Page 78 of The Frozen River

Hubbard looks at me. “Mistress Ballard?”

“Yes?”

“How long do you think he was dead before entering the water?”

“I doubt more than a few moments,” I say.

“Why?”

“The bruises. He had dozens of them, and they were fresh. Most were pink and swollen. Some were bright purple. But none the green and brown of a fading bruise,” I tell the court, then add carefully, “In my three decades of tending patients, I have never seen a dead man bruise. Blood pools after death, Your Honor. It doesn’t rush to the skin’s surface.”

He looks at Page. Lifts an eyebrow. “Is that correct, Doctor?”

“It is, but—”

“Have you ever seen a hanging, Doctor Page?”

“I have performed more than one dissection on such—”

“I did not ask you if you had ever seen a hanged man, but a man hanged. Have you?”

“No.”

“Thank you. You may both be seated.”

“If I may, Your Honor?” Page takes a step forward.

“Yes?”

“You asked me to explain my original assessment. But I would like the court to know that it has since changed.”

“Pray tell why that might be?” Hubbard asks.

“Pertinent information was kept from me during my initial examination.”

“Do explain.”

“It has come to my attention that the victim was in a violent confrontation just hours before his body was found. Had I known that, it would have factored into my assessment.”

I am sometimes astonished at how still I can be while my heart is racing. How dare Page?

James Parker takes over the questioning now. “Do you know whom Burgess fought that night?”

Page lifts his chin. Dares one sideways look at me. “Indeed, I do. He fought with Mistress Ballard’s oldest son, Cyrus.”

It is as though someone has taken a boot to a beehive, the way the room begins to buzz. These judges are not so quick to lose control of a courtroom as North was, however, and Wood brings it back to attention immediately with three hard whacks of his gavel.

Taking his cue, Dr. Page returns to his seat. I watch him wind through the room and deposit himself at a long table beside a pretty young woman. She’s the kind of girl who will always look childlike no matter how old she grows. Small. Narrow. Fine boned. All of this even though she is—as Samuel Coleman told me not long ago—quite far along in a pregnancy. She rests her hand on her swollen belly and looks at her husband as though he has descended from Mount Olympus just for this occasion.

“Mistress Ballard?”

I lift my chin. Turn back to the judges.

“Did you know of this confrontation earlier?”

“Not when I inspected the body, Your Honor. I found out later that same day.”

“From whom?”