“I’m still shaken by it,” said Carla.
“I imagine you would be. And now you’ve recruited Mr. Garrett here. The young man who bested Captain Swain.” Darrow cleared his throat. “The man who may have hurt our case more than any other. If you wanted to help us, Jack, why didn’t you let Swain get Adams?”
“He was going to kill him.”
“Yes,” mused Darrow. “That he was.”
“Besides,” Jack continued, “if I hadn’t done my best, I wouldn’t have the chief’s confidence. And I’d be no use to you now.” The words of deceit felt mushy in his mouth—the foul taste not hidden by a seasoning of truth.
“So, what use can you be now, to us?”
“Surely, having a man inside their group is helpful,” said Carla.
“Maybe,” said Darrow. “This case is stacked against us.”
“What do you need?” asked Jack.
“Well, of course, for Orchard or Adams to not testify against my client. Failing that, a sympathetic jury.”
“Maybe I can help with the jury,” said Jack.
Darrow thought for a moment. “I talked with Orchard. He won’t change his testimony. But I don’t know about Adams. They won’t let me see him. Won’t let anyone from our side. I’d ask that you talk to him for us, but, as you’re the one who brought him in— Well, that obviously isn’t going to happen.”
“No.”
“Do you know anyone Adams trusts? Any family?”
“We heard he had an uncle, but that’s all.”
“Oh yeah?”
“A man named Lillard. He was supposed to be holed up in the place where we caught Adams—a house, or a building or something, called Stokes Castle, just west of Austin, Nevada. But we didn’t see him there. Unless Uncle Lillard was one of the men Adams killed clearing the place. We asked him about it, but he never said.”
“Hmmm,” murmured Darrow, his mind twitching, making a note to ask Swain about Lillard. “All right,” he continued. “Maybe you can help with the jury. Obviously I need men who look favorably on Mr. Haywood. Or at least ones who dislike the Pinkertons.”
“I don’t know people here, but most don’t seem to like us.”
Carla addressed Jack. “Could you find out who Senator Borah picks for the jury?”
Darrow gave an emollient smile. “We’ll all know who he picks, dear. But you have a good point.” He looked at Jack. “If you could tell me who Borah favors, who he wants on the jury and who he doesn’t, that’d be helpful.”
“I can get that, I think.” Jack glanced at Carla. “I can try.”
“Good.”
“What can I do?” asked Carla.
“Keep your eye on this man,” Darrow said, tilting his head toward Jack. Then he eased a smile.
***
Across the river, Captain Swain sat on a boulder, smoking a cigar, waiting for Darrow to signal him to pull the ferry back. And nearby, Iain was still prone in the dark, watching Swain.
<><><>
– 54 –
FRIDAY
April 12, 1907
It had been nine months since Sheriff Angus Sutherland, protectorate of Wallace and the Coeur d’Alene Mining District in far-northern Idaho, had the worst day of his life—all on account of two worthless men. Since then, he’d been on a singular mission—to track and kill them. At least one of them. Not arrest. There would be no trial, no rope. The killers began that horrible day by murdering a company man in a Wallace saloon. They ended it, ten miles up the track where they bombed the Bunker Hill Silver Mine and Concentrator, killing twenty-six. But it was the murder between those two events that most haunted Sutherland. Just off the Wallace station platform, just across the tracks, one of the killers slit the throat of Sutherland’s son and deputy, Frankie, leaving the boy to die in the grass.
In the interim, Sutherland had learned little. Of course, he knew what everyone knew: the anarchist/socialist/terrorist attacks that day at the Bunker were conducted on behalf of the Western Federation of Miners, and undoubtedly on orders of its leader, Big Bill Haywood. That had led Governor Steunenberg to impose martial law and mass incarcerations across the state, which in turn led to the Federation assassinating the governor. But Sutherland wasn’t shotgunning for the whole lot of them—not the Federation or even Haywood. Most of Sutherland’s family were union, as were most of the men in his mountainous county, home of the Coeur d’Alene Mining District. In fact, he hated the Pinkertons worse than about anybody—those pretend lawmen with little respect for an actual badge. Regardless, this fury was different, persistent, singularly channeled on one animal—a man named Addis, the one who murdered his son.
