“What proof did Mrs. Rashers offer for her accusations?”
“Mrs. Rashers asked if we had found a printed copy of an invitation to the bon voyage party, which, as I mentioned, we found on the floor of the office, under Rashers’ body. She said her husband had promised to bring this proof home for her to inspect and that its existence proved that Mrs. Sullivan knew about his plans to go away. She said that Mrs. Sullivan must have been so upset that she killed him. Mrs. Rashers also said she feared Florence Sullivan wouldn’t be satisfied until she and her children were dead as well.”
“So District Attorney Dart asked you to arrest her?” Nate couldn’t help but think of the Laura Fair case and what he and Annie had speculated about at lunch, and his heart sank.
“You see, we now had a motive and no other suspects.” Jackson gave a wry smile. “And our one suspect isn’t cooperating. If there is something Mrs. Sullivan can tell us that would give us an alternative version of what happened, it sure would help.”
Nate knew that Jackson was a fair man with no desire to railroad the wrong person. District Attorney Dart, however, held an elected office. This meant politics and the pressure that a well-to-do woman like Mrs. Rashers could exert would naturally weigh heavily with him. He needed to talk to Florence Sullivan and get her side of the story, fast. He started to rise, thrusting out his hand to shake Jackson’s, and said, “Thanks, I will see what I can do. I gather that the grand jury will be impanelled tomorrow?”
Jackson gave his hand a firm shake. He then reached down and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper and handed them to Nate, saying, “I had Sergeant Thompson copy out the particulars of what we discovered so far, plus the names and home addresses of the people employed at Rashers, including the two witnesses, and a copy of the coroner’s report.”
“Thanks so much; this will be a great help. I take it that you won’t mind if I interview the people on this list?”
“Not if you agree to let Sergeant Thompson know if you discover something that I should hear about,” Jackson answered, breaking into a sly grin.
Nate nodded. He wasn’t a fool, and if he wanted a career in criminal law, keeping on the good side of this man was just common sense—and in the best interests of his client.
*****
Since the police department and the city jail were both in the basement of the Old City Hall (to distinguish it from the new city hall that had been under construction for over ten years), Nate didn’t have far to go in his quest to see Mrs. Sullivan. In an earlier incarnation, this section of the building holding the courtrooms had been the Jenny Lind Theater, and the high vaulted ceilings, gilded frescos, and murals with classical themes on the walls of the upper floors reflected this former theater’s grandeur. The eastern wing was newer and more utilitarian and held the offices of the county sheriff’s department and court-related clerks.
A later addition on the western side was remodeled from the famous El Dorado Saloon and now housed the Hall of Records. This was where Nate spent much of the last six years, filing routine documents connected with the wills, deeds of property, and commercial activity that dominated his legal practice before he started working with his uncle’s new law partner on criminal cases.
Turning right as he left Jackson’s office, he went down a short corridor to a locked door, where a guard stood next to a small reception area where Nate wrote his name and Mrs. Sullivan’s in the entrance book. He showed that he wasn’t armed and asked if he could first speak with Mrs. Sarah Gross, the widow who was the matron for women prisoners. Once he was ushered through to the jail and started to walk down the long corridor, he couldn’t help but notice the cacophony of groans, drunken singing, and profanity that echoed from the cells on either side of him.
He’d been in this part of the jail before but never when it was so noisy or malodorous. Today, each cell was crammed with over a dozen men. Only a few lucky ones who had claimed the benches along the walls could even sit, much less lie down, and the rest were slumped on the floor or leaning against the cell bars in one stage of inebriation or the other. There were no windows, only a single communal chamber pot and evidence that a number of the occupants had been sick, adding to the already rank smell that came from too many un-washed men in close confines.
Mrs. Sullivan would be held in one of the smaller cells reserved for female prisoners, but they would also be more crowded than usual with women who had imbibed too much. Damn Dart for succumbing to pressure from the victim’s wife. Surely they could have sent Mrs. Sullivan home until the police courts were able to process most of those who were here for the minor crime of being drunk and disorderly.
