Chapter 1
What is justice but a horrific dream to those deprived of agency?
The harshness of the gavel against the block awoke Kote from her perturbed sketching, her thumb flexing against the pencil in parallel brutality. The fragility of her sketching tool in her hand pressured upon the paper resulted in breaking the tip upon impact. Despite the echoes of relief from other Boston citizens readying to depart, Kote huffed under her breath and placed her fragmented pencil in her black reticule.
“Dear, that’s the third one you have broken today,” Lady Henriette remarked loudly. Her outburst reminded Kote of the old woman’s presence, in which she had forgotten reality between her anger and art for a moment. To her luck, Kote appeared a professional artist upset at their craft rather than a concerned and exasperated woman of the court. Nevertheless, she had every right and freedom to react unsatisfied at this proceeding in contrast to all around her.
Another man reprieved of his consequences.
A false exemption of his deliberate choices laced with apathy and indifference.
“It is quite fine,” Kote lied, tearing the paper from her book and removing all necessary items into her reticule. “I finished my work.”
In truth, she held no remaining pencils unbroken by the strength of her contempt.
The crowd around her rushed off the wooden benches, a feverous air of justice beaming with the sun from the windows to the east. The young lady took her time, moving the silk drawstring of her bag upon her shoulder. Her fingers ached greatly, the long-lasting effect on the craftsmanship of portraiture- or perhaps something far more sinister reminding her of its existence.
“Goodness, let me see, Kote,” her companion begged impatiently. “After all, you spent your time on such a project!”
With the urge to roll her eyes, Kote refrained and handed Henriette the sketching paper without remark.
“Oh my!” Henriette gasped.
Kote smirked undetected, acknowledging her time spent devising an unpleasant portrait of him. Batting her eyelids she watched the free gentleman rise off the stand, a gleeful man without a drop of sweat in his pretentious brown suit. While he appeared youthful and perhaps handsome, Kote did not deny the truth of her heart that she despised him. That disgust was bound to the thick pencil lines upon her sketching, threatening to ooze from the paper her companion held.
“It is...very detailed, young lady,” Henriette murmured, holding the paper up as if to examine it side-by-side with the passing free man. Kote could not blame Henriette for holding her tongue, as her companion was a member of the Bhramin, the high society that many in this court found loopholes and perjury an exciting social game. Henriette in her profound status would not admit to Kote that her drawing was terrible in consideration of the criminal’s features. This young lady understood well that her lines were woefully thick, his clothes mishap and unpressed upon the glance of the sketch, his hair uncouth and a disaster upon his youthful face. The sketch made him appear in his fifties, although Kote could not let her seething heart deter from the truth in her art, so most details such as his eyes and thick neck remained stoic and grand upon paper. The art was befitting the crime in Kote’s obstinate mind.
The man on trial achieved freedom from his sentence of intentional neglect of his wife and children. With a dashing smile and perhaps a flash of money- ironic given his charge- and with the help of Kote’s father Coriolanus, it was not challenging for the pair to succeed in court against such “outrageous” claims.
There was no intention of neglect, rather the man poorly offered what he had at the time while the children starved and house staff departed without pay. It was an oversight despite the fact this gentleman devised no limit to his spending for his mistress in New York.
Kote witnessed repeatedly that those without money or means to support themselves found a cold jail cell or a surrendered wallet. The years spent sketching for the Boston Gazette or in attendance with her father bestowed to Kote the knowledge that justice was never afforded to those without money or power, which left only the select group of men to succeed within the halls of lawful righteousness.
Justice meant nothing without money or connections in this Boston court- perhaps the whole of America as well.
Kote grew weary over these cases, for in many ways that she would never share with Henriette or anyone in Boston society, she felt as trapped as those who did not find truth and law in this court. The entire system is rigged- perfectly established by those in power to keep it, and for others to remain dependent and resisteless. Most days Kote endured defeat in her ability to assist those less fortunate but also struggled to define what that concluded for herself. She acknowledged the privilege of her class and her situation not encased in a cage... at least sentenced to a physical one, that is.
Many people exist in this world in a cage they are blind to; others see the trap laid before them with no means of escaping, but still persist onward. Maybe life was going from one cage to another and Death was the ultimate freedom. Upon that thought she buried those sentiments, as they were unsavory and very much not befitting a lady. Kote used what little resolve each day to continue with no hope in sight, just the chance to procure some art and any measure of happiness.
“Thank you,” she beamed to her companion, gleeful in holding onto her compliment despite her unworthy pettiness in the design. Dismay flooded Henriette’s pale complexion as she handed the sketch back to its master, her eyes catching the glance of several citizens and members of the court walking out from this painfully hot wooden box of a courtroom.
“We should wait for your Father,” Henriette remarked upon fanning herself elegantly. The oak wood combined with the once crowded benches left the heat of Boston autumn to affect her elderly companion more than others.
“Of course,” Kote agreed.
