The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Read online

  Her back was to him as she put a book in its place on the shelf of Harley’s desk.

  He went to the stove for a cup of coffee. “I don’t suppose I ever getting around to letting you know that.”

  She turned to look at him. “No, sir, you don’t. But I know it anyway. Thank you.”

  The talking-phone rang in the front room, and she went to get it. She spoke briefly and returned. “You’d better take this call yourself.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Professor Perkins. He says it’s important.”

  Catfish went to the talking-phone—the first time he’d ever used it himself, but this was important. Perkins sounded upset. Apparently, the Baylor president, Rufus Burleson, had gotten a visit from some high-and-mighty person—Perkins didn’t know who—about that damned newspaper article and was now considering taking disciplinary action against the boys. Expulsion had been mentioned.

  Damnation! If Baylor expelled those boys right before the trial, every man on that jury panel would know about it. If the state of Texas thought Cicero was guilty, and the newspapers all thought he did it, and Baylor believed it so strongly that they expelled him, then Cicero’s goose was cooked. Jury’d be tainted before trial ever started. Damned if he’d let that happen.

  “Perkins, do you think you can get Burleson to meet with us before he takes any action?”

  “Probably. He’s a fair man.”

  “Good. I want him to meet Henry and Jasper face to face before he punishes them. The president’s got to know these aren’t bad boys.”

  “I agree.”

  Catfish could still see the fear in their eyes. Innocent, pleading.

  Familiar.

  He had to stop this. Those boys couldn’t be expelled.

  God give me the skill to save them. Don’t make Henry Sweet endure what I did with Houston.

  Chapter 23

  The president was old as Methuselah and nary ever smiled. The very idea of going to see him in his office was scaryfying. It was like going to the schoolmaster’s office back home, and he always got licks on them visits. Jasper figured licks would be better than what the president likely had in mind. Professor Perkins said the president might not let him come back for classes in the fall term. Jasper wouldn’t be able to face his folks if that happened.

  He took a big breath and let it out slow. He should just quit fretting. It wouldn’t be so bad.

  The president’s office was in a big new three-story red brick building folks called the main building or just “Main” for short. It was the kind of place you expected smart folks to be, and it made Jasper downright edgy. It had them five tall spires like church steeples pointing straight up toward heaven. He didn’t know if that was their purpose, but he wasn’t sure he wanted God to take notice of what was fixing to happen there.

  Him and Professor Perkins waited by the front steps. Just after that big bell struck, a surrey pulled up on Fifth Street. Mr. Calloway, Mr. Harley, and Mr. Sweet got out and come on up the sidewalk, talking and pointing here and there as they did. They all met up by the front steps of the main building.

  Mr. Calloway said he wanted to visit a spell before they went in. “Jasper, do you understand that President Burleson is considering whether to expel you and Cicero?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t know what he’s gonna do, but you best mind your p’s and q’s.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand.”

  A clutch of girls come out of Main and swarmed around them. Mr. Calloway waited for them to move on. “He’ll probably ask you what happened. Just tell him the truth.”

  “Yes, sir.” Didn’t Mr. Calloway think he would?

  More students and one of the lecturers poured out of Main, chattering away about things that weren’t exactly serious compared to the reason Jasper was there. Mr. Calloway stopped talking again until they got on by. The campus was pretty quiet because summer school was smaller. Jasper had laughed when he read the student catalog’s explanation about the summer classes: “Life is too short and its opportunities too precious for earnest people to waste three of the most valuable months of the year.” Maybe they didn’t know July was the time earnest people harvested their cotton, and life would be even shorter if they couldn’t make ends meet. A goodly number of his friends was back home helping with the harvest. He wished he was there, too.

  George Truett come out among the students leaving Main. George was a little older but had always been real nice to Jasper. He did part-time pastoring at a Baptist church to pay for school.

  “Hello, Jasper,” George said.

  Jasper gulped. Thank the Lord that George didn’t know why he was there with the lawyers.

  “Howdy,” he choked out.

  Mr. Calloway continued after Truett passed. “Have you been in any other trouble while you’ve been here at Baylor?”

  “No, sir. Not a lick.”

  “Never been to a sporting house before?”

  “I ain’t never been to no sporting house,” Jasper stammered, “except that once.”

  Professor Perkins shook his head. “You haven’t ever been to any bawdy house.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Jasper, ain’t isn’t proper English.”

  “It ain’t?”

  “It isn’t.”

  “But Mr. Calloway says ain’t sometimes.”

  Mr. Calloway looked at Professor Perkins and then back at him. “Son, you came to college to be better than your elders, didn’t you?”

  “No, sir. I come because my mother wanted me to.”

  Mr. Calloway smiled. “Well, she wants you to use proper grammar.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “President Burleson needs to see you’re suited to college.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Calloway and Mr. Harley started whispering to one another. They must be talking about his grammar. He clapped his eyes shut. Don’t say “ain’t.” Don’t say “ain’t.” Don’t say “ain’t.”

  “Professor Perkins,” Mr. Sweet said, “I’ve never met President Burleson. Is there anything I should know?”

