“You’re the Wallace sheriff?” said the clerk.
His eyebrows peaked. “The warden said I was coming?”
“Yes, Sir. He telephoned.”
“Telephoned … yes,” grumbled the sheriff, giving the device a look that could’ve knocked a bird from the sky.
“Detective McParland isn’t here.”
Sutherland growled his displeasure. “Where is he?”
“He isn’t here.”
“You said that.”
“Yes,” said the clerk. “I’ve been told—”
“Mister, my ass is weary from a long ride out of the mountains, all to come down to this piss-hole city to exercise my warrant and collect a man who murdered my son. I’m in no right humor but to get a goddamned straight answer from you.”
Iain loomed forward. “The man told ya: the chief isn’t here.”
Sutherland turned and looked up at Iain, considering him. He then eased back the flap of his coat, revealing his holstered pistol. “My business is none of yours, you big Mick.”
Iain clenched his fists. “I’m not Irish, you dumb—”
Jack placed a hand on Iain’s shoulder.
“You’d best get,” said Iain, though it was unclear who he meant: Sutherland or Jack.
“He’s a sheriff,” Jack said calmly. “Let him be.”
“He’s on Pinkerton ground and ought to respect—”
“What’s that? Pinkerton ground?” Sutherland surveyed the lobby and scoffed. “Look at you boys, cocking around like you’re something. Show me a real badge, any of you. Which of you has sworn for the defense of the public? Any of you police? A marshal or a sheriff? A deputy?” No one responded. “Any of you put your hand on the Bible and made an oath to defend the Constitution?”
“We’ve all done that,” said Jack, slipping in front of Iain.
Sutherland wasn’t listening. “A company of ne’er-do-wells. You come into towns like mine, spread lies, get people hurt, and—”
“Let’s go,” said Jack, taking Sutherland’s arm to turn him.
Sutherland slammed a fist against Jack’s chest. “Don’t touch me, boy!”
Jack recovered his stance, then huffed a sigh. “Tell you what, Sheriff. How about I escort you to Chief Detective McParland?”
Iain spoke lowly. “He said not to—”
“I know,” said Jack. He walked toward the door then turned back to Sutherland. “Will you come with me, Sheriff?”
They walked silently for two blocks before stopping in front of a building bearing a faded sign:
MORTON AND SON GUNSMITHING
“Wait here, please,” said Jack. He entered the store, causing the door’s bell to dingle.
From the front walk, Sutherland could see Jack inside, talking with McParland—the two were standing by a wood counter which held a Winchester rifle with its sights removed. “No, now—” said Sutherland, pushing the door open, making the bell ring again. “Are you McParland?” he asked, moving quickly toward them.
“Sheriff Sutherland,” said McParland. “You were told at the penitentiary, and at—”
“Look here,” Sutherland said, “I don’t give a good goddamn about the lies you told your boys to say.”
McParland gave a disingenuous smile. The men were similar in appearance and age. Both barrel chested with big, square, impressive heads. Both fully gray and announced by profuse mustaches below steady eyes. “What can I do for you?” asked McParland.
Jack knew that small-town sheriffs like this one were the type who most annoyed McParland. Like that sheriff in Silver City, Idaho who caught Jack and Iain, along with Adams. Though they were all thrown in jail, the Pinkertons were treated worse—especially Iain who wouldn’t stop guessing the physical attributes of the sheriff’s wife. Then the BN&O rolled in bearing McParland, Borah, and a small army, and the matter ended without much trouble. But there Jack saw first-hand McParland’s bitterness toward these sorts. Like this sheriff, sauntering in from yet another mining town, carrying his inscrutability like a weapon, a cudgel carved from … What did he say? The murder of his son?
Sutherland closed his eyes and sighed noisily at McParland. “You know who I’m here for.”
Jack noticed Iain peering through the gunsmith’s window, apparently having followed them.
McParland pointed at the Winchester. “I like a solid repeater like this one. Don’t you? Terrific weapon.”
“I’m gonna take Addis,” groused Sutherland, “and hang him.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff, but you can’t have him. As you were told.”
“Then I’ll wait till you’re done with him.”
McParland squinted. “He’s confessed to aiding in the assassination of the governor, on orders of the accused. Once he repeats that in court, he’ll start a life sentence for it. That’s the deal he cut with the special prosecutor.”
“He needs to answer for what he did up in my town.”
“No one’s getting near him till he gives that testimony.”
“If this isn’t some prime chicanery. The way I heard it, he didn’t have a direct hand in that bomb here. But he slaughtered my son in cold blood, in broad daylight ... by his own hand.” Sutherland’s voice cracked.
