaws like him.”
“Hear, hear,” says the US Attorney.
A knock rattles the chamber door. It opens before anyone answers, and in stumbles a thin man in a crumpled waistcoat, hair slicked flat in streaks that don’t hide the sweat at his temples.
“My apologies, Your Honor,” he says, fumbling with a stack of papers that spill to the floor.
He drops to his knees. “I was told the deposition would be held at the US Attorney’s office,” the lawyer mutters, as he gathers his papers. “Not here before Your Honor.”
“Well, you’re here now, counselor. Do try to keep up. Your name please?”
“Henry Wallace, Your Honor. Appointed counsel for Mr. Randolph.” He smooths his papers on the conference table, though half of them are bent and smudged.
Virgil’s mouth twists, but he says nothing. The US Attorney lifts his brows, barely hiding his satisfaction.
The judge exhales, weary. “Mr. Wallace, the government has already moved to set an expedited trial date. We were about to begin the deposition of Mrs. Sherman.”
Wallace frowns, blinking hard as he flips through his rumpled stack of papers. “Your Honor, I— Pardon, but is this a deposition or a pretrial conference?”
“It’s both, counselor. Given the urgency of the matter, the court is choosing efficiency.”
Wallace opens his mouth again, flustered. “But I was not informed—”
McKinnon cuts him off with a sigh. “Mr. Wallace, if you plan to object to every formality, this will take all day. Sit down and allow the record to proceed.”
“Y-yes, of course.” Wallace sways a little as he lowers himself into a chair. His pen rattles in his hand. “I will, ah, do my utmost to see that my client’s interests are preserved.”
The US Attorney clears his throat, ready to continue as if nothing has changed.
I press my hands together in my lap, tight as a knot. This is the man meant to defend Kodiak? Late, rumpled, and meek.
Virgil rests his hand on the arm of my chair, fingers firm, guiding me forward. “It is time, Alice.”
The clerk lifts the Bible. “Please stand, Mrs. Sherman.”
My hip throbs. The chair feels too deep, my skirts too heavy. I brace a hand against the armrest, try to push myself up. Pain shoots through me, sharp enough to draw breath from my throat. For a heartbeat, the room blurs, wood paneling and brass lamps swimming together.
Virgil is on his feet at once, hand firm beneath my elbow. “Steady, sister,” he murmurs, voice pitched for all to hear. “She is still convalescing, Your Honor. A miracle she survived at all.”
The judge nods gravely, as though Virgil himself has been my nursemaid. “Yes, yes, take your time. We understand.”
At last I make it upright, my weight heavy on Virgil’s arm. The clerk holds out the Bible.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do,” I say, though my voice is thin.
The US Attorney rises with his notebook. “Mrs. Sherman, thank you for your courage in coming here today. I will begin simply. You were married to Joseph Sherman, is that correct?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“And it is true that your husband was killed by Mr. Randolph, and that Mr. Randolph took you from your home in Ohio?”
“Objection.” Mr. Wallace coughs, clearing his throat. “Objection.”
“This is a deposition, counselor. Overruled. Your objection will be preserved for the record.”
Wallace raises a finger. “But I didn’t—”
“Answer the question, Mrs. Sherman,” the judge commands, cutting him off.
Virgil’s hand tightens on my arm; a subtle reminder, a warning.
“Yes,” I say, though the word tastes like bile.
The stenographer’s keys clatter, etching my lie into the eternal record.
Across the table, Wallace scribbles something crooked in his notes, clears his throat like he might speak, then thinks better of it.
The US Attorney paces slowly, one finger marking his page. “Mrs. Sherman, can you describe the circumstances under which you were taken?”
My pulse quickens, the memory of that night a whirlwind. Joseph’s limp figure slumped in Kodiak’s lap. The road unraveling beneath horses’ hooves.
Virgil’s threat needles me from too near, the faintest tilt of his head warning me which lines to walk.
“I was taken from my home,” I say at last.
The prosecutor nods, satisfied. “And you did not go of your own choosing?”
Silence hums heavy. My fingers knot in my skirts.
I could tell them the truth: that I had a choice, that I chose to follow.
That what bound me to Kodiak was not rope but will.
Desire. But that truth is a gallows not just for him, but for me.
He’d insisted upon this from the beginning—if we were ever caught, I was to say I was kidnapped.
“I did not go of my own choosing,” I repeat, softer.
The stenographer’s keys clatter, fixing the lie in iron.
The US Attorney presses gently, almost tender. “During your captivity, were you subject to violence, to threats?”
My hip throbs where the bullet tore me open. Not his fault. Not his hand.
But their judgment expects it.
“There was…violence,” I say. The word rings false in my ears.
The prosecutor’s brows rise in sympathy. “Against you?”
The room waits. Virgil breathes steady beside me.
“No,” I whisper. “Never against me.”
The room holds its breath. The attorney’s smile falters. Virgil’s fingers dig sharp into my sleeve.
“But you witnessed violence?”
“Yes.” That, at least, is true.
The US Attorney goes on and on, hours of questions—about the inn, Joseph, the Pinkerton deaths aboard the ship. By the time he stops asking me questions, my stomach is raw with acid.
“Your Honor,” I say, my voice quieter than I intend. “Might I excuse myself a moment? I-I need the facilities.”
McKinnon waves his hand like I’m nothing more than a buzzing fly. “See to it, Marshal. We will resume when she returns.”
Virgil rises too quickly, his hand already at my elbow. “I’ll accompany her.”
“No.” The word leaves my mouth before I can temper it. His eyes narrow, but I steady myself. “Please. I only need a moment.”
The judge doesn’t even glance at him. “Marshal, take her. Return promptly.”
The marshal nods, but he doesn’t grip my arm the way Virgil does. His pace is slower as we descend the hall, my steps uneven. The courthouse here is quiet, but the noise of the vestibule carries faintly—boots striking marble, clerks calling to one another, typewriters chattering from open offices.
We pass the courtroom doors again and I slow, feigning a wince at my hip. “Might I pause?” I ask, breathless.
The marshal obliges, waiting by the door as I rest my hand on the frame. Inside, the benches stand polished and empty, the judge’s chair looming high above the rail. Light pours through tall windows, gilding every brass fitting, every carved panel of oak.
This is where they mean to condemn him.
I make myself memorize it—the rail, the jury box, the doors where prisoners are brought in chains.
My mind counts paces. I note the galleries above, the stairwell beyond, the side hall where witnesses will be kept before they’re called.
Every stone in this place is against him, but stones have cracks.
And if I mean to help Kodiak, I must learn where they are.
The marshal clears his throat softly, motioning onward.
“Restroom’s this way, ma’am.”