Jack nodded, unable to hide a smile.
“Agent Lennox,” McParland said loudly. “Come back. We have a train ride ahead and I want to hear you-two’s stories. But sit on that other side, by Jack. Don’t want either of you catching this.”
<><><>
– 50 –
SATURDAY
March 30, 1907
Darrow sat on a crushed-velvet couch in the middle of the Saratoga Hotel lobby. It had been raining most of the day and into the evening, the chill cutting through him. He hoped he was not getting ill, but his clammy forehead and palms said otherwise. Some flu had been going around Boise, and he hoped he wasn’t next. He let his gaze drift to the empty couch facing him. His usually well-combed hair was mussed forward. His hat was beside him. He groaned. They had Adams—damnit to hell. Word had come from a union-loyal guard out at the penitentiary. Apparently, in the dead of Thursday night, McParland had secreted Adams into a solitary cell somewhere on the pen’s grounds. If only he had the Pinkertons working for him, not that damn Captain Swain. Just then, two slender hands and their bare wrists slid across his shoulders and onto his shirt, slipping down his chest. He crooked a half smile, taking one of the warm hands into his, and breathed deep, inhaling the perfumed air.
“Don’t worry, Counselor,” Winnie whispered closely. She slumped over the back of the couch, draping his right shoulder, her golden Medusa curls about his ear.
He closed his eyes as her breath tickled him. “My dear, you’re balm to the soul.” He kissed her hand. “Have you seen Bill?”
She came around the couch and plopped beside him. “I have.”
As she leaned into him, he noticed the bodice of her pink-lavender dress was loose, the lace insert missing, her firm breasts barely covered. “Did you tell him?” he asked.
“Yes,” and then a sigh. “They gave us privacy. I, uhmm … Well, I pleased him, hoping it would help.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No.”
“He has reason to be worried.”
Winnie pulled back with a glare. “You can’t say that.”
“I’m sorry, dear. I—”
“You must find a way.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’ll win this for Bill, the union, and the workers’ struggle.”
“Yeah … maybe not for all that. But I’m here for Bill. I see you’ve taken to reading The People.”
“Yes. I joined the Socialist Party. You should too.”
“My dear, I’m quite familiar with it, but it isn’t right for me. But my wife, on the other hand, she’s a comrade like you.”
“I’d like to meet her. Will she be coming?”
Darrow glanced at her. “I believe so.”
“Good.” Her expression darkened. “What will you do now?”
Darrow looked at this vixen. This young woman. Her sexuality, her smell, the way she moved, presenting herself as available for all carnal pleasures, for ravishing. She was intoxicating. Ruby would find her irresistible. He scolded himself for dropping his guard. There was only one mistress he afforded himself: Lady Justice. It was a ludicrous adage, he knew. In fact, it was embarrassingly silly, so he never said it aloud. But he believed it all the same—had it pasted to the inside of his forehead. There it helped him put his mind right in times of need. As in this instance: Winnie asking about his plans. No, he wouldn’t reveal them. Not to her, not to anyone. But, since Haywood’s attitude lifted and fell on the crest of her tide, Darrow needed her to remain optimistic. “We have two significant things in our favor: First, the Supreme Court agreed to an expedited ruling on my petition for his release, because of the kidnapping. And I have high confidence they will—”
“You’re going to Washington?”
“No,” said Darrow. “They’re only accepting written briefs on this.” It was a frustrating fact—bitter in his foul-mood stew. This case would not be the one to give him his first argument before the Supreme Court. Perhaps that was why he was feeling so ill.
“Did they say when?”
“A month maybe. Judge Wood will push us to trial now that Adams is here. We’ll pick a jury in two or three weeks.”
“That soon?”
He nodded. “I’ll need your help. And Miss Capone’s. She’s recruited another Pinkerton?”
“Yes. And fallen in love with him.”
“That’s good.”
