“Don’t worry yourself,” said Darrow, pocketing the paper.
“Don’t worry?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Darrow poured himself a drink.
Haywood laughed. “My attorney, who doesn’t drink, says—”
Darrow shrugged a refutation. “I’ve returned to her of late.”
“My attorney who rarely drinks, whose counsel is to not worry about being hanged—is having a scotch at a quarter past eleven.”
Darrow took a drink and set the glass down. “That’s correct.”
Haywood blew a deep sigh. “Very well. Tell me. A witness— No, not just a witness, the murderer himself— The man I ordered—”
Darrow raised a hand. “Bill, I don’t want—”
“You’re going to hear it this time, Counselor. It’s all privileged.”
“Enhh—probably.”
“Hell’s pisser,” exclaimed Haywood. “Probably privileged?”
“It’s moderately clear, yes. Concerning what you tell me. But, Bill, don’t tell me about anything you might yet do. What might be coming.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Old Annesley case. Long time ago. Irish, but—” Darrow waved a hand in surrender. “Fine, say what you’re going to say.”
Haywood grimaced.
“Go ahead,” said Darrow. “I’d never repeat anything anyway.”
“Orchard’s a dull lamp,” Haywood began, “but at least he’s skilled with explosives.”
Darrow held his eyes closed for a moment. “I understand.”
“Now McParland will get him singing, and—”
“Ok, so they have him in custody,” Darrow interjected. “Now they’ll appoint a special prosecutor.”
Haywood nodded. “Senator Borah.”
“I know him,” sniffed Darrow. “He’s, well, he’s—”
“Formidable?”
“Perhaps. Newly elected Republican senator of that same state. Good on his feet. Good orator. Could be convincing.”
Haywood rubbed his head. “But I shouldn’t worry?”
“I never underestimate an opponent. Neither do you.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you think Orchard will give a confession?” asked Darrow.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“I don’t know the man.”
Haywood shook his head. “I don’t either. Not really.”
“Detective McParland will put the man to a painful endurance.”
“Not detective.”
“What?”
“McParland is no detective,” said Haywood.
“A rose by another name,” said Darrow.
Haywood looked away, grousing, “A dead rose.”
“Bill, now you stop right there. This is not—”
“I know. I know.”
“I need your word.”
“Fine. Right. He won’t be touched.”
Darrow studied Haywood for a moment, then continued, “It’s best we plan on Orchard breaking. What does he know?”
“My God, Clarence. What does that man not know?”
“Any evidence? Is he good at covering his tracks?”
“Thought so,” said Haywood. “I wouldn’t have tasked him—”
“Wait, wait.” Darrow flapped a hand in the air. “His name is Orchard?” He saw Haywood’s cautious nod. “How did he receive his orders? Your read-and-burn method? On your paper?” He pointed to the blank, creamy paper on Haywood’s desk.
“Yeah. Burned it there.” Haywood pointed to the ashtray holding three crunched cigar stubs in a dune of ash.
“Anyone here at the time, other than you two?”
“No.” Haywood prickled at feeling on Darrow’s witness stand.
“And you’re sure he burned it?”
“Now, goddamnit Clarence, it was well executed.”
“I’m trying to keep you from being well executed,” Darrow replied, parrying and riposting in one move. “What might McParland know?”
“I wanted it clear: Orchard was the one and only one—”
“But not able to talk,” Darrow grumbled. “Now they have him.”
“Now they have him.”
“Why does McParland think Orchard’s the right man?”
“Some bomb-making things—bottle of acid, plaster—were in his room.”
“Anything that might tie those things to the Federation?”
“No. Nothing. She said nothing WFM was there.”
“She?”
Haywood took a breath. “One of our people there in Boise. She planted the things and put McParland onto Orchard’s trail. But, one of our other people failed to silence Orchard before … before McParland got Orchard. So, here we are.”
“Alright,” whispered Darrow. “Who was it? The one who put the things in his room and told McParland? I’ll need to know.”
“Carla Capone.”
“Miss Capone? You have her involved in this? My secretary?”
“Your last one, yes. I have my people do a number of things.”
“Alright,” Darrow said in half resignation. “Carla. Hmmm.”
“Why the ponder? What about her?”
“Just a coincidence, I suppose. I hope. Did she tell you about seeing Orchard in an alley here?”
“No.”
“I told her to tell you.”
“What was he doing?”
“As I recall, she saw him not long before she left. Last fall. He was putting a note in his hat brim.” Darrow pointed at the small stack of yellowish paper on Haywood’s desk. “Same as that.”
“Last fall?”
“Yes.”
Haywood stared at the floor, shaking his head. “Goddamnit.”
