Comstock was just a single vote of seven. Of the six physicians, three could be counted as allies: Abraham Jacobi of Children’s Hospital, Manuel Thalberg of the German Dispensary, and Dr. Quinn, a Bellevue surgeon who also taught surgery at the Women’s Hospital and had been something of a surly but effective mentor to Anna. The other physicians were known to her only by name and reputation. Dr. Stanton, because he had published article after article attacking women physicians and the New Amsterdam in particular, and Dr. Hancock because he was one of the surgeons from Women’s Hospital, where women physicians were not welcome or even tolerated. The last physician she knew only as a Dr. Lambert, a specialist in forensics, one with an excellent reputation.
With the exception of Thalberg, who worked exclusively among the poor German immigrants, all of the physicians had thriving practices. Some of them—Jacobi in particular—also did a large amount of charity work, but they all lived well. In this group Comstock looked out of place. The physicians were all carefully groomed and expensively clothed, while Comstock, ponderous and pompous, wore his poorly fitting black wool suit and standard grim expression. But for the whiskers he always reminded Sophie of an overgrown infant. It was his round face with its flawless complexion and high spots of color where the cheekbones would be, below the layer of fat. She had no intention of studying the man, but it was impossible to ignore the habit he had of sucking his front teeth.
Sophie and Anna sat in the foremost row of the gallery, behind the table where the defense would be situated in a real trial. Behind them in the second row were Conrad and his clerk, and beyond them, about two dozen faces scattered in a room that would have seated many more. Hawthorn might be a businessman with little knowledge of medicine, but in Sophie’s view of things, he had done very well in arranging the inquest.
She smiled a greeting at five classmates from Woman’s Medical School, and then got up to greet the three professors who had come as a powerful gesture of support: Mary Putnam Jacobi, Clara Garrison, and Maude Clarke. Sophie was especially surprised to see Dr. Garrison, who had so recently been on trial herself, another one of Comstock’s favored targets. She was especially glad to see Mary Putnam, who had a mind sharper than any of the men in the room, including her husband, Abraham Jacobi, who sat on the jury.
“Steady on,” Mary said, and left everything else unsaid.
? ? ?
JUST AS SOPHIE returned to her seat the coroner asked the jury to put forward any questions they might have.
“I’d like a clarification.”
“Dr. Hancock, please go ahead.”
“You’ve mentioned the possibility that the deceased may have operated on herself in a frame of mind that amounted to suicide. I agree, it’s something to consider, but if we’re going to look at suicide, we are talking about a woman who was suffering from severe mental illness. That discussion will necessarily lead to consideration of the Campbell sons, and what happened to them.”
Anna stopped scribbling and her gaze fixed on the jury box. Then she wrote something down and turned the writing pad toward Sophie. She was writing with pencil, in sharp, straight strokes that pressed through many layers of paper. In her bag she’d have another dozen sharpened pencils to replace the one in hand when it got too dull. She had written, Morgan Hancock, Women’s Hospital?
Sophie nodded.
Studied with Czerny?
Sophie nodded again.
“I didn’t forbid the subject,” the coroner was saying. “But I would like to keep in mind that our primary purpose is something else entirely.”
The coroner said, “We’ll start with Dr. Graham of the ambulance service.”
? ? ?
ANNA WAS AWARE of Jack at the back of the room. He stood there with Oscar Maroney and another detective, his arms crossed and his chin lowered to his chest as he listened to Neill Graham recount what had happened the previous Thursday.
Graham was a good witness, clear and focused. The jurors asked questions—some of them very pointed—but Neill Graham didn’t fluster.
“How many abdominal surgeries have you observed?” Abraham Jacobi’s tone was neither kind nor confrontational.
“Mrs. Campbell’s case was the thirty-third.”
“And your impressions of Dr. Savard’s performance?”
He faltered then and glanced in Anna’s direction. She focused on her writing pad, where she wrote thirty-third and impressions of. Abraham Jacobi was asking questions he knew the answers to, to reestablish her credentials. He was subtle, as ever, in his support and therefore very effective.
“I’m not asking you for a detailed critique,” said Jacobi. “Just your impression.”
Graham didn’t hesitate any further. “She was confident. She moved quickly but not hastily. And she told me what she was doing and pointed out what she was seeing. I learned quite a bit in that short period of time.”
Benjamin Quinn cleared his throat. “And what was it you learned?”
“I thought I was pretty good at thinking on my feet, but I have a long way to go.”
Anna wrote: a long way to go.
Conrad Belmont leaned forward and put a hand on her shoulder to whisper. “He said not one thing to contradict your testimony.”
“Of course he didn’t,” Anna whispered back, irritably.
Conrad patted her as if she needed encouragement, and she resisted the urge to pull away.
? ? ?
NEW YORK POST
Monday, May 28, 1883
CAMPBELL INQUEST BEGINS
A NEIGHBOR’S CONCERNS FOR THE MISSING BOYS
SUICIDE MENTIONED FOR THE FIRST TIME