McParland paused to let the man gather himself, then said, “Fine, Sheriff, try him. Hang him. After I’m done with him.”
Sutherland shook his head. “Sure as shit, Addis will get his throat cut in prison, or he’ll escape. So, no I—”
“You keep calling him Addis,” McParland interrupted. “My prisoner is Steve Adams.”
“Same fella, goddamnit! And I ain’t gonna let him be jailed comfy for something the mine owners probably did themselves, under the protection of the likes of you.”
“Sir!” McParland snapped. “I’ve heard enough! I’m truly sorry for the death of your son. But that man there”—he motioned to Jack—“and that one outside”—he indicated Iain who still had his face to the glass—“tracked Steve Adams across two thousand miles, risking their lives. Damn near lost them. Just to bring that son of a whore back here alive. Now he’s confessed—in writing—meaning the end of Mr. Haywood and the outlaw hoodlums of the Federation, the greatest threat to this country since the war. I’ll not risk that on your behalf. So, maybe he is ‘Addis,’ the one who killed your boy—nothing blacker—but he’s killed maybe a hundred others, one way or another. In just the last few months, he killed a family in San Francisco, including two young children, a daughter and a son. Poisoned their milk. Then he killed one of my Pinkerton men there—the son of parents in Indiana. Then he killed several other men in Nevada—each a boy of someone. That was until we stopped him. You didn’t stop him. Those two men did.” McParland paused and scratched the back of his head. “I know that bitter taste in your mouth, Sheriff. But you can’t have Steve Adams, or Addis, until he’s given his confession in court. Then you can have him and hang him, on behalf of your boy, and the many others he’s taken from this world. You don’t like that—I don’t blame you. But that’s the way it is. And you coming down here insulting my men and the Pinkerton organization— Well, you’re trying my patience.”
Jack was as impressed by McParland’s argument as he was by the implacable, almost bemused, expression on the sheriff’s face—one of subtle curiosity, giving away nothing.
“Very well, Detective,” said Sutherland, extending his hand. “We’ll see how it goes.”
McParland shook his hand. “Aye, that we will.”
After Sutherland left, Jack asked, “Should I follow him?”
“No, he’s beaten. Leave him be.” McParland picked up the Winchester. “He’ll go back north where he’s god.”
***
Without any Pinkertons trailing him, Sheriff Sutherland walked unobserved from the gunsmith back to his horse at the Idanha Hotel. Then he rode it t
wo blocks and tied it at the Saratoga Hotel. Inside, he navigated the defense’s gunhands. Though these had rougher appearances than the Pinkerton guards—these were unshaven and smelled a bit—they gave companionable greetings, even when he refused to surrender his firearm. One even commented on the pleasant April weather as he showed Sutherland to a chair to await Darrow’s return from the courthouse—which occurred forty-five minutes later. Then Sutherland was ushered into Darrow’s office, and the door was closed.
After thirty minutes, the door opened, and Darrow asked the first guard he found to fetch Captain Swain. After ten more minutes, Captain Swain entered the office, and the door was again closed.
Inside, Darrow and Sutherland were in the sitting area.
“Captain Swain,” Darrow began, “do you know Sheriff Sutherland from Wallace, up near Coeur d’Alene?”
“We’ve not met, but I know who you are,” said Swain, shaking his hand. “I grew up in Spokane. My father traded in Coeur d’Alene and on over to Wallace. Your father was a wheelwright?”
“Yes.”
“Captain,” began Darrow, “the sheriff has a warrant for Steve Adams. Can you tell him about Adams’s uncle?”
“Sure. His name’s Lloyd Lillard,” said Swain. “I found him passed out where the Pinkertons got Adams—in a odd building out in the middle of Nevada.”
“Did Lillard seem fond of his nephew?” asked Darrow.
“Seemed so. Maybe. Why?”
“I’d like us to help the sheriff execute his warrant on Adams, for murdering the sheriff’s son.”
“Your son?” Swain asked Sutherland. “My condolences. That’s awful. Truly awful. But Adams is already locked away for the rest of his life.”
“Maybe not,” said Darrow. “I think we and the sheriff can help each other by getting Adams up to Wallace, after he’s done here.”
Swain’s brow furrowed. “How does that help us?”
“If Adams believes he’s to be tried and will likely hang up there, we’ll have some leverage.”
“How so?”
“Suppose he thinks we’ll help him escape on his way to Wallace?” said Darrow. “That is, if he changes his tune here.”
“He won’t escape though,” grumbled Sutherland.
“No, I imagine not,” said Swain.
Darrow continued. “So, we need to get that message to him: That he’s going next to Wallace, what will happen to him there, and our proposal.”