“Not sure they can use it,” said Darrow. “Can’t prove handwriting. But if it’s still there and McParland hasn’t found it—”
“I’ll get Farrington to look into it.”
Darrow tried to buck up his client. “No good worrying much.”
“There you go again, saying that.”
“Yes, for a few reasons. First, and this is the most important, Idaho cannot come get you here and take you there. They can’t extradite you from Colorado without evidence that you were in Idaho at the time of the … event. That’s first and foremost.”
Haywood sucked his bottom lip. “Can’t they try me here?”
“No, they cannot try you here for a crime that occurred there.”
“I wasn’t in Idaho. I haven’t been there since I was fifteen or so. No, I was there about ninety-eight, briefly, but not recently. ”
“Good. Stay put here in Colorado for a good stretch.”
“I will. And the other reason I shouldn’t worry?”
“I don’t think we need an additional ace in our hand, but we’ve got one,” Darrow said. “Let’s make the assumption they get you there. Not a valid assumption, but let’s make it. And then let’s assume they put you on trial—”
“Alright, but—”
“In a conspiracy case, as this would be, Idaho statutes require more than one corroborating witness in order to reach a death-penalty verdict. It takes two to hang one, so they say.”
“So even if Orchard talks, he’ll be only one witness.”
“That’s right,” said Darrow.
“But that’s only as good as whatever judge they put on this,” said Haywood. “He might not care about the law. Might say one witness is enough.”
“That’s not going to happen. But, say it did, then the appellate courts would step in.”
“Good.”
Darrow leaned forward. “It does beg the next question though: Could there be a s
econd witness?”
“No. He worked alone.”
Darrow twitched again, hearing his client speak so candidly of orchestrating the killing. It was as if Bill had merely sent the man to the coop for eggs.
Haywood continued, “But what if a second man makes up some story—says he was in the room here with Orchard, or some shit?”
Darrow shook his head. “That’d be hearsay, Bill. Keep your boots on the ground. Stay in Colorado. Stay in Denver. Don’t get anywhere near a border. I know how much you like that Oldsmobile,” he added.
“Packard! It’s not a goddamned tin-bucket Oldsmobile!”
“My apologies—Packard.” Darrow knew the make of Haywood’s automobile, but he needed to jolt a change of subject—he needed a gulp of cleaner air.
“Told you before, those Oldsmobiles—four-wheeled bicycles—are no better than Wintons.”
“Wasn’t a Winton the first to drive the continent?”
“Clarence, you son of a bitch,” Haywood sneered. “You’re just trying to get my goat.” He walked to a corner containing a number of rifles and shotguns. “A Winton, by God—is that what you have?”
“No automobile for me. What need would I have for such a machine? You have me on the train half my life. I need to walk in-between—keep my blood going.”
Haywood picked up the rifle he’d been given in Park City and brought it to Darrow, who stood and took it. “Have you seen one of these?” asked Haywood.
“Army?”
“Yes, Springfield Armory. M1903. A beautiful weapon. Locals gave it to me.” Haywood took it back, rocked open the bolt action, then slammed it closed. A sharp, metallic clink filled the room. Then he pointed it toward the window, as if aiming at the building beyond. “I have a fella figuring how to attach a scope to it. Then, in the right hands … Get Orchard in the street, and …”
Darrow pulled in a deep breath. “I need to be getting back.”
Something else had come to Haywood’s mind. He hurried to his desk, laying the Springfield there, and pulled open one of the drawers. From within, he extracted the small FM automatic pistol that he’d been “given” by Captain Swain. “And look at this!” He handed it to Darrow. “Look at that. An automatic pistol. Have you ever … Look here.” He took the pistol back, hurried to the window and raised the sash, filling the room with a gust of winter air. “The bullets go here, and …” He rocked open the slide. “And move up here.” He released the slide and fired four times in quick succession out the window and over the roof of the building across Fifteenth Street.
Darrow jumped at the bangs. “Don’t! Bill, that’s—”
“I was awarded it last week. It’s a fine thing. Made in Belgium. Federation chapter down in Castle Rock awarded it to me.”
“Jesus, Bill,” said Darrow. “Close that window, will you?”
<><><>
– 21 –
WEDNESDAY
January 16, 1907
The next day, George was at his modest desk in his office at the Federation headquarters, thirty feet down the hall from Haywood’s office. Neva was in her invalid chair, nearby.
“Winnie told me,” said Neva.
“What did she say?” asked George.
Neva glanced toward the outer office before whispering across the desk. “That he’s worried. A man named Orchard, I think, killed the governor of … what, Wyoming?”
“Idaho,” George said softly.
“Oh yes, it was near Boise.”
“Yes.”
She sighed and adjusted her gray Chesterfield jacket. It was too long for easy wear in her chair. “Bill’s worried. I’m not sure why, though I might guess.”