Knowing Addis was hired by Federation men, Sheriff Sutherland’s search took him south to Denver, into the mouth of the union, and then back up to Cheyenne, and over to Salt Lake City. But no one knew Addis. At least, no one said they did. Defeated, Sutherland went home. A month later, he buried his wife. She’d been kicked by a horse. Despondent, crushed by failure and loss, he retired his badge and rolled himself into a blanket of whiskey solace.
Then, on the twelfth of April, he read in the Spokane newspaper that a man named Steve Adams had been caught by a pair of Pinkertons and was held in the Idaho State Penitentiary, down in Boise. Reportedly, Adams said he would testify against William Haywood regarding the assassination of Governor Steunenberg. Sutherland took passing interest until one sentence cracked him sober: Mr. Adams is a suspect in numerous murders and acts of terrorism, including the bombing of the Bunker Hill Silver Mine and Concentrator last year. “Adams—Addis,” Sutherland breathed, then repeated it louder, “Adams—Addis. Addis—Adams.” An hour later he reclaimed his badge from the mayor, reloaded his guns, and rode south for Boise.
<><><>
On Monday, the eighth of April, Judge Wood’s clerk released to Darrow and Borah the names of two hundred and forty-nine potential jurors from which twelve would be selected for the trial of William D. Haywood, scheduled to commence in one month, on May 9. Both camps went to work immediately, and similarly. For both, the lists were alphabetized and mapped, and loyal men were assigned to canvas each candidate, to discover all that could be known about each potential juror’s church, family, politics, and feelings regarding the case, miners, mine owners, labor unions (specifically the Western Federation of Miners), Governor Steunenberg, and the governor’s actions against the Federation. It didn’t take long for those two hundred and forty-nine men to know they were targeted, and many started avoiding being approached by anyone. To counter that, Darrow’s men often posed as encyclopedia salesmen, and Borah’s posed as insurance salesmen. Both groups had their canvassers work in pairs, so they could give matching testimony in court against a potential juror if he expressed an unfavorable, pre-formed opinion about the case.
Borah had the power of the Pinkerton Agency at his disposal—professional and disciplined agents, including the canvassing team of Agents Jack Garrett and Iain Lennox. Plus, Borah knew he had a key, secret advantage: he knew Jack was spying for him from inside the defense’s camp.
Darrow had Captain Swain and his ragtag collection of men—not nearly as efficient as the Pinkertons, but they knew Idaho far better than the Pinkertons did. Plus, Darrow thought he had a key, secret advantage: he thought Jack was spying for him from inside the prosecution’s camp.
***
On the third day of canvassing, Jack and Iain rode out to a sheep ranch five miles from Boise, intending to talk with a man on the potential juror list—the ranch foreman, O. V. Sebern. Both were wearing their Pinkerton regimentals. On the way, Jack noticed Iain was not only unusually quiet, but kept pulling his horse into a pace behind Jack, thus eliminating the possibility of a conversation. Finally, Jack had had enough. He pulled his horse to one side and stopped. As Iain passed, eyes forward, Jack asked playfully, “Why so blue? Betty laugh at your wee pecker
?” He spurred to come alongside Iain. “That’s gotta be humiliating, especially for a big fella like you.”
“Go bugger yourself,” Iain muttered without a hint of teasing.
The blow landed. “What?” Jack pushed his horse into Iain’s.
“You heard me, traitor.”
“Traitor?”
“Maybe I should just shoot ya.”
“You dumb Scot,” chuckled Jack. “What are you talking about?”
Iain stopped his horse. From the shadow of his hat, he leveled a glare at Jack. “Can I trust you?”
“Of course,” said Jack.
“Then you need to be straight with me.”
“Alright.”
“I’m gonna ask you something. You tell me the truth, and we’re gonna ride on, good as a daisy. But you lie—” He set his shotgun across his lap.
