The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [227]
“No, Stevie,” he said. “The front door. Let’s make sure those folks don’t follow them down.”
I knew what he meant: between Cyrus and El Niño the focus of the crowd’s attention was likely to stay on our carriage, wherever it went; and if we just pulled up in front of the court house and brassed it out by heading in at the main entrance, we were likely to make certain that Clara and the Westons would get inside without any trouble.
So I slapped Mr. Picton’s horse into a nice high step and made as much of a deal as I could out of the half block that we had left to cover. True to Cyrus’s reasoning, every eye in the crowd turned on us as we got down off the surrey and made our way toward the steps. There were a few laughs, but more clicks of the tongue and mild curses; and of course, the occasional mumbling of “damned niggers” and the like were heard, all of them designed to get some kind of a reaction out of Cyrus and El Niño. But those bright souls what gave voice to the slurs didn’t know who they were dealing with; for El Niño, if he heard them, didn’t register any awareness of what they meant, while Cyrus had long since learned to hold his emotions down when such labels were flung at him.
At the front door we came face to face with the guard Henry, who, seeming to care quite a bit about what the crowd would think of his next move, took to biting at the nails of one hand.
“What’s this, Henry?” said one pompous-looking man in a suit, whose voice I recognized as belonging to the editor of the Ballston Weekly Journal, Mr. Grose. “Are respected citizens of this community and members of the press to be denied entry to these proceedings, while children and—well”—Mr. Grose’s eyes went from Cyrus to El Niño—“savages are to be allowed in?”
Plainly not knowing what to do, Henry obeyed the instincts of the true follower: he crossed his arms, widened his stance, and then looked Cyrus in the eye. “Sorry,” he said, “the grand jury’s de—the de—”
“‘Deliberations,’” Cyrus supplied with a straight face.
The guard’s eyes filled with resentment. “The deliberations are closed to the public.”
“Sir,” Cyrus answered quietly. “You know that we’re investigators in the employ of Assistant District Attorney Picton. And we know you know it. So you can either let us through now—or you can play up to this crowd and explain your decision to Mr. Picton later. He’s your superior.” Cyrus nodded toward the general area behind him. “These people aren’t.”
Somebody behind me mumbled “Smart-ass nigger,” and then I saw a hand appear from out of the closing swarm of bodies to grab Cyrus’s shoulder. The arm connected to the hand tried to pull my friend backward, and the face on the owner of the arm was filled with a resentment obviously fortified by a few morning drinks. But whoever the fellow was, he’d let liquor lead him to a bad decision: Cyrus just grabbed the fingers what were fixed on his shoulder in his own hand, and then held them up an inch or so. Keeping his eyes fixed on the guard Henry’s face, Cyrus began to squeeze—and as beads of sweat appeared on Henry’s face, Cyrus started to squeeze very hard.
Now, Cyrus has always had a grip that’s got a lot in common with your average steel vise; and after about twenty seconds or so you could hear the man who’d grabbed him starting to whimper. Then came the sound of bones crunching, at which the man started to plain howl.
“All right, all right!” Henry said, stepping away from the door. “Get inside, the three of you—but I’m telling Mr. Picton about this!”
Cyrus assured Henry that he’d also be letting Mr. Picton know exactly what had happened. Then we slipped through the door, slamming it closed as the crowd outside started to make louder and angrier noises.
Inside the main hall we saw Mr. Moore, Miss Howard, and Lucius anxiously pacing outside the doorway to the small hearing room, which was over on the left-hand side of the space.
“What the hell was all that about?” Mr. Moore