“Well, for one thing …” George watched someone pass his door, then glanced out his window to the bright day. “I need some sun. City Park?”
Neva’s eyes shined. “Definitely.”
He donned his coat and hat and began pushing her chair the short distance to the elevator. On the way, they passed two secretaries. “I’m taking Mrs. Haywood to the park,” he said to one. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“All right, Mr. Pennington,” she replied.
George whispered to Neva, “Let’s take the tram.”
“You’ll help me get on?” Neva asked.
“The elevator car? Of course. Here, I’ll hold this feather-ball you call a hat.” He pressed the down button. “But for the tram, I’ve got a lasso.”
“Lasso?” she asked.
The car arrived, and the operator, a lanky, elderly black man in tan livery, opened the door and clanged the cage wide. George rolled Neva in. “Yes, I’m going to tie you to the tram. Let it pull you. Much easier for me.”
She laughed. “Oh no.”
“You’ll enjoy it,” he said. “Ground please, Lester.”
Neva smiled up at George. “You’ll enjoy watching it drag me.”
“That’s true.”
Moments later, they were aboard a streetcar—she in a seat, him standing. The invalid chair was in the aisle beside her. She glanced up. He was wearing the round-top homburg hat and midnight-blue jacket that she liked. He was not an objectively handsome man: thin face, narrow brown eyes, no mustache, considerable balding. But to her, he was fine. And in that hat and jacket, he was dapper. They passed St. Luke’s Hospital and Unity Church, and then switched to the Route 20 trolley at Trinity Methodist Church, passing the Central Presbyterian Church and St. Joseph’s Hospital before disembarking at Mercy Hospital. They crossed Seventeenth Street and entered City Park. As it was a chilly January day, few others were out walking, and only an occasional bicyclist rattled by. For the most part, they had the walking paths to themselves.
“Should we go see Mr. Bryan?” she asked.
“Ol’ Billy Bryan is hibernating, don’t you think?”
“Yes, probably. Do bears hibernate in a cage? In a zoo?”
“I’m not sure,” George replied as he managed her over an icy patch. “Let’s see how the museum’s coming along.”
“All right,” she said.
He pushed her quietly, the wheels growling over the brick walk. They needed to talk. They would talk. But for the moment, this was all. It was enough.
Pulling a deep breath, she felt the chilly air charge her lungs. On the exhale, her breath fogged white about her face like a gossamer wedding veil. She smiled, listening to the birds, spotting a few quarreling blue jays. This was peace: George close behind, his breathing, the way he lifted her scarf against the breeze, his funny little remarks about the squirrels venturing near, him teasing them.
When they rounded the partially frozen Ferril Lake, with its brigade of Canada geese, a granite building stood ahead, partially covered in scaffolding. The barricade fence bore a sign:
Grand Opening 1908
COLORADO MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY
“Looks the same as last time we were here,” she observed. “Weather’s held them back, I guess.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” said George, rolling her toward a bench. There he sat and pulled her chair close.
She saw something bubbling within him. “Is Bill in trouble?”
“I think so.”
“The thing in Boise?”
George shook his head. “No. I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll see about that. But right now it’s the money. The missing money.”
“From the Federation?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He regarded her, biting his lip. “At first I thought it was different, something less. But it’s about sixty thousand dollars.”
“Sixty thousand dollars! You must be joking.”
“I’m not. I wouldn’t. Not about this.”
“What’s going to happen? Who knows about this?”
“Not many. Just me … and two others. I
think.”
“How could he have taken sixty thousand dollars?”
“It’s … uhmm … yeah.”
“Where would he put it?”
“It’s not in cash, but in the value of things.”
She noted his questioning eyes. “No!”
He nodded. “Your Park Hill home, I’m thinking. And his motorcar. Among other items, other expenses.”
“My house?”
“The Federation pays for the suites downtown. It’s part of his salary. But the house … I’m not sure. And like I said, there’s the Packard, or whatever it is. And there must’ve been a thousand dollars spent on dresses and jewelry for Winnie, just last year.”
Neva shook her head. “The president is entitled—”
“No, dear. He’s entitled to his salary. And the Federation pays his expenses, for travel and such. But our money comes from our members, mostly miners. They pay my wage just as they pay his. I’m responsible to them, our members, first—before Bill.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure this out, and he’ll give it back, if he took it. Maybe someone else did. Have you thought of that?”
“Yes. I’ve been working on this for months. We know the Pinkertons have infiltrated us, at places, confounded our funds some. But not this. Not like this.”
“The Pinkertons,” she said with a grimace. “Don’t put it past that evil McParland man to do something like this.”
American Red Page 18
