“He is to have four lawyers?” I said to Woodfin when we all assembled a few days before the trial.
Nicholas Woodfin smiled. “There is no one so cautious-or so rightfully afraid-as an attorney who must face trial by jury.”
“I suppose it is mainly for show,” I said. “To demonstrate to the jury that the most prominent citizens of western North Carolina stand behind Waightstill in his hour of trouble.”
“Mostly that,” Woodfin agreed. “I believe I am to do most of the speechmaking, since I have the most trial experience.”
“You have made quite a name for yourself in the courtroom since we first met,” I told him. “We are all glad that you are making an exception to your rule about not appearing in capital cases.”
Woodfin nodded. “Waightstill is family as well as a friend and colleague,” he reminded me. “Besides, I do not really consider this a capital case.”
“Waightstill shot the fellow in open court. I saw it. It was no duel. I do not think that Fleming even saw the weapon. But, of course, as one of Waightstill’s attorneys, I cannot testify.”
Nicholas Woodfin smiled. “Nor can Waightstill, since he is the defendant, but from what I hear, there were witnesses aplenty to the horsewhipping incident in Marion. I think we can show a jury that Sam Fleming needed killing.”
“But why not challenge the fellow to a duel?” I asked. “Lord knows there is family precedent for that. Waightstill’s grandfather and namesake once got into just such a quarrel with a fellow lawyer over in Tennessee. They agreed to a duel, and when the time came for the battle of honor, each man carefully fired a shot over the head of the other. They left the field the best of friends-or so the family says.”
Woodfin looked thoughtful. “Who was the other lawyer?”
“Andrew Jackson.”
“I thought so.” Woodfin smiled. “Well, that was a long time ago, my friend, and there were giants in those days, but here in 1851, we are given the task of defending a man whose opponent was even less of a gentleman than Andrew Jackson. Horsewhipping a colleague in a public street! I ask you!”
“And you think you can get him freed, despite the lapse of two weeks between incident and reprisal? Despite the scores of witnesses?”
“Of course I can,” said Woodfin. “No one should hang when his offense has been committed in defense of his person or his honor.”
“I wish you could have convinced a jury of that twenty years ago,” I said with a sigh. It was an impudent remark to make, I suppose, but I was uneasy with the dismissal of Samuel Fleming’s murder as a justifiable execution. Also, the memory of Frankie Silver had lain heavily on my mind these past few days, and my words were out before I could call them back.
Woodfin gave me a blank look. “Twenty years ago?”
“In this very court. You lost that capital case, alas.”
“Lord, yes. Little Mrs. Silver,” sighed Woodfin. “I have not forgotten her. I wish to this day that I could have saved her. You were at that trial, too, weren’t you, Gaither?”
I nodded. “I was clerk of Superior Court in those days.”
“And old Tom Wilson was my co-counsel. I always pictured him as an unhappy cross between crow and scarecrow. What has become of him, anyhow? I had thought to have seen him here.”
I hesitated. “He no longer lives in Burke County,” I said at last. “He has taken his family off to Texas.”
“Really? How long ago?”
“Only a few months back.”
“Thomas Wilson went to Texas? At his age? What was he, seventy?”
“Only sixty, I think,” I said, as if that made it any less extraordinary for an elderly lawyer to strike out for far-off territory.
“But I thought he had been practicing law here in Morganton forever,” Woodfin protested.
“Twenty years or so. Yes.”
“And surely I’m correct in remembering that his wife had some connection to the Erwins of Belvidere?”
“She is Matilda Erwin’s niece.” I had avoided looking at Woodfin as I made my replies, and he must have realized that I was less than forthcoming about the matter of Thomas Wilson’s sudden departure. He was watching me closely.
“So,” he said, “Thomas Wilson has given up a twenty-year law practice, and a good farm near his influential relatives. At his advanced age, he has forsaken the state of Carolina to go and seek his fortune in Texas. Does he think that he will have some political future out there in the new government in Austin, now that the territory has become a state?”
“He has not gone to Austin,” I murmured. “Really, I know nothing about it.”
Nicholas Woodfin was an excellent lawyer. Certainly he was too skilled at cross-examination to let this remark pass, no matter how casually I endeavored to say it. “The Wilsons havenot gone to Austin?”
“No.”
“Where then?”
“I believe my wife has had a letter from Mrs. Wilson a few weeks back. It seems that the family has settled in a little place called Seguin.”
“Where in God’s name is that?”
“They say that it is in the vicinity of San Antonio, where the Battle of the Alamo was fought.”
“Seguin,” Woodfin repeated, searching his mind for a familiar ring to the word. He did not find one. “Is it a spa of some sort? A restorative to health?”
“No. It boasts no mineral springs. It is said to be a dry sort of place.”
He pondered this. “Gold mining country?”
“I think not.”
“Land grants for gentlemen settlers?”
“Not that I have heard. No.”
“Is he practicing law, then?”
“I believe he is. Certainly. I have not heard otherwise.” I cast about for some other topic to distract my colleague from his interrogation. Even talk of Avery’s plight was beginning to seem preferable to our current discussion.
“I believe it is difficult to practice law in Texas,” said Woodfin. “One must not only know United States law, now that the territory is a state. One must also contend with old deeds from French jurisdiction, and also with Mexican law, which is based upon the Spanish system. It must be quite a challenge to an old fellow who has never practiced law outside the boundaries of North Carolina.”
I had no answer to this.
Woodfin leaned back to watch me as he prolonged the silence, so that I should have ample time to reflect with him upon the absurdity of my statements. Why indeed should a man of nearly sixty leave his farm and his law practice of twenty years to go to a remote village in Texas, removing his only son from a chance at a university education? If I had been an ordinary citizen upon the witness stand, I would have burst forth with the explanation simply to end the awkwardness of the encounter. But I, too, am an attorney. Perhaps I am not the seasoned trial lawyer that Woodfin is, but I hope I can hold my own in a discourse with my peers.
“Well, Mr. Wilson has gone off to seek a new life,” I said as heartily as I could manage.
“There is a saying I’ve heard in recent years,” said Woodfin thoughtfully. “Some men come to a time in their lives when they either go to hell or Texas.”
I managed a watery smile. “I’m sure we all wish Mr. Wilson luck in his bold new endeavor.”
Nicholas Woodfin nodded thoughtfully, for by now he had realized that as a gentleman I could not disclose Thomas Wilson’s reasons for leaving Morganton. “Wish him luck, indeed,” Woodfin echoed. “So you should, Mr. Gaither, for he will need all of it, and more, I think.”
I cast about for another subject to distract my colleague from further inquiries about the Wilsons. “Do you remember Jackson Stewart, the elder brother of Mrs. Silver?”