The Rogue of Fifth Avenue

by Joanna Shupe

  The sergeant testified to the position of the body and the evidence of the heavy pan used as the weapon. When the prosecutor finished, the sergeant appeared quite pleased with himself. As if he were untouchable, the same attitude as the day of the murder. As angry as Mamie was with Frank, she rooted for him to take this sergeant down a peg or two.

  Frank stood and buttoned his topcoat. She could see only the back of his head and part of his profile. Even still, he took her breath away. You’re perfect. It’s perfect. Make it more perfect. Heat crawled through her, slow and painful. Goodness, she’d never forget those words as long as she lived, even if they hurt to recall.

  “Sergeant Tunney,” Frank began. “You just testified that you have been employed by the municipal police force of this city for the last nine years. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were promoted to the rank of sergeant how many years ago?”

  “Three.”

  “You are stationed at the 20th Precinct, correct?”

  “Yes. West Thirty-Seventh Street.”

  “It’s unusual for a sergeant from the 20th Precinct to go all the way down to the 6th Precinct on a domestic murder case, isn’t it?”

  “We go where we’re needed.”

  “Yet in your three years as a sergeant you haven’t personally handled a case in the 6th Precinct, have you?”

  “No.”

  “So you weren’t needed on any cases or murders in the 6th Precinct before this?”

  “No.”

  “You must have had a very good reason for going down to Roy Porter’s apartment, correct?”

  “As I said, we go where we’re needed.”

  “One of your fellow officers at the 20th Precinct is a Detective Edward Porter, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you aware that Detective Porter was a cousin to the deceased, Mr. Roy Porter?”

  “Yes.”

  “And would you call Detective Porter a friend?”

  “Objection,” the prosecutor said. “What is the relevance of these questions?”

  Frank addressed the judge. “Your honor, the relevance is the participation of Sergeant Tunney in this case and his personal reasons for doing so.”

  “Overruled. Please answer, sergeant.”

  “Yes, I know him.”

  “Would you say you’re close?”

  “I’d say we’re colleagues.”

  “Isn’t it true that you were best man at his wedding two years ago?” Frank asked.

  Tunney said nothing, merely glared at Frank.

  “Sergeant Tunney?” Frank prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “I see. You’ve investigated many murder cases, have you not?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “In fact, your conviction rate is quite high, isn’t it?”

  “I like to think I’m good at what I do.”

  “So you must have a good understanding of the key elements of any successful murder investigation?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Tunney was obviously going to make Frank work for his point.

  “I think it’s clear what I mean. Your suspect must have an opportunity to kill the victim, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And motive is central to any investigation, am I right?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Thank you. And means are also critical. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”

  Tunney shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”

  “How did Mrs. Porter allegedly murder her husband?”

  “Mrs. Porter killed her husband with a cast iron frying pan.”

  “And what did your examination of this so-called murder weapon reveal?”

  Tunney looked uneasily at the prosecutor, then back at Frank.

  “Sergeant Tunney, please answer the question,” the judge said when it was clear Tunney was stalling.

  The sergeant cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, we didn’t have a chance to examine the murder weapon as thoroughly as we’d hoped.”

  “Oh?” Frank inquired. “Was the murder weapon not found at the scene?”

  “Yes, it was there, as plain as day.”

  “I can’t help but notice that the murder weapon hasn’t yet been presented to the defense. May we see the murder weapon, Sergeant Tunney?”

  “It’s not available.”

  “And why is that?”

  “We . . . misplaced it.”

  “You misplaced the murder weapon?”

  “Not me, personally,” Tunney said, indignantly.

  “The police department misplaced the murder weapon, then.”

  Tunney said nothing.

  “When did you notice it was missing?”

  “A few days after the arrest.”

  “And you didn’t bother to tell the court?”

  “We were hoping it would turn up.” Tunney tugged at his collar, as if he weren’t getting enough air.

  “And did it?”

  “No,” said Tunney, averting his eyes.

  “Leaving only your claims of its use in this case, and nothing for the defense to examine.” Frank paused for effect. The damage was done. “Nothing further for this witness, your honor.”

  Frank sat at that point, finished, and the prosecutor attempted to undo some of the sergeant’s damage with follow-up questions. It failed. The crowd cast disapproving glances toward the sergeant as he stepped down. One point for Frank.

  Detective Edward Porter was then called in. He swore to tell the truth, deliberately not glancing in Bridget Porter’s direction. He sat and the prosecution began to ask questions about the deceased’s character. From Edward’s answers, one would think Roy Porter had been a saint.

  When Frank finally stood, Mamie perked up. Would he be able to discredit the detective’s testimony?

  After some preliminary questions about his background, Frank asked, “Sergeant Tunney has just testified that you asked him to go downtown and oversee your cousin’s murder scene. Do you often ask Sergeant Tunney to oversee specific cases for you?”

  “No, not often.”

