Darrow sighed uncomfortably. “This is where we are. They have you here, illegally. I have petitioned the Supreme Court to send you home. So, if—”
“They won’t.”
“If the Supreme Court allows them to keep you here,” Darrow continued, “and this matter goes to trial, you’ll still walk out a free man. Either Harry Orchard will retract his confession—or otherwise decide not to testify against you in court. Or if he doesn’t change his testimony, but they fail to find Steve Adams. Same result. Or if they do find Adams, but he won’t testify against you. Or if Adams gives a written testimony but contradicts it on the stand. And even if both Orchard and Adams testify against you in court, then I still get to have my crack at the jury—the central reason you hired me. And, we still have the Jew.”
“Oh yes, the Jew,” said Haywood. “At least he’s a Russian Jew.”
“Why does that matter?”
“They’re the best Jews.”
Darrow frowned and pressed on. “The point is, they have many hurdles ahead. This is still weighted in our favor.”
Haywood picked a small piece of loose concrete from the wall. “Have you talked with Harry Orchard?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not? Isn’t he—”
“The judge hasn’t let me. But he will.”
Haywood shook his head. “The judge won’t let my lawyer talk to my accuser. Don’t I have a right—”
“Yes, you do. He’ll let me.”
“You must get Harry, that son of a bitch, to change his mind.”
“I’ll try.”
“If he doesn’t change his mind, I’ll remove it—his whole goddamned head. You tell him that.”
“I won’t say that.”
“Maybe you should take a cyanide tablet to him. Tell Harry to do the right thing, for his union brothers.”
“I know you’re worried, but you will leave Idaho a free man.”
“You’re blowing sunshine up my ass, but I’ll take it.”
“I’m not.”
“Any news from Captain Swain?”
“No. The last telegram came from Truckee, in California. On the Central Line, up—”
“I know where it is,” said Haywood. “Across from Reno. Near that big lake ... Tahoe.”
“Yes. He then headed into Nevada on the man’s trail. He said there are two Pinkertons also looking for Adams.”
Haywood rubbed his head and glanced away. “Yeah, I know they’re out there too. All right.”
<><><>
McParland was in his Idanha office, staring at the black phone before him. His right hand was poised midair, a flared cobra eager for the shiny black rat to flinch. But nothing happened. He snatched the receiver and toggled the brass hook three times. “Yes. McParland, that’s me,” he said into the cone-shaped piece. “Where’s my telephone call? [pause] Robert Pinkerton. The Pinkerton Detective Agency. Chicago. [pause] You were going to put the call through, directly to this phone, but so far— [pause] All right. Did she leave you a note before she left? [pause] No, it’s fine. Do you know— [pause] When you get that call, please— [pause] Yes, thank you.” He hung up and the cobra flared again.
Telephone calls with his boss, Robert Pinkerton—calls like the one he was awaiting at the moment—had become more frequent. Mr. Pinkerton was nervous with all the national attention the case was receiving, and he was particularly unhappy about the abduction. But McParland knew Mr. Pinkerton’s mood would lighten if the extradition stuck. So long as the Supreme Court didn’t order Haywood released, everything would be fine. But if it did, well, that would be the end of McParland’s career—to bring that kind of embarrassment on The Agency That Never Sleeps.
The Pinkertons were ascendant. Their logo—the single, open eye—had generated a new moniker for a detective: Private Eye. They were coast to coast, even international, serving nations, states, corporations, banks, and wealthy industrialists alike. They were the agency that all others aspired to become. In fact, most every other successful detective agency had been started by an ex-Pinkerton—like the Thiel Detective Agency and its chief detective, Captain Swain.
At this point, any failure of this case would be catastrophic to the agency, and couldn’t be saved by McParland’s fame. Here in the twilight of his career, McParland had risked everything. The papers were already churning about his capture of the governor’s bomber, Harry Orchard. And they were filled with excited words about how that same Great Detective, the one-and-only partner of Sherlock Holmes, had captured William “Big Bill” Haywood. Unlike the socialist papers that screamed KIDNAPPED! in massive letters, the national papers had withheld judgment, for now. But they would turn, fast as their fingers on a typewriter, if the Supreme Court upheld Darrow’s petition and released Haywood. This trial would either increase McParland’s fame, or destroy his name. One or the other.
The phone rang, and he grabbed it. “Hello.”
Through the earpiece, he heard Robert Pinkerton ask: How are you?
“This side of the dirt,” replied McParland.
Good. Keep it that way.
“Lord willing and the creeks don’t rise.”
I’m reading some things that have me concerned.
“I know.”
We can’t have the coat unraveling.
McParland knew what Mr. Pinkerton meant: we can’t have the Supreme Court undoing Haywood’s arrest. McParland responded, “I have good reason to believe it’ll stay intact.”
How strong is that belief?
McParland paused, shrugging to himself, but said, “Strong.”
Should we meet?
“I’m best on site,” replied McParland, knowing Mr. Pinkerton meant McParland coming to Chicago, not the other way around.
Ok, old chap.
“Aye, Sir.” When Mr. Pinkerton said, “Ok, old chap,” McParland knew it meant the topic was concluded—at least for this call.
