Memories of Another Day

by Harold Robbins

  Chapter 15

  Sam Fitch’s tiny office in the rear of his store was crowded, although there were only three men in there besides himself: Mr. Cahill, the millowners’ representative, his associate from Philadelphia and Jason Carter, the county sheriff. Cahill’s voice was angry as he stood in front of the desk staring down at Fitch, who overflowed the tiny chair in which he sat.

  “It’s one month since we opened the mills,” Cahill said. “And look what’s happened. The new Craig mill shut down, its machinery rotting; the city mill functioning at only ten percent of capacity. All because the workers didn’t come back the way you said they would if we opened the mills. Besides that, the employees we brought in have left in droves. There’s maybe ninety left when we need four hundred.”

  Sam Fitch nodded. “I know,” he said with as much sympathy he could get into his gravelly voice.

  “You know?” Cahill was sarcastic. “I know you know. What we want to know is what are you going to do about it?”

  “The sher’f an’ me are doin’ the best we kin,” Fitch said. “But you jes’ don’ know these people here. It ain’t a strike no more, it’s a feud. It’s them against the company. I tol’ you not to bring in the Pinkertons, to let the sher’f an’ me handle it. Might have taken longer, but we’d have gotten ’em back in. Now they got themselves some help from the Textile Union up North, an’ they’re lookin’ up to Jimmy Simpson like he was a god or somethin’.”

  “But he’s a murderer!” Cahill’s voice was shocked. “He killed three men.”

  “Pinkertons, you mean,” Fitch corrected. “An’ only after they fired on their women. We mountain folk don’t take kindly to havin’ our women shot at.”

  “Now you’re defending him,” Cahill accused. “Whose side are you on?”

  “I’m on your side, Mr. Cahill,” Fitch said smoothly. “Don’ think I ain’t been hurt by all this. Business in my store has fallen away to nothin’.”

  “Then act like it,” Cahill snapped. “You do somethin’ to get that Simpson out of our hair and the people back to work or we’re through here. The company has been losing forty thousand dollars a month, and they’ve given me exactly one month to get the mills back in operation or we’re closing up here and moving the plants somewhere else.”

  Fitch was silent for a moment. He looked up at the Philadelphian. “Jimmy’s goin’ into court fer the killin’s week after next. Maybe they’ll take care of him. We got Jedge Harlan on our side.”

  Cahill laughed derisively. “But the jury will all be locals. Simpson will walk out of the court not only a free man but more of a hero than ever. Whatever you’re going to do, you’d better do it before he walks into that courthouse. Because the day he walks out of it, the mills close down and we begin to move out.”

  When Cahill and his friend left, Sam Fitch lit up one of his cigars. He looked across the small office at the sheriff, who hadn’t said a word all through the meeting. “What d’ya think, Jase?”

  “That Mr. Cahill’s a hard man,” the sheriff said.

  Fitch nodded. “City folk’ll never understand us.”

  “Never,” the sheriff agreed.

  “What about Jimmy? Your boys keepin’ an eye on him?”

  “We cain’t git near him,” the sheriff said. “He don’ go nowhere ’thout six or seven men all armed with him. An’ that Jew lawyer from New York don’ make life any easier. Ever’ time we bust one of their men, he’s at the courthouse with a habeas corpus almos’ ’fore we got the cell door closed on him, and he gits the man out.”

  “Ah, sheeit,” Fitch swore. “I allus knew that Jimmy Simpson was goin’ to turn out to be a bad one.”

  ***

  The afternoon sun streamed through the dusty store windows, cutting patches of light in the gloom. The bell over the door jangled harshly as it opened. Jimmy looked up. So did all the other men in the store, their hands unconsciously dropping closer to their guns. When they saw who it was, they relaxed and resumed their conversation.

  Morris Bernstein hulked into the store. He didn’t walk, he clumped, his size eleven city shoes pounding under his six-foot-three and two-hundred-and-ten-pound frame. One wouldn’t think to look at his broken nose, the scar tissue under his eyes and the cauliflower ears that he was an attorney. But he’d gotten that face working his way through college as a semipro club fighter. He made his way directly to the table behind which Jimmy sat.

