The Ballad of Frankie Silver (18 page)

The court set the trial date for Thursday, March 29, and Sheriff William Butler was ordered to summon 150 jurors on the Thursday following to be considered for service in the proceedings. This was a larger number of potential jurors than we usually called, but because of the sensational nature of the case, I thought it prudent to have men in reserve in order to provide the lawyers with a satisfactory selection of men from which to choose. Perhaps the notion of mountain justice would convince many of our own citizens that they wanted no part in the proceedings.

Nicholas Woodfin, the young lawyer who was brought in to represent Mrs. Silver in court, arrived in Morganton a few days beforehand in order to familiarize himself with the case and to interview his client. I do not know where he stayed, perhaps at the estate of his cocounsel Thomas Wilson a few miles outside town, or perhaps he took lodgings at the Buckhorn Tavern. Whatever his residence, I know that he did not lack for dinner invitations. One of Elizabeth’s sisters had caught sight of Mr. Woodfin, boots shining, brass gleaming, and clothes brushed free of the dust of travel, riding into town on his strapping bay gelding, and she had stopped in her tracks and stared upward like one who has been given a celestial vision.

“Why, he looks for all the world like a foreign prince!” Miss Erwin exclaimed. This pronouncement of the regal nature of Mr. Woodfin’s appearance was quickly communicated to every lady in the county, or so it seemed, and they vied with one another to show him every kindness during his visit. I venture to say that the mothers of unmarried gentlewomen in our county envisioned Mr. Woodfin’s role of rescuer of damsels extending well beyond his duty to his client Mrs. Silver.

“And
does
he look like a prince, Burgess?” Elizabeth wanted to know. Tending to our infant son and to her duties at hearth and home had kept her so occupied that she had yet to see the distinguished newcomer. She relied on her sisters to keep her supplied with news.

“He is certainly an imposing figure,” I said, trying to temper my annoyance with justice. I do not recall such a fuss being made among the ladies when
I
first arrived in Morganton. “Nicholas Woodfin is a man of medium stature, with dark eyes and features in the Greek mold, I believe you would say. His hair is very dark, though already it is flecked with gray.”

“What a pity,” said Elizabeth.

“Not at all, my dear. The last thing a young lawyer should wish to look like is—a young lawyer. Age suggests wisdom and experience. His clients find his mature countenance very comforting, I expect.”

“And has he seen his most important client yet?”

“Mrs. Silver? Yes, I believe so. He must interview her before the trial begins, of course. It must have been an interesting encounter. I wonder what they made of each other?”

“How so, Burgess?”

I shrugged. “I cannot imagine two people more dissimilar than Nicholas Woodfin and the rawboned backwoods girl whom he must defend. It must have been a memorable meeting for both of them. There he is, smelling of lavender soap and pressed linen, standing over her in his spotless wool suit and polished calf-leather boots, an attorney of law, well educated and mannered, conversant in Latin, and acquainted with the most prominent gentlemen in Carolina … and there
she
is—greasy-haired, lice-ridden, and unwashed from her months in a straw-floored cell of our Burke County jail: a scrawny, graceless girl, unable to read or write, and scarcely able to understand what is happening to her, I’ll warrant.”

“The poor girl must see him as a knight in shining armor,” said Elizabeth.

“If she has ever heard of such a thing, yes.”

“But, Burgess, I have heard that despite all her deprivations in prison, Mrs. Silver is very pretty, too.”

“I doubt if Mr. Woodfin would notice if she were the Queen of Sheba,” I replied. “He will have quite enough on his mind with a murder trial to prepare for. It is a great responsibility to have someone’s life in your hands. And he is such a young man. I do not envy him one bit!” I said these words with all the more force because they were not true.

*   *   *

There were other less notorious cases to be settled in the first few days of the Superior Court session, although nobody paid them much mind. All talk centered on the final day’s business: the State v. Frances Stewart Silver, scheduled to be tried on Thursday.

I saw Thomas Wilson in court, of course, for he had other cases on the docket to attend to, but it was several days before we managed to find a moment for conversation other than the perfunctory courtesies one utters in passing.