The air stopped—dried up in an instant. Jack reached under his jacket, drew his pistol, and held it near the pommel of his saddle. “What’s your question? It’d better be a good one.”
Iain hesitated. “Did you meet secretly with their attorney, that Darrow fellow, and with Captain Swain?”
Jack’s eyelids narrowed. “You’ve asked me a question I can’t answer. At least not yes or no.”
“Just answer the bloody question!”
“Honestly? Yes and no.”
Iain raised the shotgun toward Jack. “That ain’t honest.”
Jack aimed his pistol. “It actually is. Are you gonna kill me because you don’t understand my answer?”
“It can’t be yes and no.”
“I met with one of them, but not the other.”
“Alright, damnit, I mean the lawyer,” said Iain.
“Clarence Darrow? Yes, I met with him.”
Iain snorted at the vague answer.
“As long as we’ve got these things pointing at each other,” said Jack, “why were you following me? Chief tell you to?”
“No. Told me to follow Swain. He and Darrow were going out to meet someone. Sounded like it might’ve been you.”
“It was.” Jack holstered his pistol. “Square?”
“I don’t know.”
“While you decide, point that scattergun elsewhere.”
“Why were you talking to Darrow?”
Jack raised his hand. “As you know, there’s some things Chief’s told us to keep under our hats—and that’s one of em.” He spurred his horse to a cantor and yelled back, “If you’re still gonna shoot me, you’d better catch up!”
<><><>
With little else to do in Boise, Neva opened a Haywood account at the city’s largest department store, The Golden Rule. Though it couldn’t hold a candle to what Denver had to offer, the sisters nevertheless enjoyed themselves there, strolling the aisles for hours.
Being on Main Street and near the Idanha, the store often teamed with Pinkertons. But Neva had lost all care in that regard. In fact, she barely noticed them. She wasn’t sure when it had happened—when the anxiety, the caution, even the hatred for the Pinkertons had dissipated, dissolving from her heart. One day it was there, the next it was gone. Perhaps the deciding moment came in her elevator-pledge to never speak to Bill again. Perhaps it was her arrangement with Senator Borah—the one for George. Or had she begun to soften earlier? Maybe at the opera when George told her about the embezzlement. Was that when the anger began to slide? When Bill began to slide? Or something else? Perhaps it was that day George gave her the crutches. Or when they danced on Christmas Eve. Or when he got his own invalid chair. Was that when had she fallen in love with George?
Her sister had changed too, Neva had noticed. When Neva demanded Winnie avoid any appearance of scandal with Senator Borah, Winnie had seemed generally hurt by the implication. Even more surprising: gone was Winnie’s fervent hand-wringing about Bill. In fact, in their last two outings to The Golden Rule, neither Bill nor the trial had been mentioned once. Winnie had shifted passions. She was expanding her young-twenties hauteur to the fullness of the worker’s cause, to the Socialist Party and its infamous leader, Eugene Debs. Neva had even heard Winnie use the word “communism,” and had seen her with a book called The Communist Manifesto. Though Neva didn’t see the allure, she understood what it meant: Winnie would be moving on soon, and that would have to be all right. Somehow.
<><><>
At the Eight Wire Ranch, O. V. Sebern sat on his porch, ready for the jury scouts. “Insurance or ’cyclopedia?” he shouted as they dismounted.
“Neither,” Iain replied.
“Mr. Sebern?” asked Jack.
“That’s me. So which ball club are you two playing for?”
“The prosecution,” said Jack, coming up the porch steps.
“In that case,” said Sebern, “you’re going to be disappointed.”
“Why’s that?” asked Iain.
“You boys wanna sit?”
“Sure. Thank you.” They sat in chairs on the wide porch. “So, no one’s been out to canvas you yet?” asked Jack. “I mean from the defense—the encyclopedia boys?”
“Nope, you’re the first. Heard there was a list and that I’m on it. Knew somebody’d be coming. Heard you boys were giving things. Little woman and I need some life insurance and thought we’d look at one of them book sets too.”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” said Jack. “Some potential jurymen are hiding from being questioned, so some of our sort pretend to be selling things. But not us.”