  “Well?” Jimmy asked.

  “They said no,” he answered flatly.

  Jimmy masked his disappointment. “Did you explain to ’em it was jes’ fer another month?”

  “I did everything except whistle ‘Dixie,’” Morris said. “They still refused.”

  “They give a reason?”

  Morris looked at him. “I want to talk to you privately.”

  Jimmy didn’t answer for a moment. Then he got to his feet. “We’ll go out in the alley in the back.”

  He started for the door, but one of the men blocked his path. “Wait a minute. We’ll check it out for you first.”

  Jimmy stood there while two of the men went out the back door. “You’re bein’ too careful,” he said.

  “Cain’t be too careful,” the man who was blocking his path said. “They tried to git you four times already. I’m not about to let ’em git lucky with a fifth.”

  The two men came back into the store. “It’s okay,” one of them said.

  The man in front of Jimmy stepped aside. Jimmy took a step, then stopped. “Thank you, Roscoe,” he said.

  Roscoe Craig smiled through thin lips. “They got my gran’pappy an’ my brother that way. They ain’t goin’ to git any more of us.”

  Bernstein followed Jimmy out into the alley. The sun’s rays were bright after the dark of the store. They stood there a moment; then Jimmy turned to him.

  “Okay,” Jimmy said. “Let me have it.”

  Bernstein stared into his eyes. “The strike is finished.”

  Jimmy didn’t answer.

  “They’re pulling me out. They’re not sending down any more money.” His voice was flat. “The executive board says they have no money for lost causes, they have to place it where it counts.”

  “What makes ’em say that?” Jimmy asked.

  “They learned in Philadelphia yesterday the company’s getting ready to move the mills farther south. They gave Cahill his orders. The mills open in one month or they move.”

  Jimmy was silent.

  Morris looked at him. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy’s voice took on a bitter edge. “So that’s how it is. We break our ass fer a year. We git ourselves killed, chased out of our houses, starved an’ shit on, an’ some men who never been to this town, sittin’ in some city in front of their comfortable tables, decide it’s all over with us.”

  “It’s the realities, Jimmy,” Morris said. “We can’t win ’em all.”

  “I don’ care about all of ’em!” Jimmy said hotly. “Jes’ this one. This is my friends, my town, my people.” He looked at the lawyer. “What do I tell ’em now?”

  The lawyer saw the anguish in his eyes. “You tell them to go back to work.” His voice softened. “Tell them there will come another time. Losing a battle doesn’t mean the war is lost. Someday the union will be here.”

  Jimmy looked at him. “The union don’ mean shit to these people. They began the strike without the union, they’ll carry it on without the union.” He started back into the building.

  “Jimmy!” the attorney called him back. “I got their permission to stay down here for your trial.”

  Jimmy nodded wearily. “Thank you, Morris.” He hesitated, then added, “I know you did the best you could. I appreciate that.”

  “What are you going to do, Jimmy?” the attorney asked.

  “I don’t have much choice, do I? I got to tell ’em what you said. This is their strike. It’s still up to them to decide what they want to do with it.”

  “And you, Jimmy?” th
e attorney asked. “What are you going to do after it’s all over?”

  Jimmy grinned. “I was doin’ all right in the whiskey business before this started. I kin allus go back to it.”

  “We can use men like you in the union,” Morris said. “You can come up to New York with me. They said they would find a place for you.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “That’s not fer me. I’m a small-town boy. I belong here with my own kind. But I’m grateful fer the consideration.”

  He went back into the building. The attorney followed him. A moment later, Roscoe Craig came out into the alley. He looked up at the rooftops across the alley and waved his hand.

  The guards he had posted up there to protect Jimmy waved back at him, then slung their rifles under their arms and started down to the street.

  At the general meeting that night, the vote was unanimous to continue the strike. Even if it meant that the mills would move out and that they would all lose their jobs forever.

  ***

  The day of the trial dawned bright and clear. The early-May breeze brought a fresh spring fragrance to the air that came softly through the open windows of the kitchen, where they were having breakfast.