What else? Any news from your boys? Where are they?
Both McParland and Mr. Pinkerton knew to use prearranged codes for this topic, in case the telephone line was tapped. In fact, coded communications were usually sent by telegram, just to be sure no one accidentally revealed too much in a verbal conversation. But Mr. Pinkerton asked the question, so an answer was expected. Unrelated city names had been assigned as the code words. “Cincinnati” meant that Agent Garrett and the other Pinkertons had not found Adams. “Louisville” meant the men knew where Adams was and were following him. Thus, for weeks, McParland had been getting telegrams from Jack that simply read:
COLD IN LOUISVILLE.
“Atlanta” meant they had captured Adams alive. And “Richmond” represented an actual place: Silver City, Idaho, sixty miles down the BN&O narrow gauge from Boise. It was in Silver City (“Richmond”) where McParland was to meet Agents Garrett and Lennox and take custody of Adams. McParland picked up a telegram from his desk. It read:
From: Undeclared
To: James McParland, Idanha Hotel, Boise, Idaho
ATLANTA YESTERDAY.
RICHMOND THURSDAY 28.
“They were in Atlanta a few days ago,” McParland said flatly.
The phone line was silent, then came: And, Richmond?
“Soon.”
<><><>
– 47 –
MONDAY
March 23, 1907
When Neva arrived in Boise, almost two weeks after George and Winnie had, she felt like the ghost of Marley, an unseen scourge. The people knew she was there, of course. They were talking about her. But in passing, they fixed their gazes ahead, neither greeting nor dismissing. Though she was familiar with being observed obliquely, it was the absence of feigned supplication that gave her unease. And yet, it was its own form of comfort: Without presenting insincere displays, the people freed Neva to pretend she was invisible,
at least in the wake of their passing. But she knew better. They were aware that the well-dressed woman in the invalid chair was the wife of the accused assassin boss, Big Bill Haywood. Had she known what he had done? How could she not have? Was she an enemy of the people, or a hero? Was she the proud wife of the leader of the workers’ revolution? Or was she the lame wife of a murderous socialist who was sleeping with her sister?
But those questions of her relationship with Bill and his crimes were secondary in Neva’s mind. What concerned her most was the one question that floated by in insidious whispers: Was she contagious? Nationwide, this fear was on the decline. New press accounts were reporting it rare for someone to contract polio from everyday proximity. Nevertheless, many chose to avoid the chance, however slight. But even that was not what worried Neva most. Rather, it was the emotionally charged fears regarding children and polio. In the crucible of scrutiny that was Boise that year, what Neva craved most were her girls. But they remained quarantined from her, hundreds of miles away.
***
On Neva’s second day there, George arranged to meet her at the front of the Saratoga, where they were staying in separate rooms. Wearing the Stetson she had given him, he flung wide the small door of a two-horse sedan and helped her through it. She fought off guilt for feeling so happy. The day was beautiful. Her leg wasn’t aching. She was with George. She wore a linen skirt and matching jacket with Irish lace, along with kidskin gloves. (She had ordered the ensemble from Eaton’s, and it arrived the day before she left Denver.) Yes, of course she was there for the murder trial of her powerful, vulgar husband—to be seen as supportive—but this was a beautiful day and she was with her wonderful man.
After George and the driver strapped her invalid chair to the back, George stepped into the carriage beside her.
The driver climbed aboard, told the horses to walk on, then asked, “Where to, Sir?”
“The state capitol,” replied George.
“Where they’re building it? Or where they’re meeting?”
“The one they’re building.”
“Very well, Sir,” said the driver. “That’s only a few blocks.”
“Another building under construction?” Neva asked George.
“Yes, I want to see it. Don’t you?”
“Not particularly. But I’m happy to ride with you.”
“Thank you.”
“Why do you like seeing things being built?”
“What do you mean?”
“In Denver, the museum? And the depot before that?”
“I suppose I do. Everywhere, new buildings are going up.”
“True,” said Neva, noting they were passing an office building under construction. “Must we stop here ?” She flicked a smile.
“Not like those. It’s the big, stone ones that interest me. Government buildings. Like the museum. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the permanence—the future permanence—knowing they’ll be around a hundred years. Long after I’m gone. It’s something—seeing them being built. To be able to say, I saw it when it had no roof, when it was just a foundation.”
She placed her hand over his. As they continued looking out, she began tracing the softness between his knuckles. He winked at her. Another city block moved by with the sounds of the harness’s soft jangle, the clopping of hooves, the soft grinding of wheels. Then George spoke. “I met with them.”
“Who?”
He glanced at the driver’s back and leaned closer to her. “The meeting I set up. The union’s local chapters.”
She nodded, her brow rising. “What did they say?”
He drew a finger across his throat and mouthed silently: Bill.
“What?”
“No, I mean removal … depending.”
“Depending?”
He waggled his head slowly. “Well … if it’s necessary.”
“Is it not?”
“I mean, depending on how things go … here.”
“Oh.” She slowly blinked, looking away, and then back at George. “And what did they say about you?”
He shrugged and nodded. “It’ll be all right.”
“Are you sure?”
