by Deeanne Gist
“The prosecution?” He looked over the official summons and noted it had been delivered to her early last week.
She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “I can only assume they have some questions concerning the condition of the body when I first arrived on the scene.”
He nodded, but he didn’t like it. Didn’t like it at all. “Just make sure you answer the questions succinctly and don’t elaborate. All right?”
“All right.” She returned the paper to her satchel. “Anything new with your investigation? Anything you can give to Derry’s attorney?”
Leaning back against the downy cushion of his armchair, he gave her a bleak look. “Not a thing. Besides not being allowed to question the boys, I haven’t had access to the murder weapons or any other evidence they might have. I’ve spent days and days going door-to-door throughout the ward, but everyone has suddenly become blind and deaf. They didn’t hear anything, see anything, or remember anything. Not one single eyewitness. The arresting officer isn’t talking. The coroner isn’t talking. Even the children in the streets aren’t talking. I’ve gleaned more information from you than anyone else.”
“What about that day you examined the playground?”
He shook his head. “It didn’t offer up anything other than the facts we already know—there was a scuffle. It involved four to five people. A gun was used. And a knife was used.”
They stared at each other. The trial was looming and there was not one thing they could do to help Derry or his case.
Her face began to crumble. “I can’t bear the thought of him being found guilty. Of him being penned up for the rest of his life. Of not ever being able to see him without bars between us. Or worse, of them sentencing him to death. Not after Joey. I know Derry has a family, but I . . . they don’t . . .”
Swallowing, he rubbed his hands along his trousers. He hadn’t planned to say anything until after the trial, but maybe he should. Maybe his news would bring her some tiny bit of comfort. “Miss Weibel’s murder isn’t the only thing I’ve been investigating. I’ve also been, um, looking into Joey’s whereabouts.”
Her sniffling stopped, her eyes widened. “Did you find him?”
“I did.”
Her lips parted. “When? Where is he?”
“He was taken in by a real estate millionaire by the name of Robert York. York helped rebuild the city after the Great Fire and now lives in a three-story graystone with his wife. Right next door to them is the son of the late millionaire Cyrus McCormick.”
“Cyrus McCormick? The man who invented the mechanical reaper?”
“One and the same.”
“And Joey lives next door to them?”
He nodded. “Though they don’t call him Joey anymore. They call him Robert, Jr.”
“Robert, Jr.” She let that sink in for a moment. “What’s Mrs. York like?”
“Young. About fifteen years younger than her husband, who’s forty. It seems to be a love match, though. The two of them dote on each other and are beside themselves over Joey.”
“You’ve seen Joey?” Her spine slowly straightened.
“Once I’d narrowed my search down, I began watching their house. I wanted verification that Joey really was there. I’d expected to follow a nursemaid to the pleasure grounds, but to my surprise it was the mister and missus who pushed the baby carriage to Lincoln Park.”
She jumped to her feet and began pacing. “Lincoln Park. They’re within walking distance of Lincoln Park. Joey will love that. It’s a beautiful pleasure garden and it has an animal house with bears, tigers, elephants, and panthers.”
“When I was there, they lingered around an electric fountain. That’s where I approached them and struck up a conversation.”
She stopped. “How did he look?”
“Huge. I can’t believe how much he’s grown.”
“Did he recognize your voice?”
Emotion stacked up against his throat. The best he could do was lift one shoulder in a half shrug.
“Did you get to touch him? Hold him?”
He looked down. “I’d told myself I wouldn’t. I was just going to compliment them on their handsome baby, and look inside the carriage to make sure it was him, but at the sound of my voice he waved his arms and legs, then laughed.” Their eyes connected. “He’s learned to laugh, Billy. The sound of it . . .”
Tears filled her eyes.
“It was more than I could resist.” His nostrils distended in an effort to hold back his feelings. “So I reached over and slipped a finger into his hand. He, he grabbed it and squeezed it in that tiny fist of his.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, but moisture still sprang to his eyes, refusing to be contained.
