The Sporting House Killing

by G. Reading Powell

  “But if we put Orman up there and it goes wrong,” Harley continued, “the jury might decide Cicero’s guilty just because we can’t prove otherwise. It’s not our burden of proof.”

  But Papa didn’t look at him. He looked at Mr. Sweet.

  “It’s your call, Catfish,” Sweet said. Mrs. Sweet gripped his arm.

  Papa rocked back in his chair. He was about to speak when Miss Peach returned.

  “Orman wasn’t there,” she said, “so I asked another man who was in the hall. He told me Orman went outside to get a smoke, and I saw him through the window. He’s on the street talking to somebody. And I saw—”

  “Good,” Papa said. “Ask the bailiff to get him back in here.”

  Harley glanced back at the windows in the courtroom doors. A man was looking in.

  Harley pointed at him. “Is that the man you talked to?”

  She looked. “Yes, and—”

  “That’s Sterling DeGroote,” Papa said.

  A younger man appeared beside him.

  “And Peter,” Harley added. “Captain Blair must be calling him in rebuttal as soon as we finish.”

  Miss Peach took a step forward and discharged a big breath. “Mr. Calloway, please listen—I need to tell you something else important. The red buggy. It’s parked on the street.”

  “What?” Papa asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Near the front door.”

  “That decides it,” Papa said. “I told you it’s Orman’s buggy.”

  Harley held up a hand. “Wait—Papa, we don’t know whose buggy it is. It might be Orman’s, but it might be DeGroote’s. Peter told me his father let him use their buggy. It could belong to somebody else.”

  Papa chewed on that silently.

  “Let’s rest our case and let Blair call Peter,” Harley said, trying to keep the pleading tone from his voice. “You’ll have an easier time prying it out of him with leading questions on cross than if we call him ourselves.”

  Papa scratched his head. “I don’t want to call him, son. I’m gonna call Orman.”

  “Then will you wait so we can see if Peter drives the red buggy? If he doesn’t, you can still call Orman.”

  “I agree,” Miss Peach said.

  Papa chewed on that too. “All right.”

  The judge returned to the courtroom and reconvened.

  “The defense rests,” Papa said.

  Finally, a positive development.

  The judge then announced he was not feeling well and adjourned for the day—another helpful thing, at least for now.

  Papa leaned over and issued his next orders before waving for Henry Sweet and heading out of the courtroom with him.

  Harley sat down again next to Miss Peach. He was to get another instanter subpoena issued; Papa wanted Winky-Blinky in court the next morning to identify the owner of the red gig. Miss Peach filled out the subpoena form as he dictated the content.

  She was writing the final details when a disturbance outside the courtroom drew their attention.

  Through the door windows, two men squared up, face to face, one with his back to them. Papa shouted at that man before Mr. Sweet stepped in and dragged him away. They disappeared down the stairs.

  The other man turned around, facing them. His horseshoe mustache framed a curling lip. He tipped a cane to his bowler hat and departed.

  Chapter 36

  Harley was in court early the next day. He couldn’t get Papa’s clash with Schoolcraft out of his head. He’d stopped by the house after leaving the courthouse but learned nothing. Papa said he was tired and going to bed. He’d looked awful.

  When Papa arrived at the courtroom, Harley asked him about Schoolcraft.

  “Not now, son.”

  Harley just stood there. He could help—if only Papa would let him. He looked to Miss Peach for reassurance.

  She seemed worried.

  Spectators dribbled in early to claim the best seats, Jasper among them. Was he worried too?

  Buford Lowe bumbled up to Papa, winking and blinking uncontrollably. “You promised you wouldn’t involve me in this.”

  Papa stood. “We think we might’ve found the fella with the red buggy, but we aren’t sure. We have to see if you can identify him.”

  “That’s all? You don’t need me there?” He nodded toward the witness stand, visibly shaken by his surroundings. “And then I can leave?”

  “I’ll need you to wait outside the courtroom after you identify him. You likely won’t have to testify, but it’s a possibility.”

  Lowe trembled, then winked and blinked. “I can’t. I’ll be ruined. My wife will leave me, and I’ll lose my job.”

  “It probably won’t be necessary.” Papa touched his arm. “I’ll do my best to get what I need without calling you. Just sit in the gallery with Harley. When the man comes in, let him know whether he’s the one you saw toss something in the red buggy and go into the sporting house. Then Harley’ll take you outside.” He paused, pressing closer. “I know this is hard on you, but an innocent boy’s life depends on this.”

  Harley led Lowe to a seat on the west side where they’d be able to see Peter when he came in. And then they waited. Lowe fidgeted constantly.

  Fifteen minutes later, Peter DeGroote arrived with his father. The bailiff led Peter to the jury box and placed him there to wait until court reconvened.

  Harley leaned close to Lowe. “Is that him?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t see him very well, and it was quick.”

  “Let’s get closer.”

  He led the reluctant Lowe to the bar rail, not fifteen feet from Peter DeGroote. Lowe took a long, hard look and nodded once. Harley signaled to Papa and took Lowe outside.

