Chapter 35
KODIAK
Two marshals—one on each side, revolvers heavy on their hips—march me in early, irons clinking at my wrists.
They plant me at the defense table and leave me under watch.
In the jury box, benches stand empty, sunlight pouring through the high windows, cigar smoke and coffee smells both clinging to the oak paneled walls.
Wallace stumbles in a few minutes later, hair wild, coat crooked, reeking faintly of whiskey. He drops his papers on the table with a slap and sits like he’s run a mile and already lost the case. Christ almighty. This is the man meant to save me.
The bailiff calls, “All rise,” and the room shuffles to its feet. Judge McKinnon takes his throne, robes trailing, spectacles perched sharp on his nose. “Bailiff,” the judge starts.
“Your Honor,” Wallace shouts, startling even me.
He scrambles up, wiping his fingers across his brow.
“Your Honor,” he says again, voice breathless.
“I’d ask the court to consider—erm, if it would please the court—that Mr. Randolph’s visible shackles be removed while proceedings are underway.
It’s prejudicial for the jury to see irons on a man at counsel’s table.
The presence of shackles begs the question of guilt before any evidence is heard. ”
The judge blinks at him, then at me. “Is that your request, Mr. Randolph?” McKinnon’s tone is weary.
A dozen things want to fly out of me—anger, pride, the urge to spit—but I keep my jaw nailed shut. I nod once. “Yes, sir.”
The US Attorney pounces before the clerk can finish penciling the remark. “Your Honor, with respect, this is a dangerous man. I protest for the safety of the court and the public.” He looks to the gallery as if to find applause.
I glance quick at the door. There are men—more than I thought. Faces I don’t know. Plain suits and uniforms. A marshal’s flat badge glinting under a vest. They’re spread: two at the double doors, one by the jury, another near the judge, one close to the side door.
Wallace swallows. “We’ll accept marshals close by, Your Honor. We merely ask, let my client sit before you as a man, not a caged animal. The prejudice is enormous, and it strikes at the very fairness of the proceeding.”
I can tell by the judge’s face he hears the law in it, not the whiskey.
McKinnon steeples his fingers and regards the room. “Marshal, is the court’s security sufficient to permit removal of visible shackles while keeping the defendant under guard?”
The marshal near the door steps forward like a soldier, square and steady. “Your Honor, there are ten men on duty inside and ten outside.”
The judge nods, seemingly satisfied that I’m sufficiently outnumbered. “Very well. The Court orders the wrist shackles removed for the duration of the day’s proceeding.” Then mutters, almost under his breath, “Ain’t gonna make a difference.”
Wallace sits back down.
I’ll be damned. The bastard actually did something right.
The judge calls for the jury, and they file in like a line of ants. Shopkeepers and dockmen with stiff collars, farmers with sunburned necks, all of ’em sneaking glances at me like they’ve already read the verdict in this morning’s paper.
McKinnon rattles through the charges—murder, robbery, derailment, kidnapping. Etcetera, etcetera. Each word hangs like a block around my ankles ’fore I’m tossed in the Gulf.
Then the US Attorney rises, tall and cocky, voice smooth as a fiddle bow.
“Gentlemen of the jury, today you will hear a case that strikes at the very heart of our civilized nation. The defendant, Archibald Randolph, known as ‘Kodiak’ for his size and brutality, is a ruthless outlaw who has left blood on every road he’s traveled.
But this case is not just about railroads and stolen payrolls.
This case is also about a woman. A virtuous and dutiful wife, torn from her home, carried across state lines, made to suffer as the prisoner of this man. ”
The jurors mutter with disapproval, shifting in their chairs.
“And you will hear from Mrs. Alice Sherman herself, the widow of Joseph Sherman, who was murdered in cold blood.”
The words rip through me like a .45 slug. My head snaps up.
Alice is alive.
For the first time since I made my bargain with God, something like gratitude blooms in my chest. I don’t hear the rest of his speech. Don’t hear the threats or the curses he lays at my name. All I can think is that she made it. She’ll be here.
God help me, I can’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth.
The jury don’t miss it. They catch my grin.
Half of them whisper to each other, and the other half got their lips curled up in disgust. To them, it ain’t the kind of joy that hits a man when he knows the one he loves draws breath.
Far as they’re concerned, I’m positively tickled by the memory of making that woman suffer.
