The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Page 9

  “No, sir. I don’t remember seeing a hack at all.”

  Mr. Harley raised a hand from his papers. “I have a question.” He glanced through his book and then addressed Cicero. “Do you know Peter DeGroote?”

  “I sure do. He’s a little older but goes to Baylor too.”

  “Did you ever get in a fight with him?”

  “No, sir, not as I recall.”

  “Maybe after a debate? He and a girl were having a picnic?”

  Cicero’s eyes got bigger, and he nodded. “I do remember debating him. He whipped me good. And I remember seeing him and a girl afterward.”

  “Did you get in an argument with him?” Mr. Harley asked.

  “No, sir, I didn’t. We’re friends.”

  Mr. Harley glanced at Mr. Calloway, who didn’t look back.

  “Cicero, you don’t remember anything that happened upstairs, and Jasper wasn’t there,” Mr. Calloway said, leaning back and shaking his head. “We’re gonna have a hard time putting on any kind of case for you.”

  “Yes, sir. I wish there was something I could say.”

  Mr. Calloway stood up and paced around the small room. He went to the door and told the deputy they were almost done. Then he leaned back against the wall.

  “One thing we can do is call some character witnesses. I’ve already mentioned this to Jasper.”

  “What’s a character witness?” Cicero asked.

  Mr. Harley explained it was somebody familiar with Cicero’s reputation—what people said about him. “In a case like this, we can call a witness to say you’ve got a good reputation in town as a peaceful person, not someone who’s violent by nature.”

  “Well, I sure have a good reputation, sir,” Cicero said. “Just ask anybody.”

  “We’d call somebody knows you well,” Mr. Calloway said. “Maybe respected folks at Baylor. You think of anybody there who’d stand up for your character?”

  “I expect my professors would. They all like me. Professor Perkins sure would.”

  “That’s good. The state gets to cross-examine the character witness to show he hasn’t heard everything folks are saying about you—hearing only the good and not the bad, if you follow me.”

  This thing was going to work out after all. Jasper spoke up with confidence. “I get what you’re saying, sir, but there isn’t any bad. Cicero’s a stand-up fella.”

  But Mr. Harley kept pressing Cicero. “So for example, Captain Blair would be permitted under the law to ask the character witness if he’d heard anything at all, and he could bring up specific things he thought had happened. The law calls them prior bad acts, like fights or brawls you’ve been in.”

  He peered at Cicero. “So let’s say we put up President Burleson, and he says you have a fine reputation about town as a peaceful man. Captain Blair could then ask him, ‘President Burleson, have you heard Cicero Sweet got in a fight with one of his classmates?’”

  “I haven’t ever done that,” Cicero protested.

  “Just an example of what could happen,” Mr. Calloway said. “Harley’s not saying you did.”

  Cicero nodded.

  Mr. Calloway looked stern. “So what we need to know, Cicero—and I ask you to search your memory and be sure about it—is there any violence in your past of any kind?”

  “No, sir. Never.”

  “Never got in any shoving spats while you’ve been at Baylor?”

  “No, sir. Not a one.”

  “Are you sure?” Mr. Harley asked.

  Cicero exchanged a puzzled look with Jasper. “I’m damn sure. Don’t you believe me?”

  “We do,” Mr. Calloway replied, “but we have to be careful about this. If there’s something bad, it wouldn’t be admissible in evidence unless we call a character witness to support you. But then it’d come into evidence to impeach your character witness.”

  Cicero shook his head like a bull in a hay barn. “There isn’t anything like that. Honest.”

  “All right, then,” Mr. Calloway said. “Harley, why don’t you talk to Professor Perkins and see if he’ll testify for us?”

  “Right.”

  “Cicero, one last thing.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The county attorney told me you confessed guilt to somebody.”

  Cicero shoved his chair back from the table. “That’s a lie! I did no such thing.”

  “You know why somebody’d make up such a thing?”

  “No, sir. Who is it claims I did that?”

  “He wouldn’t tell me.”