  Perkins glanced up at the third-floor windows above them. “He’s a good and decent man. I think he feels a heavy responsibility to see Baylor’s reputation is maintained appropriately. He’s very proud of this institution. He was president back before the war, when it was located in Independence. Then he came here to be president of Waco University. When Waco University merged with Baylor in ’86, he became president of Baylor again.”

  “Henry,” Mr. Calloway said, “Dr. Burleson’s a Baptist, of course, and so takes his religion seriously. He’s not gonna be easy with the boys’ going to a sporting house.”

  “Nor am I,” Mr. Sweet said.

  Jasper looked down at the sidewalk and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

  “I think we just go in there and shoot straight with him,” Mr. Calloway said. “I can’t imagine he’d do anything that might contribute to one of his students being convicted of murder.”

  “Yes,” Professor Perkins said, “I agree. He genuinely cares about students. And he needs to understand an acquittal is in Baylor’s best interest too.”

  “All right,” Mr. Calloway said, “let’s go.”

  He patted Jasper on the back and smiled like Daddy did.

  Jasper took a deep breath, hitched up his trousers, and spit-dabbed his cowlick down. Lord, don’t let me say “ain’t.” He followed the others inside.

  ***

  Catfish settled into a chair in front of the president’s desk, next to Jasper. He’d never been in the president’s office—met him once at a social occasion over at Walter Fort’s house, spoke a minute or two.

  He studied Burleson, hoping to infer his intentions. Stately gentleman about eight to ten years older than Catfish. Wispy white hair and beard edging his bald head. Had a chicken neck. Dressed in a black suit, white waistcoat, shirt with winged collars, and a white bow tie. Might as well have been presidi
ng over some official event. His eyes looked sad.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, gentlemen,” the president said from behind his large partner desk. “I have asked my stenographer to take notes on what occurs here. First, let me say to all gathered how sorry I am for the wrong done to that young lady. Flawed as she might be, she was still God’s child. Let me say as well that I am troubled by the notion that two of our students were involved in the sordid business of the Reservation. I should first like to hear they were unaware of the nature of the establishment, if that is the case.”

  “Afraid that’s not the case, sir,” Catfish offered deferentially.

  “I see.” The president looked disappointed. “Mr. Cantrell, perhaps you could explain yourself then?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jasper said. “We was just going there to drink beer.”

  The president’s white eyebrows arched. “Indeed.”

  Catfish raked his fingers through his hair and shot a warning gaze at the boy. Drinking beer wasn’t much lower than murder and fornication on Burleson’s list of damnable sins.

  “I’m terrible sorry for that, sir. We hadn’t ever . . . been there before. I know I made a poor choice, and I’m settled to whatever you feel is the right thing to do with me.”

  That was better.

  “And whose idea was it to go there to imbibe intoxicants?”

  Jasper looked sheepish and hung his head before looking at Burleson directly. “I reckon both of us sort of decided about the same instant. We been at the revival over at the Tabernacle, and it took a warm turn.”

  Catfish squirmed. Jasper wasn’t in pari delicto with Cicero on that decision.

  “If I might, President Burleson,” he said in the same respectful voice he used in court. “We all realize the difficult situation this has put Baylor in, and I know I speak for both boys when I say they’d never intentionally do anything to dishonor this university. They both feel privileged they were allowed to study here, and we can all understand your obligation to keep up the university’s very fine reputation.”

  “Mr. Calloway,” Burleson said, nodding in Sweet’s direction, “when parents like Mr. Sweet send their children away from home to live and study with us, they do so with an expectation we will look after them. In that respect, we stand in loco parentis, and we take that responsibility very seriously. I can’t have other parents believe we condone licentiousness or drunkenness, much less homicide.”

  “Of course not, sir.”

  “If a Christian institution cannot be counted upon to uphold Christian principles, then what would become of God’s kingdom?”

  Catfish nodded.

  The president folded his hands on the desk. “I have no small degree of pride in what we do here. This is the oldest educational institution in Texas. We have matriculated more than eight thousand students since 1845. We were the first coeducational school in the south and only the second in all of America. We are owned by the Baptist General Convention of Texas. I’m proud that only a very small percentage of our students have left these halls unconverted. The overwhelming majority have gone forth from here not only thoroughly drilled intellectually but with hearts full of love for God and for humanity. Mr. Cicero Sweet and Mr. Jasper Cantrell are only freshmen, of course, but we have the same expectations of them that we do of all our students.”

  “I know they understand that, Dr. Burleson,” Catfish said.

  “We have strict rules of conduct.” Burleson picked up two booklets from his desk. “Mr. Cantrell, I assume you read and studied our student catalog?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Catfish had made Jasper reread the catalog in preparation for this meeting.

  “As well as our book of university laws?” Burleson asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And Mr. Sweet, I assume you too are familiar with our catalog?”

  “I am.”

  Burleson flipped through the pages of one of the booklets until he came to the passage he wanted. “Including, I trust, this admonition: ‘All experience in colleges and universities demonstrates that the unrestrained use of money ruins the one guilty of the folly. Every dollar furnished to students beyond actual want, as seen in the published rates, or signed in writing to parents by the teacher is a positive injury to the student and university.’” He fixed his gaze squarely on Henry. “I assume no teacher gave you a written request for extra money for beer or . . . other vices?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And Mr. Sweet, do you concede that your son was found in a compromising situation in a house of ill repute?”

