His dignity had a settling effect on the unruly crowd, maybe because he radiated the earnest integrity that had gotten him appointed to the bench a few weeks earlier. Gabriel Getty stood tall, looking at Judge Prescott, as they both awaited the full attention of everyone in the room. An electric current of curiosity charged the air, and they were both playing it to best advantage.
“This is highly irregular, Mr. Getty.”
“Everything I’ve seen and heard this morning has been irregular, Your Honor,” he answered wryly. “I intend to rectify that, by presenting evidence that proves Solace Monroe could not possibly have shot Cora Walsh. I can also prove, beyond reasonable doubt, who did commit the murder.”
“Objection!” Mr. Dorling cried. “The court has no reason to allow Mr. Getty’s participation in this case now that it’s in progress!”
“My presence here—my stepping in to restore some semblance of truth and order—is not nearly so unreasonable as the circumstances of your being here, Mr. Dorling. When the sheriff heard what was going on, he decided it behooved him to appear, as well.”
A murmur hissed through the crowd. Necks craned to see Harry Draper’s intimidating figure filling the doorway, with a deputy on either side of him. None of the lawmen was smiling.
Hannibal Prescott stiffened…glanced at Mr. Dorling with an expression Solace couldn’t interpret. “While you are licensed to practice law, Mr. Getty, I believe your appointment to the Dickinson County bench precludes—”
“I resigned this morning, Your Honor.”
“Resigned?” The judge hammered with his gavel to silence the surprised outburst that echoed around the courtroom. “But Mr. Getty, a man of your relative youth seldom earns the opportunity to—”
“I have learned—and verified—that Mr. Dorling related that ludicrous story on yesterday’s front page to the editor of the Chronicle,” Gabe replied with an edge to his voice. “While I will have other opportunities to practice the law, Miss Monroe might never have the chance to clear her name—her reputation as a respected resident of Abilene—unless I assist her. Right now.”
The courtroom buzzed like a hive of storm-struck bees. Solace gazed at Gabe, willing him to look at her, but he kept his focus on Hannibal Prescott.
Mr. Dorling’s fist flew toward the ceiling. “You cannot prove—I don’t know why you’d fabricate such a flagrant misrepresentation of the truth, but—”
“Sheriff Draper has also received a telegraph, just this morning, verifying that Mr. Dorling has never studied the law,” Gabe announced above the noise. “He is, in fact, a shoe salesman from Kansas City.”
Solace sucked in her breath, along with everyone else. Then somebody snickered, and the laughter became contagious.
Whack! Whack! “Order, I say!” Judge Prescott bellowed, and with an impatient wiggle of his finger he muttered, “Approach the bench, gentlemen. Let’s settle this once and for all.”
Solace nipped her lip, bursting with the curiosity that had those in the jury box and the benches leaning forward to catch every detail. If this case was a circus before, it’ll become even more entertaining now! their expressions said. She exchanged tentative smiles with her parents…noted that Pete had stopped twirling his mustache and Faustina had grown pale beneath her witch-black hair and heavy cosmetics.
Hanging Hannibal cleared his throat ominously as he leaned low over his desk. “Mr. Dorling, is there any truth to what Mr. Getty has said? Don’t lead me astray with any more bluster! Sheriff Draper is waiting to set us all straight, and I refuse to compromise my own credibility in this courtroom.”
Dorling went limp, like a rag doll. “It’s true, Your Honor. I sell shoes,” he rasped. A drop of sweat trickled down his nose to plop on his shirt.
“Then why in the blue blazes—? Why have you led us all to believe—?”
“She’s my sister.”
“Who is?” Hanging Hannibal looked ready to live up to his name, while all around them, the courtroom resounded with hushed anticipation.
The waspish little man turned and pointed. “Ernestine. Faustina Flambeau, the fortune-teller.”
Whack! went the gavel and Judge Prescott stood up. “Court is recessed until one o’clock. Getty, I’ll see you in my chambers immediately.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“Please state your name for the record.”
“Solace Monroe.”