At the end of the corridor, the guard let him into another hallway that held the women, and Nate noticed a distinct improvement in the smell of the place, and the level of sound dropped. No doubt because these cells had sturdy doors with just a grilled window to let the guards look in on their charges––a sop to female privacy. The guard pointed him towards a small office where he found the jail’s matron, Mrs. Gross.
Her plain black dress, with a starched white collar and cuffs, white apron, and a chain with multiple keys hooked to the belt at her waist, reminded him forcibly of the uniform of a housekeeper in a mansion on Nob Hill. However, her height, wide shoulders, faded tan, and large hands suggested that Mrs. Gross had spent her earlier years as a farmer’s wife. Whatever her origins, she looked as if she wouldn’t take nonsense from any man or woman. Nate took off his hat and bowed respectfully, introducing himself and handing her his card.
He said, “Mrs. Gross, I am here to visit Mrs. Florence Sullivan. I have a letter of introduction to her from a friend of hers. Could you please convey this to her and let her know I will wait?”
Mrs. Gross looked down at the card, back up at Nate, and then she said, “I will be glad to do so. I hope you have come to offer her your legal services. She has steadfastly refused to see anyone.”
“Have many people tried to see her?” Nate feared that the reporters from the local newspapers had started to take an interest.
“Not after the first morning when she turned away a lady lawyer who came. Except her husband. He showed up on Saturday, but she refused to see him as well. He’s been back multiple times. I’ve seen this kind of behavior before. Some women, particularly those of education and refinement, are simply too embarrassed to see anyone. It doesn’t matter whether or not they have committed the crime they have been accused of...the shame of the accusation is enough.”
“Yes, I can see that. Well, I hope that this letter will convince her to see me.”
The matron nodded and walked briskly down the hallway, ignoring the cries that her presence elicited from women who had been peering out the grilled openings in the cell doors.
Nate reviewed what he wished to accomplish from his interview with Mrs. Sullivan. First of all, he needed her to sign the standard contract for representation. Then, he wanted her version of what happened Friday night. This was the only way he could properly advise her of the next steps he should take. Best of all would be some ideas on her part of who might have killed Rashers––if, as he hoped, she wasn’t guilty of the crime herself.
As he waited, he speculated on why she wouldn’t see her husband. I would be frantic if I discovered Annie was here and she wouldn’t see me. Nate made a note that he needed to interview Mr. Sullivan as soon as possible.
Seeing the matron coming back down the hallway, beckoning to him, he met her halfway.
“Whatever was in the letter worked; Mrs. Sullivan has agreed to see you. I was forced to put two other women in with her over the weekend––the jail was just too full––but this morning most of the women were arraigned and let out on bail. So she is the only one in her cell now, and you will have some privacy. Just knock on the door when you wish to leave. The guard at the end of the hall will let you out.”
She unlocked the door to let him into a small room that was about six feet wide and ten feet deep. Across from t
he door, a tiny barred window looked out on Dunbar, a noisy and noisome alley that gave direct access to the jail from the back of the building. The window was up near the unexpectedly high ceiling, and Nate wondered if this room had once been a storeroom for the theater, imaging stage sets being stacked here side by side. The only light came from this window and the gas light that shown in from the hallway through grill in the door.
Under the window stood an open washstand, with pitcher and basin on the top and a chamber pot on the bottom shelf. There were two narrow iron bed frames with mattresses to either side of him. The one to his left had another mattress on the floor under it. On the bed to his right sat a woman who had her back turned towards him, her head bowed. Given the size of the room, she was only an arm’s length away.
He waited for a moment, giving her a chance to acknowledge his presence, noting that her black hair was pulled back in a plain bun. The dress she was wearing was a dull plum color, and from the back it didn’t appear to have the different ribbons and puffs of material that he associated with most women’s dresses.
