Page 152 of In These Hills

Having slept fitfully the first night, Josephine had hardly slept at all the past two. So as she’d been sitting in her cell a while earlier and heard footsteps echoing down the corridor, she’d prayed with everything in her that they would stop at her cell. And they had. Still, she warned herself against hoping.

If Dodge was still trying to help her—and she believed he was, or wanted to believe it—she’d heard nothing from him. Or from Sarah or any other of the suffrage sisters. Did they even know she was here? Or had they tried, only to be turned away?

A door opened at the far end of the room and an older, distinguished-looking, well-dressed man started toward her, and hope raised its weary head. Until he claimed a seat at a table where another inmate waited, and Josephine lowered her gaze. The blisters on her palm, tender and raw, had begun to rupture. The petroleum jelly the nurse hastily smeared on that morning following breakfast did nothing to soothe the burn, though it did protect the open wound.

The door opened again and a young man—no more than eighteen or nineteen—walked in. He headed in her direction as she silently willed him not to. She wanted someone older, with more experience. Someone who stood a chance of—

“Miss Dunham?” he said, his eyes barely meeting hers. “Josephine Dunham?”

“Yes.” She tried to mask her disappointment.

“Justin Thacker.”

He held out his right hand, and she held up hers.

He grimaced. “I am sorry. That looks recent.” He sat across from her and pulled a file from his worn satchel, then unclipped his pocket watch from the chain and set the watch on the table. “We have little time, Miss Dunham, so forgive me for moving through this quickly. I will dispense with pleasantries, which have never come naturally to me. In cases such as yours, which are abjectly straightforward—”

“Wait! It’s not straightforward, Mr. Thacker. I am innocent! Clay Darden attacked me, and I would appreciate the opportunity to tell you, in detail, what—”

“I beg you to listen, Miss Dunham.” Though his tone carried urgency, the calm, measured cadence of his voice never fluctuated. “I have much to say and, as I have expressed, we have little time.”

“You’re an attorney who swore loyalty to the Constitution, the laws of the state, and to uphold justice, yet you don’t want to hear my side of the story?” She tried to capture his gaze, but he seemed intent on avoiding it.

“I would phrase it this way: I have no need to hear your side of the story.”

Josephine stared, her confidence in justice, in the legal system, and in any hope of leaving this place crumbling.

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“TO BEGIN AGAIN,” Mr. Thacker continued, “in cases such as yours, which are abjectly straightforward—due not to your guilt, but because of the enemies you have made—the prison allocates limited resources. Meaning—”

Josephine looked up. “Due not to my guilt? You’re saying you don’t think I’m guilty?”

His gaze skimmed hers, and he looked genuinely perplexed. “Miss Dunham, we know you are innocent.”

“We?”

He glanced at his watch. “I have twice communicated that our time is short. I must insist you allow me to continue uninterrupted.”

She found his manner beyond curious and his refusal to meet her gaze maddening, yet she nodded, clinging to We know you are innocent.

“To begin again . . . The prison allocates limited resources, meaning legal representation. Namely, me. They assign the least experienced—or those they perceive to be so. Yet, I have an inkling our meeting today has long been in the making.” He glanced at his watch again. “To that end, I must share certain information. Some of it will seem superfluous until our conclusion, but some, I trust, you will find heartening. Yet whatever I say, you must appear displeased. As though my words are unwelcome. Do you understand?”

She didn’t, but nodded, desperate for hope.

“First, I knew your brother Todd. I—”

“W-what? How did you—”

“You are failing at this, Miss Dunham. Displeasure, please.”

She tried to frown, but knowing they shared memories of Todd made it impossible.

“Think of Clay Darden and what he did to you,” he said, voice low. “And know that he did it not only to you, but to other women who were not as resourceful. There we go. That’s the anger we need to display for those watching. And they are watching. Not only did I know your brother—” His words fired in rapid succession, as though his mind raced a dozen steps ahead. “He was a remarkable mentor to me. I worked with him, and others, to uncover the corruption we discovered a few years ago in the prison system here. It’s still rampant, and not only among the freedmen, but among the women’s prison.” He glanced at his watch again. “Not much time. The judge assigned to your case has formally denied bail, effectively convicting you before a trial date was even set. The judge based his denial mainly on pressure from Mayor Darden, of course. But also on the fact that you’re considered a flight risk. Which, honestly, can you blame him?” His glance flickered to her face. “Oh, nice flash of anger. You’ve caught on very well, Miss Dunham.”

“Because I do not like being wrongly convicted, Mr. Thacker, and I don’t appreciate playing games with my freedom. Which is what this meeting is beginning to feel like.”

“I assure you, this is no game. The details simply do not make sense to you because you do not yet have all the facts. Now please, stay with me. What you need to know next is that Clay Darden who is now, indeed, dead—yes, we are aware, and thank you for whatever hand you had in that back in Lynchburg.” He grimaced. “Very poor choice of words on my part.”