The Sporting House Killing

by G. Reading Powell

  Blair turned and pointed straight at Cicero. “That man, gentlemen, is the defendant, Cicero Sweet.” He calmly faced the jury again. “At that point, the beer must have overcome him, because he passed out on her floor. That is what the evidence will show, gentleman.”

  He eased over to the empty witness stand and placed his hand on its balustered rail. “I will prove it with the sworn testimony of the investigating police officer, the doctor who examined the body, the bawdy woman who owns the house, and even the companion of the defendant on his venture into the Reservation.” He stepped up to the jury rail and spoke with quiet intensity. “Cicero Sweet murdered that girl, and murder’s wrong, no matter who the victim is or where the crime occurs. Murder can’t go unpunished, even in the Reservation, or we’re all in danger. At the conclusion of our proof, I will ask you to convict him of murder in the first degree. Thank you.”

  On his way back to his seat, he turned back around and gestured toward the witness stand. “I neglected to mention one other witness. I won’t trouble you to know his name now, but I want you to know we might call one other witness, but only if it’s necessary. If we do call this witness, he’ll dispel any doubts and leave you with absolute certainty of the defendant’s guilt. Thank you.”

  Mr. Calloway eyed Harley, who shook his head. It was Harley’s job to make sure they were prepared for all the prosecution witnesses. He turned to her, and she shrugged. She had no idea who Captain Blair could be referring to. She made a note to remind Harley to follow up on it.

  She sank back into her seat just as a whistle blast from a steamboat on the river sent a two-inch cockroach scampering along the bar rail toward her. When it reached the chasm at the swinging gate, it gave up and turned back. Nasty creature. She shuddered and drew her next daisy.

  Chapter 26

  “The state calls Sergeant Dennis Quinn.”

  The officer smiled at Catfish as he passed by, keystone hat in hand, and took the witness stand. Catfish had known Quinn a long time and cross-examined him many times. A good policeman.

  Captain Blair began the interrogation. “Tell the folks on the jury who you are please, sir.”

  “I’m Sergeant Dennis Quinn, city police.”

  “How long have you been a copper in Waco?”

  “Ten years, more or less.”

  “And before that?”

  “United States Army.”

  “Sergeant, the business at hand is a killing that happened in April,” he said, turning his back on the witness and retiring to the bar rail. He crossed his arms and leaned against the rail. “Were you on duty during the early morning hours of April sixteenth of this year?”

  “I was.”

  “What happened about one o’clock?”

  “The telephone rang, and a woman said there had been a shooting in the Reservation.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Miss Jessie’s bawdy house at the corner of Washington Street and Orman’s Alley.”

  “What’d you do after you got that call?”

  “Another officer and I went to the bawdy house.”

  “Who did you see there when you first went in?”

  “The madam, who was a woman by the name of Jessie Rose, and another bawdy woman by the name of Sadie Wiggins.”

  “Describe for the jury the demeanor of these two bawds.”

  Quinn faced the jury. “They were distraught. Looked as if they’d both been crying for some time.”

  Good actresses. Probably peeled a few onions.

  “What did the madam tell you?”

  Catfish flew to his feet. “Objection, hearsay.”

  “It’s a spontaneous utterance, judge.”

  “Overruled,” the judge ruled, shaking his head.

  “She said one of her girls had been murdered upstairs by a customer.”

  Blair moved to the end of the jury box and faced the witness, arms crossed. “What did you do next?”

  “She led me upstairs to a bedroom in the front of the house, overlooking Washington Avenue. I understood it to be the room of a bawdy woman by the name of Georgia Gamble.”

  “Who did you first see there?”

  “A man named Joe. He worked for the madam. He was holding a pistol on the man on the floor.”

  Blair edged closer to the witness. “I’ll come back to that man on the floor in a minute. But first, did you find Miss Georgia there?”

  “I did. She was in her bed, shot dead.”

  “Describe her body for the benefit of our jury,” Blair said, eying the jurors. “Take your time and be as complete as possible, Sergeant.”

  The policeman spoke in an unemotional manner as if describing an ordinary scene. “Yes, sir. She was on her back, completely unclothed. Her head was on her pillow, her eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Her right arm was crooked beside her with the hand open and facing up. Her left arm was hanging over the side of the bed. There was blood all over her chest and on the sheets. I saw a bullet hole in her chest.”

  “What age did you judge her to be?”

  “Probably in her early to middle twenties.”

  “Any doubt in your mind she was dead?”

  “None.”

  Blair walked to the court reporter’s desk. “Let’s talk about how she got that way. Sergeant, did you see any weapons about?”

  “I did. There was a derringer on the floor at the foot of the bed.”

  Blair retrieved a small pistol from the desk with a paper tag dangling from the handle by a string. He took it to the witness.

  “Is State’s Exhibit One that pistol?”

  “It is.”

  “Look like the same condition it was in that day?”

  “Yes.”

  “We offer State’s One.”

  “No objection.”

  “State’s One is admitted,” the judge said.