“Maybe. What’s the second thing? You said—”
“Yes, the second reason for hope— Well, it’s not entirely certain that the mad dog, Adams, will testify against Bill.”
Winnie pulled herself close and whispered, “Maybe he’ll not live that long. He is a murderer, after all.”
As her breasts were pressed against his arm and shoulder, and her breath was in his ear, it took a moment before he could say, “No, dear.”
She pulled away. “Bill said once, ‘where there’s a will, there’s a kill.’ So...you never know.”
Darrow shook his head. “I’ll go see Adams tomorrow, if the judge allows me.” He saw her eyes brighten. “Maybe I can convince him of what’s in his best interest—for after the trial.”
“Meaning, what might happen to him?”
“We’ll see,” he said, scolding himself for having revealed even that much of his plan.
<><><>
– 51 –
SUNDAY
March 31, 1907
It was still raining as Jack entered the Idaho State Penitentiary through a small, rear gate guarded by four Pinkertons—one of whom gave him a lantern. He then went into the walled compound, using the lantern to pick a path through the mud. He walked past the building holding the death-row inmates (including Harry Orchard, still in his burned cell), across the execution yard, past two other cell blocks, to a small structure tucked in the far corner—a building called Siberia. There, the most troublesome prisoners were sent, put in tiny, isolated cells where their in-prison offenses could be punished though the deprivation of light, exercise, talking, and sometimes food, or even water. There too the instruments of persuasion were brought to bear: whips, pipes, ceiling mounts for hanging inmates by their feet for hours at a stretch. Siberia was a place for wrestling with sins—those of the wayward prisoners and of the guards alike.
As Jack stepped inside the building, he heard a sickening gurgling and thrashing noise, followed by the sound of a metal bucket clattering to the floor. Tracking the sounds, he entered a back room where his lantern joined the lights of several others, all illuminating Steve Adams who was tied to a table, a cloth over his drenched face, coughing water up through the fabric. Two men whom Jack didn’t recognize stood next to Adams’s head. McParland, standing to one side in his shirt sleeves, directed the proceedings. He looked at Jack and asked, “What did you find out?”
Jack approached, glancing at Adams.
“He’ll be all right,” said McParland, still looking peaked. “He got thirsty while deciding to sign a confession.”
“I met with Senator Borah,” said Jack. “He said the judge won’t let Darrow talk to him.” He motioned toward Adams.
“Mmph,” McParland grunted, pleased. He stepped over and jerked the soaked cloth from Adams’s face. “You hear that, Stevie?”
Adams’s bloodshot eyes glared up at the detective.
“The good judge is worried about your health,” McParland said. “He’s not going to let Bill’s men get to you. Not even the attorney. Doesn’t want anyone hurting you.”
Adams coughed at Jack, recognizing him. “You’re a dead—”
McParland slapped Adams lightly on the forehead. “None of that. Behave yourself. I know you’re scared of him, but—”
“Ain’t scared of nobody,” sputtered Adams.
“Well, you should be. I’d be. He might jam another cactus up your skinny arse.
” McParland looked again at Jack. “We’re about done. By morning, he’ll either sign or be dead.” He gave Jack a wink. “Besides, I hear word’s already out that he’s here. So, unless you hear from me otherwise, you can go back to the Idanha tomorrow around noon. And go see Miss Capone.”
“Aye ... Chief,” muttered Jack. He was still stunned by the scene, wary of its meaning, bothered by McParland seeming to enjoy the dark doings there.
McParland gestured for him to leave, and as Jack walked out of Siberia, he heard the detective saying, “Harry Orchard already told us these things. So it’s your turn, Stevie. Then we’ll all go home.”
