ON THE STATION PLATFORM the old man in the cloth cap rubbed his bristled chin and looked up at the clabbered sky while he mulled over Carl Jennings’s question. “Well, son, I reckon ye could walk from Norton to Wise, if you’d a mind to. ’Course it’s five miles, and you’d like as not be toting that suitcase in the pouring rain afore you ever got there.”
Carl thanked the man and glanced back at the train. It was still shuddering and belching smoke beside the depot platform at Norton, waiting for the cry of “All aboard!” before it chugged off to its next stop. It was no use climbing back on board, though. The railroad did not run to Wise, so for him this was the end of the line. He could either walk the long, damp five miles to his destination or he could try to find a ride.
Carl jingled the coins in his pocket. An old black car parked near the depot had a hand-lettered cardboard sign on its windshield: “Taxi.” It would cut into his dinner money, though. Then again, a five-mile hike in a cold November rain might give him pneumonia, and then his great chance for a career-making story would be lost. He looked down at his cheap, re-soled shoes. They might fall apart on a long slog through the mud. With a sigh of resignation, he picked up his suitcase and ambled toward the idling taxi.
The driver, who was leaning against the door, cupping his cigarette against the wind, took a long look at Carl’s worn overcoat and his battered leather suitcase. “Reckon I can take you to Wise, if you don’t mind company.” He nodded toward the depot. “There’s a couple of society ladies come off’n the train, and they’re a-wantin’ to go over there, as well. They’re in the station a-using the facilities now, but if you’d care to wait till they come back and ask them about sharing the ride, you’d save a deal of money, splittin’ the fare.”
Carl’s heart lifted. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that.”
“Wise. Reckon you’re here for the trial. You one o’ them reporter fellas? Can’t say you look much like one, but you look a mite less like a lawyer.”
“I’m just a little fish in the journalism pond,” said Carl. “Have you seen any of the big ones come through here?”
The driver sighed. “Son, I reckon this county has just about turned into Baghdad on the Clinch River these days. Nothing would surprise me anymore. Except outsiders minding their own business and admitting their ignorance—now that would flat out astonish me.” He nodded toward the depot. “Here come the ladies now.”
The two women radiated middle-aged prosperity, with mink stoles draped over their stylish wool suits, and hats that were small confections holding wisps of veils that ended well above the eyebrows. The tall one, whose blond hair was silvering to gray, had sharp features and a long patrician nose that suited her imperious expression. Her matronly companion, obviously subordinate, stumped along beside her in sensible shoes. Plump and rosy in her cherry red suit, she bore the slightly anxious expression of one who is in a state of perpetual worry over lost gloves or forgotten appointments. When they saw Carl standing beside the taxi, the imperious one glowered at him suspiciously, while her stocky companion ventured a tentative wave, just in case she was supposed to know who he was.
When the taxi driver explained that the young gentleman was also headed for Wise, and that sharing the car would save all of them not only money, but also the time it would take for the car to make a return trip to ferry them separately, the tall woman studied Carl through narrowed eyes. “And what is your business in Wise, young man?”
He considered telling the woman some plausible lie about a family visit—well, in a way, he was making a family visit—but he knew that those gimlet eyes would bore into him and pry out his secrets. Besides, she looked like a woman who respected people who stood up to her, so he decided to stand his ground as a journalist on legitimate business. He wondered what had brought them to town, though. Surely, they were not reporters. Members of the mother’s family, rumored to be gentry from a neighboring county? He thought not. These women seemed too citified for that, although these days you could find silk stockings and high-heeled shoes in the back of beyond, same as anywhere else.
“Ma’am, I have been sent over from Johnson City by a reputable Tennessee newspaper to keep an eye on this trial on behalf of the citizens of these mountains.”
The plump lady in red beamed at him, “Why, is that a fact? We came over here from Knoxville ourselves. I am Mrs. Calvin Manning, and my distinguished companion is Mrs. Alexander Coeburn.”
“Carl Jennings, ma’am.” He raised his eyebrows. “You ladies came to see the trial?”