She placed her hand on the Bible again, calmly this time. The strength of that book seemed to seep up into her body and settle her, just as Gabriel Getty’s steady gaze did. He watched from a few feet away, in front of Judge Prescott, and his professional detachment served as a model for her own responses. After all the shenanigans and disruptions during the morning’s session, she wanted nothing to jeopardize her chance to set the record straight.
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
As the bailiff sat down, Gabe approached her with his hands folded loosely in front of him. If Hanging Hannibal had lectured or threatened him over the noon recess, he showed no sign of it: his face looked composed and serenely confident. “Miss Monroe, will you please tell us what happened on the night you were accused of killing Cora Walsh?”
She exhaled, collecting her thoughts. “The first thing I recall was a pounding on the door of the wagon. I was asleep on the floor—”
“Why weren’t you in a bed, Miss Monroe?” His question hinted at an irregularity…a point she might make in her favor.
“The wagon was quarters for Crack-Shot Cora and Faustina Flambeau, sir. I had only slept there a couple of nights because Apache Pete told them to make room for me.”
“And were Cora and Faustina there, when somebody pounded on the door?”
“No, sir. I was alone.”
“Go on from there, please.”
Solace relaxed. Although everyone in the courtroom was watching her closely, no doubt assessing her boy-short hair and simple blue dress, she sensed they would at least listen to her this time—even if they didn’t believe her story. “Two men threw open the door, and Apache Pete followed them inside. They talked like I was in some sort of trouble—which seemed crazy, since I’d been sound asleep—but I knew something was out of kilter when they asked to see my pistols.”
“Which pistols, Miss Monroe?”
“The ones I used in my act.”
Gabe went to a table on the other side of the judge, and then carried over a pistol positioned on a folded towel. “Is this the gun you’re referring to?”
“Yes, sir. And when it wasn’t in its case with the other one—when I noticed the tin stars the men were wearing,” she continued in a hesitant voice, “Pete said there’d been some trouble. Said Cora had been shot.”
“Let the record show as evidence one Colt .45 caliber Peacemaker with a mother-of-pearl grip,” Gabe said as he approached the jury. “And I’d like you gentlemen to note the condition of its barrel…the presence of fingerprints and dust, most likely from being tossed aside at the scene of the murder, as Sheriff Draper can confirm.”
Gabe carried the pistol to the judge’s stand and then carefully laid it in front of Hannibal Prescott. “Had you performed that evening, Miss Monroe?” he asked her.
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“And do you usually clean your pistols before a performance, or afterwards?”
“Anybody with any respect for a nice gun like that would never put it away dirty!” Solace exclaimed. “Those pistols were a gift from Billy—”
“Please just answer the question, Miss Monroe,” Judge Prescott warned. He was following her story intently—probably looking for loopholes to hang her with. But at least he was listening…eyeing her pistol with an air of anticipation.
Solace smiled demurely, knowing not to push her luck. “I clean them after every performance, without exception. Sir.”
Gabe nodded, glancing toward the jury. “Which t
ells us that, since you were sound asleep in those early morning hours when the two lawmen and Pete came to the wagon, you had not handled the weapon that killed Cora Walsh.”
“That’s right.”
“Be careful, Mr. Getty. You’re leading the witness—asking us to draw conclusions.” Judge Prescott leaned forward on his desk, as though to ride herd on any stray questions, while Pete, Faustina and Mr. Dorling sat very still at their table.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I’ll be more careful.” Gabe’s lips flickered in a grin. He then cleared his face as though it were a slate that could be wiped clean of emotion. “While we’re on the subject of that pistol and its condition, I would ask the court’s indulgence—and Miss Monroe’s—to pursue the subject of those fingerprints we’ve seen.”
As he looked around for expressions of objection on the fascinated faces in that room, Gabe pulled a small piece of paper and something else from his suit pocket. “Perhaps you’ve heard about recent innovations in criminal identification, based upon years of study by William James Herschel and others, that have established fingerprinting as an almost infallible way to confirm—or eliminate—who has handled something.”