<><><>
– 52 –
MONDAY
April 1, 1907
Mid-afternoon of the next day, the first of April, the Idanha Hotel’s restaurant stood almost empty, even with all the bustle and tension of late. During that gap between the lunch horde and the dinner gathering, only two cooks and a waitress were on duty. Today, Carla was that waitress, and she busied herself by preparing dinner-service napkins. Each setting required a charger plate capped by a cloth napkin—white linen with piping the same shade of blue as her uniform—folded into a precise fleur-de-lis held in place with a shiny brass ring. The large room was quiet, save for the distant sound of people talking in the lobby, automobile engines outside, the occasional dings from the elevator, and small sounds from her only diners: an elderly couple at table sixteen.
As she made her way around the seventy-five tables on the main floor, folding each napkin, sliding on the rings, she came upon a round, six-top that she’d already done, but at which all of the brass rings were missing. Without their rings, each napkin had expanded its folds, losing its flower shape. She looked around. No one was there but her and the couple at the faraway table. She sighed, pulled six brass rings from her apron and proceeded to fix the settings, making her way around the table. As she returned to where she’d begun, she felt the presence of someone else and looked up. Across the table was Jack, wearing his flat black hat, holding his hands up, fingers spread, each bearing a brass napkin ring. And between his hands: his striking face and broad grin.
“Jack!” she exclaimed, beaming. “You’re a scoundrel. Do you know that?”
He came to her, hands still raised. “Yes, Miss Capone, I do.”
She held open her apron pocket and he turned his hands, letting the rings fall into it, and then stepped back. They stood a few feet from each other, eyes swimming in the other’s mind. She cocked her head. “You didn’t write.”
“I couldn’t. But I thought about you.”
“Did you?” Her lips pursed between blushing dimples.
“Mn-huh,” he hummed
“I heard you were in town, but you didn’t come.”
He sighed. “I wasn’t allowed, until now.”
“Is that true?”
“It is. Can’t be too careful.”
“Can’t you?”
His grin widened then faded. “I knew what you were doing.”
“Oh yeah?” She moved some stray hairs behind her ear.
“Recruiting me to spy for the Federation,” he said.
“You wanted me to.”
He paused, and then chuckled at her knowing that.
She continued, “Once Pink, always Pink.”
“I’ll need us to keep it up.”
She eased back, leaning against a table. “I imagine we can.”
“For our bosses to think so.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “Use me ... if needs must.”
He smirked, stepping forward. “Needs must.”
“The Federation thinks I’m still with them,” she began. “But … I’m loyal to myself now. To what I choose. To whom I choose.”
“To whom— That right?”
“Yeah,” she breathed. “There’s a fella.”
“There always is.”
“He’s got blue eyes like a sled dog.”
“Oh— So he’s handsome.”
“He wears a weird hat.”
Jack laughed. “Nooo.”
“He’s been gone a month, but he didn’t write me, so—”
“Bastard.”
“And now he’s just standing there.”
He grabbed her, embracing her, kissing her deeply.
<><><>
It wasn’t till Darrow’s face was fluffed white with lather that he noticed the gunhands. He figured he was being tracked, but he hadn’t—not until that moment—spotted the men set to the task. But there they were, in the mirror behind the fat barber, across Boise’s Main Street, loitering, watching the barbershop a bit too long. He’d seen them before, but previously gave them no mind—just two more men with gunslinger strides: gun hand held close to their body. The town was thick with their sort. He lifted his chin to give the barber access to his neck.
For weeks, news of the pending murder trial of America’s most powerful and deadly union leader had filled newspapers and imaginations from coast to coast, even as far as London and Moscow. And, as a lion-kill draws hyenas, the showdown in Boise was a magnet for a certain type of human male—the violence opportunist. Such a man didn’t come bearing some ideological flag. Rather he was a loner, a cowhand, a failed outlaw, a nomad. Not the sort to draw affinity with either organized labor or the monied class. He wanted in the new century what he’d missed in the last: the adrenaline rush of possible death. Or at least a story his grandchildren might repeat. He hadn’t seen battle—hadn’t participated in the Civil, Indian, or the Spanish-American War. But now, maybe he could finally attain what he saw as the ultimate masculine insignia: to have risked his life for a righteous cause. Better still, to have killed a man righteously, no matter the cause. So, each of that sort packed his best gun and trickled into Boise, one by one. Within hours of arriving, each had signed his allegiance at either the House of Idanha or the House of Saratoga, in trade for room, board, and a chance at glory. Darrow figured a few signed on at both hotels. Perhaps more than a few.