Mrs. Coeburn’s eyes flashed. “Hardly that!”
The taxi driver, who had tired of standing in the cold while he waited for this Southern equivalent of a Japanese tea ceremony to play itself out, held open the back door of the car and cleared his throat loudly, gesturing for the ladies to get in. Ordinarily, he would have been willing to wait until these genteel city folk had discovered a mutual friend, or better still, a distant cousin, to cement their acquaintance, but in this harsh weather, and with a veritable horde of folks all hell-bent on getting to Wise, he didn’t want to waste the time. He picked up Carl’s suitcase and stowed it in the boot of the car with the ladies’ belongings, and that settled the matter, because the lady passengers could hardly refuse the well-spoken young man a ride after that. Carl climbed into the front seat beside the driver, and they set off on the short journey to the county seat.
As they pulled out of the station, little Mrs. Manning, who considered any silence a form of hostility, returned to their previous discussion. “And you say you are attending the trial, Mr. Jennings?”
“That is my assignment,” said Carl.
“We, too, feel that we are on a mission to ensure that justice is done.”
Carl, who knew that the best way to get some people to talk is to allow them to contradict you, said, “Well, I never took you for lawyers, ma’am.”
Mrs. Coeburn bristled. “We most certainly are not lawyers. We represent the Knoxville Guild of Women, and we have been most distressed by the events surrounding this trial. So we have come to see for ourselves.”
“Mrs. Coeburn is the president of the Guild,” said Mrs. Manning in happy admiration. “She is tireless. Utterly tireless in her good works. So when we read the disturbing reports about that poor young teacher who was being persecuted by her brutal father for breaking curfew, she decided that it was our duty to come over here and see for ourselves.”
The ladies in the backseat did not see the expression on the face of the driver when Mrs. Coeburn made that last pronouncement, but Carl did. He decided to divert the conversation before he was made to take sides. “Are you ladies headed for an inn at Wise? If you need a place to stay, I could recommend one.”
Mrs. Coeburn scowled. Apparently she considered it improper to stay under the same roof with an unattached gentleman. “Our current destination is the home of Miss Morton’s attorney. He has graciously agreed to see us this afternoon. You know the way, driver?”
“I do, ma’am,” said the man behind the wheel. “It ain’t possible to get lost in Wise.”
Carl was thinking furiously. An interview with Erma Morton’s lawyer! How could he horn in on that meeting without offending these representatives of the Knoxville gentry? “Interviewing lawyers can be a tedious process,” he said. “They are constitutionally unable to give anybody a straight answer. I wouldn’t wonder if the fellow intimidated you so much that you ended up not getting the information you came all this way for. But if you would like someone to accompany you to this meeting, why, I’d be glad to stand up for you, and see that this legal person doesn’t bully you.”
He had been careful to address his remarks solely to the plump and placid Mrs. Manning, because he suspected that nothing short of a rabid bear would faze her haughty companion. As he’d hoped, before Mrs. Coeburn could interrupt to declare herself equal to any lawyer who ever drew breath, little Mrs. Manning’s round face was wreathed in smiles. “Oh, how kind of you, Mr. Jennings. I�
��m sure we would welcome your kind assistance. I would hardly know what questions to put to him myself.”
“I would,” said Mrs. Coeburn, but before she could enlarge upon her theme, the taxi driver pulled off the road in front of a trim white house with green shutters, set back from the road by a privet hedge that enclosed a small lawn and a bare oak tree. “Would you folks be wanting me to wait for you?” asked the driver.
Mrs. Coeburn paused with one hand on the door and the other on the clasp of her black purse. “I expect you will be wanted back at the depot,” she said. “Come back in an hour. That way he cannot dismiss us in an unseemly hurry. We will leave our luggage in the car. Come, Dolly.”
Carl was already out of the cab and opening the door for them before they had time to discuss his joining the party. Unbidden, he accompanied them up the concrete walk and on to the porch. He had only knocked once on the bright green door when it was opened by a solemn thirtyish man in a rumpled brown suit.