Suddenly she was on the cushion beside him, her hand on his back.
“Oh, God.” He grabbed her and held her close. “Walking away from him was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my entire life.”
They clung. They cried. They mourned.
“I want him back,” she whispered. “I want him back so badly.”
“I know. But we can’t. We can’t.”
“I want to see him. Will you take me?”
“No, Billy. It’s too hard. Please don’t ask me. Please. I simply can’t go through . . . I . . .”
She swayed from side to side taking him with her as if she were rocking him. “Shhhh. Shhhh. Okay. Okay.” Her tears seeped through his shirt. “What was she like? Mrs. York, I mean.”
“Wonderful. Poised. Happy. And she loves Joey. It was so obvious. Her husband, too.”
After a while, the pain began to diminish. He kept his eyes closed, relishing for just one more moment the privilege of having her in his arms again. But as good as it felt, as healing as it was, he knew it was an indulgence that would lead to even more heartache if he didn’t put a stop to it. And between the loss of Joey, her, and possibly Derry, he didn’t think he could handle one more thing.
Kissing the top of her head, he untangled himself and began to gather up his papers. “It’s getting late. I’d better see you home.”
She scooted over, dabbed her eyes, swooped a hand up the back of her hair, and cleared her throat. “No need for that. Miss Addams knew traffic would be in a tangle with thousands upon thousands trying to leave the fair, so she’s letting me use one of the rooms upstairs tonight.”
“Oh.” He glanced at the rich mahogany staircase. Having her so close suddenly made it that much harder. There was safety, somehow, in having her stay clear over in the Women’s Dormitory. Picking up his papers, he rose. “I guess I’ll leave you to it, then. Have a nice evening, Billy.”
“Thank you. You, too.”
They stared at each other, their words belying the raw, tumultuous, heart-wrenching feelings crashing beneath the surface. Still, he gave a polite nod and found his way to the door wondering why, out of all the women in the world, he had to fall in love with the one who preferred the city over the country, working over domesticity, duty over love.
FASHION PLATE, HARPER’S BAAZAR37
“Pauline sent four outfits she’d outgrown since having her baby. Billy’s favorite was a green wool with finely pleated collar and cuffs.”
CHAPTER
42
Billy sat beside Hunter in the courtroom of the brand-new criminal court building. Tall windows provided both warmth from the sun and cooling breezes from the lake. The smell of beeswax competed with a bouquet of ladies’ toilet waters and men’s shaving soaps. Hushed conversations buzzed like the fanning of a thousand hummingbird wings.
She’d wanted to wear something somber yet sophisticated for her court appearance. For if her testimony was to affect the outcome of Derry’s sentence, she wanted to make sure she did everything she could to promote a positive verdict for him.
But all she had were schoolmarmish skirts and shirtwaists, along with the two feminine dresses she hardly ever wore. So she’d written her sister asking if she could borrow one of her suits. Pauline sent four outfit
s she’d outgrown since having her baby. Billy’s favorite was a green wool with finely pleated collar and cuffs. She’d removed the flowers from the matching hat and replaced them with loops of velvet ribbon.
She wondered if Hunter’s suit was new. The four-button cassimere ensemble was the exact shade of his hair and had replaced his denims, though his Texas heritage was still evident in the Stetson on his lap and the freshly polished armadillo boots on his feet. But it was the five-pointed star encircled by a band of silver that jumped out the most. He’d pinned it to the lapel of his jacket. The word TEXAS had been engraved along the top, RANGER along the bottom.
Clerk, sketch artist, stenographer, and lawyers filed in, each taking their respective places. The hum of conversation dipped. The men sitting in the press seats began making notes.
She and Hunter sat directly behind the defense counsel. An attractive man not much older than the defendants placed his satchel on the table in front of them. His suit was of the latest fashion, his cravat expertly tied, his blond hair styled in a pompadour. He faced the assembly like a young prince viewing his subjects, his bearing proud, his condescension unmistakable.
