California Woman (Daughters of the Whirlwind Book 1)

by Daniel Knapp

  "Who is she?"

  "I know what you're thinking. But it isn't Katherine McDonnell. Wouldn't that have been a twist? I haven't seen her, but the woman's name is Lovell. Marcy Lovell."

  Esther decided to stay one extra day, just to see Sharon in an uncomfortable situation and satisfy her curiosity about what his Jezebel looked like. Neither Sharon nor the woman had appeared when the clerk suddenly came out through the door to Alex's chambers and announced that session had been postponed until the following day.

  "I had to disqualify myself," Alex said that evening as they sat at her dinner table. "You might as well go on back."

  "But why?"

  He hesitated for a moment. "I wasn't planning to tell you. But it is Katherine McDonnell. She’s just using a different name. I held a conference with the attorneys for both sides just before the session was about to start. She was with her lawyers in the waiting room. You should have seen the look on her face. Both her attorneys resigned the case when I told them I'd disqualify myself and I'd testify against her. I'm not crazy about Sharon, but I'd be derelict if I didn't."

  "Do you have to get involved in it? There's sure to be embarrassment for you."

  "Not enough to amount to anything. And I'm conscience-bound to do whatever I can now that she knows there's even a possibility that I'll be testifying."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's my guess she'll try to find the most persuasive counsel she can lay her hands on."

  "Does that matter? Sharon has a good attorney, doesn't he?"

  "Damn fool is representing himself. I'm told he practiced law briefly somewhere in the midwest, but he hasn't set foot in a courtroom in fifteen years. If McDonnell gets herself anyone of consequence, he'll wrap Sharon right around his finger."

  In his new offices on the fourth floor of the Miner's Exchange Bank on Montgomery Street, Luther Mosby stared down at the picture of "Marcy Lovell" on the front page of the morning newspaper. There was something familiar about the woman, but he could not place her. He had been following her case in the papers; with a deft suggestion or two, he had arranged for her to be referred to him by a former political ally after her lawyers had resigned. He had not been back in San Francisco a month. Representing the woman, no matter what the results of the trial were, could do nothing but help in reestablishing a clientele here.

  He sat down and gazed at the full-length picture of Marcy Lovell. Early thirties, he guessed. Wonderful tits; what appeared—under all that goddamned fabric—to be a thoroughbred pair of legs. And God, what a face! I know her from somewhere, goddamnit! Looking up, he glanced at the picture of himself in Confederate officer's uniform hanging on the wall opposite his desk. Won't be too long'n I'll be sixty fuckin' years old. Well, five or six more years, anyway. He turned his attention back to the picture, feeling stirred as he had not been for years as he studied Marcy Lovell's features. She would be here within a matter of minutes. Wouldn't be too bad havin' a woman like that around. Save a lot of trouble and effort. I could get rid of that goddamned Chinaman cleans the place. Might cost me less in the long run. Sixty. Goddamnit!

  After she'd arrived and they'd introduced themselves, he caught himself staring at her face for such lengths of time that there were long pauses between his questions.

  "Is anything wrong, Judge Mosby?"

  He cleared his throat, put totally off-balance by the beginnings of infatuation. "No, you just… seem very familiar to me."

  "I think I have seen you before, as well, Judge Mosby." She looked down, feigning shyness. "No one could forget such a striking man."

  He sensed she might be open to "pursuing things," if the approach was acceptable enough, and he regained some of his confidence. "You've lived in San Francisco all your life?"

  "No, I grew up in the midwest, studied there, then came here to seek—a teaching position."

  "How long ago was that?"

  She glanced past him at the window. "Oh, the mid-'50s, or thereabouts."

  "And you think you've seen me before too? When do you suppose it was?" In the midst of his commingling calculations and authentic, incipient feelings for her, he caught a hint that she was being very careful with her answer.

  "Many years ago, I would think. Probably when I—first came to San Francisco. You were here then, were you not?"

