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In cases depending upon a chain of circumstances, all the fabric must hang together or the whole will tumble down.

What was that but a veiled reference to the state of the country itself? A country fractured and fractious, in which Hamilton sought to position himself as the heir to General Washington, the man who could hold their fragile republic together in the face of forces seeking to break it apart.

Here was Hamilton, the champion of truth and reason, standing against artifice and base motives.

No, Aaron didn’t like it at all. Unless . . .

“Burr should close,” said Brockholst, spoiling for a fight. “He’s the most senior of us.”

As a point of order, he was right. But order was one thing and policy another. Aaron had the glimmer of an idea which might work even better to his advantage.

Aaron held up his hand. “Must we quibble over matters of precedence?” To Hamilton, he said, “Might I have a copy, so I might look it over at leisure?”

“Certainly.” Now that he’d gotten his way, Hamilton was all generosity. “I’ll have one of my clerks copy it for you. Philip!”

Philip Church sauntered in. Aaron had fought a duel with young Church’s father last year, but there was no malice on either side. Church said a civil hello and took away the draft to copy.

“With your good grace,” said Aaron to Brockholst, “I will attempt the opening statement. With your advice and guidance, of course.”

Brockholst looked like a kettle about to boil over. “You shall have that, of course. Although I feel strongly that you should—”

“I thank you.” Aaron looked meaningfully at Brockholst. “It is, after all, the opening that sets the tone of the case.”

Brockholst subsided, giving Aaron what he fondly assumed to be a subtle nod. They were agreed on that, at least. Hamilton must not be allowed free rein to bungle the defense of Levi Weeks.

There were other reasons, as well. But those were Aaron’s business and no one else’s.

“As to the cross-examination of witnesses . . .” Hamilton began.

“I believe we should share that equally,” said Aaron. “With deference to Brockholst, who has the most experience in these matters.”

Brockholst bowed, a decidedly ironic expression on his face.

“We shall wish, of course,” Aaron said smoothly, “to emphasize the harms that can be worked upon a man’s reputation even where guilt has not been assigned. Brockholst had that case a few years ago, a rape case . . .”

“Lanah Sawyer.” Brockholst could always be distracted by past trials. “Yes, she accused Henry Bedlow of rape. He was acquitted after only a few moments’ deliberation, but Sawyer and her family so inflamed the public against him that he was hounded into poverty and debtors’ prison. The mob threatened to pull down my house for my part in defending him.”

“That is precisely what we must fight against,” Hamilton said excitedly. “The thousand tongues of rumor . . .”

“As you so eloquently say in your closing statement,” said Aaron gravely. “Ah, thank you.”

Philip Church had returned, offering Aaron a hastily written, ill-blotted copy of Hamilton’s oration.

Aaron folded it carefully, tucking it into the pocket of his waistcoat.

“I wish we had more time,” murmured Hamilton. “I feel there’s something I’m missing, something I ought to have seen. . . .”

There was. But it wasn’t what Hamilton was thinking; Aaron was quite certain of that.

“Brockholst, you will walk with me?” Aaron stood, taking up his hat and gloves. Now that this farce of a meeting was over, it was time for the real work to begin. “Gentlemen, I shall see you tomorrow in court.”

Chapter Twenty-One

[A] very clear day but very blustery. . . . The trial of Levi Weeks for the murder of Miss Sands came on this morning—scarcely anything else is spoken of.

—From the journal of Elizabeth De Hart Bleecker, March 31, 1800

New York City