  “What model of firearm is this?” Blair asked, holding the pistol in front of the witness.

  Quinn eyed the gun like a gunsmith. “It’s a Remington Model 95 rimfire double-barrel derringer in forty-one caliber.”

  “What do you see on the right side of the top barrel?” he asked, presenting the gun to the officer.

  Quinn examined it again. “A bloody mark. It appears to be the impression of a finger. You can see some wavy lines in the dried blood.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Catfish noticed Cicero rubbing his hands together. He touched the boy’s arm: None of this points at you, son.

  Blair paraded the pistol in front of the jury box, giving each juror a look. It was cold black with bright ivory grips, small enough to conceal in a waistcoat pocket. It had two short, stubby barrels stacked one on top the other.

  “Now for the one who used it.” With the gun in his left hand, Blair turned slowly and deliberately to face Cicero and extended his right arm, stabbing his finger at him as he spoke. “Did you see the defendant, Cicero Sweet, in Miss Georgia’s room?”

  Catfish cut another glance at Cicero: Don’t react.

  The boy squirmed.

  “I saw him.”

  “Where?”

  “On the floor at the foot of her bed. Unconscious and naked.”

  Blair marched to a spot directly in front of the jury box, derringer still in his left hand, and pulled off his coat and tossed it onto his chair. “I’m going to demonstrate how he was situated, as you describe it.” He kneeled on the floor, and the jurors leaned forward to see. “Tell the gentleman of the jury how he looked.”

  “He was lying on his back with his arms extended to each side above his head”—Blair flopped onto his back, stretching his arms as described—“and his head closest to the door and his feet closest to the bed.”

  Catfish leaned back. Blair always had a penchant for drama. Some jurors rose in their chairs to better view his performance.

  Blair scooted around so his feet were next to his table. “So if the table there represented the bed and the defendant was laying where I am, then the door would be over
my shoulder toward the jury box?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blair’s left hand shot straight up, thrusting the derringer into the air, a veritable P. T. Barnum. Still on his back, head toward the jury and feet toward his table, he fired the next question. “Did you see this pistol anywhere?”

  “I did. It was on the floor next to his right hand.”

  “His right hand? Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Step down here, Sergeant Quinn, and take this derringer”—the witness did so—“and place it exactly where you found it when you saw the defendant laying there in Miss Georgia’s room.”

  “Here.” Quinn placed the weapon about a foot from Blair’s extended right hand.

  “Right there,” Blair echoed. He crawled back to his feet, never taking his eyes off the gun. He bent over it, never looking up. “Did you place it exactly as you saw it?”

  “I did.”

  Blair bent closer. “Is the blood side up or down?”

  The jurors leaned forward to see.

  “Up.”

  “On which side of the gun?”

  “Right.”

  “By which of the defendant’s hands?”

  “Right.”

  Blair rose to his full height, as if filled with the outrage of an indignant people. He repaired to his table and spun slowly to face the jury.

  Catfish yawned.

  “Who lay lifeless on that bed?” he asked, gesturing as if the bed rather than a table were before him.

  “Miss Georgia Gamble.”

  He let the name resound a moment.

  “You may return to your seat, Sergeant,” Blair said, doing the same. “Did you see anything else which might give a clue as to the cause of the defendant being unconscious?”

  “Yes. There were empty beer bottles on the floor of the room.”

  “How many?”

  “We collected six.”

  “Did you at some point arrest Mr. Sweet?”

  “I did. We got him awake enough to move, and then I took him into custody.”

  “Did you also take the derringer into your possession?”

  “No, sir. Detective Palmer arrived pretty soon, and he took charge of the investigation. I think he took the pistol and other evidence.”

  “Pass the witness.” Captain Blair nodded in satisfaction and took his seat.

  Catfish stood at his table. He glanced at Henry and his wife in the front row of the gallery, placed a hand on Cicero’s shoulder, and smiled at the witness. “How do, Sergeant. You mind if I question you from my feet rather than my back?”

  “Sure,” Quinn replied, smiling back.

  “I’m not as young as the captain and might have trouble getting back up,” he said, grinning.

  The jurors smiled too—Blair wasn’t that much younger.

  Catfish looked over at Blair. “You didn’t get any blood on your papers there on that bed, did you?”

  A juror laughed. Blair ignored the question.

  Catfish turned to the witness for the first time. “I’d like to start with some things I wager you and I can agree on. It’s important, isn’t it, the killer of this young woman be brought to justice?”

  “Yes, sir,” Quinn said.

  “Do you think, though, it’s important to bring the right man to justice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can we agree that convicting the wrong man would be a terrible injustice?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And letting a killer go free because an innocent man is convicted instead would endanger”—he extended his hands toward both spectators and jurors—“innocent folks?”

  “It would.”

  Catfish glanced up at the judge, who was fanning himself with a cardboard folder. “Do you think Judge Goodrich might tell the jury in his charge that if they have any reasonable doubts about who did it, then they must acquit Mr. Sweet?”

  “I’ve heard that before, but I don’t know about this case.”