At the opposite table, the district attorney didn’t make eye contact with anyone. His hair had yet to gray, but his hairline had receded significantly. His suit was tight around the stomach, pulling the fabric so it strained the buttons on his double-breasted jacket and caused its tail to flare out. His jerky, rapid movements reminded her of a toy that had been wound too tight.
The tipstaff opened the door the prisoners would come through. Billy’s stomach fluttered. The crowd quieted.
Unshackled, the Kruse brothers entered first, looking almost handsome in fresh clothes, combed hair, and clean bodies. Their defiant expressions, however, quickly spoiled the effect.
Lonborg and Shiblawski followed, their eyes downcast, their feet shuffling. Finally, Derry entered. His exposition uniform had been exchanged for a little boy’s suit, short pants, and scuffed-up boots. A rush of murmuring swept the courtroom.
He’d easily lost half his weight. The roundness of his cheeks was gone and his little legs looked as if the officers had put stockings on a rooster. Eyes wide, he took in the vast ceilings and richly polished wood gracing the walls and furniture. No church in Chicago had been more finely adorned then the new courtroom.
His gaze moved to the gallery filled with spectators. He stopped and searched the crowd.
Billy held her breath wondering if he was looking for his parents, for if he was, he wouldn’t find them. Nor would any of the other boys. None of the parents could afford a day off work or the ride to and from town.
His eyes lit when he spotted them. “Mr. Scott! Doc Tate! The copper gave us a potato pie this mornin’, but I had to take a bath ’fore I could eat any.”
His words echoed in the silence of the room. Her heart soared at the normalcy of his voice. Perhaps nothing untoward had happened to him while he was down there, after all.
The tipstaff put a finger to his mouth, shushing him.
Derry clapped a hand over his mouth, then turned again to Hunter and spread three fingers. “I forgot.” His whisper easily carried throughout the room. “I’m not supposed to talk to nobody.”
The reaction of the crowd varied. Some, who believed Derry to be guilty, were stern-faced with disapproval. Others could not help but have a doubt raised in their mind as to how a young boy of his demeanor could have ever committed such a heinous offense.
The tipstaff flicked him on the head.
Derry jumped back and rubbed the spot, but kept his mouth shut. He followed the other boys to the prisoners’ dock and crawled up into a black Windsor chair. Instead of sitting down, he remained on his knees, gripped the back of the chair, and faced the crowd.
But he only had eyes for Hunter. “I made some friends in the pokey, but pu-wee it stinks in there.” He held his nose.
The man beside them covered his amusement with coughs. But Billy was more distressed than amused. He’d made friends? With criminals?
Humor filling his eyes, Hunter made a locking motion over his lips.
The tipstaff leaned down toward Derry. “If you can’t keep quiet, I’ll have to take you back and there’ll be no more potato pies for you.”
Derry immediately plopped into his seat and made no further attempts to converse.
She and Hunter looked at each other, their affection and concern for Derry somehow channeling itself between them. Hunter surreptitiously reached over and gave her gloved hand a quick squeeze.
Love for him swelled within her. She began to fear she just might love him more than the profession she’d devoted the last eleven years of her life to. A quelling thought.
He must have sensed something in her expression, for he gave her the barest of winks.
“All rise for the Honorable Justice Cecil H. Phinney.” The court crier stood before the gallery, his uniform crisp, his voice strong.
A rustle of movement ensued, reaching a crescendo, then slowing as all eyes turned to the judge.
He wore the traditional black robe, yet his bearing was anything but regal. He used a cane to hoist his portly body up the steps leading to his elevated station. His progress was slow and painful. When he finally reached the summit, the crowd gave a collective sigh of relief.
He situated himself in his chair, his clean-shaven face and center-parted gray hair restoring a bit of his dignity. The crier gave permission for all to be seated and the judge called the court to order.