  Morris Bernstein took out his watch and looked at it. “Time to go,” he said. “Court begins at ten o’clock.”

  “I’m ready,” Jimmy said, getting to his feet. Roscoe Craig and Morris rose with him.

  “I’ll git yer jacket an’ tie,” Molly Ann said.

  Jimmy looked at Morris while she was out of the room. “How long do you reckon the trial should take?”

  “A few days,” Morris answered. “One or two days to pick the jury, another couple of days for the trial and then you’ll be a free man.”

  “I hope so,” Molly Ann said, coming back into the room.

  “Can’t go any other way,” Morris said confidently. “We have a hundred witnesses to prove it was self-defense.”

  “They’ll have witnesses too,” Molly Ann said.

  “Pinkertons,” Roscoe said contemptuously. “Ain’t nobody down here goin’ to believe ’em.”

  Jimmy finished knotting his tie and slipped into his jacket. He walked over to the mirror in the hallway and inspected himself. “Don’t look bad in my store-bought clothes,” he said.

  “You look real handsome, honey,” Molly Ann said.

  He came back into the kitchen and, opening a drawer, took out his revolver. He started to put it in his belt.

  “No,” Morris said. “Put that back.”

  Jimmy looked at him. “I don’ feel comfortable ’thout my piece.”

  “You can’t go into court packing a gun,” Morris said. “It’s not respectful. Besides, they’re not going to try anything in front of all those people. The whole town is going to be there.”

  Jimmy looked at Roscoe doubtfully. “What do you think?”

  “Mebbe he’s right,” Roscoe answered, but he didn’t seem sure.

  “I am right,” Morris said. “Do you know the judge can hold you in contempt if you take a gun in there?”

  “Do I have to leave my gun too?” Roscoe asked.

  “What you do is your own affair,” Morris answered. “I have to worry about my client, that’s all.”

  “Leave it, then,” Roscoe said. “Me an’ the boys’ll be there. Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen.”

  Jimmy put the gun back into the drawer. Molly Ann took off her apron and folded it neatly across the back of a kitchen chair. “I’m ready,” she said.

  Jimmy looked at her. She was in her sixth month and noticeably pregnant. “Don’ you think it would be better if’n you stayed home?” he asked. “Mebbe too much excitement won’t be good fer the baby.”

  “I’m goin’,” she said firmly. “A wife’s place is by her husband’s side.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Morris said. “It’s getting late.”

  ***

  Courthouse Square was in the exact center of the town. By the time Jimmy and Molly Ann got there, it was filled with people all in their Sunday best. There was almost a picnic air about it. Children were running around yelling and playing; the adults were talking excitedly. They clustered around Jimmy and Molly Ann as they made their way to the courthouse. All eager to touch Jimmy, to slap him on the back and wish him well. It was easy to see whose side they were on.

  Sam Fitch and the sheriff stood in the doorway of his store and watched the crowd across the street. The sheriff shook his head. “I don’ know,” he said, “I don’ like it.”

  Fitch looked at him. “I don’ like it neither, but you got a better idee?”

  The sheriff took a deep breath. “Too many people. Could turn into a riot.”

  “We got no choice,” Fitch said. “You heard the man with your own ears. Or would you ruther be sher’f of a ghost town?”

  The sheriff looked back across the square. “I still don’ like it,” he said. “Lookit there. He’s got Roscoe Craig an’ some of his boys aroun’ him an’ the people aroun’ them. Ain’t no way we goin’ to be able to git to him.”

  Fitch followed the sheriff’s gaze. “Sooner or later he’s got to be standin’ alone. Even if it’s only fer a moment. Jes’ hope yer boys are ready fer it.”

  “If’n that happens,” the sheriff said grimly. “My boys’ll be ready.”

  ***

  With the backslapping, handshaking and good-wishing, it took them almost twenty minutes to make their way across the square to the courthouse steps. The doors of the building opened just as they reached the foot of the steps. The mad rush of people who jammed up in front of the doors was slowed by the four deputy sheriffs who checked each man entering the building for arms.

