The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [237]
“What about them, sir?” Cyrus asked, puzzled.
“Well, Cyrus,” Mr. Picton answered, fastening his case and then looking up. “If Darrow should get here before the arraignment, there’s always the possibility that he’ll try to balance his personal books by entering another insanity plea—redress the wrong of the Prendergast case by getting Libby Hatch freed on the basis of mental incompetence, that sort of thing. Lawyers carry grudges like everyone else—maybe even more. I’m not worried about my end of the matter, so far as that goes—I have enough motives and scheming on Libby’s part to demonstrate cold premeditation. But it’s another area where he might go after you, Doctor. Can you successfully argue that a woman who has killed her own children can nonetheless be mentally sound?”
The Doctor breathed deeply. “I should feel more confident, of course, if we’d discovered more details of her youth—on a hypothetical basis, it becomes much harder. Still, there are precedents—and as you say, Mr. Picton, the presence of cold, even clever, premeditation eliminates the possibility of any clearly demonstrable mental pathology, such as dementia praecox, or of any sufficiently severe brain trauma. To argue that she was mad, Darrow would have to return to the idea of ‘moral insanity’—the notion that a person can be morally but not intellectually deranged. It’s a concept that has been almost universally repudiated. Then, too, there’s always the chance that our diligent workers”—here he gave my hair a tousle—“will manage to find out more about the woman’s past before the trial begins.”
“Well, then!” Mr. Picton said, snatching up his briefcase. “We have cause for cautious optimism. Particularly, I will say, when you consider our position at the moment: the woman’s in custody, she’s on her way here, and she’s going to stand trial. I confess that I wasn’t at all sure we’d ever get this far! So let’s not sink into pessimism—it’s bad for the appetite, and Mrs. Hastings will have been cooking all afternoon. Mustn’t disappoint her!”
With our host continuing to encourage us, we wandered out into the hallway, there joining the others for the walk down the marble stairs to the first floor of the court house. Mr. Picton paused to make sure that the guard Henry had prepared one of the cells in the basement: Libby Hatch would be spending at least one night in jail, since her arraignment wasn’t scheduled to take place ’til the next day. The guard said that yes, one of the cells was ready, and then we all began to file outside for the walk down High Street.
Just before passing through the front door, I stopped and looked around at the big stone chamber, what was lit up by the soft, straw-colored light of a July evening.
“What is it, Stevie?” Mr. Picton said, noticing me pause.
I shrugged. “Last time we’ll see it this quiet for a while, I guess,” I said. “Gonna be a lot of action after tomorrow.”
“And, provided we can get bail denied,” Mr. Picton answered with a nod, “there’ll be a new tenant—for the next couple of weeks, at any rate. Henry won’t like that. None of the guards will, eh, Henry?” Mr. Picton smiled as he taunted the man. “You boys’ll actually have something to do for a change!”
Chuckling to himself, Mr. Picton clamped his pipe in his mouth and headed outside; and just as I followed, I saw a gleam of resentment enter the guard’s eyes.
We all talked and laughed a lot at dinner, though not much was said about the case. It was as if, knowing what was scheduled to happen later that night, we didn’t want to put a hex on things