neighbor.”
“That's a generalization, Mr. Campbell,” I said shortly. I thought of Mama and the hours she spent each week gathering clothing, food, and medicine for the poor. There was Mrs. Hearst's Settlement House in South Park, Mrs. Crocker's Boys’ and Girls’ Aid Society, not to mention the Old People's Home she had helped found. “There are members of Society who care deeply about the needs of the less fortunate. They give—”
He gave a snort of impatience. “I’m sure you know more about the vagaries of San Francisco Society than I do. However, since I didn’t come here to debate social reform, I’ll bid you good night.” With a slight nod of his head, he turned toward the door.
“Wait,” I called after him. Something in his expression made me uneasy. “Perhaps if I knew your message, I could help.”
For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard, but after one or two strides of those long legs he stopped and turned back. I don’t know what made me think of Annjenett, but suddenly I was certain his errand concerned her.
“It's about Mrs. Hanaford, isn’t it?” When he didn’t answer, I said, “I’m her attorney. I demand to be told what has happened.”
“You really are a meddlesome woman,” he spat, but I could see his resolve was weakening. “All right,” he went on grudgingly. “Earlier this evening Mrs. Hanaford was arrested and taken to the
city jail. The police are still looking for her love—that is, a gentleman of her acquaintance.”
I could hardly credit this. “Annjenett, taken to jail? Why?”
He hesitated a moment, then blurted, “Mrs. Hanaford and a fellow by the name of Peter Fowler have been charged with the murder of Cornelius Hanaford.”
I was not allowed to visit Annjenett until Monday morning, a delay which seemed like an eternity. Through his friend George Lewis, Samuel learned that Peter Fowler had finally been arrested early the previous morning and that both he and Annjenett were being held without bail—not only because they were charged with a capital offense, but because the presumption of their guilt was too great to risk flight. Samuel insisted on accompanying me to the city jail, an unnecessary but welcome arrangement.
Our cab made its way through heavy morning fog to arrive at the jail shortly after nine. As it turned out, it was as well Samuel was with me, since Annjenett's jailers—rejecting the possibility that I might be her attorney—refused to allow me inside. It was only after my brother, without benefit of bar accreditation, insisted he was co-attorney that we were finally admitted.
It was unusual for the city jail to be called upon to house a woman of Annjenett's refinement, but the guard assured me that the widow had been allotted the best accommodations the institution had to offer. Nonetheless, her bleak chamber shocked me. The cell was bitterly cold and barely large enough to hold three people. A narrow cot, covered by several coarse woolen blankets, took up the limited space. To one side was a cracked chamber pot and a porcelain bowl filled with water. There were no table or chairs. In
fact there was no place for visitors to sit except upon the cot. A small, barred window, located high on one wall, provided the only source of light, and little of that on this dreary morning.
“Sarah, thank goodness you’ve come.” Annjenett clutched my arm, her white face and red eyes making my heart ache in sympathy.
“How are you, my dear?” Anxious as I was to hear what had happened, I first had to ensure that she was being treated well by her jailers.
“Everyone is kind enough,” she said with a weak smile. “They bring me extra food and blankets, but there's little they can do to change this...” She swept a thin hand around the cell.
Leaving Samuel to stand by the barred window, I took the young widow's hand and led her to sit on the cot. “I know this is difficult,” I said, taking a seat beside her. “But if I’m to
“That's a generalization, Mr. Campbell,” I said shortly. I thought of Mama and the hours she spent each week gathering clothing, food, and medicine for the poor. There was Mrs. Hearst's Settlement House in South Park, Mrs. Crocker's Boys’ and Girls’ Aid Society, not to mention the Old People's Home she had helped found. “There are members of Society who care deeply about the needs of the less fortunate. They give—”
He gave a snort of impatience. “I’m sure you know more about the vagaries of San Francisco Society than I do. However, since I didn’t come here to debate social reform, I’ll bid you good night.” With a slight nod of his head, he turned toward the door.
“Wait,” I called after him. Something in his expression made me uneasy. “Perhaps if I knew your message, I could help.”
For a moment I thought he hadn’t heard, but after one or two strides of those long legs he stopped and turned back. I don’t know what made me think of Annjenett, but suddenly I was certain his errand concerned her.
“It's about Mrs. Hanaford, isn’t it?” When he didn’t answer, I said, “I’m her attorney. I demand to be told what has happened.”
“You really are a meddlesome woman,” he spat, but I could see his resolve was weakening. “All right,” he went on grudgingly. “Earlier this evening Mrs. Hanaford was arrested and taken to the
city jail. The police are still looking for her love—that is, a gentleman of her acquaintance.”
I could hardly credit this. “Annjenett, taken to jail? Why?”
He hesitated a moment, then blurted, “Mrs. Hanaford and a fellow by the name of Peter Fowler have been charged with the murder of Cornelius Hanaford.”
I was not allowed to visit Annjenett until Monday morning, a delay which seemed like an eternity. Through his friend George Lewis, Samuel learned that Peter Fowler had finally been arrested early the previous morning and that both he and Annjenett were being held without bail—not only because they were charged with a capital offense, but because the presumption of their guilt was too great to risk flight. Samuel insisted on accompanying me to the city jail, an unnecessary but welcome arrangement.
Our cab made its way through heavy morning fog to arrive at the jail shortly after nine. As it turned out, it was as well Samuel was with me, since Annjenett's jailers—rejecting the possibility that I might be her attorney—refused to allow me inside. It was only after my brother, without benefit of bar accreditation, insisted he was co-attorney that we were finally admitted.
It was unusual for the city jail to be called upon to house a woman of Annjenett's refinement, but the guard assured me that the widow had been allotted the best accommodations the institution had to offer. Nonetheless, her bleak chamber shocked me. The cell was bitterly cold and barely large enough to hold three people. A narrow cot, covered by several coarse woolen blankets, took up the limited space. To one side was a cracked chamber pot and a porcelain bowl filled with water. There were no table or chairs. In
fact there was no place for visitors to sit except upon the cot. A small, barred window, located high on one wall, provided the only source of light, and little of that on this dreary morning.
“Sarah, thank goodness you’ve come.” Annjenett clutched my arm, her white face and red eyes making my heart ache in sympathy.
“How are you, my dear?” Anxious as I was to hear what had happened, I first had to ensure that she was being treated well by her jailers.
“Everyone is kind enough,” she said with a weak smile. “They bring me extra food and blankets, but there's little they can do to change this...” She swept a thin hand around the cell.
Leaving Samuel to stand by the barred window, I took the young widow's hand and led her to sit on the cot. “I know this is difficult,” I said, taking a seat beside her. “But if I’m to
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