McParland heard every unspoken word and replied, “Never been better, Monty,” referring to the judge by his name-among-friends. Though the riposte wouldn’t upend the hierarchy, it just might gain him parity.
McParland and Borah took seats in front of the judge’s cluttered desk and settled in. “Thank you for sending Mr. Orchard’s confession. What a thing,” said Judge Wood. “He is a damnable sort. I think the worst I’ve ever seen.” McParland and Borah nodded but stayed silent. “You want to set his trial? Margie will clear my docket. You just tell her when. Voir dire might be a badger, but I’ll get you through it. Does he have an attorney yet?”
“Not yet,” said Borah. “There was a fellow who came. The Federation sent him from Walla Walla, I believe. But he left without taking the matter.”
“We don’t want to hang Orchard,” McParland began. “Not yet.”
“So who are we going to hang?” Wood asked.
“William Haywood,” said Borah.
The judge’s eyes widened, his high forehead furrowing. “I assure you, gentlemen, no one wants to see Big Bill in my courtroom more than I do. Even better, swinging out at the pen. But you’d need a few things first.”
McParland took a noisy breath. “Aye, another witness.”
“To hang him, that’s correct,” said Wood. “But you’d have to get him into my courtroom first.” He peered at Borah. “And to get him here, you’d need what?” He reached an impatient hand toward Borah, waggling his fingers like a headmaster impatiently asking a pupil to hand over some contraband.
“Extradition,” said Borah, his jaw clenching at the condescending gesture.
“Precisely. He’s not in Idaho, I’d imagine.”
McParland frowned. “No. But you wouldn’t—”
Judge Wood flicked a hand up, interrupting McParland. “It’s a simple test: Was Mr. Haywood within the State of Idaho at the time of the governor’s assassination?”
Borah shook his head almost imperceptibly. McParland sat lock still.
Wood fixed on Borah. “Then how, Counselor, may I be of assistance to the State in its prosecution of Mr. Haywood?”
Borah glanced away, inhaling fully through his nose.
The judge turned to McParland. “One of you goosecaps needs to say something, otherwise let’s go to lunch.”
“If the man,” began McParland, “let’s say, stood in handcuffs before your bench, how concerned would you be with the means by which he got there?”
Borah raised his brow in confederacy with the detective’s question. “Hypothetically, of course,” he said. “Please consider the question as a mere curiosity on the State’s part.”
“You’re an officer of the court,” said Wood, “and a United States Senator.”
“That’s true, Your Honor.”
“Bound and sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution.”
Borah’s face burned. “Of course.”
McParland sat forward in his chair. “We’ve got to end that man’s terror. We must. You and I’ve talked on this, Monty.”
Wood squinted at the disclosure of a private conversation.
McParland continued, “I don’t know another way. I’ve had that man and his operations under my nose for years. Mostly in Denver. He has that whole state bought and paid for—sheriffs, judges, even contingents on the army posts. And who he doesn’t have pocketed, like the Colorado governor and the chief justice, they’re powerless in effect, other than occasional slaps. As you know, Haywood has tens of thousands of armed men across the western states—including here in Idaho. It’s unsustainable, and this is our best chance in years—perhaps the only chance we’ll ever get—to stop him before he orders another bomb, another assassination.”
Borah joined in. “If nothing is done now—now that he’s responsible for a state governor’s assassination—then I fear, Your Honor, that he’ll be unstoppable.”
Wood glanced at the politician. “He might kill a senator next.”
“Or another judge,” said Borah, his gaze fixed. “He’s a disease on this country. There’s no one—no threat, no man or group—more contrary to the Constitution which, as you said, you and I both swore to uphold.”
The judge sat for a moment before rising abruptly. “Gentlemen, my stomach’s telling me we’re late for lunch. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Borah and McParland got to their feet and exchanged glances.
After donning his coat and hat, Judge Wood squeezed Borah’s shoulder. “For any defendant brought before my bench, I’m responsible for the conduct of a fair trial inside my court under the laws of criminal procedure for the State of Idaho. But that’s all.”
“Thank you,” said McParland, catching the judge’s meaning.
“Of course,” resumed the judge, “it’ll all be for naught if you don’t present a second witness.” He stopped in the courthouse’s main hall. “Haywood’s attorney is Clarence Darrow?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Borah.
Wood widened his eyes at the senator. “You’ve got the grit and gristle to wrestle that tiger? He’s a heavyweight.”
“We’ll see.”
“He’ll bring a circus to town,” said Wood. “And Mr. Darrow will run the habeas corpus claim straight to the Supreme Court, squealing all the way. And he’ll win, most likely, as you know—ending everything right there. That’d be an embarrassment for a fresh-faced senator. So don’t start down this path unless you’re ready for that outcome. I won’t let you back out on account of your reputation. If you start this fire, you’ll have to see it through.”
“Of course. That’s the only way,” replied Borah.
Wood turned to McParland. “And Jim, for the Pinkertons to get Big Bill here alive, you’ll need the Union Pacific. General Dodge.”