When she didn’t turn around, he said quietly, “Mrs. Sullivan, I want to thank you for seeing me. Mrs. Gordon and Mrs. Pitts Stevens are quite concerned, and they wanted to make sure you have adequate representation. My bona fides are that my law degree is from Harvard University, I have been admitted to the California state bar, and I have been a junior partner in my uncle’s law firm for over six years. I have recently been second counsel in a number of criminal defense cases under the lead of Able Cranston, and I...”
“Mr. Dawson, please stop.” Mrs. Sullivan swiveled to face him, her head tilted up so she could see his face. “If Mrs. Stevens and Mrs. Gordon are recommending you, I have no reason to question your qualifications. There just isn’t anything you can do for me.”
Florence Sullivan was in her mid-twenties, and her eyes were large, a clear light blue that verged on grey, and well spaced under dark fierce brows. A long face, straight nose, pursed lips and a small determined chin, completed the impression of a woman of pleasant but unremarkable looks. However, something about her eyes, the tiny frown between her brows, and the slight downturn of her lips added up to a countenance of extraordinary sadness. He suddenly thought that Annie would be drawn to this woman, and she would want him to do all he could to help her.
Nate said, “Mrs. Sullivan, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but may I sit down to make it easier for us to converse?”
Annie once told him that she’d learned from her work as the clairvoyant Madam Sibyl that it was important to get the client to sit down so they were at your level. She said, “A man or woman who stands will feel more powerful than you and less open to suggestions, and a person who has to look up at you will feel threatened and the result will be equally negative. Either they will take your advice blindly, without understanding, or they will refuse to take your advice as the only way to regain their sense of control.”
Florence Sullivan nodded and then looked down at her hands, which lay loosely in her lap.
Nate sat down at the end of the opposite bed so that she wouldn’t feel crowded by his knees. He put his hat down beside him and said, “There are some decisions you may have to make going forward that we should talk about. A grand jury is scheduled to hear the evidence presented by the district attorney against you tomorrow morning. As you may know, I won’t be able to be there. But if they indict you for the murder of Mr. Joshua Rasher, your case will go before a judge on Thursday. At that point, you will be asked to plead guilty or not guilty to the charges and be remanded over for trial if you plead not guilty. I would like to represent your interests going forward, and you don’t need to worry about the fees. Mrs. Pitts Stevens has taken care of all that. What I do need to go forward, however, is your signature on this document.”
Nate took the legal form out of his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the hardbound notebook he always had with him when working. Then he took out the new-fangled MacKinnon stylographic pen that Annie had given him for his birthday, took the top off, and gave it a shake to bring down the ink. He lay the pen and the form next to Mrs. Sullivan.
He said, “Please look over the form. You will see that you can revoke my rights as your representative at any point, verbally or in writing.”
She stared at the document for a moment. Then, without reading it, she took up the pen and quickly leaned over and scrawled her signature at the bottom of the document and handed it back to him. Saying nothing.
One hurdle overcome, he thought, as he put the pen and paper away, and he said, “Thank you Mrs. Sullivan, I will do everything possible to help you. But first I need to hear, in your own words, what happened Friday night. Remember, everything you say to me is privileged and confidential.”
When she simply shook her head and continued to stare down at her hands, Nate decided to try a different tack. “Perhaps it would be easier if I just got to know you a little. Were you born in San Francisco?”
After a moment, she said softly, keeping her head bowed, “Benicia. My father ran a small newspaper.”
“Ah, then working in the printing business is in your blood. When did you move to San Francisco?”
“In sixty-nine.”
“How old were you? Did you move with your family?”
“My father died and my mother’s health has never been good. There wasn’t much chance of employment for me in Benicia.” She sighed, shaking her head slightly.
“And you got a job working for Mrs. Pitts Stevens at the Women’s Co-operative and Printers Union?” This much he had learned from Mrs. Pitts Stevens, herself. And it sounded like Mrs. Sullivan’s mother was still alive. He wondered if the husband had told his mother-in-law about her daughter’s incarceration. Had the police been to interview them? He assumed that the Sullivan’s address was in the papers that Jackson had handed him.