  Mid-'50s. Had to be before the vigilante business. His mind ticked off all the possibilities. He knew somehow that it would be an advantage to know where he had seen her. "Before the War of Secession? Yes. I was here. I was a lawyer then, too—"

  "Before your term on the State Supreme Court."

  He beamed, his ego temporarily stifling his efforts to recollect. He plunged into it then, as another rush of desire, and—he had never felt, could not precisely identify the additional feelings—something more urged him. "I want you to know that I'll be honored to take your case, Miss Lovell. Honored. It's time a man stood by you."

  "Why, judge, how—"

  "I want you to know something else. I want to be completely honest with you from the start."

  "Yes, judge?"

  "Please call me Luther. I want you to know—it's hard for me to say this—that there's more than my wanting to see justice done in this case." He rushed on. "That… this has never happened to me with a client… that I'm… taken with you, Miss Lovell. Honorably taken. And when all this is over…"

  "Judge—Luther, you don't have to say another word. I want you to know that I, too, have been experiencing… feelings… since I walked in this door." She was certain now that he did not recognize her, could not possibly remember her from the few days she had been at Arabella Ryan's, before the fire, just after arriving in San Francisco. He had looked at her once or twice in the parlor, on the way upstairs with the Oriental girl. But he had never been with her, never been closer than ten or twelve feet away.

  Mosby stood up, walked around his desk, leaned over gallantly, and took her gloved hand. "I think this is the start of something much bigger than your case against Mr. Sharon."

  When she was gone, he remembered. She could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen, fresh off the train when Arabella picked her up. He would never tell her he knew, never use it obviously. God, she was beautiful. And unless she was playing him, she was ripe for the long-term alliance he had in mind. Well, he might not use the knowledge so she would know it, but he might damn well press her a bit, carefully, so that he could begin enjoying her long before "all this is over."

  Worked her way up, just the way I did, he thought. Well, what the hell. From what I've heard, some of them make damn good wives. He smiled as he thought about how skillful she would be.

  The case was postponed again until mid-September. During the three weeks Esther was back in Sacramento, she decided to be in court if Alex took the stand. Sharon was confident that would not be necessary, and at Ralston's urging he agreed not to call upon Alex unless he was certain he would otherwise lose the case. The week before Esther returned to San Francisco, Alex wrote to tell her Katherine McDonnell had indeed found herself the powerful lawyer she needed. He did not mention the new lawyer's name, but he was certain Sharon would need his testimony in the face of the man's prominence and expertise. He suggested that Esther remain in Sacramento, considering the "circumstances."

  She quickly made arrangements for a substitute teacher at the school and gave Solana enough money to cover expenses while she was gone. She did not understand what Alex meant by "circumstances" until she took her place in the court gallery the morning the trial began.

  She was early; in another twenty minutes the spectators would jam the rest of the balcony, eager for the circus they expected the case to be. As she sat there, she pondered the effect Alex's testimony would have on both of them should he have to take the stand. All hope that he would not sank in eddies of hatred and fear fifteen minutes later, when Luther Mosby, wearing only a moustache again, rather than Lincolnesque chin whiskers, walked to the defense-counsel conference table with
Katherine McDonnell on his arm.

  Outwardly it seemed obvious even at a glance that Mosby was smitten with her. And that, authentically or not, she was displaying far more than the feelings of a client. As the courtroom and gallery filled, Katherine McDonnell repeatedly made physical contact with Mosby. In turn, he leaned close, whispered, laid his hand on hers, reached out and gently removed a speck of soot from her cheek, and generally kept every man who approached to a distance of at least a yard.

  The judge who had replaced Alex quickly brought the court into session. Sharon railed for half an hour, repeating himself, and displaying a singular lack of humility and a glaring insensitivity toward the members of the jury during his opening statement.

  The jurists were all middle-class merchants; most of them, Esther guessed, were likely to have taken part in and been burned by the artificially induced fluctuations of the Comstock market. She shuddered, then felt a sense of hopelessness as she watched Mosby walk calmly over to the jury and shake hands with each man.