  “How many times would you say you’ve asked your friend to get involved in a case at your request?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe once.”

  “One time before Mrs. Porter’s case?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Do you remember the nature of that case?”

  “No.”

  The judge took notes, his brows knitted in concern, as Frank continued. “Yet you asked your friend to go downtown and oversee the scene of your cousin’s murder. Why?”

  Porter pressed his lips together. “Sergeant Tunney is an exemplary officer and I wished for the case to be handled by the best.”

  “Because the deceased was your cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you must believe that the detectives of the 6th Precinct are not exemplary officers, that they would proceed in a manner not to your liking on this case, correct?”

  “Objection,” the prosecutor called.

  Frank held up his hands. “Withdrawn, your honor.” He paused, as if to consider his next question. “You married two years ago, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Edward said, a bit confused.

  “But you’d been engaged once before, had you not?”

  “Objection,” the prosecutor said. “Relevance.”

  “The question is quite relevant to the defendant, your honor.”

  “I’ll allow it. Please answer as to whether you have been engaged before, detective.”

  “Yes,” Edward said coolly.

  “To whom were you engaged?”

  Edward jerked his chin toward Mrs. Porter. “Her.”

  “Do you mean Mrs. Roy Porter, the defendant?”

  “Yes.”

  A wave of murmurs rippled through the courtroom and the judge banged his gavel to call for order. Mamie blinked, stunned. When had Frank learned that piece of news? Bridget and E
dward Porter. It was unreal. Had the cousins been jealous of one another?

  Frank waited for the crowd to quiet. “And who called off your engagement?”

  “She did.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Edward said through clenched teeth.

  “You don’t remember, or you don’t know, Mr. Porter?”

  “She never told me.”

  “How soon after breaking your engagement did she marry your cousin?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come now. Approximately how long after? Was it two years? Three years?”

  Porter stared at the wall for a long second. “Three weeks.”

  “Three weeks?” Frank paused. “It seems your cousin wasted no time. That betrayal must have been difficult for you, wasn’t it?”

  “No.” Neck flushed with anger, he appeared ready to leap over the partition and strangle Frank. “She fooled him, just as she fooled me.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?”

  He pounded the rail in front of him. “It means she’s a whore who deserved every beating he gave her.”

  Chaos ensued in the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel once more, asking for quiet. Mamie’s jaw fell open. The detective’s words were cruel and hateful, especially toward a woman he’d almost married.

  The witness was excused. Porter climbed down from the stand, his eyes promising retribution to Frank. When he left, the prosecution called Katie Porter and Mamie held her breath.

  Katie was shown into court and helped onto the witness stand. The young girl’s lip trembled as she stared at her mother and Mamie’s heart clenched. Katie must have been terrified, not to mention desperate to see her mother.

  On the stand, Katie was asked her name, address and age, which she answered in a clear, albeit soft, voice. No one in the courtroom spoke. Everyone leaned forward, quiet, to better hear her.

  The prosecutor asked general questions about the family, the neighborhood. Then he asked if she had been present the day of the murder.

  “Yes,” Katie replied.

  “What happened that morning?” McIntyre asked.

  “My father was angry. Mommy told me to be quiet, but I couldn’t.”

  “You couldn’t be quiet?”

  “No.”

  “Was anyone else in the house that morning?”

  “Just my younger brothers.”

  “And what happened with your parents?”

  “Daddy came in and scared me. Then my mommy hit him and he fell down.”

  “Did he ever get back up?”

  “No.”

  The prosecution sat and Frank came to his feet. In his hand, he held a glass of water, which he carried over to Katie. She accepted it and took a drink. He left the glass within her reach. “Katie, you said your father came in and scared you. How?”

  “He was yelling. His face was red, too. Then he hit Mommy—”

  “He hit your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many times? Once?”

  “No. More than once.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I started hollering.”

  “Hollering, as in yelling?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you yelling?”

  “For him to stop hitting her.”

  Mamie’s chest tightened. How terrible for a young girl to witness such violence and pain to her mother.

  “And did he stop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He came at me, his fist raised. He told me he would make me be quiet.”

  “Were you scared?”

  She bit her lip and closed her eyes briefly. “Yes. I thought he was going to hit me, too.”

  “Did he often hit you?”

  “No, never.” She shook her head. “He only ever hit Mommy.”

  “How often did he hit her?”

  “Objection, your honor,” the prosecutor said. “Propensity.”

  “Overruled,” the judge answered.

  “Katie, how often did he hit her?”

  Katie lifted a shoulder. She didn’t meet Frank’s gaze.

  “Miss Porter, we need you to answer the question,” the judge said, his tone gentle.

  “A lot,” she whispered.

  “He hit her a lot,” Frank confirmed.

  “Yes.”

  “How often is a lot?”

  “A few times a week.”

  “And did she ever strike him in return?”

  Katie’s brows shot up, as if she’d never considered this a possibility. “No.”

  “Not once?”

  “No, never.”