The shave complete, the barber turned his attention to Darrow’s hair. Usually the haircut would come first, but Darrow preferred the other order.
He was primarily concerned about a small subset of those transient excitement-seekers. All who came hoping for action—the risk of death, the opportunity to kill—would be going home disappointed, the cold truth having revealed itself: Though judicial procedures thrive on animus, they are contra-designed for the spilling of blood. Some of those men would be angry, feeling cheated by fate, convinced they’d been abandoned by the gods of both man and war. And perhaps one of them, seeking to rectify that cosmic unfairness, wanting to take his due before he left, might spark the keg himself, self-fulfilling his opportunity for violence.
Of course, it could also be sparked by a rank-and-file Pinkerton or Federation man. Among those two groups, which one would more likely produce a radical desperado? The more Darrow thought about it, the less he could decide. Both the owners and the unionists carried a nature of banded honor, seeded with insecurities, exercised as vigilantism. Both justified killing as the consequence of the necessary. Both defied what they deemed to be corrupt government. Both judged the judicial system to be unjust. And both fought either capitalists or socialists whom they perceived to be a threat to their individualism, to their mythological freedoms as Americans.
He let the big man brush the hair from his body and accepted a splash of aftershave. When the barber asked the famous lawyer to accept the services free of charge, Darrow thanked him, but paid.
Walking back to the Saratoga, feeling the breeze tingle his smooth jaw and the back of his neck, Darrow noted that the two Pinkertons—or mercenary gunhands in the employ of the Pinkertons—were still following him. He needed more men of his own—a man or two to follow McParland, one for Borah, some tasked to identify spies and to help investigate p
otential jurors. And, he conceded, he needed a guard for his own protection. He had already assigned the ten George brought, mostly for clerical tasks. So, he would get his spies from Captain Swain.
***
Captain Swain had slunk back into Boise the day before, tail between his legs, but brazen enough to seek payment for his failed efforts. From his cell, Haywood had fumed, shouting demands for Swain to be refused, if not worse. The goddamned audacity of the flea-bit maggot. After all, not only was Steve Adams still breathing; Adams was out at the pen under Pinkerton control, probably signing a confession at that very moment!
Nevertheless, George paid Swain. He and Darrow had discussed it, and made the decision themselves. The way they saw it, Swain had tried. He was one man bested by a team of Pinkertons. And privately, they were relieved Adams was still alive. What would the alternative have made Darrow and George, but accomplices of sorts? And, to cap off their decision, they’d learned that, on his way back, Swain had stopped in Salt Lake City to bury his mother. He might be a dull knife, but he was their dull knife—the only one they had. They needed him to stay, to fight on with them. So they paid him, and said nothing more about it.
***
Before Darrow could reach his make-shift office in the Saratoga, he saw Swain in the hall, hat in hand, talking somberly with Winnie. Seeing the attorney, Swain looked up and withdrew a folded piece of paper from his pocket.
Darrow saw it and stopped six feet away. “I’ll be damned.”
Swain nodded, and Winnie sighed loudly.
“To be expected,” said Darrow, coming closer to take the paper. He unfolded it and read the title aloud: “The Confession of Steven Adams.” He glanced up and then back at the paper. “Does he say—” He read silently, biting his bottom lip, then read aloud again. “Mr. Haywood told me that if I didn’t think Harry Orchard could kill the governor, that I was to do it. After, I was to then kill Orchard.” He shook his head. “Damn. And Judge Wood won’t let me talk to this man. Not even across a room.” He regarded Winnie, noting tears in her eyes. He wanted to tell her something positive, but nothing came to mind.
American Red Page 43
