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“He was guilty. He was indisputably guilty. He was discovered in the act of stabbing his landlady in the neck. With a knife!”

“It is an instrument generally used for stabbing,” said Josiah drily.

“Mr. Livingston didn’t dispute his guilt. He didn’t dispute any of it. The jury declared him guilty. He was guilty.”

“No,” said Josiah wearily. “Brockholst wouldn’t waste time disputing the indisputable. But you left his argument undisputed, and that’s how he caught you.”

What argument? Cadwallader didn’t remember him making much of one. There had been various witnesses to Pastano’s character—although what they hoped to prove given that the man had been caught in the act of stabbing his landlady Cadwallader wasn’t quite sure—but all they said was that the man had behaved oddly.

Josiah retrieved the paper and folded it under his arm. “Brockholst made a convincing case that the balance of his mind was disturbed, a case you made no effort to refute.”

“It was immaterial,” said Cadwallader blankly. “Insanity offers no immunity from a charge of murder. It was his hand that committed the crime regardless of whatever was within his disordered brain.”

Josiah’s mouth twisted. “The legislature feels otherwise. They see him as a proper object of mercy. Based on the undisputed fact that the balance of his mind was disturbed, the legislature has passed the pardon and the governor has signed it.”

The governor was Brockholst Livingston’s brother-in-law John Jay. Not that Cadwallader could throw stones, given that he owed his present position to his brother-in-law, but it rankled a bit all the same.

Cadwallader felt vaguely sick. He sat down heavily on one of Maria’s too dainty chairs, ignoring the ominous cracking sound it made. “Do you think—do you think that this was Mr. Livingston’s strategy all along?”

“Given the line he took at trial and the fact that he made no effort to argue for his client’s innocence—yes,” said Josiah drily. “He had this determined before the jury sat.”

Cadwallader stared at the mud on his boots, feeling as though he’d been boxing and someone had landed a punch straight to his stomach. Or possibly lower. Pastano had been his one success since taking up the role of assistant attorney general, the one conviction he could point to. And now it was gone, signed away by an act of legislature because Brockholst Livingston had played a long game and Cadwallader hadn’t spotted it.

“I don’t need to tell you,” said Josiah, although apparently he did feel the need to tell him, thought Cadwallader despairingly, since he was doing it, “how important it is that we achieve the conviction of Levi Weeks. Ah, thank you, my dear.”

Maria had returned without David, but with a maid bearing a tea tray. The maid set it down upon the table, on the spot where that damnable newspaper had lain. Maria busied herself with the important act of preparing the tea.

Cadwallader grasped after some of the euphoria he had been feeling a mere quarter of an hour ago. “I ran a sleigh trial today,” he said incoherently. “From the Ring boardinghouse to the Manhattan Well and back to Ezra Weeks’s lumber yard. I can prove that Levi Weeks had access to just such a horse and sleigh—that the horse and sleigh were seen the night of the murder—and that Levi Weeks could have accomplished it in the time allotted.”

“With surety?” asked Josiah. “If one link in the chain were to come undone . . .”

“I can prove every one.” And so he could. But he had proved each step in the Pastano case too, and look what had become of that.

“Thank you.” Josiah accepted a cup of tea from Maria. “New York is looking to us to bring this girl’s family justice. The entire country is looking to us.”

“I know,” said Cadwallader hoarsely. Maria handed him a cup and he took a large gulp, scalding the back of his throat and making himself cough.

His brother-in-law looked at him doubtfully. “All of them seek to use the courtroom as a theater in which they can display their skills in advance of the election.” No need to say which election; it was the April New York elections which consumed everyone. “If they cannot sharpen their wits on each other, they will whet them instead on you.”

The burned skin on the top of Cadwallader’s mouth prickled. “Sir, I cannot try to match them in skill or eloquence, but I believe we have justice on our side. I know we have justice on our side.”

His brother-in-law delicately sipped his tea. “Brockholst will try to unnerve you.”

“He already has,” muttered Cadwallader.

“Burr will skewer you on points of law—and Alexander will talk in circles until you’re half-distracted,” Josiah added fondly.

Josiah and General Hamilton were old friends, of such close association that five years ago, General Hamilton had nearly fought a duel as a consequence of coming to Josiah’s aid against one Commodore Nicholson.

“We can’t afford to show them any weakness in our argument.”

“No, certainly not.” Cadwallader felt like David without a slingshot, or Hercules facing down the Nemean lion without his club. Or his strength.

Josiah looked at him keenly. “Is there anything to this story the girl might have taken her own life?”

“No.” On this, at least, Cadwallader was able to speak with conviction. He could feel Maria’s eyes on him, judging him. “There was no history of melancholy. Miss Sands fell ill in early December with a”—he tried to remember exactly what Catherine Ring had told him—“with an acute disorder of the stomach. Cramping and such. She was given laudanum for the pain.”

“Was she known to take it with more frequency than her illness would warrant?”