  The prosecutor and his assistant began whispering, but Mamie ignored them. Frank and Katie riveted her.

  “I’m almost finished with my questions, Katie. You just said that on the day when your father died he scared you, that you thought he was going to hit you. What did you do at that point?”

  “What did I do?”

  “Yes. At the moment when you were scared, when he came toward you, what did you do?”

  “I ran.”

  “You ran?”

  “Yes. I ran out of the kitchen.”

  “Where did you run to?”

  “The other room. Outside the kitchen.”

  “Could you see your father from the other room?”

  She shook her head.

  Frank leaned in to whisper loudly, “We need you to actually say the words so the court stenographer may record it.”

  “No,” Katie answered. “I could not see him from the other room.”

  “And what about your mother? Could you see her from the other room?”

  “No.”

  “So you couldn’t see either of your parents. What did you see next?”

  “My father on the floor.”

  “Did you see him fall?”

  “No, I saw him lying there.”

  “Did you see anyone hit him?”

  “No, but—”

  “So you didn’t see anyone hit your father before he fell because you were in another room?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s all, your honor. Thank you, Katie.” After Frank went back to his seat, the prosecutor tried to talk Katie into saying she’d actually seen her mother hit her father with the pan, but Katie stuck to her story. She’d clearly been hiding in the other room and hadn’t witnessed the actual crime.

  When Katie stepped down, an officer led her out of the courtroom. Mamie didn’t wait to see what else happened in there. She hurried from the room and went to the outer chamber. Her only thought was about reaching Katie and seeing her home.

  Night had fallen when Mamie found herself once again headed downtown. She snuggled deep into the warmth of the carriage seats and stared out at the barren streets. The area around City Hall was mostly empty, the traders and politicians long gone for the day. I must be insane for coming down here.

  Earlier, after leaving the courtroom, she’d driven Katie home. The girl had been in good spirits, hopeful her mother might be released soon. Mamie was also hopeful. Frank had been magnificent, easily tearing apart the testimony of the prosecution’s witnesses. She’d taken her time in reliving the trial for Mrs. Barrett over tea, not missing any detail in the retelling.

  An hour later, Otto had arrived at Mrs. Barrett’s apartment with Mrs. Porter in tow. Everyone erupted into tears. Apparently, the district attorney had dropped the case against Mrs. Porter. Between the testimony of Katie and Edward Porter, as well as the missing murder weapon, the district attorney didn’t believe he would win against Frank in a jury trial.

  Mrs. Porter had left a free woman.

  She’d thanked Mamie effusively, hugging her and promising undying gratitude. Mamie was just happy the ordeal was over and that Mrs. Porter could return to her children. Everyone could now get past the awfulness and start healing.

  Frank had been absent from the Porter reunion. She hadn’t asked after
his whereabouts, either. As happy as she was with his performance in court today, she hadn’t forgiven him for lying to her.

  Then tonight she’d received a note on her pillow.

  I need your help. Please, Mamie. Meet me at midnight. Thirty-Nine Nassau Street.

  —Frank

  She wasn’t altogether surprised he wished to see her, likely to once again offer his apologies. So, why the strange address?

  She considered not going. What could they possibly say to one another? The case was over, their friendship—or whatever it had been—in flames. Yes, they had been lovers, but she could no longer be intimate with someone who’d deceived her like that. If he thought to seduce her into forgiving him, he’d be sorely disappointed.

  The hansom pulled up to a brick building on Nassau Street. There was no sign or nameplate to give any clues as to why Frank had called her there. Confused, she descended to the walk and paid the driver.

  “Miss, are you certain about this address?” He glanced around them. “It ain’t exactly a safe neighborhood for ladies after dark.”

  She nearly laughed. She’d been in far worse neighborhoods than this in the dark. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  He tipped his hat but didn’t immediately drive away. Instead, he watched as she approached the door at number Thirty-Nine. A figure appeared from the darkness to meet her. Frank. She’d know the outline of those broad shoulders anywhere.

  He unlocked the door and held it open. Mamie turned to wave at the hansom driver, letting him know she was safe, then went inside.

  Frank locked up behind her and thrust his hands in his trouser pockets. He still wore the same suit from court, his face so handsome it made her heart hurt. Late evening whiskers covered his jaw, giving him a roguish appearance, as if he were about to steal her away on a pirate ship destined for the Caribbean Islands. A dark thrill skated down her spine, one she tried her best to ignore.

  “I wasn’t certain you’d come,” he said.

  “I did so only to congratulate you on winning Mrs. Porter’s case. You were fantastic.”

  The side of his mouth hitched. “Thank you. I couldn’t have won without you and Otto, however.”

  She doubted that, but it was kind of him to say. “Why am I here, Frank?”

  “I wanted to show you something—and ask for your help.”

  “Here?” She took in the empty vestibule, the dust and cobwebs haunting the floors and walls. The place looked as if it had been abandoned since the Draft Riots.