Richmond, Virginia

The case of the Commonwealth of Virginia against Isaac Freeman was set to be heard that morning. The day had dawned bright and clear, a reminder, Sophia said, that the Lord makes his face to shine upon his children. Camden could not disagree, but took less solace from the fact than Sophia and Georgiana seemed to take. Despite having the will of Isaac’s former master in his hands, Camden felt just as apprehensive as ever. The way forward remained far from clear of obstacles, any one of which might be the one thing that was the difference between his client’s freedom and his execution. It was a heavy load to bear that was made only heavier by Mr. Randolph’s departure as well as Georgiana’s recent, brief absence.

The scene outside the courthouse was chaotic. None of the courtrooms was very large, but this case had attracted a considerable degree of attention. The fact that Joseph Randolph’s young partner had taken on such a hopeless case was interesting by itself, apparently. However, the thing that really seemed to have stoked general public awareness was that Isaac Freeman had become a rallying cry for a number of nascent abolitionist groups. It was an unwelcome reminder to Camden of a saying that Mr. Randolph was fond of: “Just because you don't take an interest in politics doesn't mean politics won't take an interest in you.” Thus, for the masses that seemed interested to observe the proceedings for one reason or another, space was at a premium. For the better keeping of order inside the courthouse, the judges seemed to be content to risk almost any amount of disorder outside the courthouse. Rather than pass through that gauntlet, Camden opted for a back entrance, available to members of the bar.

Once inside, he made his way to the courtroom and arranged his papers on one of the tables near the front. In the time that remained before court was scheduled to convene he rehashed all the thorny legal issues he would have to deal with.

To begin with, slaves were not allowed to testify against whites. Isaac was a free man, but the fact that he stood accused as a slave made his claim to be free that much harder to prove. In any other case, an issue like that would have been resolved on a motion before the trial was held. This, however, was a “slave case” in which many of the usual procedural practices were modified in favor of expediency—that is, unless they were discarded altogether.

Then there was the issue of the will itself. Mr. Randolph had drilled the rules of hearsay evidence into his head relentlessly. In addition there would be the matter of authenticating the document. Fortunately, Camden believed he was prepared to meet those objections. As for the language of the will itself, he had identified no potential problems there. If accepted as true, the will clearly meant that Isaac was a free man.

Lastly, Camden must show that it was reasonable for Isaac to use deadly force in his situation. That issue also seemed straightforward to Camden. Any man who was abducted and hauled halfway across the continent could be expected to use force against his kidnappers. Hopefully that would be the easy part; the rest of the trial is where the problems would arise.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door in the back of the courtroom open and Georgiana walked in. Her entrance became the occasion for an increase in the volume of the idle chatter that had prevailed until then, for she was linked arm-in-arm with Sophia. Camden was more awed by her boldness than ever, but felt somewhat badly for Sophia. It was clear that she was made extremely uncomfortable by being the center of attention; Georgiana’s remarkable act of solidarity apparently proved to be only a small comfort. They made their way to the front of the public seating area and took the two chairs that Camden had reserved for them.

A few minutes later, two large men walked in with Isaac shackled in between them. The precaution seemed unnecessary to Camden; Isaac was no especially fearful physical specimen, even if he had killed a man in a heat of passion. They seated him in the dock and took up positions just behind him, as if at any moment he might fly up out of his seat and his chains and try to regain his freedom. It was a sad scene only made sadder still by the look of anguish that Sophia tried in vain to hide.

The unmistakable click of the door that led to the judges’ chambers brought everyone to attention and a clerk sleepily came into the court. As he held the door open he cried, “Hear ye, hear ye! This court is now in session. All who have matters before this honorable court shall draw near and give their attention. The Honorable Judge James Carter now presides.”

Judge Carter minced his way through the door which was not nearly wide enough to accommodate his girth in addition to his clerk’s. Camden knew the judge by reputation, if not from much experience practicing before him. He was old, and given to fits of rage when his gout was at its worst, but he was fair and his mind was as sharp as any judge in the Commonwealth. When Camden had found out that Judge Carter would hear the case he was relieved in some small measure.

“Be seated please and come to order,” the clerk said as the judge seated himself and arranged his robe. The clerk went around to the judge’s other side and called the case. “The court will now proceed with trial in the case of Commonwealth vs. Isaac, slave of the late Solomon Tasker.”

Judge Carter cleared his throat and gestured toward the prosecutor. “Mr. Crannybrook, you may proceed.”

Most of the prosecutor’s opening statement was a blur to Camden. He had known that Crannybrook was trying the case, but the moment the man began speaking, it caused Camden to lament his and Isaac’s misfortune once more.

