The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [228]
“Seems like tempers are getting pretty hot already,” I answered. “One of those mugs tried to start something with Cyrus.”
“Are you all right?” Miss Howard said, looking up at Cyrus’s barely rattled features.
“He is all right—sure!” El Niño answered, staring up at Cyrus in awe. “He is el maestro—not all of those pigs outside can challenge Mr. Mont-rose!”
A little embarrassed, Cyrus just nodded to Miss Howard. “Nothing out of the ordinary, miss. Have they begun the proceedings?”
“I think so,” she answered. “They let the family go in with Clara, thank God—she was as pale as a sheet by the time she actually got up here.”
“Well,” I said, trying to sneak a peek through the crack between the sliding mahogany doors of the hearing room but unable to see anything. “Looks like it’s a waiting game for a while.” I held up my hands. “And yes, before anybody asks, I’ve got plenty of cigarettes …”
It was an anxious time, those next couple of hours, with nowhere to go (a walk outside being pretty effectively ruled out) and nothing to do but smoke and worry. Whoever’d built the doors in that court house had turned in some solid work, for along with being unable to spot anything through the cracks, we never heard any sound clearer than vague mumbling coming from inside—and precious little of that. Mr. Moore remarked that such was a good sign; but good or not, it was strange and not a little disturbing to be standing outside a courtroom without ever hearing the usual sounds of argument. We didn’t even get the occasional echo of a banging gavel, for a grand jury proceeding, like I’ve said, was and is the district attorney’s show (or, in this case, the assistant D.A.’s), and there was no judge inside that chamber to go messing with the way things were conducted. There was just Mr. Picton, his evidence and witnesses, and the jury itself. Given such an arrangement and the limited amount of noise what bled out through the door, there did seem to be good reason for us to believe that things were going pretty well; and as the time dragged on, each one of us tried harder and harder to accept that idea.
For once, our assumptions turned out to match the facts. At about one-thirty we heard the sounds of chairs and feet moving around inside the hearing room, and then the mahogany doors slid open, an officer of the court manning each slab. The Doctor and the Westons were the first ones out of the room, the Doctor speaking with some feeling to the still pale Clara; but as he passed by the rest of us, he managed a small, sure nod, saying in no uncertain terms that they’d gotten the indictment. There was a quick moment of mutual congratulation among the rest of us, but it was cut short by the sight of the Weston family coming out of the hearing room: old Josiah looked like he’d been through a battle, and his wife, Ruth, was very pale and wan—in fact, she would’ve collapsed to the floor, I think, if Peter and Kate hadn’t been holding her up by the arms. As they passed by, any joy we felt was doused by the cold realization both of what had just happened and what remained to be done—and of how much danger they all might be in once Libby Hatch was brought back to Ballston Spa.
The members of the grand jury stayed milling around inside the hearing room, as if they were afraid to come out; and when Mr. Picton eventually emerged with Sheriff Dunning, the lawman looked so rattled and confused that it was easy to tell that the town of Ballston Spa, which had spent the morning being so confused and hostile, was about to get a shake-up what would magnify those feelings many times over. Mr. Picton had his pipe out, and he was sticking it in the sheriff’s face like a pistol as he lectured him:
“… and I mean it, Dunning—whatever your personal opinions about this matter, due process has been served, and I expect you and every other officer of the court and the law in this county to respect and uphold the grand jury’s findings. That includes extending your protection to whatever persons my office may choose to work with, as