Bracing at the instruction, the detective counted to four, then said, “We’re meeting with him tomorrow, Monty.”
“As you should, gimpy,” said Wood, noting McParland’s cane. He turned on a heel to resume his pace. “Now keep up. Let’s eat!”
<><><>
A week earlier, a postcard arrived at the Haywood’s Park Hill house. The card bore a painting of a city-block-long, six-story, massive red-brick building with large windows connected by bands of limestone and topped by two-story flagpoles bearing twenty-foot American flags. Its ground floor was adorned with awning-covered doors and 650 linear feet of display windows running along a wide street illustrated with horse-drawn coaches, passing trolleys, a few automobiles, and a slew of happy white people. The card read:
Announcing the Grand Emporium Expansion of
THE DENVER DRY GOODS CO.
The Largest Store in the Central West
400 Feet Long; Seven Acres Floor Area;
1,200 Employees; A $2,500,000 Stock.
15th to 16th on California Street
Denver, Colorado
Now Winnie and Neva were approaching the Denver Dry Goods elevators, having just finished lunch in the 2,000-seat Tea Room on the top floor. Both wore tailored jackets over white blouses, but Neva’s skirt was mossy and pleated, while Winnie’s was crimson and snug. Their deep-crowned hats rode on their stacked hair like two ships on stormy blonde seas. Wheeling Neva’s invalid chair into the elevator, Winnie asked, “Where first?”
“Corsets. First and last,” said Neva. She might’ve heard Winnie snicker, but Neva’s mind was a mile and two months away—on a similar moment when George had rolled her onto the elevator in the Pioneer Building. He never left her mind, was always there, like the lovely hum of a song that never goes away.
On the wall behind the five other women in the descending elevator, a sign announced that “Stetsons, Saddles, and Everything Else” were available in the Stockman’s Room on the north end of the second floor. Another sign eagerly encouraged patrons to stroll the brand new, 400-foot main ai
sle on the first floor.
“I want to get George a Stetson,” said Neva, her eyes on the Stockman sign.
Winnie replied, “Us first—then them.”
Neva nodded as the attendant announced, “Fourth floor. Ladies wear.”
Lined with mahogany paneling below leaded-glass clerestory windows, the women’s floor seemed to stretch beyond comprehension. They stared into the distance, absorbing the store’s expanded new space: from undergarments to ball gowns, from pockets to ostrich hats. Everything was there. And it was abuzz with employees, all featly dressed and responding to tinkling bells summoning them to where they were most needed.
“Well, this does it—they’ve won. I’m never going back to Daniels and Fisher,” said Winnie, referring to the department store two blocks away that boasted a twenty-one-story clock tower.
“Or May’s,” added Neva.
“Or May’s,” echoed Winnie.
“From a spool of thread to a thousand-dollar dress.”
“They have a thousand-dollar dress here?” asked Winnie, her voice up an octave at the thought.
Neva nodded. “Read it in the Post.”
“I think I need a new pair of gloves just to shop here. Bill has an account?”
“Yes, but—”
“What?” asked Winnie.
“He does,” Neva said, then inhaled fully. Women were shuffling by them like torrents of water around river boulders. Neva looked up from her chair. “If you’re waiting for me to suddenly start walking, this would be the place that miracle would happen. But until then, either I start rolling or you push.” No response. “Winnie!” snapped Neva, seeing her sister lost in shopper’s reverie. “Let’s go. Corsets. Thousand-dollar dress. Then down to two for a Stetson.”
“The dress first,” said Winnie, recovering.
At the far end of the floor, about a hundred people, mostly women, were in various states and statuses relative to the processes of the couture dress department: selecting, making, and purchasing. About a third were customers and their accompaniments—some in chairs, some lounging on settees, some standing on stools as seamstresses flowed about them, pinning and chalking, measuring their waists, their hem lengths, and their spending money. Strolling among the throng were a few imperious head dressmakers with long, white sticks with which they identified points for improvement, fit, amplification, or embellishment. In the center of this activity, in a tall glass case, stood a headless mannequin wearing the $1,000 evening dress of golden silk with oak-leaf embroidery and a three-foot train. Neva rolled herself close and read the placard: “G. Giuseffi, Limited. $1,150.”
“That’s it?” quipped Winnie. “I saw that pattern in McCall’s.”
“Un-huh,” said Neva.
***
An hour later they had made it barely one hundred feet to the lingerie department and its array of shelves and display tables presenting perfectly formed stacks of corsets of all sorts and makes. Winnie examined a long white one. “Oh my, look at this,” she said, bringing it to Neva. “It’s twelve dollars.”
“Truly?” Neva took it, admiring the ribbons. “It’s satin, for a wedding dress.” She handed it back.
“Suitable for a bridal trousseaux,” read Winnie.
“These sateen ones are fine. I need short. For this chair.”
“Or just not wear one. Like that boned under-bodice that—”
“That again?” Neva glowered. “I’m not dead. And I can stand.”
“I don’t think Bill would care—”
“No, he wouldn’t,” retorted Neva. “You keep looking at those bridal ones. Maybe one comes with a husband of your own.”