Grantham Crannybrook was the premier prosecuting attorney of criminal cases in Virginia and his services were most sought after. A formidable opponent, however, was not what troubled Camden, but rather Crannybrook’s equally well-known disposition toward slave cases. He kept his political opinions out of the courtroom with vigilance, but it was well known that the prosecutor was an ardent supporter of the current system of slave labor and all the statutes that he believed were necessary for its continuation. His support was no mere pragmatism either; he viewed the institution of slavery as a positive good for society at large.

Camden was just beginning to ponder how illogical it was for someone to hold such a view when he was jolted out of his internal monologue by Judge Carter’s thin, piercing voice: “Mr. Page. Your opening statement, sir.”

As Camden rose to speak, he felt a sudden rush of confidence. He gave a sidelong glance to Georgiana, whose expression he could not quite read. If possible, the courtroom seemed even more silent than during Mr. Crannybrook’s speech. Camden took a deep breath and began to speak, forgetting for the present moment that he had only the vaguest idea of what the prosecutor had just said.

“Your Honor, in the end, this case will be very simple. The evidence will prove that the defendant is a free man.”

Camden paused briefly, drawing the moment out just long enough to achieve the ideal effect.

“As a free man,” he continued, “he was entitled to act in self-defense, even to the extent of using deadly force. The evidence will show beyond a reasonable doubt that a verdict of acquittal is the only proper outcome. I thank the court for its kind attention. Thank you.”

It seemed almost as if the room was frozen in place. No one dared move or even breathe. Even Judge Carter seemed stunned that the opening statement of the defense had been so short. Flowery speeches tended to be the order of the day, especially in high-profile cases. Camden knew well what the typical attorney might have done. He did not want to be a typical attorney and that was not how Mr. Randolph had trained him. Not wanting to rely completely on his own intuition, he had practiced the statement for Georgiana the evening before. She too had expected more, but had encouraged him to go ahead with the statement as he had prepared it, agreeing that something succinct and profound would make more of an impression than something more conventional.

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“Very well, then,” Judge Carter said, breaking the silence. “Mr. Crannybrook, you may call your first witness.”

The first portions of the trial went about as Camden had told Isaac to expect that they would. He had regained enough of his memory to be fairly certain that he had made his escape attempt before they reached Virginia, and that it was in Kentucky where he had killed one of his captors, but to contest the point would do very little good. Challenging the court’s venue stood precious little chance of success—hinging, as it must, on the word of a black man against a white man—and could only serve to delay, but not to derail, the proceedings.

Thus, the first witness testified to facts that more or less were not in dispute: men had captured Isaac as a runaway slave and while taking him back to Virginia to be returned to his owner, he had briefly escaped, killing one of the other men in the attempt. Mr. Randolph counseled Camden to be very judicious in asking questions on cross examination; often one could do more harm than good. With this witness, however, Camden saw an opportunity to undermine his credibility.

“Mr. Smythe, is it your testimony that you were hired to transport the defendant to Virginia?”

“Yes,” the man replied. Getting information out of him would clearly be a tedious task, but Camden was up for the challenge.

“And who was it that hired you for this undertaking? I believe you testified that it was Mr. Solomon Tasker. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“How many times did you discuss the job with Mr. Tasker?”

“Your Honor, I object,” Crannybrook said, rising swiftly to his feet. “The question calls for hearsay and is irrelevant.”

Judge Carter swiveled to look at Camden, awaiting his response with one raised eyebrow. “Well, Mr. Page?”

“With respect, Your Honor, I am not asking the witness to recount any statements made in any such conversations. So it does not call for hearsay. Furthermore, the answer to the question goes to the credibility of this witness, which is always relevant.”

“I agree, Mr. Page. Your objection is overruled, Mr. Crannybrook, and your exception has been noted. The witness is directed to answer the question.”

“I never met with him,” Smythe said, somewhat sheepishly.

“Then please tell the court, sir, how you can truthfully testify that it was Mr. Tasker who hired you.”

“It was the other men that Mr. Tasker hired directly. They had other work to attend to and so hired me to complete the journey.”

“And did these men inform you that they were indeed working for Mr. Tasker by showing you some document?”

“No, sir.”

“How, then, did you come to understand that they were in the employment of Mr. Tasker?”

“They told me when they turned over the slave.”

“In other words, Mr. Smythe, you took their word for it?”

“Yes. That’s what I did.”

A few other witnesses gave their testimony on matters that were only of minimal relevance. There had been decent arguments to have their testimony excluded altogether as either irrelevant or needlessly cumulative, but Camden thought it better to save the fighting for the issues that would really make a difference. Finally, Mr. Crannybrook rested his case.

“Mr. Page, you may call your first witness.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. The defense calls Josiah Thompson.”