  "Gentlemen," Mosby said, turning on the mellifluous, grammatically precise voice he had developed for the courtroom and pausing theatrically. "No matter what our political persuasions, I want you to know I have great respect for men like you. You are the people who make this country what it is."

  Esther caught a movement at the back of the courtroom and saw Alex slip in and sit down in a chair held for him by one of his marshals.

  Mosby paused again. He smiled warmly, with just enough restraint to be convincing, at each member of the jury. Then he walked forward to the end of the jury box nearest the witness chair and leaned almost casually on the railing.

  "Gentlemen, I don't have to spend a half hour and ten thousand words stating the realities of this case. It is a simple matter of breach of promise, in writing, by a man we all know has broken hundreds of promises—not to mention lives—in the past. I do not have to recount the deceits, the savage acts of greed the defendant has engaged in while manipulating the Comstock market for his own profit. You may not know that he is now a silent partner in the Bank of California, that he enriches himself personally every time he sends another man home to his family penniless or on the verge of suicide. But I trust a majority of those sitting in this jury box, perhaps half of the people in this courtroom have been, directly or indirectly, victims of the plaintiff's heartless disregard of fairness and honesty."

  Mosby walked over to where Katherine McDonnell was sitting. "Gentlemen, here is another of his victims. A woman, chaste when she met him, a woman honest and courageous enough to earn her own daily bread alongside men in the rough-and-tumble of the stock exchange. A woman with mettle enough to stand up to a man with a thousand times her means. A woman seduced and despoiled after being promised the sanctity and safety of marriage—in writing."

  In a calculated action, Mosby walked half the distance back to the jury and stopped. He looked at the floor and shook his head. "Gentlemen, under threats from a place so respected in our judicial system I cannot believe them, this poor woman's original lawyers abandoned her. They were cowards and fools. You do not have to be a former State Supreme Court Justice to know an open-and-shut case when you see it. You do not need much courage to stand pat with three aces when a knave is bluffing."

  Mosby turned and stared confidently at William Sharon. "Oh, the defendant will attempt to establish that his hollow promise is a forgery. But we know, do we not, what falsehoods he has put his signature to in the past."

  Mosby turned and looked back over the heads of the spectators and witnesses to where Alex sat. Remembering Alex from the morning "Todd Alexander" punched him out at the hotel, Mosby glared for a moment. Better no one knows I have any animosity toward him in the unlikely event he testifies, Mosby thought, and quickly turned away. "The defendant may also call upon a witness of outwardly impeccable reputation to besmirch further this good woman's name. But—should he do that—we will show, through cross-examination, the testimony of a medical doctor, and—if necessary—a married woman patient…" Mosby quickly glanced to his left, and Esther caught sight of Dr. Sims sitting two rows diagonally in front of Alex "…just how peccable, if you'll excuse the expression, that respected witness's reputation actually is."

  Esther stifled a moan as the court broke into restrained laughter.

  "In short, gentlemen, the defense will prove, point by point, something that you already know. That there is a liar and a thief in this courtroom. A man capable of stopping at nothing, not even the humiliation of a defenseless woman, to get what he wants without paying for it. His base character is so well known to you, I do not even have to speak his name. The merits of the defendant's case are so patently clear, I do not even feel the need to ask you to come to a verdict in favor of this lovely, innocent, physically bankrupted woman. For I know you will be just. Gentlemen, that is all I have to say."

  "You were masterful in court today, Luther. Simply masterful."

  They were in the rooms registered to Marcy Lovell, after returning from dinner at an out of the way restaurant. He had run out of talk, large or small. "Lawyering isn't what I do best, either."

  She looked puzzled but knew exactly what he meant.

  "Come here," he said, pulling her toward him and kissing her. He saw the effect on her, gauged that her desire was as strong as his. "I don't want to leave you here alone tonight."

  "Luther, it's too soon. What would it look like if anyone found out."

  "No one will know," he whispered, kissing her again and brushing a hand across her breasts. He heard her stifle a small, involuntary sound of arousal. "I'll leave before dawn."

  He kissed her again.