***
Yet another hour passed before they were down on the second floor, ensconced in the smell of leather and wool, and bathed in baritone voices punctuated by summoning bells and the occasional hiss from steam-forms shaping hat brims and crowns. Neva compared two Stetsons. “I think I like this one,” she said to the clerk.
“The Galena. Excellent choice, Mrs. Haywood.”
Neva looked at the man. “Uhmm, yes.”
“I sold your husband a beaver Victor two weeks ago. Size seven and seven-eighths.”
“Is that big?”
“Yes, our biggest. But no worries, Ma’am, we can stretch this Galena same as we did his Victor.”
“No, no need.” She paused. “Can you give me a minute?”
“Yes, of course.”
She rolled to Winnie who was trying on derbies in a mirror. “I need your help.”
“What is it?” asked Winnie.
“He thinks the hat’s for Bill, but George’s head isn’t so fat.”
“You’re afraid Bill might find out?”
“Foo!” Neva squinted. “How many dresses does he buy you?”
Winnie glanced away.
Neva continued, “I just don’t want that clerk thinking things. So come over and let’s say it’s for someone you know.”
“Alright.”
***
It wasn’t until they were browsing the ground floor—housewares, with its carpets, silverware, electric lamps, embossed trunks, landscape paintings, dining tables, and porcelain busts—that Neva gathered the nerve to say what she felt she had to: “Things are going to change, Sissy.”
“What?”
Neva held the wheels of her chair. “Things are going to change.”
“What do you mean?” Winnie moved in front of Neva.
Neva fumbled with their claim tickets. “You know, change.”
“What are you talking about? When?”
“Probably soon. This year.”
“The Boise matter?”
“That, yes. And financial problems are getting worse.”
Winnie sat on the edge of a leather Morris chair bearing the price of $12.85. “It will be fine, Sissy. You’ll see.”
Neva wagged her head slowly. “No. It won’t.”
“He can’t be guilty because they won’t have two witnesses. That’s what Mr. Darrow said. So—”
“But he is guilty,” said Neva. “Doesn’t that matter to you?”
Winne stared for two seconds. “What about us?”
“We’ll be all right. In fact, we’ll be better than all right.”
“I thought they can’t make him go to Idaho.”
“But if they do—” Neva began, then switched course. “Regardless of whatever happens there, he also stole money from the union. Sixty thousand dollars. Maybe more. I won’t let George take the blame for it, for what Bill did. And I gained from it too—the house. You and I both did. I can’t let George get hurt—even be blamed. It would ruin him. I won’t.”
Seeing the tears in Neva’s eyes, Winnie’s eyes glistened too. “No, I know you can’t. George is a sweet man.”
Neva gave a reflective smile and a little nod. “Thank you for saying that. He really is.” She reached and wiped a tear from Winnie’s cheek. “Bill made his own bed. He told them to murder that man, and he stole the money.” Neva spoke as if the words tasted foul. “He is a devil, to be sure. So, you and I have to look out for each other. As we always have. We have to stay away from whatever storm is coming for him.” She dipped her petite chin. “I want to get the girls home. I don’t think I’m contagious. And I want you to have your own life. And I want George … I want George to be safe.”
Winnie sighed. “What do we do?”
“Don’t do anything. Other than stop helping Bill. And stop helping your friend, Carla. It’s Carla, right?” When Winnie nodded, Neva continued, “In fact, if you give a hoot for her, maybe she should know what’s what—that Bill’s not who she thinks he is—that this isn’t going to end like she may wish.”
“Alright.” Winnie blinked several times, her eyelashes like flags of surrender. She sniffed. “I think I knew t
his was coming. Something like this.”
“I’m sure you did, because you’re smart.”
Winnie brightened and touched Neva’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
“If the storm doesn’t wash him over the edge, he might need a push. I don’t see any other way to protect the girls, you, George, the people I love, and myself, from him—from what he’s become.”
“But this is ok?” Winnie nodded at the claim tickets.
“Yes,” Neva said with a minute smile. “Especially the Stetson.”
<><><>
– 33 –
TUESDAY
March 5, 1907
A six-foot-one, seventy-six-year-old man, sporting an even-more-ample mustache than McParland’s, entered the Idanha Hotel at precisely 2:00 on the afternoon of Tuesday, March 5, 1907, flanked by three men in close formation. Wearing a black hat and a red-black checkered jacket over striped trousers, he strode through the lobby toward McParland and Borah who stood in clear anticipation of his arrival.
“General Grenville Dodge,” said Senator Borah, shaking the older man’s hand. I am William Borah, and I believe you know Chief Detective James McParland with the Pinkerton—”
“Yes, yes, Senator.”
McParland extended his hand. “A pleasure to see you again, General. It’s been a number of years.”
“Yes, yes,” the man said, shaking McParland’s hand.
Borah’s ebullience showed. “A G-A-R hero. Grand Army of the Republic. I’ve heard of your leadership with Sherman.”
American Red Page 27
