I couldn’t hold my tongue another second.

“Your Honor, I object! I don’t see any of the colored folks being rowdy or disrespectful. The ones making the fuss are the white men in front.”

Judge Warren glared over his glasses at me. His expression intimidated the room into silence.

“Mr. Corbett, it is my job to decide how to keep order in my court. It is your job to counsel your client-and let me tell you, from where I sit, she needs all the help she can get.”

I couldn’t disagree.

What I once thought would be an easy victory in the case of District of Columbia v. Johnson was swiftly turning into a disaster for Gracie and her increasingly helpless attorney, Benjamin E. Corbett: that being myself.

Gracie Johnson was on trial for the murder of Lydia Davenport, a wealthy white woman who was active in Washington society at a level high enough to cause a nosebleed. Worse, Gracie was a black woman accused of killing her wealthy white employer.

The year was 1906. Before it was all over, I was afraid they were going to hang Gracie.

I had to be careful they didn’t hang me while they were at it.

Chapter 2

“I WILL NOT TOLERATE another outburst,” Judge Warren said to the spectators. He turned to look me in the eye. “And I suggest that you, Mr. Corbett, select your objections with greater care.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” I said, then immediately held my tongue in check with my teeth.

“Mr. Ames, you may resume questioning the defendant.”

Carter Ames, the city attorney, was a little old man about five feet tall. He strode to the witness stand as if he were every inch of six-two.

“Now, Grace, let’s go back to the afternoon in question, May twenty-third. In your testimony-before the unfortunate disruption occurred-isn’t it true that you essentially admitted to murdering Mrs. Davenport?”