  Cicero folded his arms. “Well, sir, he’s not being honest with you then. God’s truth.”

  “Papa,” Mr. Harley asked, “do you plan to call Cicero to the witness stand?”

  Mr. Calloway looked back and forth between the two boys at the table, considering. “That’s a hard question. I’m glad you mentioned it. I’m not so sure we’d gain much, since Cicero can’t remember anything. Might just be putting him up for Blair to punch at.”

  “I can say I didn’t do it,” Cicero said to Mr. Calloway. He turned to Mr. Harley. “Because I didn’t.”

  “Not if you don’t really remember what happened upstairs,” Mr. Calloway said.

  “I could say it anyway. And Jasper could back me up.” He looked at Jasper like he should jump in and help.

  Jasper slouched and looked away.

  “No, son, I won’t have you commit perjury.”

  The deputy appeared at the door and took Cicero back to his cell. The lawyers pushed their chairs back from the table. Jasper looked questioningly at Mr. Calloway.

  “Thank you, son, you’ve been real helpful here today,” Mr. Calloway said. He turned to Miss Peach. “Now then. Didn’t you tell me you took a drama class at Baylor?”

  “Well, actually, it was elocution. But I did perform several public recitals.” She looked puzzled. “Why?”

  “Elocution, huh?” He grinned. “I expect that’s close enough.”

  “For what?”

  “A performance, Miss Peach. It’s time for a little performance.”

  Chapter 12

  After their jail visit, Miss Peach returned to the office with Mr. Harley to close up. It was dark when they finished, and he suggested it would be better if she didn’t ride her bicycle home. She boarded with Mr. and Mrs. Sparks at Tenth and Columbus, too far to walk. He offered her a ride.

  She turned over her thoughts about her assignment for tomorrow as she sat in the carriage waiting for Harley to unhitch the horse from the post. Most of her job was clerical, but sometimes Mr. Calloway entrusted her with more important tasks—a “performance,” as he called it this time. It was more like spying, really, and actually quite thrilling. If Mother knew she was doing such things, she would’ve insisted that Father drag her back to Eulogy and lock her in her bedroom.

  Mr. Calloway had asked her to find out everything she could about Miss Jessie’s operation and the bald man, in particular. He told her to go to Miss Jessie’s under a guise. He’d suggested a perfume peddler, but that was silly. Men had no idea at all. She’d already devised a ruse and played it out in her mind several times.

  She examined the address Harley had written down on the back of his calling card: the corner of Washington and First Street. Not far at all. She would ride her new Victor Flyer there—perfect. No need for Harley to drive her. They’d seen him before, anyway, and he’d be recognized. This way, they’d think she’d ridden the department store delivery bicycle.

  Harley climbed in and took the reins. “Walk on!”

  The carriage lurched forward.

  She flipped the calling card over before putting it away. “‘Audi alteram partem.’ He wants me to go hear what the other side has to say.”

  “He’s all about hearing the other side of things.”

  Mr. Calloway also kept that old Latin expression on top of his office desk. She’d never considered why. “He’s written it everywhere.”

  “Literally carved it in stone.”

 
She waited for him to explain that, but he didn’t. “Why’s it so important to him?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’d like to hear it. We’ve some distance to go.”

  He glanced at her and nodded. “You’ve probably already noticed this, but most of our clients in criminal cases are guilty. They’re generally not the kind of people you’d be proud to know. It’s the nature of the criminal law practice. I think he likes to remind himself why he does it so he can keep going when it gets hard. Most people just don’t understand it.”

  She’d felt funny herself about helping some of their clients. “What do you mean?”

  “It goes back to when I was in college. A man named Roberto Nuñez killed an elderly man in broad daylight on the town square with twenty or so people watching. He got drunk on tequila and started shooting up town. An old gentleman was just coming out of a barber shop and took a bullet in the chest. It was a pretty clear case, and nobody would defend Nuñez. Townspeople were angry about such a senseless killing and threatened to just string him up.”

  Harley lashed the horse. “The judge asked several lawyers, but none would touch it, so Papa sent the judge a note and said he’d do it. When I asked him why, he said no accused man in this country should go without a lawyer.”

