MacRae stood up, startled. Waddell, who had been waiting in the judge’s chambers, marched out of thin air and crossed in front of Rountree and MacRae. Seeing the papers still held out in MacRae’s right hand, he bowed slightly from the waist, snatched them with the precise gesture of a fencing master, and carried them to the center of the courtroom.

MacRae climbed out of the jury box, two steps behind him. Before he could take back his papers, Waddell was already addressing the crowd, waving the papers over his head. “I have just been handed some urgent resolutions,” he said in his ringing baritone, “of which I heartily approve!” He riffled through them quickly, nodding, his quick eyes taking in the gist of the document.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began again in a serious tone. “I have been called upon to deliver a declaration that will gladden your civic hearts.” He nodded toward MacRae, and the crowd responded with cheers and applause. MacRae bowed and stepped back.

“It is a declaration every bit as momentous as that sacred declaration which inspired a revolution of free men to wrest their destiny from a foreign colonial power.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the White Man’s Declaration of Independence!”

Theatrically, he held up the crisp, shining white pages and slowly waved them from right to left, like a magician proving the reality of an illusion.

When the crowd quieted, he began to read: “ ‘Believing that the Constitution of the United States contemplated a government to be carried on by enlightened people …’ ”

As Waddell read the preamble, Rountree turned to MacRae, whose face was crimson. “Those are exactly my words, Hugh.”

“So what?” MacRae said, so angry he could hardly speak. “They belong to everybody now.”

“So be it.”

Rountree, like the rest of those present, was entranced by the reading of principles he had long believed. Unlike the others, though, he was already calculating what part he would play in the rest of this meeting. He’d been ambushed in this court before. He was no amateur.

MacRae sat rigid, arms folded tight across his chest.

Waddell was in his glory. Fishblate had not known about this declaration—Waddell had counted on that. Waddell had heard about it by accident, a stray remark from a lady newspaper reporter in a crimson jacket. He hadn’t laid eyes on it until a few minutes ago, when he’d stolen it right out of MacRae’s hand in front of a full house. No matter. His eyes always read ahead of his voice—an orator’s trick—and he would win their loyalty forever by telling them what they had waited all these months to hear. This declaration was not just another rousing call to action, but an official, codified pronouncement, blessed by every man they had just elected, about the new state of the world.