He inhaled, then said “Yes” at the end of a sigh.
She shook her head. “I have an idea, to make sure you’re safe.”
Ignoring her statement, George asked, “Will you visit him?”
“I must, right?”
“I would think so.”
She closed her eyes, exhaling through her nose. “This week.”
“Good. It’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know … After what I did, I—”
“He has bigger fish to fry.”
The driver pulled the horses to a stop. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” said George.
As the driver opened the door, George asked, “How much?”
“You came from the Saratoga. So, no charge.”
“No?”
“Nope,” said the man, and pointed at himself. “Teamster.”
“Ah. Good man. You’re very kind.”
After unhooking Neva’s invalid chair, George helped her into it and pointed her toward the big, stone capitol building under construction. Behind her, more clattering came from the coach. When she looked to her right, she saw George grinning from his own invalid chair. “Want to race?” he asked.
Speechless, Neva nodded, her eyes flooding with happy tears.
<><><>
“How can you say that, Your Honor?” asked Darrow. He was in Judge Wood’s chambers, sitting erect in an oak guest chair, its back bowed and seat bowled from decades of nervous wear.
“I just said it,” barked the judge from across his desk. “That’s how.” Though his narrow head was bald in the center, it was curtained with black hair in need of a trim.
“Harry Orchard is the principal witness against my client. I must be allowed to question him.”
Borah sat mute in the matching guest chair, watching the exchange, forcing a stern expression just to keep from smiling.
“Oh? Must you?” asked Wood with an imperious tilt to his nose.
“Yes, Your Honor. I don’t need to explain it’s a constitutional right for the accused to confront his accuser. And in this matter, that’s Orchard, the State’s only witness.”
The judge’s mustache twitched as he peered at Darrow. “The U.S. Constitution?”
Darrow frowned. “That would be the one.”
“Nah, to hell with the Constitution. We’re not following the Constitution.”
Darrow blinked, and blinked some more.
Borah’s frown was now in earnest.
Darrow spoke again. “Can you clarify that, Your Honor?”
“It doesn’t fully apply. Your client assassinated the governor—”
“I’m being played the fool, surely, Your Honor,” said Darrow. “My client is shuttled about like a bean in a shell game, and now—”
“I like that,” said Judge Wood. “Bean in a shell game.”
“And before that, my client was feloniously kidnapped by the prosecution and hauled here, into Idaho, without any respect for habeas corpus. And now, this? No consideration for the Constitution? Can a fair trial not be had in this state? Is Idaho so frontier that the presumption of innocence has yet to reach it?”
Wood narrowed his gaze to slits through his nose-clipped spectacles. “This is my home, Mr. Darrow. You’re on thin ice.”
“Ice? That would be an improvement. I thought I was already drowning, what with the abandonment of the Constitution.”
“What say you, Senator?” asked the judge.
Borah shrugged. “I don’t know how else to say it, Your Honor: The defendant is the leader of a vast horde, thousands of thugs and killers who are set on destroying that same constituti
on, so—”
“That’s not true,” said Darrow. “You can’t—”
“Let him finish,” barked the judge.
“It’s costing the State significant resources just to pay for the company of National Guard soldiers out on the courthouse lawn,” said Borah. “They’re out there keeping the Western Federation of Miners from storming this building, killing us all, and absconding with the defendant.”
“That’s not a full company—” began Darrow before Judge Wood raised his hand.
“I’m not surprised you know that, Clarence,” said Borah. “Your Honor, I’m sure Haywood’s men have surveyed the soldiers. They know their exact count and where each is posted.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“My point is, Your Honor,” Borah pressed on, “the threat of the Federation attempting to rescue the accused is as great as the threat that they might kill one of our witnesses.”
“No one is going to hurt your only witness,” muttered Darrow.
“I don’t think it’s prudent, Your Honor, to allow Mr. Darrow, a representative of that same horde, to have access to the witness.”
“This is insane, with all due respect,” Darrow said. “What do you think, William? I’m going to kill Harry Orchard? With my bare hands?” Darrow readdressed the judge. “Is that where we are? Is that where we’re going with this? Does this predicate the shenanigans and un-constitutional maneuvering to come, against my client?”
“There’ll be no shenanigans in my courtroom, Mr. Darrow. You may be a big, Chicago lawyer—”
“America’s lawyer for the damned,” Borah injected. “So the papers say.”
“Then Mr. Haywood has the right one,” quipped Wood.
“The jury will decide this,” fumed Darrow. “And any irregularities will go to appeal. On that you may be assured.”
“Appeal as you wish, as with your petition to the Supreme Court,” said the judge.
“On that matter, I’ll be seeking a stay pending—”
“Nah, Mr. Darrow. We’ll carry on, at least through voir dire. The longer I postpone this trial, the greater chance your client turns my county blood-red.”
Darrow took a breath. Nothing about this was right, but he couldn’t leave empty handed. “I’ll proceed as you instruct, of course. In fact, if we aren’t going to hold for the Supreme Court’s ruling as to the rightfulness of the extradition, which of course would cause the State’s case to collapse, then I’ll call ready tomorrow.”
American Red Page 40