I saw him one morning walking from his office to the courthouse, and I fell into step beside him. After wishing him good day, I said: “I hear talk of nothing but the Silver case, Mr. Wilson. Someone said that if we could sell tickets to the trial, we could do away with Burke County’s property taxes for a year.”

He permitted himself a trace of a smile. “I fear that such an avid interest in the case is a misfortune for the accused woman. Strong interest means strong feelings, and the jury will feel pressured by that, whether they admit it or not.”

“At least you will not have former sheriff Tate to contend with. Having served on the grand jury, his obligation is discharged. I would not have wanted to try a murder case with his cold stare trained on me.”

He nodded. “Well, I will not be pleading this case before the court. The stares are Mr. Woodfin’s concern, but I do not think he minds. He is a great playgoer, is Mr. Woodfin. He says that a defense attorney is the principal actor in a tragedy. He even went so far as to say that clergymen ought to attend the theatre and pay close attention to the dramatic orations, as it would greatly improve their style of preaching.”

“He seems to have some unorthodox opinions for such a young man.”

“Yes, but I think he is very able. And I’m not sure that I don’t agree with him about the importance of being a dramatic orator. Juries
feel
a great deal more than they
think
, it often seems.”

I protested, “Surely a logical argument, well presented—”

Wilson smiled again. “If you ever stand in the dock, Mr. Gaither, guilty of the crime of which you are accused, I’ll warrant that you will realize the value of making jurors weep instead of think.”

*   *   *

On Thursday morning the trial began. The family of the murdered man would be present in court, no doubt making certain that no Stewart kinfolk slipped into the ranks of the jury. By the same token, Isaiah Stewart and his sons, who waited outside the courthouse with expressionless stares, would see to it that none of the Silver clan sat in judgment of Frankie. Since both families were forty miles from home, I thought they stood a better chance than most of receiving disinterested justice.

The thought of all these grim backwoodsmen from beyond the mountains made me uneasy, for their notions of civilized behavior might differ widely from those of Morganton proper. The moment I reached the courthouse I had a word with Constable John Pearson, warning him to keep an eye on the spectators during the trial, particularly the Stewarts. They might all be armed, and they might attempt violence if the court did not rule in their favor. Taking the law into their own hands is a common enough practice on the frontier, where courts are too far removed to serve the needs of the settlers. Men in the wilderness learned to protect their kinfolk and their possessions without the benefit of the legal system.

Pearson narrowed his eyes at my warning. “You think they’ll fight, then?”

“I hope not,” I said, “but you must be vigilant. Watch everyone. Even our own local citizens. Regrettably, many of them are much the worse for drink on court days. They might become unruly. Feelings are running high over this case.”

“So are wagers,” grunted Pearson.

“They are betting on this case? On whether she is guilty?”

“No. Her guilt seems evident—at least no one is wagering otherwise. The bet is on whether Mrs. Silver will be acquitted or sent to prison,” said Pearson.

“But surely, if she is convicted—”

He shook his head. “She is a woman. They won’t hang her.”

*   *   *

The first order of business on the day of a trial is the selection of a jury. Today it would be a particularly onerous task, since more than a hundred men had crowded into the courtroom upon the summons of Sheriff Butler. John Pearson was keeping order and quiet among them as best he could, while I readied the tools of jury selection: a wooden ballot box filled with 150 slips of paper, each bearing the name of a Burke County citizen, painstakingly copied from the tax records by me. Of all these men who had been summoned, we required the services of only twelve. The law states that any man between the ages of twenty-one and sixty who is a resident of the county may serve as a juror, provided that he has in his own name or in trust for him a worth of ten pounds in lands or rents, or if he leases for twenty-one years or longer land worth the sum of twenty pounds or more. It is part of my duties as clerk of Superior Court to compile from county tax records the names of those citizens eligible to serve on juries for the year, and to furnish the sheriff with that list, arranged alphabetically, with the place of abode of each man duly recorded by his name, so that the sheriff may easily locate the fellow to summon him.

To select the jurors for the trial, slips of paper bearing the names of the hundred and fifty men summoned were put in a wooden ballot box, and their names were drawn out one by one at random.

