A Respectable Actress by Dorothy Love

Author:Dorothy Love
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook
Publisher: Thomas Nelson
Published: 2015-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

JANUARY 30

“All rise.”

Philip took India’s hand and drew her to her feet as the judge entered the packed courtroom. Noise from the courthouse filtered in—footsteps on the stairs, the closing of doors, the buzz of conversations punctuated by bursts of laughter. Shards of sunlight poured through the windows, stabbing her eyes. The trees lining the street still dripped water from last night’s rain.

Dimly, India heard the recitation of the charges against her and the judge’s quick greeting to the men seated in the jury box. Behind her, spectators jostled for seating on the polished wooden benches, their excited whispers mingling with the rustling of fabrics as they settled in.

In the front row, newspaper reporters juggled bulky cameras, notebooks, and their winter coats, some of them clearly taking an unseemly delight in her misfortune. The morning’s edition of the Savannah Morning Herald had featured a drawing of her and Philip laughing as they exited the theater under a headline that read “Murder No Laughing Matter.”

Philip told her not to worry about it, but her mind filled with the heavy, relentless beat of doubt: she was an outsider. The gun was hers. Everyone knew Arthur Sterling had upstaged her the night before and that she had upbraided him for it.

Though Philip was feeling even more confident after finding the ammunition lodged in the wall, perhaps it would prove to be unrelated to her case. She pressed her hands to her midsection and tried to breathe.

Judge Bartlett, a brittle old man with a head of cotton-fluff hair, paged through a stack of documents and cleared his throat. “Mr. McLendon, are you ready to proceed?”

The prosecutor, whose appearance and demeanor oozed Southern charm, stood. “We are, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Sinclair?”

Philip nodded.

“Very well, Mr. McLendon, call your first witness.”

India heard Philip draw in a long breath. She reminded herself to remain calm and impassive, even as her character was impugned in open court. Before her on the table sat a pad and pencil. A glass of water. At her feet, the small travel satchel packed with the few things she would be allowed to have in her jail cell: her comb, clean stockings, a small bottle of rosewater Mrs. Mackay had pressed into her hands at the last moment.

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, his voice rich and melodic, “the people call Dr. Wakefield Adams.”

The doctor, a rotund man with the ruddy complexion and bulbous nose of a habitual imbiber, made his way to the front of the room and was sworn in.

“Now, Dr. Adams,” Mr. McLendon began. “Were you called to the Southern Palace Theater on the evening of December 20 of last year?”

“No, sir. I wasn’t called there. I was already there. To see Miss Hartley’s play.”

“Oh?” The prosecutor turned to look at the jury. “So you were an eyewitness to the shooting?”

India shifted in her chair.

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