  As they stepped into the hallway, they ran into Bud Orman, arriving under subpoena. He stank of hair oil. Neither he nor Lowe appeared to recognize one another. Another broken connection—what a relief. Harley instructed Lowe to wait there and went back inside.

  “Orman’s here too,” he told Papa. “They don’t know each other.”

  “All right.” His expression was blank.

  Harley waited, but Papa said nothing. “So we can release Orman now, right?”

  Papa sagged back into his chair and stared off into space. “I expect we’ll still call him.”

  Harley opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, and then just stared at him. Why, Papa? Why can’t you hear what Cicero Sweet doesn’t have the guts to say? Damn that boy for putting Papa through this.

  Harley froze in place as his father penciled words into his notes for Orman’s examination. He was going through with it. How could Harley stop him now?

  Harley twisted away from his father. His eyes caught Miss Peach’s, and he crouched beside her, pleading with hushed desperation. “Something’s wrong with Papa. He’s going to call Orman. He’s just blindly charging on. Cicero is guilty, and the jury knows it.”

  “What about Peter? What if he was there that night?”

  Harley shook his head. “We don’t have any evidence connecting him to Miss Georgia. Nobody saw him with her. There may have been other men there too with other whores. We can’t prove a murder connection to anybody else.”

  Miss Peach glanced at Papa. “He honestly thinks Orman’s the killer.”

  “Orman has even less to do with it than Peter. He doesn’t own the red buggy, doesn’t own the bawdy house, wasn’t there, has no motive. We can’t prove anything.”

  Her eyes narrowed with concern. “Why’s he so insistent?”

  He’d been hoping she would have an explanation—other than that Catfish Calloway had lost his touch. “I don’t know, I really don’t. I’ve thought in the back of my mind that maybe he had some secret strategy he just wasn’t sharing with me, but he doesn’t. That’s obvious now.”

  “Do you think it has something to do with his loyalty to Mr. Sweet? He’s worried for his friend?”

  Harley shook his head. “I’m more worried about Papa than Mr. Sweet or ev
en about Cicero. He’ll get what he deserves. Papa doesn’t deserve this.”

  “And if the jury convicts Cicero, Mr. Calloway will be devastated. There must be something we can do.”

  The bailiff opened the side door. “All rise.”

  ***

  “I call Peter DeGroote in rebuttal,” Blair announced.

  The boy’s clothing was much less colorful than Harley had described before. Catfish glanced back to Sterling DeGroote, watching from the gallery as his son was sworn in. Catfish had no idea where this testimony would lead. Fatigue washed over him.

  Blair nodded at the judge and began. “Peter, are you acquainted with the defendant who’s sitting over there at that table?” He pointed. “Cicero Sweet?”

  Peter didn’t look at Cicero. “I am, though not well.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “We were both in the literary society at Baylor.”

  “Did you have an encounter with him last fall after a debate?”

  “Excuse me,” Catfish said, rising, “may I reserve my exception to this testimony, judge?”

  “Your exception is noted.”

  “To repeat,” Blair said, “did you have an encounter with the defendant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell us about that.”

  “Well, I debated against him back in November. I won. Afterward, I was having a picnic on Waco Creek with a young lady named Chloe Malone. We spread a blanket on the bank and were having sandwiches and ginger ale.”

  “Tell the jury what happened.”

  “Yes, sir.” He addressed the twelve men in the jury box. “While we were there, Cicero came up. He was drinking beer, acting like he was mad at me over losing. He was bothering Chloe, so I asked him to leave.”

  “Did he?”

  “No, sir. He sat down and was rude to both of us. I asked him again to leave. He finished the beer and threw the bottle in the creek. Then he started another one. I got up and told him to leave.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “He got up in my face and cursed me. I told Chloe we should leave, but Cicero pushed me down.” For the first time, he glanced over at Cicero, who was shaking his head. “When I got back up, he punched me and knocked me into the creek. Then he tried to hold Chloe’s hand.”

  “What happened?”

  “We started fighting. Chloe told us to stop but we kept on. Then all the sudden, Cicero just got up and walked off.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not seriously. I had bruises and a bloody nose.”

  “Did you tell anybody about that fight?”

  “I didn’t think there was any point.”

  “Pass the witness.”

  Catfish took a deep breath. He had to pull himself together, block out all distractions, concentrate on the issue: Could Peter be the murderer? If the red gig was his—but he’d been so sure it belonged to Orman. He would have to see where that led.

  “Peter, did you come to the courthouse today in a buggy?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s my father’s. He lets me use it until I can afford my own.”

  Catfish removed his pince-nez, rubbed his eyes, and stood. “Is it a one-horse rig?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your horse about sixteen hands?”

  “I’m not sure. He’s a big horse.”

  “Buggy got a spindle-back seat?”

  “It does.”

  “Is it a red Stanhope gig?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You don’t see many of those in this part of the country, do you?”

  “We brought it from New York when we moved here.”

  “Folks use them up there to show heavy harness horses, don’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. Father did that some when we lived in New York.”

  Catfish eased out from behind the table to a spot near the corner of the jury box. “Peter, did you visit Miss Jessie’s sporting house in that gig on the evening of April fifteenth?”