I reached into the box and drew out the first name. “David Hennessee!”

There was a stir among the crowd, and a fair-haired young man of short stature and pleasant features stepped forward. David Hennessee told the court that his date of birth was September 3, 1806, adding that he was the son of Mr. John Hennessee, who had substantial land grants along the Catawba River and elsewhere. Thus satisfied as to age and his material qualifications as a juror, Judge Donnell said, “Have you heard about this case?”

“Some,” the young man admitted. “People have been talking about it around town.”

“Are you acquainted with any of the principals in the case?”

“You mean do I know these folks, the Silvers, or that other family? No, sir. Nary a one. They’re from a long way west of here, sir.”

“And since you have heard talk about this case, have you made up your mind whether the defendant is innocent or guilty?”

David Hennessee shook his head. “No, sir. Don’t rightly know.”

Judge Donnell nodded to the prosecutor. “I am satisfied, Mr. Alexander,” he said. “You may ask your own questions now.”

William Alexander approached the nervous young man. “I shall be brief,” he assured him. “Are you aware that the defendant in the case is a young woman?”

David Hennessee blinked. “I reckon everybody knows that, sir.”

A trickle of laughter punctuated his statement.

“Well, would you have any difficulty sitting in judgment of a woman?”

The young man hesitated. “It’s got to be done. It’s the law.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Alexander with a faint smile. “And if the evidence presented convinces you of this woman’s guilt, could you vote to condemn her? Could you vote guilty—knowing the consequences?”

“You mean, that they’d hang her?” said Hennessee.

“Very likely.”

“If I thought she done what they said she done, then … yes, sir, I could see my way clear to make her pay for it. With her life. Yes, sir.”

William Alexander turned to me. “He will do.”

This process was repeated nearly two dozen times, until satisfactory jurors were settled upon by the court. Judge Donnell thanked the fourscore freeholders who had answered the summons to jury duty. “You may stay and watch the proceedings if you wish,” he told them. Constable Pearson asked the chosen jurors to remain near the front of the court. The others filed out to mingle with the waiting crowd, and we were left with a dozen solemn citizens who knew that a young woman’s life rested in their hands.

*   *   *

The jury selection took a little more than an hour. Afterward we took a short recess to stretch our legs, but we were all back in place in the courtroom before Pearson let the rabble in. I was at my table in proximity to the judge’s bench, surrounded by the books of North Carolina laws and statutes, with my late brother’s leather-bound copy of
Principles of Criminal Law
at the ready. The state’s attorney sat reviewing his notes of the case, seemingly oblivious to the noise of the milling crowd waiting beyond the double oak doors, but after a courteous nod in his direction, I barely spared him a glance.

I was watching Frankie Silver.

In my record of the proceedings, I would of course write the defendant’s name as Frances Stewart Silver, but she had been known as “Frankie” in the mountain community she came from, and whenever her crime was discussed these past few months, it was that nickname that had been bandied about in the streets and taverns of Morganton. By now I had come to think of her this way.

The name suited her, I thought. It had a suggestion of boyishness about it that went well with her slender frame and the alert angular face that seemed forever watchful. She seemed little more than a child sitting in the dock, overshadowed by the dark elegance of Nicholas Woodfin. She was unfettered, for the law forbids the use of irons or shackles of any kind on a prisoner during trial, unless there is evident danger of escape. She was wearing a shabby blue dress that seemed far too large for her slender frame, and too long at the sleeve ends to have been her own apparel. Sarah Presnell must have done what she could to make the girl presentable for trial. Her pale hair was clean and pinned up into a knot at the nape of her neck, and she looked too well scrubbed to have emerged unwashed from ten weeks in a prison cell. I wondered if the ill-fitting dress had been a gesture of charity from some Morganton lady, or if it were her own property, and a testimony to the rigors of her confinement. She was unnaturally pale, and though she stared straight ahead without expression, she twisted her hands in her lap, knotting and unknotting her fingers in a continuous display of anxiety. Surely she knew what people were saying about her, and how little sympathy there was for her in that room.