stood again, somberly handsome in his exquisitely tailored black. “Given that the accused is below legal age, we request that she be released into the custody of her father.”
The Clerk straightened up, and glared at him in annoyance.
“Her father, a householder and taxpayer of this city, stands ready and willing to put up whatever security is required,” went on the lawyer. “To be denied this by a Clerk of the Recorder's Court-not even the Recorder himself, who is apparently elsewhere today-What did you say the Recorder's name is, Monsieur Blodgett?”
Blodgett looked up from the notebook in which he was busily scribbling. “Leblanc,” he said, in English, and more loudly than was necessary if Vilhardouin was the only one intended to hear. “Clerk's name is Hardee.” He made another note.
Vilhardouin turned back to the bench. “Should Mr.-er-Hardee see fit to deny this mercy to both parent and child in Mr. Leblanc's absence, I fear that even the best efforts of Mr. Blodgett here will not suffice to make the story even remotely favorable when it appears tomorrow in the New Orleans Abeille. Mayor Prieur reads the Abeille-the Bee-does he not, Mr. Blodgett?”
Blodgett helped himself to his hip flask, and wiped his stubbled underlip. “So he does, Mr. Vilhardouin. So he does.”
The Clerk's face blotched an ugly red. He tapped his gavel sharply. “Prisoner is released to the recognizance of her father, Fortune Gérard, a free man of color of this city, on a bail of a thousand dollars, in respect for her tender years. You want me to have that translated into Frenchy, Mr. Vilardwan?”
“Yes,” said Vilhardouin, unruffled. “Please.”
“Monsieur Gerard. . . .” January half-turned on the bench as Gerard, Vilhardouin, Blodgett, Madame Gérard, and the trembling Célie Jumon moved past them toward the court's outer doors. “If we could pool our information and resources . . .”
“Get your hands off me, M'sieu.” The little man pulled his arm away, although January's fingers had not actually come in contact with his sleeve. His face was cold and set. “I wish nothing to do with you, or your sister; and I tell you that should she attempt to spread calumny against my daughter or imply that she would do so vile a thing as to consult with her on any matter whatsoever, it will go the worse for her and for you all.”
“Papa . . .”
“Be silent, girl!”
“Are you Olympia Corbier,” cut in the Clerk's angry voice, “also known as Olympia Snakebones? You are accused of conspiring to feloniously kill and slay one Isaak Jumon, a free man of color of this city, how the hell you plead?”
“Not guilty.” When their mother beat her, January remembered, she had stood so.
“You're hereby remanded to custody . . .”
“Sir.” January got to his feet. “Sir, my name is Benjamin January, a free man of color, brother to Madame Corbier.” He was careful to speak his best and most educated English. “Sir, is there any possibility of releasing my sister into the custody of her husband? She is the mother of small children, and conditions in the Cabildo are such that to remain there would endanger her life. There were two deaths from yellow fever in the jail last night, goodness knows how many others are infected-”
“That's a lie!” One of the well-dressed gentlemen at the back of the court jerked to his feet. January recognized Jean Bouille, a member of the City Council, with a couple of chastened slaves in tow. “There is no yellow fever in New Orleans!”
“Who says there is?” The Clerk spit furiously. “There's been no such thing! That reporter gone? Good. Cuthbert-” He turned to address the Constable of the Court. “This nigger's saying there's people dyin' of yellow jack in the jail, and that isn't true.” He turned back, not to January, but glaring out across the other men and women in the courtroom. “It isn't true,” he repeated in a loud, harsh voice. “And I better not hear
The Clerk straightened up, and glared at him in annoyance.
“Her father, a householder and taxpayer of this city, stands ready and willing to put up whatever security is required,” went on the lawyer. “To be denied this by a Clerk of the Recorder's Court-not even the Recorder himself, who is apparently elsewhere today-What did you say the Recorder's name is, Monsieur Blodgett?”
Blodgett looked up from the notebook in which he was busily scribbling. “Leblanc,” he said, in English, and more loudly than was necessary if Vilhardouin was the only one intended to hear. “Clerk's name is Hardee.” He made another note.
Vilhardouin turned back to the bench. “Should Mr.-er-Hardee see fit to deny this mercy to both parent and child in Mr. Leblanc's absence, I fear that even the best efforts of Mr. Blodgett here will not suffice to make the story even remotely favorable when it appears tomorrow in the New Orleans Abeille. Mayor Prieur reads the Abeille-the Bee-does he not, Mr. Blodgett?”
Blodgett helped himself to his hip flask, and wiped his stubbled underlip. “So he does, Mr. Vilhardouin. So he does.”
The Clerk's face blotched an ugly red. He tapped his gavel sharply. “Prisoner is released to the recognizance of her father, Fortune Gérard, a free man of color of this city, on a bail of a thousand dollars, in respect for her tender years. You want me to have that translated into Frenchy, Mr. Vilardwan?”
“Yes,” said Vilhardouin, unruffled. “Please.”
“Monsieur Gerard. . . .” January half-turned on the bench as Gerard, Vilhardouin, Blodgett, Madame Gérard, and the trembling Célie Jumon moved past them toward the court's outer doors. “If we could pool our information and resources . . .”
“Get your hands off me, M'sieu.” The little man pulled his arm away, although January's fingers had not actually come in contact with his sleeve. His face was cold and set. “I wish nothing to do with you, or your sister; and I tell you that should she attempt to spread calumny against my daughter or imply that she would do so vile a thing as to consult with her on any matter whatsoever, it will go the worse for her and for you all.”
“Papa . . .”
“Be silent, girl!”
“Are you Olympia Corbier,” cut in the Clerk's angry voice, “also known as Olympia Snakebones? You are accused of conspiring to feloniously kill and slay one Isaak Jumon, a free man of color of this city, how the hell you plead?”
“Not guilty.” When their mother beat her, January remembered, she had stood so.
“You're hereby remanded to custody . . .”
“Sir.” January got to his feet. “Sir, my name is Benjamin January, a free man of color, brother to Madame Corbier.” He was careful to speak his best and most educated English. “Sir, is there any possibility of releasing my sister into the custody of her husband? She is the mother of small children, and conditions in the Cabildo are such that to remain there would endanger her life. There were two deaths from yellow fever in the jail last night, goodness knows how many others are infected-”
“That's a lie!” One of the well-dressed gentlemen at the back of the court jerked to his feet. January recognized Jean Bouille, a member of the City Council, with a couple of chastened slaves in tow. “There is no yellow fever in New Orleans!”
“Who says there is?” The Clerk spit furiously. “There's been no such thing! That reporter gone? Good. Cuthbert-” He turned to address the Constable of the Court. “This nigger's saying there's people dyin' of yellow jack in the jail, and that isn't true.” He turned back, not to January, but glaring out across the other men and women in the courtroom. “It isn't true,” he repeated in a loud, harsh voice. “And I better not hear
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