I wanted his scalp, and perhaps he knew it. Because less than a week after Alexander was buried, the vice president of the United States fled the city under cover of darkness, like a criminal, like the base assassin he was.
And I took some solace in having routed him. I’d forced him to retreat, but it wasn’t enough. Oh, not nearly enough. I wouldn’t be satisfied until I forced him off the continent, if not this plane of existence.
Then came the verdict of the coroner’s jury.
Aaron Burr Esq. Vice-president of the United States, is GUILTY of the murder of Alexander Hamilton.
There it was, in black and white.
And when I showed my sister the verdict printed in the paper, I said, “If ever he dares step foot in New York again, he’ll be brought to formal trial.”
Angelica warned, “Please don’t set your heart on this. Burr is a clever devil. He’ll argue that New York doesn’t have jurisdiction because the duel was fought in New Jersey.”
“Well, then I must see that he’s indicted in New Jersey, too.”
The first step is to gather the evidence.
That’s what I imagined Hamilton saying. I could still hear the echo of his voice, instructing Philip on the finer points of the law. How I wished I’d listened more carefully . . .
Burr was already trying to defend himself with the lie that my husband had fired at him and that he’d merely fired back in self-defense. But Mr. Pendleton had acted as my husband’s second in the duel, and said otherwise. Moreover, Alexander left a letter for me expressing his intention to throw away his shot; there were likely other letters expressing the same, and I wanted them as proof.
Which was why I went, with my sister, to Alexander’s law office the next morning. Upon entering the chamber, I braced myself for the familiarity of it. The sight of his leather-bound law books kept in neat rows upon the shelf from floor to ceiling. The burgundy carpet, a little worn in the path he used to pace while working out his arguments. The sunlight falling upon a desk where his quill pen would never scratch again.
Instead, I came upon clerks packing his things into boxes. And the esteemed executors of Alexander’s will—Mr. Church, Mr. Pendleton, and Mr. Fish—hovering over his belongings like vultures over carrion, thumbing through his papers, bundles opened upon every surface . . .
For a moment, it felt as if I couldn’t get enough air. “What are you doing?” I finally demanded, my voice trembling with anger. Someone tried to greet me in polite acknowledgment, but I was too blinded with rage to see who.
All I wanted to do was scream, Get your hands off his things. Get out, get out!
Alexander’s leather chair was askew. Someone had been sitting where my husband used to sit. They’d even smoked here, for a faint trace of tobacco hung in the air. Yet, the greatest indignity was to see that the compartments in my husband’s carved desk had been unlocked. And my nostrils flared as I demanded to know, “Has someone taken papers from here?”
The men stopped what they were doing but didn’t answer, only stared uncomfortably. And I might have shouted at them if Angelica hadn’t stepped forward. “Will you gentlemen please excuse us? Mrs. General Hamilton should like some privacy.”
The men withdrew and closed the door behind them—all but for my brother-in-law, who’d been packing one of the boxes and now seemed puzzled by my reaction. As soon as we were alone, I rounded on him. “Where are the papers from Alexander’s desk?”
“Here, somewhere, I’m quite certain.” Church motioned to the crates and poured himself a glass of port, though it was midmorning. As an executor of my husband’s will, he now held trust over my inheritance, whatever it might be. And he said, “I’m sure it’s all in these boxes excepting a few documents pertaining to existing legal matters and party business.”
My husband’s law partner would need to take on Alexander’s clients. And, perhaps, matters of import to the Federalist Party. But none of this changed what felt to me a shocking violation. “How dare any of you take Alexander’s words from me without so much as a by your leave?”
Church leaned against the desk, “Well, legally—”
“Jack,” my sister snapped, gripping his arm to keep him from saying more.
I knew he was going to explain that executors had the right to take and sell anything valuable for the payment of debts—my husband’s words being the most valuable things of all.
I knew and didn’t care. Struggling for a calming breath, I said, “Sell the chair, the desk, the lamps, the carpets, even the books. But you must promise me that no one shall ever touch my husband’s papers but me. Never again without my permission. I should like this expressly understood.”