  They came to Washington Street, and he clucked at the horse. They turned onto Washington, and she expected him to put the horse into a trot since it would be a long, straight stretch of road. He didn’t. After a moment, he continued speaking.

  “Word got out that Papa was representing Nuñez, and some of his friends turned on him. I was sitting with him on the front porch when a neighbor came over and yelled ‘How could you defend a murderer?’ Papa just looked at him calmly. ‘I’m defending you, Clarence,’ he said, and the man said he didn’t know what Papa was talking about.” Harley glanced at her and shrugged. “I didn’t either, frankly. Papa said, ‘I’m defending your wife and your grandchildren.’ Clarence looked at him as if he were crazy. ‘I ain’t got no grandchildren.’ Papa, calm as ever, just said, ‘But you will someday, and I’m doing this for them.’ The man said Papa was crazy and stormed off, angrier than before. Papa said that man never did understand, nor did most people in town, to be honest—me included, for a long time.”

  She shifted on the seat to face him more directly. “What happened?”

  “They tried him, and he got convicted. Everybody, including Papa, expected that. He was guilty. But Papa appealed the conviction.”

  “Why? If the man was obviously guilty?”

  “Papa said it was his job to defend Nuñez, not to judge him. He didn’t think the trial had been fair. I’ll never forget it—he said every man deserves a fair trial, especially a guilty man. When I asked him why, he said it was because if the state could get away with convicting a guilty man unfairly, they could do it to an innocent man too.”

  He turned to her. “I finally understood then what he meant about representing Clarence’s unborn grandchildren.”

  She squeezed his arm gently. She understood too. Her face warmed. It was as if they defended not the criminal but the entire community—no, the very principle of fairness itself.

  Harley clucked and tugged the reins. “Haw!”

  They turned right on Ninth Street. Night had settled all around this neighborhood. Only the clopping of their horse broke the peace.

  “How did the appeal come out?”

  “Papa won. The court ordered a new trial. They said the trial had been conducted unfairly, so the state tried him again. It was in the summer and I was out of class, so I watched. Townspeople were there in droves. Some of them called Papa names. They were packed into the courtroom, and they were angry, both at Nuñez and at Papa.”

  His voice cracked. “I watched him at the counsel table as the trial began. The judge asked for counsel’s appearances on the record. When his turn came, Papa stood up straight as an arrow. People hissed at him from the gallery, but he didn’t pay any attention. He looked the judge in the eye and said in a voice more powerful than I’d ever heard, ‘Catfish Calloway for the defense.’ It sent a chill down my spine, and I knew right then I wanted to be a lawyer just like Papa.”

  He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand.

  Like father, like son. She smiled to herself. “And the verdict?”

  “Convicted again, of course. And Papa appealed again. He argued the jury charge was erroneous, and the court of appeals agreed and ordered another trial.”

  “So they tried him a third time?”

  “No. Within a week, somebody found Nuñez hanging by the neck in his cell block.”

  She gasped. He pulled the reins and came to a stop in front of the Sparks house. “Whoa!”

  “Was it suicide?” she asked.

  “That’s what the sheriff’s deputies said.” He took in a deep breath, then shrugged and smiled. “Well, you didn’t really ask me about all that, but that’s where the Latin motto comes from. I graduated from Baylor not long after that case and went off to the new law school in Austin. Baylor had closed its own law school, where Papa had gone, thinking the state didn’t need two law schools. Then after I graduated, I returned to Waco and went into practice with Papa. On my first day in my first law office, I found a box of calling cards on my desk.” He gestured at the card she held. “They had my name and ‘audi alteram partem.’”

  She alighted from the carriage and watched him pull away. Mr. Calloway had a way of making Harley and her both feel as though they were doing something important. Tomorrow she’d do her part.

  They wouldn’t let him down.