  The large wooden boxes on either side of the doorway slowly began to fill with guns. The deputies were polite but firm. “No guns in the courthouse,” they explained. “You kin pick ’em up at the sher’f’s office after court.”

  Some of the men grumbled, but if they wanted to get into the courthouse they had to give up their guns. Roscoe stared up the steps. “I don’ like that,” he said.

  Morris looked at him. “Nothing’s going to happen once we’re inside.”

  “I’m not worried about inside,” Roscoe said. “I’m worried about when we come out.”

  “We’ll wait inside until you go pick up your guns an’ come back fer us,” Jimmy said.

  “That makes me feel better,” Roscoe replied.

  Jimmy looked at the crowd pushing their way into the courthouse. “You an’ the boys better git on in, else’n they won’t be any room fer you all.”

  Roscoe glanced around the square. “You come up the steps with us,” he said. “I’ll feel better if we git off the street.”

  Roscoe and his men had already passed through when the deputies stopped Jimmy. “You don’ go in this way, Jimmy,” one of them said. “You’re s’posed to go in th’u the court clerk’s office on the side portico.”

  Jimmy stared at him. “Why?”

  “Got somethin’ to do with yer pickin’ up yer bail receipt. You don’ wanna lose five hunnert dollars, do you?” the deputy answered.

  Roscoe overheard them. “I’ll go with you,” he said, starting back.

  “Never mind,” Jimmy said. “I’ll see you inside.” Molly Ann had entered the courthouse just ahead of him. Now she turned back. “You git Molly Ann an’ follow me,” Jimmy said to Morris, and started off.

  “Wait a minute,” Morris said, and turned to reach for Molly Ann. By the time they cleared the doorway, Jimmy was twenty steps ahead of them, almost at the corner of the portico.

  It was then they came at him from around the corner. There were three of them, two Pinkertons and Clinton Richfield, one of the sheriff’s deputies. He was not in uniform.

  Jimmy never saw them, because they came with guns blazing. Seven bullets tore into him and slammed him, already dead, against a corner post, from which he fell, face downward, half on the porch, half on the steps.

  The three men fired ag
ain. Jimmy’s body jumped with the impact of the bullets and slipped farther down the steps. The men stood there waiting for Jimmy to move.

  “Jimmy!” Molly Ann screamed. She broke from Morris’ grasp and ran toward him, throwing herself across his body. She pulled him toward her, his blood staining her dress. She stared up at the men, her eyes filled with horror and streaming tears. “Please!” she begged. “Please, don’t shoot my Jimmy no more.”

  Jimmy’s body shook in a last convulsive spasm. Automatically the men opened fire again. They tore Molly Ann from her husband and sent her rolling, dead, down the white concrete steps to the street. Her own blood mixed with that from her husband’s body, staining red the simple white dress she had freshly washed and pressed just hours before.

  “My God! What have you done?” Morris shouted, staring at them.

  “He came at us with a gun,” Richfield said.

  “What gun?” Morris shouted. “He had no gun. I made him leave it home.”

  Richfield raised his pistol and pointed it at Morris. “Jew boy, you callin’ me a liar?”

  “Yes, goddamn you!” Morris shouted, his anger and revulsion overcoming the fear that was knotting his stomach. “You’re a liar and a murderer!”

  The bullet from the deputy’s .38 tore into Morris’ shoulder, throwing him backward on the stone floor. Through eyes hazy with pain, Morris saw the deputy raise his gun again and take careful aim. It was over. There was nothing more he had to lose. “Liar! Murderer!” he screamed defiantly.

  But the shot never came. Suddenly the sheriff was there and there were deputies all over the place, keeping the crowds away. The sheriff came over and looked down at him. “Jew boy,” he said in a cold voice, “there’s a train leavin’ here in an hour. Because we’re good Christian folk, I’m gonna have a doctor patch you up afore we put you on it. An’ you take this warnin’ back No’th with you. If you or any other No’the’n Jew agitator an’ anarchist shows up here, we’re goin’ to kill you on sight.”

  He turned to a deputy. “You an’ Mike git him over to Dr. Johns, then put him on the train.”