Wallace nudges me, sweat shining at his temple. “Don’t smile,” he hisses. “For the love of Christ, don’t smile.”
I drag my jaw shut, but it’s too late. The damage is done. They’ve already got their story.
The US Attorney presses on, painting me more like Lucifer with every breath.
“This trial will show you the defendant’s callous nature, not just in what he has done, but in the cold indifference with which he carries himself, even here before the bar of justice.
” His hand sweeps toward me like I’m a carnival display.
“You’ve already seen it. That is the face of a man without remorse. ”
The jurors’ scrutiny burns through me. My blood boils under the heat of their hatred, fists clenching under the table, but I choke it back. Don’t give him what he wants.
Finally, he closes his book with a snap. “When you have heard all the evidence, gentlemen of the jury, we will ask you to return the only just verdict: guilty on all counts.” He nods to the judge. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
The judge turns to Wallace. “Defense may proceed.”
My lawyer clears his throat, stands too quick.
“Gentlemen of the jury, my client, Mr. Randolph, stands accused of grave offenses. Very grave. But I ask that you remember the burden lies with the—” He stops, face turning green.
Looks like he’s holding down a belch or wrestling with his breakfast. With a pause, he seems to get a leg up on it and composes himself.
“With the prosecution. You must weigh evidence. Not sentiment, not sympathy, not stories.” He wipes his brow, blinking down at his bent notes.
“You will see that much of what is presented will not withstand the light of reason. Witnesses may contradict themselves. Memories fade. And above all, there is doubt,” he says, wagging a finger. “Reasonable doubt.”
That’s it. That’s all the poor bastard’s got. He sits, shoulders slumped, while the US Attorney writes something smug in his notebook.
The judge calls the first recess. Marshals step in close to shackle me again, irons rattling as I rise. The jury files out slow, staring, weighing me like meat on the block.
But all I can think, through the stink of sweat and cigars, through the clatter of boots and chains, is Alice is alive.
And soon, I’ll see her.
They bring the jury back right after lunch. Sunlight catches dust in the air. The judge sets his palms on the bench, and the US Attorney rises, buttoning his coat.
“The government calls Mrs. Alice Sherman.”
The room shifts, seats creak, jurors bend their necks. I hear the scuff of her skirts before I see her. Then she steps through the partition, slow, careful, a marshal’s hand hovering at her back.
God almighty.
She’s pale as milk, thinner than when I last held her, moving with a limp where the bullet tore her. But she’s upright. Breathing. My chest tightens until it near breaks.
Every head turns. Men on the benches nod to themselves, eyes soft with pity. To them, she’s the picture of virtue wronged, a lamb carried off by the predator now at the defense table. They don’t see the fire I know burns in her. How we burned for each other. Always will.
She fixes forward, jaw set, as the clerk swears her in. Her hand shakes a little as it rests on the Bible.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.” Her voice carries, soft but steady, enough to fill every ear in the room. I drink the sound in like a man dying of thirst.
The prosecutor smiles. “Mrs. Sherman, thank you for your courage. Please, tell the jury who you are.”
“My name is Alice Sherman. I was the wife of Joseph Sherman.”
The prosecutor paces. “And can you tell us what happened the night your husband was killed?”
The jurors lean closer, eager for her words, for her pain.
And I sit shackled, heart hammering, waiting for her to speak—for her to damn me, or save herself, or both.
She lifts her eyes at last.
Across the gulf of oak and polished brass and fancy law books, her gaze finds mine. Everything else drops away. It’s just her.
Alive, whole enough to stand, her hair pulled back neat, though I can see the tremor in her lip. The sight of her hits me so hard I forget how to breathe.
And then it comes. Hot, uninvited, burning my eyes before I can stop ’em. Christ, I thought I was clean out of those. One slides down my cheek, and I don’t even bother to wipe it away. Let ’em see. Let ’em think it’s guilt or shame. They can call it what they want.
She sees it. I know she does. Her lips part, just barely, like she wants to speak. I inhale deep and slow, big enough for her to see, then exhale calm and easy. She does it too, and I nod my head. Just once.
It’s all right.
That’s what I want to tell her. It’s all right. You do what you have to. Say what they need you to say. Save yourself. I already got all I need.
The jury’s watching her, hungry for tragedy, but she keeps her eyes locked on me a heartbeat longer. Her chin trembles. She looks down quick, like she’s afraid the room will see too much.