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It was time to shed some light on the matter.

Alexander grabbed up the branch of candles from the defense table and strode across the courtroom, brandishing the candles in front of Croucher’s startled face.

“Mr. Dustan,” he demanded, “is this the man?”

Chapter Thirty-One

A careful investigation left no doubt in [Hamilton’s] mind of the innocence of the accused. . . . The evidence was circumstantial, with the exception of the witness who Hamilton felt convinced was the criminal. The prolonged trial had extended far into the night . . . Hamilton advanced, placing a candle on each side of [Croucher’s] face and fixed on him a piercing eye.

—History of the Republic of the United States of America, by John Church Hamilton

New York City

April 1, 1800

The candles carved strange hollows beneath Croucher’s cheekbones.

“Mark every muscle of his face, every motion of his eye,” declared Hamilton, in thrilling tones. “I conjure you to look through that man’s countenance to his conscience. Was this the man you saw in your store?”

“Yes, it was,” said the bemused shopkeeper.

He ought to have remembered, thought Aaron resignedly, that it was always a mistake to underestimate Alexander Hamilton.

Aaron refused to compare him to a phoenix from the flame—the man would enjoy that far too much—but it was undeniable that Hamilton had a remarkable capacity for emerging scarred but undaunted from conflagrations that ought to have reduced him to ash. The Maria Reynolds scandal should have knocked Hamilton out of politics once and for all—but here he was, a thorn in Aaron’s flesh and the only real threat to the Republicans in the coming election. The purloined speech ought to have rendered him speechless for the duration of the trial, but here he was, waving candles about and creating a grand spectacle out of a simple identification.

Never mind the medical evidence, never mind the painstaking detail about the sleigh, all anyone would remember would be Hamilton and his branch of candles. Like a conjuror, Hamilton had a talent for directing the eye to what he wanted them to see. It was all bombast, but it was the sort of bombast that led successful cavalry charges and turned mad schemes into triumphs.

It made Aaron very nervous.

He preferred situations he could control. And that was the thing about Hamilton. One could maneuver him—to a point. But the very impulsiveness that made him vulnerable also made him dangerously unpredictable. Every now and again, his shots hit their mark.

Every eye in the courtroom was transfixed on Hamilton and his branch of candles, shining on the face of a man who ought to have been a minor witness and had now become Hamilton’s prize villain.

“What did this man say to you?” asked Hamilton, still in those ringing tones.

The shopkeeper coughed. “He said, ‘Good morning, gentlemen, Levi Weeks is taken up by the high sheriff and there is fresh evidence in from Hackensack.’ He then went away and as he went out, he said, ‘My name is Croucher,’ and this was all the business he had with me.”

Hamilton called his next witness, a voluble Scotsman with hair as red as Hamilton’s, a set of well-developed jowls, and grievances which he didn’t wait to air.

“I have been acquainted with this Mr. Croucher for some time but I never liked his looks,” said Mr. McDougall frankly, rolling his r’s with abandon. “On the second of January, the day that the body was found, he was extremely busy among the crowd to spread improper insinuations and prejudices against the prisoner, who was then taken, and among other things told a story about his losing a pocketbook.”

Hamilton feigned shock. “Did he claim that Mr. Weeks had robbed him of his pocketbook?”

“Not to claim, but to imply. I thought his conduct unfair and told him so plainly,” said Mr. McDougall robustly. “Oh, but says he, there’s the story of the pocketbook, and stopped there.”

“Thank you, Mr. McDougall—” began Hamilton, but Mr. McDougall wasn’t done.

“He used to bring articles of wearing apparel, such as shawls, et cetera, to dispose of, but I noticed he always came just at dinnertime,” said Mr. McDougall darkly. “I told my wife that I did not like the man and desired that she would tell him that in future if he wanted anything of me, I would call on him. But did he heed me? No!”

“Tell us what he said to you, Mr. McDougall,” said Hamilton, just managing to get his question in while the Scotsman paused for breath.

“Last Monday, while I was busy in my garden, he came again! Now, says he, the thing has all come out, the thing is settled, there is point-blank proof come from the Jerseys of a new fact.” Mr. McDougall stuck his chin out pugnaciously. “I told him I thought it was wrong and highly improper that he should persecute Weeks in such a manner when he had a difference with him, that for my own part, I wanted some further evidence before I should condemn the man—and my wife didn’t want any more shawls!”

“Objection,” remonstrated Mr. Colden. “Is Mr. Croucher on trial or is Mr. Weeks?”

“The assistant attorney general will surely admit that such testimony is entirely germane to the matter of public opinion being roused against the prisoner at the bar,” Aaron said silkily. Ezra Weeks looked like a kettle about to boil; it was past time to go back to the job they were here to do, proving Levi couldn’t have committed the crime. “However, that point having been amply proved, the defense now calls John McComb to the stand.”

After the tittle-tattle of shopkeepers, John McComb, the rising architect, was a dignified presence on the stand.