The Clerk of James City County rose reluctantly, approached the witness stand, and was administered the oath.

“Sir, would you please state your name and occupation.”

“I am, as you know, Josiah Thompson, and I am the Clerk of Court for James City County.”

“Your Honor,” Camden continued, “I ask that the witness be presented with the document I have provided to the clerk.”

The clerk shuffled through a stack of papers, peered over his spectacles at one of them, and handed it to Josiah Thompson on the witness stand.

“Mr. Thompson, do you recognize that document?”

The Clerk squinted at the paper briefly and said, “I believe so, yes.”

“And would you tell the court what that document is, please?”

“It appears to be a document titled ‘The Last Will and Testament of Solomon Tasker of James City County.’”

“And is that document a true and accurate copy of the will that was filed with the Clerk’s office in your county?”

“I am sure I could not say, Mr. Page.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Thompson?”

“I said, Mr. Page, that I could not testify as to the accuracy of this document.”

Camden’s heart jumped into his throat. “And why, sir, is that?”

Mr. Randolph had taught him to avoid asking any questions if he was not already reasonably certain of the precise answer. Caught by surprise as he was, however, instinct forced him to blurt out the question before he could think.

“I cannot say whether this is a true and accurate copy of any document filed at my office because, not being the original, it ought to contain a seal placed there by one of my assistant clerks. I see no evidence of such a seal on this paper. Therefore, anyone who might have had this piece of paper in his or her possession could have tampered with it in any number of ways.”

Camden was stunned. “Your Honor, if I may have just a moment.”

He returned to his seat at counsel’s table to collect his thoughts. If the Clerk would not authenticate the will, the case would be over quickly; the entire defense depended on the will. He bowed his head and rubbed his brow as if he were deep in thought. Time seemed to slow, but Camden instantly felt as if no time had passed at all when Judge Carter said, “Mr. Page, are you ready to proceed?”

It was just then that Camden’s eyes lit on the leather briefcase that he had brought with him to court. In it, he remembered, were the two other copies of the will. He pulled one of them out and a sense of relief washed over him as his fingers passed over the stiff, waxy contours of the Clerk’s seal.

“Yes, Your Honor, I am ready to proceed if the clerk would be so kind as to provide this document to the witness.”

Thompson examined the new document, confirmed that the seal was that of his office, and was compelled to testify that it was a true and accurate copy.

“Mr. Thompson, please read the next to last paragraph, near the bottom of the page.”

The Clerk dutifully complied and read: “I further direct that all my slaves now born or hereafter to be born, whilst their mothers are in the service of me or my heirs, to be free at the age of thirty years.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thompson. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Crannybrook, do you have any objection to the admission of this document?”

Crannybrook stood to address the judge, “I only ask time to examine the document, Your Honor.”

“Indeed. I will recess to do the same.”

“All rise!” called the court’s clerk and the judge lumbered out of the courtroom as a dull murmur slowly began to rise.

When the court finally reconvened, and all had resumed their places, Judge Carter leaned forward from his bench, holding up the copy of the will, and addressed both attorneys.

“Have you any objection, Mr. Crannybrook?

The prosecutor merely shook his head.

“Very well. I find that the will is admissible as evidence.”

Camden’s sense of relief was shattered with the Judge’s next word.

“However, it seems to me that you have another problem, Mr. Page. The provision that purports to free the defendant, also appears to me to create a perpetuity.”

Mr. Crannybrook coughed as the judge handed the copy back to Camden, who examined the will as if he were sure to discover something new in its words. What Camden saw, instead, were only the same words, cast in a very different light. The words were there as plain as day: “all my slaves now born or hereafter to be born, whilst their mothers are in the service of me or my heirs, to be free at the age of thirty years.” Camden’s heart sunk as he saw for the first time that Judge Carter might be correct. The rule against perpetuities caused fits even for seasoned lawyers and Camden’s attention had been so focused on the other aspects of the trial that he must have missed it. That was no excuse, of course, but he was unsure what he would be able to do now.

“I can allow the both of you a recess until tomorrow morning. You may present any arguments you have at that time.”

Mr. Crannybrook nodded and Camden resigned himself to making the same perfunctory gesture before slogging back to his table.

The courtroom emptied more quickly than Camden expected and he found himself alone. Rather, he thought he was alone, until a voice came from the back row of the gallery.

“Rule against perpetuities. That can be a nasty business, right?”

Camden thought he knew the voice, but could not immediately place it. He turned and saw that the man to whom the voice belonged had risen from his seat and was approaching the bar. The man extended a hand and even as he was introducing himself, recognition dawned in Camden’s mind.

“John Marshall at your service, Mr. Page. If you are so inclined, I would consider it an honor to help Mr. Randolph’s new partner in this important case.”