The pair continued to sit upon the uncomfortable benches, Henriette stoic with nervous sweat and Kote stewing in contempt. As she sat closer to the aisle, with each passing jury member of white men and judges of identical stature, Kote understood that her hands were tied to break a system and mold it into something meaningful. Her status as an unwed lady of Boston held no regard to the men who passed her with gentle acknowledgments, for they only did so because of her Father.
Excellent as a defense lawyer, Coriolanus Lowell cared little for facts and focused more on bestowing seeds of doubt for his audience. Growing up she admired his confidence and success at never losing a single case- yet now mature it appeared her father was best suited to a line of work such as a showman or priest that would benefit the tool of doubt and disbelief.
Kote did not attend church for a spiritual reason other than the social ritual and routine of Sundays, yet this radiant piety in her father’s work was deftly recognizable. Cases abounded yet failures never sought him, the perfect lawyer with a divine hand of justice. Shame pooled in her stomach, for despite living in the comforts of her father’s success, his money and all authority in this court derived from the pain of others.
With this impediment came Kote’s hatred of his continual success, as in many cases her father defending “honor” resulted in dishonorable outcomes.
Despite the court sketches and other methods of practicing her art, Kote had no way to sustain herself apart from her father. Plans to absolve herself of the sins of her father never came to fruition, for there was naught that would take her in and there was nowhere to go.
“Has your Father introduced you to the newest judge, uh-” Henriette stammered “ Hear-Hartwith? Yes, Mr. Hartwith!”
“I do not believe so,” Kote replied softly. “Why?”
“Perhaps he is in search of a companion,” she whispered. “You should invite him to your estate for supper, or a judiciary reading.”
The pain Kote had forgotten about momentarily struck, a silent knife into her lower abdomen as she winced, her blue dress shifting against the wooden bench and her companion’s coat.
“Oh dear, are you alright?” her chaperone asked.
This ache inside feeds like a monster, slashing away at her organs and departing like a specter. Kote often wondered the truth about those who saw ghosts, wondering if it was similar to the pain she felt, knowing it was real but invisible to all eyes. It is an otherworldly feeling to be at the supplication of an illness that decides your worth every second of each day, and for others to dry up their empathy within a moment’s glance.
“I am well,” Kote breathed, the lie seething between the air her body needed. Her chest tightened, the pain amplifying as it spread across her figure and down her legs.
“Are you quite certain?”
Kote’s blue eyes met the tenderness of Henriette’s deep brown, concern flashing across her companion’s face. It was not the first time the older lady had witnessed the girl in pain. While she was not an official chaperone, Henriette realized that Kote consistently suffered in silence. Henriette understood as a woman the plight of existing in a world not designed for them and she worried for her immensely, yet knew naught how to help her.
Kote was young, seemingly healthy in outward appearance, and supported by her wealthy father who held no love towards her. She was in no position to turn away marriage offers and yet she sat alone, the pain her only true companion. Kote was grateful this illness was not contagious, for no one else had to breathe in the poison of her pain. Nonetheless, it was a profoundly forlorn fate.
Henriette would only visit on days unfulfilled in activities with her Brahmin sisters, so Kote was grateful for any warmth no matter how boisterous or pragmatic they were.
“Yes, thank you,” she lied once more, forcing a gentle smile to mask the truth.
With the pain, Kote was resolved to treat others with kindness and empathy. Particularly now in the halls of justice where many found no such vindication or empathy, Kote vowed each day to give it to all, despite their worth; even if that included her father who viewed her with a light of indifference.
Coriolanus Lowell walked towards his daughter, strength in his stride and pride in his smile. His bench wig had been removed, revealing the trick of nature to his greying hair cut neatly behind his ears. Kote noticed the darkness under his eyes and the drain of color from his face, a strange sense of grief washed over her. Coriolanus was older than he ever appeared, his hair a whiter style of grey but his face despite the achievements of today appeared worn and decayed.
Perhaps it is stress she thought, although it did not soothe her mind.
Her dress lifted in her motion from the benches to the central aisle, the cream lace trim itching her arm as she handed the sketch to him mid-stride. Her father stopped a few feet away from the ladies to observe it.
“This the only one you have?” he gruffed.
“Oh, Coriolanus,” Henriette sighed, her elderly lands connected in front of her physique in perfect grace as she stood beside Kote. “Your daughter worked extensively the entire proceeding today!”
Her father and friends invariably complimented her on the ability to capture humans in her art- despite Kote’s abhorrence to portraits- yet she realized how talented she was when she captured the authentic spirit of a person in a quick sketch. It was clear her thoughts of this man were unsavory and the sketch a quick hateful etch into the paper. Certain features were exaggerated or altered to appear hideous, but there was never a time when the Boston Gazette declined her sketches in morrow’s paper.
“It was a short trial,” Kote exaggerated, despite witnessing several days of the court proceeding.
“How I like them,” he affirmed, staring at the paper as if the man before him was a stranger. Perhaps she would later receive some vicious remark about her art, for she knew her father to critique all of society, or perchance he would ignore her as is his routine. “This will do, I suppose.”