Taking her silence as an affirmative to his last question, he went on saying, “Actually my sister, Laura, is working as a typesetter for them now.”
Mrs. Sullivan looked up at that, and Nate said, “How long did you work there?”
“Four years...I left with Mrs. Pitts when she set up the Women’s Pacific Coast Publishing Company in 1872. I left that company three years later when she sold it to Mrs. Slocum.”
Encouraged by the length of that answer, Nate said, “And is that when you went to work for Rashers and Company? I believe that Mrs. Pitts Stevens said you are a compositor?”
Nate watched as she knit her hands together, while giving a tiny nod. Feeling very much like he was handling a nervy horse, he backed away from the subject of Rashers again and said, “Could you tell me the difference between being a typesetter and a compositor? My sister says if she masters the skill of compositing, she will make more money. But she’s never explained the difference.”
Giving him a swift smile that completely transformed her face, she said, “It is confusing. If all you do is assemble lines of type, you are a typesetter and get paid a piece rate. A compositor has the additional ability to proof the work of a typesetter and lay out the different sections of composed type to form pages that are ready to be printed. Skilled compositors are usually paid an hourly or weekly wage.”
“Well, that makes it clearer.” Nate congratulated himself on his diversion and thought he would take a chance on bringing the topic back to Rashers. “I can imagine that putting together a newspaper or a magazine, with all of their various parts, would take enormous skill. Does Rashers and Company handle those sorts of jobs?”
“Yes.” This came out in a whisper, her face again pointing down and her hands tightly clenched.
“Could you tell me a little about your responsibilities for Rashers? Was it usual for you to work in the evening? Was there a specific job you were working on?”
Abruptly his client stood up, saying forcefully, “Mr. Dawson. These questions are useless. Go back and tell Emily Pitts that if she really wants to help me––she should spend he
r money taking care of my mother. She is the one who needs her help––not me.”
Nate, who had risen as well, said quickly, “What about your husband, Mr. Sullivan? Do you have a message for him?”
Mrs. Sullivan shook her head and pushed past Nate to pound on the door, shouting, “Guard, Guard. Mr. Dawson is leaving now.” Then she moved away and once more turned her back on him.
Chapter Six
Tuesday, evening, July 6, 1880
“Learning that Mrs. Stanton and Miss Anthony, in company with Mrs. Pitts-Stevens, had paid a visit yesterday to Mrs. Laura D. Fair in the County Jail, a reporter called at the Grand Hotel in the evening to ascertain the views of eminent women who represent the Woman Suffrage party...” San Francisco Chronicle, July 14, 1871
“This morning, the grand jury indicted Mrs. Sullivan on the charge of murder in the second degree,” Nate said, sitting down next to Annie on the settee.
“She’s confessed to killing Rashers?”
Annie furrowed her brow in the way she did when she was concerned, and Nate took his thumb and lightly smoothed the lines on her forehead and then ran his fingers down the soft skin of her cheek. They were in the smaller parlor where Annie met clients as Madam Sibyl. At half-past six in the evening, her boarders would soon be finishing their meal and moving next door to the larger formal parlor, and Nate needed privacy to discuss the case with Annie. He’d asked Kathleen to tell his sister Laura to join them when she finished eating.
Meanwhile, he wanted to take advantage of the rare time alone with Annie, so he said, “She hasn’t confessed, but I will report all about my visit when Laura gets here. First, tell me how your visit to the Methodist Chinese Mission went yesterday. You weren’t late, were you?”
“The meeting was very productive,” said Annie. “You know that I’d convinced Mrs. Greenstock and her fellow directors of the Female Refuge to invest five percent of any bequests they get. Well, after four months of following my advice, they have been able to increase their reserve fund by twenty percent. And I was spot on time, no thanks to you.”
Deadly Proof: A Victorian San Francisco Mystery Page 5