He placed the piece of paper on the stand in front of her, and then opened a flat tin box, which contained an ink pad. “Miss Monroe, would you be willing to roll the thumb of your shooting hand on this ink and make a print on this paper for me, please?”
Her eyes widened. Was this some sort of a trick? Even though she’d wiped and cleaned her pistols painstakingly, there was a chance some of her fingerprints remained on her guns simply from cleaning them—wasn’t there?
Gabe gazed steadily at her, his smile patient.
Solace felt the sincere affection in his brown eyes. She chided herself for doubting his intentions. “Of course I will,” she replied, and quickly rolled her thumb across the damp, black pad.
“Thank you. And now—if the court will continue to indulge me—we’ll compare your print to a very prominent thumbprint preserved in the dust on your pistol.” He took Solace’s print over to Judge Prescott and then pointed out the one he’d just referred to. “Even though this print is on the barrel—far above where one would grip the pistol to shoot it—it proves that someone other than the defendant last handled this gun. We don’t have to be seasoned detectives to see that whoever held this weapon, presumably to shoot Cora Walsh, had a much larger hand and a distinctly different pattern of loops and whorls.”
Solace held her breath. Would Hanging Hannibal go along with this? Was it enough evidence to set her free?
“You make a convincing point, Mr. Getty. Bailiff, please allow the jurors to compare these thumbprints, as well,” the judge instructed. “But first show them to our two plaintiffs, so they’ll be apprised, as well. Then you may continue with your line of questioning, Mr. Getty.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” With the subtlest of smiles, Gabe glanced at Solace and then stepped aside as the bailiff gingerly carried the pistol and the piece of paper over to where Apache Pete and Faustina sat. The owner of the Wild West show gave the evidence a cursory glance, but the woman beside him turned her head as though she had no need to see it.
Or can she not bear to face the evidence?
Solace blinked. This voice in her head made her sit up straighter—and then glance at the judge to see his reaction. Prescott’s expression remained as bland as milk toast, yet the way his gaze lingered on Faustina made Solace’s heart flutter.
“Tell the court, Miss Monroe, how you came to be sharing a wagon with Cora and the fortune-teller, if everyone believed you were Sol Juddson, a young man.”
She took a settling breath. No sense jumping to any wild conclusions about Faustina—or sounding apologetic when she wasn’t. Gabe was trying to prove her innocence, so she didn’t want to raise any new suspicions about her character. “A day or two before I was accused of her murder, Cora Walsh exposed me as a girl by swiping my clothes while I was bathing in the river.”
A quiet chorus of “ohh!” whispered around the room.
“And how did Apache Pete react to this revelation?”
Solace thought for a moment. “He didn’t act all that surprised. But since he’d already sent flyers ahead to Enterprise about Sol Juddson’s fine riding and shooting—and he’d extended the show’s stay here in Abilene—he didn’t dismiss me, either.”
Gabe nodded. “And how did Cora and Faustina react to this?”
Glancing at the fortune-teller, Solace cleared her throat. “Faustina, fortune-teller that she is, said she’d known I was a girl all along. Cora didn’t seem too happy about having another roommate, but she didn’t kick up any fuss. At least not to Pete.”
“So…if we were to speculate about who might be angry enough to shoot somebody,” Gabe said in a thoughtful voice, “it seems reasonable that you would’ve been the victim, rather than the killer.”
“No more speculation, Mr. Getty. Please make your point.” Prescott’s fingernails drummed his desk.
“Yes, Your Honor. I’m establishing that Miss Monroe still had her spot in the show and a place to stay—no reason to kill anyone,” Gabe explained. “Also, she would not have left her prized pistol so grimy after a performance—or, had she indeed shot Cora Walsh, I doubt Miss Monroe would’ve been foolish enough to leave her pistol at the scene of the crime. And it’s plain to see that someone else has handled her gun.”
Hanging Hannibal shifted impatiently. “Fine, then. I suggest you call another witness—”
“With all due respect, Your Honor, it’s Solace who’s on trial here, and I’m providing the jury with a more complete picture of the night of the crime, as well as her character.”
