Page 118 of The Frozen River

“Yes. Roughly an hour or so.”

“And are you certain that Cyrus remained in bed after you left?”

This talking in circles is exhausting, and it takes more effort than I would like to keep the frustration out of my voice. “I have no reason to believe that he didn’t.”

“And when the rest of your household woke later that morning, was he among them?”

Young Ephraim. God bless his little lion’s heart. The proceedings have been too much for him. He’s scared for his older brother and smart enough to know that the judges are looking for something—anything, really—that will give them cause to proceed with a trial. He leaps to his feet and says, with a voice that cracks on the first word, “I can answer that!”

At first there is a titter of laughter behind us, and his cheeks blaze. But he stiffens his back and sticks out his chin.

“Young man? Your name?” Wood asks.

“Ephraim Ballard. The s-s-second,” he stammers.

There’s a smile at the corner of Wood’s mouth. Just a flicker of kindness. “Continue please. Can you verify that Cyrus was home when the household awoke?”

“Yes! We share a room. And he was right there in bed when we were woken at five. Sam Dawin fell through the ice, and it caused a big ruckus when he was brought to us. At first we all thought he was dead.”

This seems to be enough for Wood and Parker. Both of them lean back in their seats. Nod. Set down their quills. But Hubbard—it would seem—is feeling obstinate today and is not so easily charmed by my youngest son.

“And what of the three hours in between?” he asks. “Can you verify that your brother was home? Three hours is plenty of time to sneak out and finish the job he’d started with Burgess.”

“I was asleep,” Young Ephraim says, as though it is the most obvious answer in the world. “And so was Cyrus.”

All this time Seth has watched the proceedings. He’s taken notes of his own in some scrawl that I can’t read, but now he folds the paper in half, stands, and approaches the judge’s table. “If I may speak, Your Honors?”

It is his right as Cyrus’s lawyer, and they allow it.

“I move to have these charges dropped immediately. Nothing has been accomplished during this hearing apart from dickering over the hours between two and five in the morning. It has been established that Cyrus Ballard did not go after Mr. Burgess that night. It has been established that he escorted his sisters home, went to sleep, and was there, in his own bed, when Sam Dawin was brought to the house. No witnesses have come forth saying otherwise. Nor has the court produced a single shred of evidence tying him to the murder. Every judge on this bench has argued at least once that charges in the Foster case could not be brought because there was no witness to the actual crime. Yet here, in the case of murder, that same standard is not upheld? No. This hearing is not only a gross misuse of the judiciary but a colossal waste of time. The court has no cause whatsoever to proceed beyond this point.”

Somewhere, at the back of the tavern, there is scattered clapping, and the judges retreat to the storeroom to deliberate.

Friday, March 26.—Cloudy and cold. The Court of Common Pleas convened at the Hook to consider the charges brought against Cyrus in the matter of Captain Burgess. They agreed that Cyrus should be released from the jail yard but the charges remain pending.

POWNALBORO COURTHOUSE WEDNESDAY, MARCH 31

“Let’s go,” Ephraim says. “I’m hungry.”

Our rented room is in the corner of the second floor and benefits from having three windows. Two facing east and one north. There is a bed, desk, and washstand. It is spare but clean. The sun has made a rare appearance this morning, and I lean into the soft, warm light streaming through the windows. It likely won’t last long, however. There are clouds on the horizon.

I follow Ephraim out the door and down the stairs into the tavern where the other guests have already collected.

Like many public buildings in the colonies, the Pownalboro tavern serves multiple purposes. It is a three-story white clapboard building with a long addition attached to one side. The first floor is a tavern, the second comprises six rooms for rent, and the third is living quarters for the family of Samuel Goodwin: Kennebec Proprietor, captain of the guard at Fort Shirley, and owner of this fine establishment. The addition, built thirty years ago, comprises a small jail and courthouse.

Four of the other rooms have been rented by the judges who sit on the Supreme Judicial Court. They have traveled from Boston for Joseph North’s trial. But unlike North and his colleagues in Vassal-boro, they are all lawyers by trade. They all have private practices in the city. They are men of wealth and distinction. But—to hear them mutter as they fill their plates at breakfast—none of them are pleased to be here.

The judges typically make the trip only twice per year: once in December and once in July. But the severity of the Foster case has forced a special session of the court. Adding to the complication, however, is the Kennebec itself. Usually, they sail from Boston to Bath, then upriver to Pownalboro, but they were only able to get as far as Bath yesterday, then had to rent a carriage for the remainder of the journey. The frozen river alters every facet of life for those who live along it, yet the judges take the inconvenience as a personal slight.

“That is Robert Treat Paine,” Ephraim whispers to me as we choose a table in the dining area.

I am careful not to stare. The man is a legend in the colonies. One of fifty-six men to sign the Declaration of Independence, Paine is a lawyer, politician, judge, as well as a founding member of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society. He has worked most of his life to outlaw slavery in what are now these united states, and while many believe it is a fool’s errand, I am hopeful the cause will prevail.

“Is he fair?” I ask. “Will he listen to the facts of the case?”

Ephraim nods. “I am told his moral compass points straight north.”

“And the others?”