Morrison shook his head slowly. No, Robert was always lucid when I saw him. He spoke clearly about his condition. He understood he was dying. He made rational decisions about his care.
"So, your testimony about impaired judgment is speculation?" "It's based on my medical understanding of his condition." "But you have no direct evidence that Robert Thornton was mentally incompetent when he dictated his will?" "No," Morrison admitted. "I don't."
The testimony went back and forth for days: witnesses for both sides, character assassinations and defenses, and financial experts arguing about whether the trust structures were legal. Every intimate detail of Robert and Eliza's relationship dragged into public view. And through it all, Eliza sat in that courtroom, forced to listen as people debated whether she was human enough to own property, whether she'd seduced or been raped, whether her children deserved freedom or should remain enslaved. The psychological toll was immense.
At night back at Belmont, Eliza would sit with Marcus, Sarah, and Thomas, trying to maintain normalcy while their entire world hung in the balance. Marcus, now 10, was old enough to understand some of what was happening. He'd ask questions Eliza couldn't answer.
"Mama, why do they hate you so much?"
"They don't hate me, baby. They hate what I represent."
"What do you represent?" How could she explain to a 10-year-old that she represented the lie at the heart of southern society? that she was proof that the children of enslaved women and White men were human beings who deserved rights, that she threatened the entire social order that said some people were property and others were people. She couldn't. So, she just held him and said, "I represent hope that things can be different." But the person who provided the most crucial testimony wasn't a character witness or a medical expert.
It was James Whitfield himself, Robert's attorney, who drafted the will and heard Robert's reasoning firsthand. Whitfield took the stand in early November, and his testimony would change everything. Thomas Thornton tried to discredit him. Mr. Whitfield, isn't it true that you stand to earn substantial fees if this will is probated? I'm being compensated for my legal services.
Yes. So, you have a financial incentive to defend this will regardless of its validity? I have a professional obligation to defend my client's wishes. Robert Thornton came to me 6 weeks before his death and dictated this will over the course of two full days. He was more lucid, more purposeful than many clients I've worked with.
He knew exactly what he was doing. "What exactly did my brother say when he came to you?" Whitfield pulled out his notes.
"He said, 'I'm dying, James. I've made many mistakes in my life, but I have a chance to correct one of them. I want to free Eliza and provide for our children. I know this will destroy my relationship with my legitimate family. I know it will cause a scandal, but I would rather die honestly than live one more day lying to myself.'" The courtroom went silent.
"He said more," Whitfield continued. "He said, 'Margaret will never forgive me. My children will hate my memory. Natchez society will condemn me. I accept all of that because the alternative is dying knowing that I enslaved my own children, that I kept the woman I loved in bondage, and that I was too much of a coward to face the truth.'"
"'I've been a coward my whole life, James. Let me at least die brave.'" Thomas Thornton's face had gone pale.
These were his brother's words documented in Whitfield's notes, impossible to deny, but Thomas tried. My brother was clearly not in his right mind if he said such things. The Robert Thornton I knew would never, the Robert Thornton you knew, Whitfield interrupted, was the performance he gave for Natchez society. The Robert Thornton who dictated this will was the man beneath that performance, and he was exhausted from maintaining the lie. It was the turning point of the trial.
Whitfield's testimony, backed by detailed notes and the letter Robert had written, made it impossible to dismiss the will as the product of a confused mind. Robert had known exactly what he was doing. He'd understood the consequences and he'd done it anyway.
Judge Foster called for a recess after Whitfield's testimony. When court reconvened a week later, he looked weary. This case had taken its toll on everyone involved. The final arguments took an entire day. Thomas Thornton argued passionately that the will violated Mississippi law, public policy, and moral order.
Whitfield argued that Robert Thornton had every legal right to dispose of his property as he chose and that the trust structures complied with all relevant statutes. Then Judge Foster asked the question that cut to the heart of everything.
"Mr. Whitfield, are you truly arguing that Mississippi law should permit a Black woman to own a plantation with enslaved workers, control business interests, and exercise the kind of economic power that has always been reserved for White men?"
Whitfield, in what would become his most famous legal argument, responded, "Your Honor, I'm arguing that Mississippi law already permits free people of color to own property. The legislature has restricted those rights, yes, but not eliminated them."
"More importantly, I'm arguing that if a White man of property has the legal right to manumit enslaved people he owns and provide for them, then Robert Thornton has exercised that right. The fact that he chose to provide generously rather than minimally doesn't make his actions illegal. It just makes them unusual."
"But surely the magnitude of this bequest is beyond what the law contemplated."
"With respect, Your Honor, the law doesn't specify how much a freed person can inherit. It simply restricts their rights once they've inherited. Miss Eliza, if she receives this property, will still face all the legal restrictions that free people of color face in Mississippi. She won't be able to vote, testify in court against White people, or exercise many other rights."
"But owning property, the law permits that. And if we're going to say the law has a secret cap on how much property a freed person can own, then we're inventing restrictions that don't exist in statute."
Judge Foster sat back in his chair. Everyone in the courtroom knew what he was thinking. This wasn't just a legal decision. It was a social one. Rule for Eliza, and he'd be saying that Mississippi law permitted a formerly enslaved Black woman to become one of the wealthiest people in the state.