tarred pigtail; the other a trapper from the trackless mountains of northern Mexico, buckskin shirt stiff with sweat and filth. Both men already stank in the early summer heat. There was no question what had caused their deaths.
He laid the blankets back over their faces, and silently left the room.
January feared he would be too late to hear any of the proceedings of the arraignment-which in any case he knew would be short-but when he hurried into the Presbytère building and through the door of the Recorder's Court, the Clerk was still engaged in an angry convocation with Lieutenant Shaw: “. . . just a minute ago,” Shaw was saying mildly.
“The case has been called . . .”
“It is an outrage!” Gerard put in, fists clenched furiously. “An outrage! There is no truth . . .”
“I reckon Mr. Vilhardouin”-Shaw pronounced the French name properly, something that always surprised January about the Kentuckian-“just sorta made a stop at the jakes, and he'll be along. . . . There he is.”
At the same moment a voice behind January said coldly, “I beg Monsieur's pardon. . . .” An American voice added, “Get outa that door, boy.”
January stepped quickly aside. Vilhardouin jostled brusquely past him, followed closely by a lithe, powerful man whose lower two shirt buttons strained over the slop of his belly beneath a food-stained yellow waistcoat's inadequate hem. As the two men proceeded up the aisle, the sloppy man paused here and there to nod greetings to this man or that: keelboat rousters in slouch hats and heavy boots, spitting tobacco on the floor; filibusters from the saloons along the levee; a gentleman sitting stiff and disapproving beside a shackled slave. The Clerk of the Court glared ferociously and demanded, “What brings you here, Blodgett?” and the man returned a stubbled and rather oily smile.
“It's an open court, Mr. Hardee.” Blodgett's voice was gold and gravel, with a drunkard's slurry drawl. “Surely a man can come sit in an open court if he wants to.”
As January slid onto the end of the bench beside Paul and Mamzelle Marie, Hardee knocked his gavel on the desk and said, “Are you Célie Jumon, nee Gérard, wife of Isaak Jumon of this parish?”
She stood, small and pretty in her filthy dress. “I am.”
“I object to these proceedings!” Monsieur V'ilhardouin sprang to his feet. “Madame Jumon does not understand English and it is a violation of her rights to-”
“Monsieur Vilhardouin,” protested the girl, “I understand-”
“Be silent!” ordered her father.
Vilhurdnuin turned back to the Clerk of the Court. “Madame Jumon does not sufficiently understand English to the degree that she can comprehend the charges brought against her.”
Two louse-ridden and bewhiskered denizens of the Swamp and Girod Street applauded; a blowsy uncorseted woman hollered “You stand up for your rights, gal!” and Madame Gérard shrank against her husband in revulsion and terror.
A harried-looking notary was called in to translate, and asked in French if Célie Jumon was in fact Célie Jumon, then informed her that she was charged with feloniously conspiring to kill and slay Isaak Jumon, her husband, a free man of color of this city, on or about the night of the twenty-third to -fourth of June, and how did she plead?
“Not guilty,” she said, forcing her voice steady.
“Hell, honey, no shame about it,” yelled the blowsy woman, “I killed four myself!”
“Silence in the court.” The Clerk spit tobacco into the sandbox beside him, a surprising display of fastidiousness given the wholesale expectoration going on all around him. “You are hereby remanded to custody until . . . Where'd that calendar go?” He shuffled the pages of the ledger handed to him. “Good Lord, who are all these folks? Damn Judge Gravier for leavin' town like this. Puts everybody back. Now Judge Danforth talkin' about goin', too. . . .”
“May it please the court.” Vilhardouin
He laid the blankets back over their faces, and silently left the room.
January feared he would be too late to hear any of the proceedings of the arraignment-which in any case he knew would be short-but when he hurried into the Presbytère building and through the door of the Recorder's Court, the Clerk was still engaged in an angry convocation with Lieutenant Shaw: “. . . just a minute ago,” Shaw was saying mildly.
“The case has been called . . .”
“It is an outrage!” Gerard put in, fists clenched furiously. “An outrage! There is no truth . . .”
“I reckon Mr. Vilhardouin”-Shaw pronounced the French name properly, something that always surprised January about the Kentuckian-“just sorta made a stop at the jakes, and he'll be along. . . . There he is.”
At the same moment a voice behind January said coldly, “I beg Monsieur's pardon. . . .” An American voice added, “Get outa that door, boy.”
January stepped quickly aside. Vilhardouin jostled brusquely past him, followed closely by a lithe, powerful man whose lower two shirt buttons strained over the slop of his belly beneath a food-stained yellow waistcoat's inadequate hem. As the two men proceeded up the aisle, the sloppy man paused here and there to nod greetings to this man or that: keelboat rousters in slouch hats and heavy boots, spitting tobacco on the floor; filibusters from the saloons along the levee; a gentleman sitting stiff and disapproving beside a shackled slave. The Clerk of the Court glared ferociously and demanded, “What brings you here, Blodgett?” and the man returned a stubbled and rather oily smile.
“It's an open court, Mr. Hardee.” Blodgett's voice was gold and gravel, with a drunkard's slurry drawl. “Surely a man can come sit in an open court if he wants to.”
As January slid onto the end of the bench beside Paul and Mamzelle Marie, Hardee knocked his gavel on the desk and said, “Are you Célie Jumon, nee Gérard, wife of Isaak Jumon of this parish?”
She stood, small and pretty in her filthy dress. “I am.”
“I object to these proceedings!” Monsieur V'ilhardouin sprang to his feet. “Madame Jumon does not understand English and it is a violation of her rights to-”
“Monsieur Vilhardouin,” protested the girl, “I understand-”
“Be silent!” ordered her father.
Vilhurdnuin turned back to the Clerk of the Court. “Madame Jumon does not sufficiently understand English to the degree that she can comprehend the charges brought against her.”
Two louse-ridden and bewhiskered denizens of the Swamp and Girod Street applauded; a blowsy uncorseted woman hollered “You stand up for your rights, gal!” and Madame Gérard shrank against her husband in revulsion and terror.
A harried-looking notary was called in to translate, and asked in French if Célie Jumon was in fact Célie Jumon, then informed her that she was charged with feloniously conspiring to kill and slay Isaak Jumon, her husband, a free man of color of this city, on or about the night of the twenty-third to -fourth of June, and how did she plead?
“Not guilty,” she said, forcing her voice steady.
“Hell, honey, no shame about it,” yelled the blowsy woman, “I killed four myself!”
“Silence in the court.” The Clerk spit tobacco into the sandbox beside him, a surprising display of fastidiousness given the wholesale expectoration going on all around him. “You are hereby remanded to custody until . . . Where'd that calendar go?” He shuffled the pages of the ledger handed to him. “Good Lord, who are all these folks? Damn Judge Gravier for leavin' town like this. Puts everybody back. Now Judge Danforth talkin' about goin', too. . . .”
“May it please the court.” Vilhardouin
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