  Chapter 13

  Sadie had invited Miss Peach right into the parlor once she’d explained that she was there from the department store, Goldstein-Migel. So far, so good. Miss Peach sat on the edge of a sofa trying not to touch it. There was red velvet upholstery everywhere, just as Harley had described. The entire room was uncommonly tacky. He’d warned her about the art but not the overwhelming perfume. She pushed through her nausea.

  Though it was early afternoon, Sadie was attired in a sheer linen nightgown draped low across her bosom. It was like a sign in the window announcing she was open for business. She wore her light brown hair up, a few stray strands escaping an otherwise tight knot. Just a little younger than Miss Peach, she was actually quite attractive despite an abundance of face paint. Her lips were so very, very red.

  “I love your lip coloring, Miss Sadie. What shade is it?”

  “Red.”

  “Of course.”

  “What can I do for you, honey?” A negligible coarseness in Sadie’s manner popped out when she spoke, but on the whole she seemed quite pleasant.

  Miss Peach made to open her bag. “A gentleman came into my department and expressed a desire to purchase an evening gown for you. I believe he’s an admirer of yours.”

  “Pshaw, I ain’t got no such admirer. You’re in the wrong place.”

  “You are Miss Sadie Wiggins, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me.”

  “And this is Miss Jessie’s Boarding House?”

  “Last time I noticed.” She shrugged her bare shoulders.

  “Then I’m at the right place. Since I’m here to do a fitting, perhaps we might do it more privately in your bedchamber?” She glanced out the doorway into the entrance hall.

  “Wait a minute,” Sadie said. “A fitting? A fitting for what?”

  “I’m so sorry I wasn’t clear. This gentleman is purchasing an evening gown for you, and I’m here to measure you for it.”

  “No, you’re not!” Sadie said, her face showing utter surprise.

  “Once I have your measurements, I’ll come back with two or three gowns I think might serve you well. Shall we go to your chamber?”

  Sadie seemed hesitant. “Who is this gent?”

  Miss Peach fumbled through her handbag. “It’s in here somewhere . . . Well, bless me, I must have misplaced it. I had a note which bears his name and address.
”

  “I don’t know no gent who’d buy me a gown, lady. I still think you’re at the wrong house.”

  “No, I’m sure it’s for you. I spoke with him myself. He mentioned you specifically. I don’t recall his name, but he was an older gentleman, quite bald.”

  Sadie snickered. “So’s half my customers.”

  “He told me he hadn’t been able to visit you in about two weeks. He said something about a friend of yours dying the night he was here, and he wanted to visit you again when things settled down. He said you were upset about your friend, and he wanted to give you a gift to make you feel better.”

  “You mean when Georgia . . .”

  “That’s it, I recall now he mentioned the name Georgia.”

  “Let me check.” Sadie went to a ledger book on a table in the parlor and flipped through it. “Oh, was it Winky-Blinky?”

  “Excuse me? Winky-Blinky?”

  “Well, his name’s supposed to be Bill. At least that’s what he calls himself when he makes an appointment.” She pointed to the ledger. “We just call him Winky-Blinky.”

  Miss Peach put a hand over her mouth. “Why?”

  “That’s what he does. His right eye blinks and blinks and blinks, like he’s got something in it.” She laughed. “Then it stops blinking, and his left eye winks one time. It’s an affliction is what it is. He does that over and over if you talk to him much, so I don’t talk. I shut my eyes when we’re getting acquainted”—she laughed again—“’cause I don’t want to watch all that winking and blinking up close. But anyway, that’s what we call him.”

  This had to be the same bald man that Jasper said winked at him. This was great progress.

  Sadie came back and sat down next to Miss Peach. “So Winky-Blinky’s buying me a gown. Ain’t that something?”

  Miss Peach couldn’t tell whether the look on Sadie’s face was delight or disgust, so she smiled anyway. “I believe him to be quite fond of you, miss. Let’s see, I think he said he’s in real estate, isn’t he?”

  “Real estate? Not that I know of. He’s a drummer of some kind. Don’t know what he sells—never pays cash here anyway. Miss Jessie just writes him down in her book. But like I said, I didn’t encourage much talking.”