One by one the boys stood and entered their pleas.
“Guilty.”
“Guilty.”
“Guilty.”
“Guilty.”
“I didn’t do nothin’.”
Billy bit her lip.
The judge lifted his chin and looked at Derry through his round spectacles. “Your choices are guilty or not guilty, Mister . . .” He fanned out some papers on his desk. “Molinari. Which is it?”
Derry turned to Hunter.
His young attorney rose. “I think the prisoner wishes to plead not guilty.”
The judge looked again at Derry. “Do you wish to enter a not guilty plea, Mr. Molinari?”
“My dad’s not here, mister. My name’s Derry.”
“We’ll be addressing you as Mr. Molinari during these proceedings and you’ll be addressing me as Honorable Judge Phinney. Now, do you wish to enter a not guilty plea?”
Derry turned again to Hunter. Hunter gave a nod.
“Yes, Ornery Judge Funny. Not guilty.”
Looking down, Billy pressed a fist against her mouth.
The young attorney gave Derry an impatient look. “Just call the judge Your Honor.”
The judge squinted at Derry, as if to ascertain whether the boy’s mispronunciation was on purpose or not. After a minute, Phinney moved his attention to the other boys. “Your guilty pleas cannot be accepted in this court. The clerk will enter a plea of not guilty.”
Billy and Hunter exchanged another glance. They knew guilty pleas were not allowed in cases where capital punishment was a possibility, but it was a sobering reminder the boys were to be tried as adults.
DIAGRAM OF HULL HOUSE PLAYGROUND38
“The engineer handed over a diagram which illustrated the layout and positioning of the playground equipment.”
CHAPTER
43
District Attorney Urban Hood called a civil engineer as the first witness. The man presented photographs of the playground from several different angles. One by one Hood propped images of the log mountain, the seesaw, the giant stride, the swings, and the sandbox onto easels.
Derry tugged on the sleeve of his attorney. “That’s our playground,” he whispered loudly. “I helped build that. You can ask anybody.”
Scowling, the attorney tapped his lips with his finger.
Derry twisted around and looked at Hunter through the balusters of his chair.
Hunter shook his head, bringing a finger to his mou
th, but it was too late.
“They forgot the hammocks.”
The judge banged on the gavel. “Quiet.”
Sticking a finger in his ear, Derry gave it a wiggle, but remained quiet.
Hunter looked at her, commiserating with her over their frustration that any nine-year-old would be expected to comport himself like an adult—especially when that nine-year-old was as effervescent as Derry.
The engineer handed over a diagram that illustrated the layout and the positioning of the equipment.
“What is this mark here?” Hood pointed to an X just beyond the sand pit.
“That’s where Miss Weibel’s blood had seeped into the earth.” A horseshoe of iron-gray hair framed the engineer’s shiny bald spot.
During the rest of the man’s testimony, Derry swung his legs, his little body already growing tired of being in the chair. Having no idea the fate of his life hung in the balance. She wished she could sit in the chair with him. Hold him on her lap. Comfort him. Pull his head against her shoulder so he could sleep.
“The court calls Dr. Billy Jack Tate.”
Her stomach jumping, she rose and shuffled past the men beside her on the pew-like bench, then entered the arena of the court.
The tipstaff sprang forward. “I’m sorry, miss. You can’t come up here.”
District Attorney Hood gripped the tipstaff’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Johnny. This is Dr. Billy Jack Tate.”
A shock of surprise rippled throughout the room. After a glance at the judge, the clerk stepped forward and swore her, then escorted her to the witness box.
Hood smoothed what little hair he had left across the top of his head. All the nervous energy he’d had at the beginning of the morning had vanished. “Miss Doctor Tate, you are a physician and surgeon, is that correct?”
Another burst of murmurs. The judge gave his gavel a whack.
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you connected with any institution?”