  "Luther—"

  "Come here, I said" He pulled her slowly down on a couch, rolled over on top of her, grew more certain of what he was doing when the feel of his genitals on hers made her close her eyes.

  "Luther—"

  "You want it just as much as I do."

  "Yes, but—"

  "But nothing. It's not too soon, the way we feel about each other. We don't have to act like two kids." And then he heard himself say, "I want to marry you, don't I?" It shocked him for a moment, but he did not retract a single word.

  "You can't testify!" Esther pleaded as they sat in front of her fireplace late that night. "It will ruin you!"

  Alex sighed. "It's not me I'm worried about, Esther. It's you. And I don't see how I can avoid hurting you."

  "I don't care a damn what's said about me! There are other places to live besides San Francisco or the state capital. But think of what it will do to your career; think of what you'll be put through!"

  "I'll just have to resign."

  "But why? Sharon doesn't deserve such sacrifice."

  "I no longer have a choice, Esther. I was informed today that Sharon applied for a subpoena. During the recess following Mosby's opening statement."

  "Oh, God."

  "Mosby's in love with her, you know."

  "Either that or he wants her badly, for whatever reasons."

  "What an irony. Once, a long time ago, here in San Francisco, I had an altercation with him. That time I told you about, when I thought I had seen you in the street? I beat him pretty badly. Caught him—abusing—a young woman. I'm sure he must remember."

  She pondered telling him that it was a double irony, then decided not to. She put one arm around him and gazed into the fire. "You didn't want me to come at first because of circumstances. You thought it would stir up grief over Warren."

  "Yes. And now there's all the more reason you ought to go back to Sacramento."

  "Why? Mosby will simply issue a subpoena, and I'll have to come back." All the hatred, all the desire for revenge was flowing back into her. She wished she had hired an assassin, had had Mosby killed when it was possible. She wondered for a moment about having it done now, but she knew Alex might easily be implicated. "I will simply have to speed up my plans for leaving Carter. We will take Todd and—"

  "You were in the restauran
t when Mosby challenged Warren. Do you think he'll recognize you? Not as Esther Carter, but as a friend of Barnett's with an ax to grind."

  "I—I don't think so." She hadn't thought of that, hadn't even considered what would happen if Mosby not only remembered her from that night in Sacramento but realized who she actually was. She wondered for a moment whether telling everything to the jury would make any difference if he did. Alex's name would still be tarred, their relationship would still be revealed. Beyond that, it would probably rob her of the opportunity, later, of doing what she now knew she would never abandon again for as long as she lived.

  "Perhaps it won't be necessary for me to testify," she whispered, leaning over and pressing her head against Alex's shoulder.

  "I hope not. Perhaps I can cover things in such a way—"

  "Let's not think about it. If it's necessary, then well do it with all the stops pulled out. We'll make a life together somewhere else. Start all over again, just as though you'd never left Bent's Fort and we came west this year."

  He put his face in his hands. "I love this place. I wanted to make my life here."

  "So did I." She felt the sadness in him as much as her own. To hell with it, she thought. To hell with having my private revenge. If I tell all in the courtroom, Mosby will be as good as dead, anyway. At least in California. God knows if he's still punishable by law for what he did to me. But surely it will ruin him, and Alex will come out of it with sympathy enough to continue on the bench. She gently massaged his neck. "We'll find a way to stay here. I know we will."

  And then she began thinking about what Mosby might do after she had told it all.

  Seventy-two

  The trial dragged out over an eight-day period. Sharon kept to his word about not calling Alex until it was absolutely necessary. From the gallery, Esther watched Mosby outmaneuver Sharon and his witnesses; it was like observing a cat toy with a field mouse. He displayed an artist's representations of Sharon's signature traced and enlarged from a dozen documents. Then, after Sharon objected so stridently the judge threatened to have him removed from the courtroom, Mosby showed each member of the jury the promissory love letter the banker had written to "Marcy Lovell," individually, handing over the letter, waiting patiently until it was read, taking it back, holding it, staring for ten seconds at the jurist who had just read it, and then moving on to another without saying a word.