Gabe faced the jury then. “Before Miss Monroe steps down, I wish to discuss her skill as a sharpshooter because it directly relates to the fact that Cora Walsh’s body had two gunshot wounds. I saw them myself, when I examined her at the undertaker’s. May I continue this line of questioning, Your Honor?”
Judge Prescott settled back in his seat as though he knew no one would be leaving any time soon. “Yes, Mr. Getty. I’d appreciate your explanation.”
Gabe nodded. A quiet smile lit his eyes as he addressed Solace again. “Was there a reason Crack-Shot Cora resented your presence in the Wild West Extravaganza, Miss Monroe? Besides the way you passed yourself off as a young man?”
Solace sat straighter. She knew where this was going now, and she was starting to enjoy herself. “Yes, sir, there was. Even before she stole my clothes, she took me aside and insisted I start missing some shots!”
“And why would she do that? You, as Sol Juddson, were bringing in a lot of paying customers.”
“She was jealous. She said if I didn’t miss now and then—or fall off my horse during a performance—something might just happen to my dog, Rex.”
“She threatened your dog?” Gabe looked at the jury with an expression of utter disbelief, which was reflected on faces all over the courtroom.
“Yes, sir. She said she didn’t like playing second fiddle—getting less applause—than Rex did.”
Somebody snickered. Then somebody else joined in—and within seconds the entire courtroom was abuzz with chuckling and whispering and the shaking of heads.
Whack, whack! “Order, I say! You in the back!” Judge Prescott called out. “If you continue to disrupt these proceedings, I’ll have Sheriff Draper remove the lot of you!”
“Didn’t mean to cause a ruckus, Judge. It’s been a long trip from Missouri, and the kids are fidgety—”
Solace’s eyes widened.
“—but I helped bring that young lady into this world, and I’ll be double-dog danged if I’m gonna let anybody convict her!” Billy Bristol flashed her a reassuring grin as he kept a hand on Owen’s shoulder and stepped aside for Eve and Olivia to squeeze between the people standing in the back aisle. And then her sister Grace slipped in, holding tightly to white-haired Asa’s hand as he led Beulah Mae in behind him.
&n
bsp; How on God’s green earth did they know?
However You did this, Lord—and Daddy, I’m sure you helped—thank you, thank you, THANK YOU! Her heart skipped into triple-time and she looked at Gabe for an explanation. But his eyes were as wide as hers.
The courtroom again resembled a hive of busybody bees as folks craned to see what the commotion was about, and who had made such a profound pronouncement. Billy Bristol! was the name on everyone’s lips, followed by a buzz of whispers.
“Isn’t that the old darkie fellow who—?”
“Would you look at those redheaded children! My goodness—”
“Could that be little Gracie Malloy? What’s she doing with—?”
Whack! Whack! “Order! Silence, I say!” Judge Prescott cried. “You folks who just came in will have to find places to stand—quietly! And immediately! I won’t tolerate any more disruptions in my courtroom.”
Billy steered his wife and son toward the corner while the rest of his household followed. Despite the judge’s orders, the other people in the back were still greeting the Bristols and making room for them—and then a small figure darted down the side aisle, beating a path to the witness stand with rapid footsteps.
“Aunt Solace! Aunt Solace! I knew you were here,’ cause Rex is sittin’ out on the front steps, waitin’ for ya! Papa wouldn’t let me bring him in!”
Solace’s heart shot up into her throat and she leaped to her feet. Never mind that her dog had mysteriously made it into town—or that this freckle-faced pixie was talking so fluently. “Bernadette! Honey, you shouldn’t be—”
Gentle laughter and yet another wave of whispers followed the little girl’s progress. Her flounced frock of sky blue set off her brilliant eyes and matched the huge bow that bounced atop her mop of coppery curls. She stopped at the end of the first row of benches, gazing eagerly at Solace. Then she clasped her chubby hands and lit the entire room with her little-girl smile.
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