  “I’m sorry to say he was. He and I—”

  “That being the case, and with Mr. Cantrell making a similar admission, I don’t see we have much choice in how to deal with this.” Burleson closed the catalog and placed it on his desk.

  Audi alteram partem. Catfish edged forward in his chair. “Respectfully, sir, both Cicero and Jasper are children of God too, and I’m sure you’d wish no ill upon them by your own hand.”

  “Of course not, but this is their doing.”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir, you’re right about that.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small booklet that appeared identical to the one in Burleson’s hand, and turned to a dog-eared page. “Had a chance to look at your student catalog too, and found something of interest there. It’s in the section on discipline, and I admired it when I saw it. Mind if I read it to you?”

  “Of course not,” Burleson replied.

  Catfish pinched on his pince-nez. “‘The discipline of the university is intended to be a great literary family, bound together by love, mutual interest, and kind offices. Appeals will always be made first to the tenderest, noblest impulses of the heart. Severer remedies will be used only when these fail.’” He looked up at the president over his spectacles before continuing in his jury voice. “We think the noblest impulse of the Christian heart, as your handbook itself says, should be the first resort in this case. Like you said, if a Christian institution can’t be counted on to uphold its own Christian principles, then what’ll become of God’s kingdom?”

  Burleson narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Is it a noble impulse to turn a blind eye to admitted sin? Especially when another child of God suffers for it?”

  “Well, sir, with all due respect, Cicero Sweet may have sinned, but he’s not guilty of killing that girl.”

  “That is yet to be seen, Mr. Calloway.” His tone of voice seemed neither tender nor born of noble impulse.

  “That’s really my point, sir. I promise you, I’ll prove at trial someone else killed that girl. He’s not guilty of killing until a jury says so. The law of this land—built on Christian principles, of course—is that a man’s innocent until proven guilty.” He paused to let that soak in. “My worry is if Baylor expels these boys right before Cicero’s trial, it’ll be all over the papers and it’ll cause the jury to believe he must be guilty, because Dr. Burleson wouldn’t have punished him otherwise.”

  “I’m neither judge nor jury of that charge.”

  “Exactly. I felt sure you’d agree. All we ask is that you hold off on your own decision until after the jury decides what the truth is. We feel as if that’s the noblest and tenderest thing for you to do, in loco parentis, and it would bring greater honor on Baylor if no one here condemned a boy before his day in court. Even Jesus had his trial.”

  The defense rests.

  Burleson eyed Jasper, then Henry. He pushed out from his desk and rose. “I hope your Sanhedrin is more open-minded. I will consider it, gentlemen, and you will know my decision soon.”

  Chapter 24

  Sunday, the first day of July, was hot as blazes. The house was muggy, and Catfish had all the windows up and the ceiling fans going. The colonel wouldn’t stay indoors at all and snoozed the hours away on the front porch, oblivious to passing traffic. Every now and then he’d wake up, slurp water from his bowl, and then go back to sleep.

  Catfish was in his parlor in a wing c
hair by the open window, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his tie loose, and his sleeves rolled up. It was the day before Cicero’s trial. He’d been getting ready for days on end, but he still didn’t feel ready. Miss Peach had been there most of the day, helping him go over the list of veniremen and decide who to strike from the jury.

  Harley joined them just after noon. “Papa, I ran into Captain Blair at church this morning. You didn’t tell me he’d offered a plea deal Friday.”

  “Didn’t think it was important.”

  “Really?” Harley said, as if he couldn’t believe it.

  Why couldn’t he get over that? It was time for trial. “I turned it down, of course.”

  “What did he offer?”

  “Fifteen years hard time. Henry Sweet agreed with me.” Catfish went back to reading his notes.

  “Did you make a counteroffer?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cicero didn’t do it.”

  Harley got up from the sofa and went to the front door. He just stood in the open doorway, staring outside somewhere. “I think we should offer five years.”

  Miss Peach was in the adjoining dining room going over her notes. She looked up through the open French doors at Harley and then at him.

  “We’ve been over this before, son,” Catfish said. “We’re gonna try the case. No deals.”

  There was silence. Miss Peach hunkered back over her papers.

  “Yes, sir.” He returned to the sofa and slumped back. “I’ll do some legal research on the jury charge. We should get a manslaughter jury instruction that helps us if we can.”

  “Why do we want a manslaughter instruction?” Miss Peach asked.

  “If the jury believes Cicero killed her, they can still reach a verdict he didn’t do it with malice,” Harley said.

  “How does that help?”

  “The punishment for manslaughter is prison, not death. The maximum is two to five years. A manslaughter verdict would be a victory, in my opinion.”

  Catfish took a breath. Only a not guilty verdict would be a victory. He pushed his chair back and lit the White Owl he’d been chewing on. “Well, that instruction will be in the jury charge because they indicted him on the lesser included offense of manslaughter, but I have no intention of arguing for the jury to find him guilty of manslaughter.”