“Well, don’t that make me a fool.”
“Not at all,” said Iain.
Jack leaned forward in his chair. “You said we’d be disappointed in what you have to say. Because we’re with the prosecution?”
“Yeah. You’re working for Senator Borah. Is that right?”
“Yes, Sir,” replied Jack.
“I voted for him. Seems good enough … for a politician.”
“Have you already formed an opinion about this case?”
“You can’t use me if I have, right?”
“Maybe not,” said Iain.
Sebern put a dab of tobacco in his cheek. “I hate those damned Wobblies, those union boys. And Haywood—I’d string him up from that tree there, if I got half a chance. He’s responsible for blowing a bunch of good men to their maker, up in Bunker Hill last year. He and his murdering thugs. No need for a trial. Steunenberg—he was alright for a Democrat. He got one thing right: throwing all those labor lowlife’s in jail, and everyone who did business with em. Shouldn’t of brought in the blackies to guard em though.”
Iain and Jack sat slack-jawed for a moment. Then Jack joked, “So, I take it, Mr. Sebern, you have no opinion on this case?”
Sebern registered a faint smile. “Said you’d be disappointed. I know what I know. That’s the Lord’s truth. I’m a Christian man, you understand.”
Jack bobbed his head. “Of course you are, but—”
“Nothing wrong with not sayin everything you know,” said Iain. “Maybe keep your sauce box closed.” Iain and Jack exchanged a look, acknowledging their squabble on the road there.
“Silence isn’t truth, son,” said Sebern.
“Truth,” Jack repeated. “Does Haywood deserve the truth?”
Sebern took a moment, clearly considering Jack’s question, then said, “I suppose you’re right. Can’t see as how I’d be obligated to be honest with an agent of Satan.”
“Amen,” said Iain, drawing a frown from Jack.
Jack clapped his hands once and said, “Good. Tomorrow or the next day, two others are going to come see you.”
“From Haywood’s lawyer?” Sebern spit off the porch..
“That’s right,” said Iain.
Jack sat straighter. “How about telling them you’ve been out here tending your sheep, paying no mind to the papers. You’ve got no opinion on
the Federation. You don’t know much about mining for that matter. You only want a fair trial for Mr. Haywood. Just like for any man.”
“And say ‘innocent till proven guilty,’” added Iain.
Sebern smiled and gave a conclusive cluck. “God’s work.”
“Yes, God’s work,” said Jack.
<><><>
– 55 –
MONDAY
April 15, 1907
Sheriff Sutherland trotted his horse through the middle of Boise toward the Idanha Hotel. Earlier that day, at the Idaho State Penitentiary, the warden briefed him on the status of things in the strained city: two hotels, two opposing forces, jury selection is underway and no one is trusted. And yes, Steve Adams is there in the penitentiary, but no, Sheriff Sutherland can’t see him. By order of Judge Wood, no one gets to see Adams other than family—of which there are none—and other than Chief Detective McParland and the special prosecutor, Senator Borah. Those two can be found at the Idanha Hotel, but don’t expect much assistance. Why not? Because they now have two witnesses with two confessions, meaning the accused will hang. So they aren’t about to risk losing one of those witnesses. And yes, by “losing” he means one of them getting killed by some over-eager sheriff who rides in with his own ax to grind. Simply put, the sheriff shouldn’t get his hopes up.
As Sutherland passed the Saratoga Hotel and approached the Idanha, he noted a team of men on ladders installing additional wires to the telegraph office. Below them, armed men lingered on the front walks, peering at him from under low brims, squinting silent questions: Are you with the State or the Federation? Are you a threat? Are you a spy? He was already anxious to leave.
Dismounting in front of the Idanha, he adjusted the sheriff star on his coat, making it conspicuous, sparking snickers from two Pinkerton guards manning the hotel door. Inside, past further guards, two of whom were Jack and Iain, Sutherland approached the front desk. “I’m Sheriff Sutherland,” he declared to the short clerk there. “I’m here to see Detective McParland.”
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