  “Well, sir, getting the right man into the courtroom is the job of your police department, true?”

  “True.”

  “Would you agree also that doing a thorough investigation is the best way to do that job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leave no stone unturned?”

  “We try not to let one lie.”

  He could build a wall with the stones they ignored.

  “Very well, let’s visit about those stones,” he said with an easy smile.

  He came around behind the prosecution table and stopped between it and the jury. “I noticed on direct examination you didn’t mention something.”

  Quinn looked uncertain. “What are you referring to?”

  “Sergeant Quinn, did you take the time to examine Mr. Sweet while he was lying on the floor?”

  “I did. As I said, he was naked.”

  Catfish tilted his head upward toward the ceiling. “You said he was face up?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you saw the large knot on his forehead above his left eye?” He turned to the jury and pointed to his own forehead.

  “I don’t recall seeing that.”

  “Are you denying he had a knot on his head?”

  “No, I just didn’t notice it if he did.”

  “I see. If he had a knot on his head, that might indicate somebody hit him?”

  “Maybe. Or that he hit his head on the bedstead when he fell over drunk.”

  “Fair enough.” Catfish nodded. “But you didn’t ask the madam or any of the others what they knew about that knot?”

  “No.”

  “Like whether he had a knot on his head before he went upstairs?”

  “No.”

  “That stone never got flipped over to see what was under it?”

  Catfish swiveled to face the jury and lifted both hands, palms up: Who hit him, fellas?

  “I don’t even know there was a knot, Mr. Calloway.”

  “Fair enough. We’ll be proving that later. But you did at least look at Mr. Sweet while he was still lying on the floor?”

  “I did.”

  “Didn’t have any blood on him, did he?”

  “I don’t remember any.”

  Catfish extended his right hand and flipped it over and back, examining both sides. “None on his right hand?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  He left his hand in front of his face. “Well, Sergeant, after you saw the blood on the right side of the derringer, didn’t you naturally think to look at Mr. Sweet’s right hand?” He gazed at the jurors until they were all watching him, and then he wiggled his fingers. “Particularly his fingers?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well, sir”—he extended his right forefinger—“if he had a bloody trigger finger, that’d be a mighty big stone to kick over, wouldn’t it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Either way, whether you checked or you didn’t, you’re not here to swear he had blood on his fingers?”

  “He could have wiped it off. There was blood on the bedclothes.”

  Catfish scratched his head thoughtfully. “Here’s another thing I was wondering about. Did you learn about a buggy, a red Stanhope gig, parked on the street across from the sporting house at the time of the killing?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Didn’t find out about that?”

  “No.”

  “Mighty big stone.”

  Catfish shrugged at the jury: Whose buggy?

  “Objection to the sidebar comment,” Blair shouted.

  “Move along, Catfish,” the judge said, fanning himself faster.

  “Yes, sir.” He nodded to the judge before his gaze went back to Quinn. “Did you talk to any other customers of Miss Jessie’s from that night?”

  “No.”

  “Or anyone who was at any of the places next door?”

  “No.”

  “Or at the Red Front Saloon?”

  “No, sir.”

 
; “Or any hack drivers?”

  “No, sir.”

  Catfish waited before asking the next question. Nothing like silence to get a jury’s attention. Then he’d lob the killer’s name like a firecracker right into the middle of the jury box and watch the shock on their faces.

  “Sergeant, you mentioned Orman’s Alley a minute ago.” Catfish eyed the jury. “You know Bud Orman, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Catfish spoke with all the incredulity he could muster. “But you didn’t think to question him?”

  “No.”

  None of the jurors reacted at all to Orman’s name. Not even Wade Morrison. Didn’t they remember he was a murderer? He glanced at Harley, who didn’t meet his eyes. Or wouldn’t.

  Catfish cocked his head toward Quinn. “Didn’t even turn over that stone?”

  “It wasn’t necessary.”

  Still no reaction from the jury.

  Catfish took his seat. Well, no worries. They’d understand. Just needed time. “Pass the witness.”

  “Sergeant Quinn,” Blair said from his chair, “why didn’t you go tipping over all those stones Mr. Calloway mentioned?”

  “Wasn’t necessary,” Quinn said. “We didn’t speak with the members of the Philo Literary Club, either.”

  The jurors chuckled, and so did Catfish. Harley didn’t.

  Quinn continued. “We had the customer the victim was with at the time, according to the madam, and he was in the room with her when they heard the gunshot. We found him lying next to her and the murder weapon. A clear-cut case to me.”

  “To me too,” Blair said with a nod.

  A juror nodded too.

  Chapter 27

  Miss Peach, seated at her post just inside the bar rail behind the defense table, fanned herself while waiting for the next witness. Her blouse clung to her body. After the noon break, Judge Goodrich had permitted the gentlemen to shed their coats. Neither Captain Blair nor Mr. Calloway had taken advantage of the judge’s kindness, and sweat stained their suits. Why had Mr. Calloway worn a black suit on a hot July day?