Mrs. Coeburn charged forward. “Mr. Hubbard? I am Mrs. Alexander Coeburn, president of the Knoxville Ladies Guild. You are Miss Morton’s attorney, are you not?”
“I am. Please come in, ladies. Er—” He looked doubtfully at Carl. “Although I must caution you that—”
As they entered the wood-paneled hallway, a lanky young man in a tweed jacket came in from the parlor and stood at Kenneth Hubbard’s elbow. The lawyer glanced at him nervously. “This is Mr. Harley Morton, the brother of the defendant. He has taken charge of his sister’s legal affairs, and he wishes to be present at any conference concerning her case.”
“Very proper, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Coeburn, but as she sized up Harley Morton, her eyes narrowed, and she gave him a brisk nod, ignoring his outstretched hand.
While the formal introductions were taking place, Carl, who was still hoping to go unnoticed, made no move to take out his notepad. He would have to spend the interview observing, and hope that his memory would be equal to the task of transcribing it later. He shook hands all around, but he was concentrating on the young man, who still had not said anything beyond hello.
So this was Harley Morton, the boy who had lit out for the big city as an adolescent because his father had given him a hiding. Now that the old man was dead, he had returned to look out for his sister. Judging by his clothes and demeanor, Harley Morton was back home only in a technical sense. Nothing about this silent, calculating fellow suggested that he would ever again be at ease or content in the rustic Virginia mountains. His detached, watchful air reminded Carl of a store detective or a bailiff: uninterested in people for themselves, but professionally concerned with their actions. Now he seemed to be taking stock of the ladies from Knoxville, judging whether they might be useful assets to his sister’s defense, or simply an unnecessary distraction from the business at hand.
Mr. Hubbard ushered his visitors into an old-fashioned parlor, wallpapered in faded chintz roses, and furnished with dark oak tables and glass-fronted bookcases. A pair of ugly brown sofas and a wing chair faced a glass-topped coffee table atop a worn Turkish carpet. A roaring fire gave a homey touch to the room, but the coarse horsehair sofas probably shortened the stay of most visitors.
Hubbard sat down in the green leather wing chair facing the fireplace, while the ladies perched on one sofa and Carl took his place on the other. He was thinking that he had sat on rocks more comfortable than that sofa. Instead of joining them, Harley Morton wandered over to the mantelpiece and leaned against it, seemingly indifferent to the conversation, but his wary eyes belied the casual pose.
As usual, Mrs. Coeburn took charge. “Back in Knoxville, we have read accounts of the arrest and imprisonment of this poor young woman, and we are concerned that she will not receive justice in this backward place.”
There was a long pause before Kenneth Hubbard replied, probably because he was silently discarding all the discourteous replies that had come to mind. Finally he managed to say, “You are very kind to take an interest.”
Mrs. Manning toyed with the rings on her plump fingers. “A poor educated schoolteacher, languishing in jail. Is she being ill-treated, Mr. Hubbard?”
Again, the lawyer hesitated. “If she is innocent, then any incarceration is ill treatment,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But since it is Miss Morton’s own uncle who is the town jailer, I think she has less cause than most prisoners to worry about conditions in the jail.” He nodded toward Harley Morton, still lounging beside the fire. “When she was first detained, my client found the bedding in her cell to be unsatisfactory, but her brother very kindly bought her a new mattress, and her family brings her clean linens from home. They also deliver her meals so that she does not have to partake of the usual jail fare, which is often soup beans, simmered in pork fat.”
With a wave, Mrs. Coeburn dismissed all talk of soup beans. “But what of her defense? Surely her family cannot afford—” Even she realized that she was about to go too far. The words “proper representation” hovered in the air, but you cannot sit as a guest in a man’s parlor and accuse him of incompetence. “Well, surely they are concerned about the expense. Can she afford effective representation?”
“In Knoxville we have started a defense fund,” Mrs. Manning explained. “Our club is soliciting donations on behalf of poor Miss Morton. Money is of supreme importance in a court fight.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Kenneth Hubbard said again. Carl wondered if his teeth were clenched as he said it.