He folded the paper to Kote’s dismay, but then she remembered that the sketch had every right to be ruined. The side of town where the Boston Gazette held their headquarters was ‘disallowed for adventuring’, her father always attempted to put nicely. Kote was not allowed anywhere without a chaperone unless at a social gathering, which most currently she dreaded.
“Will you attend the Harkins dinner tonight?” he asked, not meeting her gaze.
Kote shifted with hesitation, also under the assumption she had cursed herself with the mere thought of social engagements.
“I have to finish Mrs. Pollier’s portrait today,” she confessed. He turned to look upon her now, confrontation beaming in his eyes. He waited as the other judicious members of the court departed the room, leaving them alone as their voices echoed into the empty wooden room.
“You told me last week you only had final touches.”
“Yes, that is true,” Kote nodded. “I fear once I finish it will not be to her liking, as she always demands adjustments.”
Kote was known for relentless teasing among friends but lying, especially to her Father, was never sensible. He was not known for mercy if his cases proved otherwise, but more so to the expectations of his household.
Her true reasons for not attending stood as follows: the Harkins’ eldest son seemed too keen upon her despite being married to Lady Penelope, and ultimately Kote’s pain had yet to subside.
In small relief it felt refreshing to stand, the ache down the back of her leg not as sharp but returning to a dull pain that met at her hips. Her pelvis ached, her stomach bloated against the rigid fabric of her dress, and her head pounded against the autumn heat. This was only the beginning of a painful end to the day, and it was hardly eleven.
Now the feeling of shame from lying amplified, the constant reminder of her burden upon him actualized again. The deception was too much to bear and she understood that her father would continue his questions until it was revealed or he was still forsaken in frustration.
“I do not feel my best,” she admitted under her breath, her knuckles brushing her forehead. “It was a struggle to arrive here this morning.”
Coriolanus spoke nothing, his left hand resting on the bench corner as he examined her. A deep sigh left his composure faltered, the disappointment like a poison into the courtroom air. Lady Henriette, in search of comforting her young companion, placed a reassuring hand upon the back of Kote’s shoulder. Henriette understood from her seventy years in Boston the temper and contempt successful men drove upon their youth, particularly the disdain for their daughters. She grew surprised when Coriolanus did not immediately place Kote into a quick marriage when she was fifteen and now seemed resolved to have Kote exist in the backgrounds of his work.
He towered over Kote by two feet, her stature more like her mother- the woman he married but never loved. That love never transferred to Kote, despite his best efforts. He did what was expected of him but nothing more- no emotional connection existed to the young woman standing before him.
“I think a rest would do this young lady well,” Henriette echoed, tapping the hand gently upon her shoulder. Kote returned an indebted smile, despite the small gesture sending pain along the nerves down her arm. Henriette was well known for her vocal opinions, yet Kote could not deny its current convenience.
The charismatic mask of her father commenced as he forced a bright smile and gentle nod. For if he was strategic at performing for a courtroom, he held no setbacks repeating such showmanship for his daughter, let alone other guests.
“Of course, take your time with Mrs. Pollier’s. I will extend my condolences to the Harkins,” he feigned. He held the folded paper up between his fingers, placing it in his pocket. “I will take this to the Gazette for you, as mediocre as it is.”
He trudged past her, leaving her in the courtroom with silence. Shame returned to Kote, mixing with the pain in her stomach as she departed the courtroom with Henriette, unbeknownst to them it would be the last time they would set foot in the wooden cage of injustice that was this courthouse.
“You must not take his words to heart. I observed your vigor upon your sketch,” Henriette comforted, guiding Kote to the carriage outside the courthouse. Kote’s valet bowed gently, helping the two inside with a guiding hand with the ladies smiling in return.
All grace and fortitude vanished the second the door latched, the older lady slouching against the upholstered black bench and sighing greatly. The great lady’s hand flexed faster, her fan attempting to keep up with the Boston heat. Kote could forgive her lax in societal manners in her old age, even if Henriette did not allow the same grace to her.
“You should be careful in your verbiage of an illness as an exemption from life, darling,” Henriette remarked, barely audible over the speed of her fan. “It looks suspicious to use a similar plea, as one would say in court.”
Kote wished she had not heard it, turning to look out the window before small tears could stream down her cheeks.
She’d rather the world hate her for the sickness inside her. Each time Henriette or others defended her choice to rest or navigate a path in pain, they’d turn around and slap her with some forged “gentle” berate. To feel a sense of reassurance and hope in connecting with another person, one who truly witnessed her pain, for them to forsake such thoughts when it suited them best was more damning than the cruelty of all else.
Maybe this was it, Kote thought. Is this what they feel like, on those stands, shouting for vindication of their souls while no one else listens? Many were innocent of their crimes...
“Good graces, it is hot in here,” Henriette murmured.
Kote agreed, envisioning this hell on earth; a place where she held no authority over her body and life but paid each day for her father’s sins disguised as the righteousness of the law.