  Peter’s eyes darted to the gallery. “Ah, no. I didn’t. I’ve never been in the Reservation.”

  Catfish’s breathing quickened. The boy was lying. What was he hiding? “Didn’t you park that gig on the street across from the sporting house some time before eleven o’clock?”

  “No, I told you, I didn’t.”

  A rush of energy swept over him. “Didn’t you go first into the Red Front Saloon?”

  “I’ve never been to the Red Front.”

  “Then you left the saloon and went back to your buggy?”

  “No! How many times do I have to say it?”

  “Then”—Catfish made a pitching motion—“you tossed something into it and went into Miss Jessie’s place, didn’t you?”

  “I did not.”

  Catfish glanced at the window in the courtroom door to see if Lowe was looking in. He wasn’t. “Don’t you remember passing a bald man who was coming out at the same time?”

  “I wasn’t there, Mr. Calloway.”

  “So if the bald man says you were, he’s lying?”

  “Yes, sir. I wasn’t there, I swear it.”

  “Didn’t you see that man in the courtroom today?”

  “No.”

  He paused. “So you’re saying you didn’t have anything to do with Miss Georgia’s killing?”

  “No, of course not, I wasn’t even there.”

  “Right after this killing happened, you told your father about that fight you claim you had with Cicero, didn’t you?”

  “I mentioned it. Father asked me if I knew him after we heard what happened at the whorehouse.”

  Catfish leaned forward. “Your father mentioned it to me, and so a few days later, my son, Harley Calloway, went out to your house in Provident Heights to talk to you about that, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you told him the same story you told the jury?”

  “I did.”

  It was so clear now—it was Peter, not Orman. “Did you also talk to a newspaper reporter from the Dallas Daily Times-Herald by the name of Babcock Brown?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Catfish turned around to scan the gallery for Brown. He spotted him on the right side of the room taking notes. “That man back there in the striped vest?”

  Brown awkwardly waved at Peter.

  “No, sir. I don’t believe I ever talked to him.”

  “I’m wondering then how that reporter got his story about Cicero and you?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Did you contact him, Peter?”

  “I didn’t even know him.”

  “Didn’t you know he was in town writing a story about the killing?”

  “No.”

  More lies.

  He went back to counsel table and pulled a newspaper from his satchel. “Well, did you read a story in the paper in which Brown wrote this? ‘Locals who know him contacted this reporter to inform him that Sweet has a short temper and a taste for a long drink. Just months before this murder, he beat another Baylor student after drinking beer on campus.’ Did you see that story?”

  “I don’t read the Dallas paper.”

  “So you’re not the local who contacted Brown about that fight after the debate?”

  “No, I’m not. I don’t know how he heard about the fight.”

  Catfish crossed his arms. “You said on direct examination you didn’t tell anybody about it?”

  “Nobody except my father. I didn’t want to get Cicero in trouble, and I wasn’t hurt that badly anyway.”

  “So other than your father, the only people who knew about it were Cicero and Chloe?”

  “That’s right.”

  Catfish nodded toward his client. “Now, Cicero testified before the jury yesterday, and he swore he didn’t punch you.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “I see.” He smirked. “So you think Cicero—for some reason—while he was in jail, talked to the reporter and told him—for some reason
—about a fight he had with you months earlier?”

  “I don’t know what Cicero did.”

  Catfish held his hands up. “Well, if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t Cicero, then the other person must’ve been Chloe?”

  Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Why don’t you go talk to her?”

  Catfish lowered his voice. “She’s not really local though, is she? Doesn’t she live in Carolina?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think she wrote to reporter Brown?”

  “Maybe.” His fingers drummed the rail. “Ask him.”

  “I wonder how that could have happened? How would the reporter know to contact her? Or how would she know to contact the reporter?”

  “You’ll have to ask her.”

  Catfish leaned forward, hands braced on the defense table. “Isn’t the truth, Peter, you spread a false story about Cicero to shift the attention away from somebody else?”

  Peter breathed heavily. “No, that’s not true.”

  Killers lie. “Didn’t you want the case against Cicero to be so clear he’d just plead guilty and folks would stop looking into the killing?”

  “No, that’s not true.”

  “Didn’t your father ask me if we were going to plead him guilty?”

  Peter shifted in his chair. “I don’t know.”

  “Who are you trying to cover for?”

  “No one,” Peter shouted.

  “Is it Bud Orman?”

  Peter’s eyes popped wide. “I barely know him.”

  He knew Orman? Maybe they were together in this. “Oh, so you know Bud Orman?”

  “I’ve met him, but he doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Well, sir, if it’s not Bud Orman you’re protecting, it must be yourself?”

  “No, I—”

  “Weren’t you at Miss Jessie’s that night?”

  “No!”

  “Did you shoot Miss Georgia?”

  “Of course not. I wasn’t there, I tell you.”

  Killers lie.

  Catfish went to the court reporter’s desk, picked up the derringer, and turned it in his hand until the bloodstain was visible. Whether finger smudge science was valid or not, the killer wouldn’t be willing to give his finger mark in evidence, just in case it was.

  Harley was scowling at him, brow furrowed, shaking his head.