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without a lawyer present.”
    Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open and a police officer entered. “What are you doing in here?” he shouted at Clinton. “The Coroner has given orders that no one may enter this room!”
    Clinton stood up, reflexively. “I am a lawyer. I am having a conference with this woman with her permission, as is her right.”
    “These rooms are off bounds to lawyers. She has no right to speak to anyone.” The policeman lunged toward him, but Clinton dodged and moved toward the door.
    “There is no such requirement. No one can be denied counsel. I will speak to the Coroner myself,” Clinton said, moving swiftly to the hall and toward the stairs, with the officer following behind him. He started downstairs while the officer yelled loudly after him, “A man has been in to see the witness. I tried to prevent him!”
    Clinton reached the last flight, just as Coroner Connery was rushing from the parlor to see the cause of the commotion. The crowd spilled out after him: jurymen, journalists, detectives, and officers, all crowding into the hall, looking up at Clinton, who was now stopped, poised on the staircase, midway down. Clinton remained where he was and addressed the group below: “Gentleman, I have just been speaking with the lady you have in custody. She has every right to consult with me, as a member of the legal profession.”
    “I will not allow anyone to go stealthily into the prisoner’s room for any reason whatsoever,” bellowed the Coroner. “Tampering with a witness is against my orders!”
    “I did not go stealthily, for there is no restriction against a member of the legal profession having a private consultation with a citizen, upon their request.”
    “I did not say stealthily with any design to malign you, sir,” the Coroner replied, with mock deference. “I am the one in charge here, and Mrs. Cunningham and her daughters cannot elect to talk to anyone until their sworn testimony before me.”
    “Is this woman to be interviewed as a witness or is she a suspect?” asked Clinton. “That is what I demand to know. If she is a suspect, then the law provides that no person can be imprisoned without charges made. I will present you with a writ of habeas corpus if I must. She cannot be held under arrest unless she is charged with a crime.”
    “She is under arrest in her own home, which is a different matter entirely. Perhaps she is a suspect or perhaps she is a witness. I am the one to decide that.”
    Clinton moved down the last steps. “It will be a simple matter to test your interpretation of the law before a more competent authority than yourself. I will obtain an order from a judge, if I must.”
    “Go ahead,” said Connery, seething like a child rebuked, “but I speak to you in the presence of the jury and the press—we do not need law here! This is my investigation.” He pointed to a policeman and shouted, “Get some committals made out. I want them here, so that I can send to prison any person who interferes with my orders.”
    Clinton walked solidly past the officers, to the outer door, and exited the house. From atop the stoop he met a blast of bright morning light; the crowd before 31 Bond Street had grown larger. It was almost ten o’clock and downtown his clerks would be busy at their desks. It was time to get to his office—he had just come across his next case.

CHAPTER FIVE
    C linton pulled the canvas strap that ran along the floor, tied to the driver’s leg. The Bowery stagecoach was known for its cutthroat drivers who could steer a team of horses through any morning crush. The horses whinnied as the coach strained to a stop. Clinton hopped off and headed toward the limestone row of law offices that faced the unadorned back side of City Hall.
    He waded among the newsboys, who chanted the headlines about the murder. A ragged boy stopped before him; he had the haunted, hollow look of the very hungry and wore tattered pants that were too short by a