“We would like to interview Miss Erma Morton herself. Not out of any ghoulish desire to gawk at her, of course. We wish to satisfy ourselves that she is being humanely sheltered. And we’d like to hear her story from her own lips, so that we can report back to her many supporters in Knoxville and elsewhere.”
“No!” Harley Morton’s voice was too loud for the cozy little parlor, and his tone was too harsh for the gentlewomen he addressed. “You can’t see Erma.”
“I beg your pardon!” Judging from Mrs. Coeburn’s outraged expression, Carl wondered if she considered refusal worse than profanity. She probably wasn’t used to hearing either one, he decided.
Kenneth Hubbard gestured for silence. “What Mr. Morton means is that, while you may certainly go and see his sister, she is not at liberty to talk to anyone not connected with the defense.”
Carl stared. “You’ve decided not to let her talk to anybody?”
Harley Morton came forward, his chin jutting and his hands balled into fists. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, but I’m a local journalist. Not one of the national fellows.”
“Well, that’s too bad. The national fellows, as you call them, have been mighty helpful to us.”
“Helpful? Printing that nonsense about your sister breaking curfew? All that Code of the Hills garbage?”
Harley Morton smirked. “Oh, they’re a fanciful bunch, I’ll grant you that. They may have shallow minds, but their pockets are deep enough.”
Mrs. Coeburn clutched at the arm of the sofa. “Mr. Morton, do you mean that the newspapers have offered you money?”
“Offered and accepted, ma’am.” Harley Morton grinned at her, amused by the naiveté of those unused to big city ways. “It costs a deal of money to mount a defense, as you ladies were kind enough to point out.” His tone was the boastful triumph of one who had pulled off a successful deal against the big wheels, and he was proud of his coup.
But Kenneth Hubbard didn’t look proud of this accomplishment. He reddened, and laid a hand on Harley Morton’s arm, as if to rein him in. “The Mortons have made an arrangement with the Hearst Newspaper Syndicate,” he muttered, avoiding the eyes of his visitors. “In return for financial assistance, the family has agreed that the syndicate journalists will have exclusive access to my client. Exclusive.”
“You sold her!” said Mrs. Coeburn, quivering with outrage.
Harley Morton shrugged. “We don’t want anything for ourselves. We’re not intending to profit by th
is deal. My sister needed the best defense we could afford. Remember, my father was a coal miner, so there wasn’t any family money for legal fees. We did what we had to.”
“And your sister agreed to this?” asked Carl.
“Erma trusts me to do what’s best for her. I’m the head of the family now.”
Mrs. Manning summoned an oil-on-troubled-waters smile for Harley Morton, and succeeded in looking like a fat sparrow attempting to pacify an alley cat. “We are not journalists, sir. We are representatives of a woman’s club, and we, too, are committed to your sister’s defense. Indeed, we are trying to raise money to help her. We came all this way to express our sympathy and concern. Won’t you let us speak with her?”
Still annoyed at their disapproval of his financial coup, Harley Morton scowled at the twittering woman, but since she had mentioned money, he judged it best not to snub them completely. “You can go see her, I reckon. She’s right partial to company. But you can’t ask her any questions, or discuss the case in any way, shape, or form. That’s the best I can do.”
Mrs. Manning was aghast. “But we cannot go and gawk at the poor girl as if she were an animal in a zoo. We are not ghouls. We are sincerely concerned for her well-being.”
“Well, I made a deal, ma’am. And I am a man of my word.”
“Yes, we are quite clear on the matter of your honor, Mr. Morton,” said Mrs. Coeburn, but either her withering scorn was lost on Harley Morton or else he chose to ignore it.
Both ladies were on their feet now, and, judging by their outraged expressions, they were ready to bolt for the door. Carl could see his chance at an exclusive audience with the defendant slipping away, and to his shame he felt that his honor was akin to that of Harley Morton: he had promised his employer a story, and so he must do his damnedest to deliver one. “You ought to go and see her anyway,” he told them. “To make sure she’s all right. Your club members will want to know the conditions of the jail. And you came all this way.”
The Devil Amongst the Lawyers Page 13