Swain nodded, now understanding. “And Judge Wood will only let family see him.”
“That’s right. So, what do you think? Might the uncle still be there, where you found him?”
“Maybe,” said Swain. He then blew a sigh and shook his head. “Alright, I’ll go try to get him. But damn gentlemen, it’s a long trek to get there.”
<><><>
– 56 –
THURSDAY
April 18, 1907
Jack awoke in the pale light of early day, feeling her touch, but didn’t open his eyes. If he stayed put, maybe Carla would continue for a while—her small, warm fingertip, moving along the curve of his chin, over its square end, and up to the crease midway to his bottom lip, where she seemed to measure the fold, and then up to his lip, tracing across it. He hadn’t shaved in two days, but she didn’t seem to mind. He felt tempted to playfully bite at her finger, to scare her, making her yelp and laugh. But that would end this, so he remained still, trying his best to not reveal himself as awake. She lingered on his bottom lip, feeling its roughness. He sensed her warmth, the smell of her closeness, and then felt her kiss just that lip. She pulled back, her finger resuming its tour, its journey of exploration. On to his left cheek bone and the stubble beneath it. She stopped and moved to the other cheek, and he could feel her comparing each side’s hair growth. He heard her whisper, “Hmm,” but wasn’t sure what to make of it. Maybe she was noticing the area on his left jaw line, about the size of a nickel, where no hair grew. She traced his ears. He hoped they weren’t dirty. Then his eyebrows. She smoothed them with the pad of her finger, and then traced his hairline around his forehead before touching the bridge of his nose. Then each eye. She gave a sunny laugh, and he knew she could tell he was awake—his flinch having given him away. He grinned, but kept his eyes closed, lifting his mouth to find hers, feeling her tongue between his lips. When he tried to press back, she murmured, “No,” and held his mouth with her fingers, running her tongue along his teeth. He chuckled and opened his eyes.
“You ruined my work,” she whispered. “I was seeing how old you were.”
“You’re checking my teeth, like a horse?”
“Exactly.”
He laughed. “I’ve fallen for a gypsy circus freak.”
“Fallen, have you?”
“You missed the gypsy circus freak part.”
She slid her body on top of him, straddling him, but keeping her breast against his chest. Feeling himself hard against her, he moaned.
“Back to your teeth,” she said.
He snorted a laugh. “I might have bad breath.”
“Gypsy freaks don’t mind. I like it when you let me do whatever I want to you.”
“It’ll be my turn next.”
“Good.”
Thirty minutes later, having made love, she was nestled in his arms, his mouth near her ear. “Will you go to court this morning?” he whispered. “Watch them picking the jury?”
“Must we talk about ...” she began, then added, “Mn-huh.”
“Please tell Darrow that the sheep rancher, O. V. Sebern, is union. Died in the wool for Haywood.”
“Ok, darling, I’ll tell him. Now ... hush.”
<><><>
Late that afternoon, Clarence Darrow walked from the Saratoga, jogged across Main Street, turning on Twelfth Street, and then hurried another half block to the US Post Office where he burst in. “Where is it?”
“Here, Mr. Darrow,” said the clerk.
Darrow pushed past two customers, reached across the counter, and grabbed a large, tan envelope that the clerk was holding out for him. After moving to a corner of the lobby, he started to tear into the package, but stopped. It was addressed to him, care of that same post office, from the clerk of the United States Supreme Court, Washington, DC. He ripped it open, removed a sheaf of white papers, and, leaning on his shoulder by a window, began reading. It wasn’t long before he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Shit,” he muttered. Clutching the papers and envelope in one hand, he used the other to push past people entering. Once back in the sunlight, he walked to the Saratoga where he had the bellman summon a taxi. Darrow instructed the driver, “Courthouse. Quickly, if you will.” In the coach, he read the papers again, this time more carefully, though with no less disgust. In the courthouse, he took the stairs to the third floor and entered the sheriff’s office. “I need to see my client,” he said. The deputy led him into the inner room containing the jail cell in one corner. “Leave us be,” Darrow instructed the deputy.
In the cell, Haywood looked up from his newspaper and considered his attorney who was dragging a chair to just outside the bars. “Clarence,” said Haywood. “You don’t look happy.”
Taking a seat, Darrow drew a deep breath and grimaced.
Haywood saw the papers. “Supreme Court?”
Darrow nodded.
“Well, the sorry sons of bitches. Complete denial?”
“Eight to one.”
“Miserable swine. Only one had the balls to uphold the Constitution?”
“That’s right.”
“What did they say?”
“I’m sorry, Bill.”
“Just tell me, what was their reasoning?”
Darrow sighed loudly, flipping the papers. “They upheld the State’s arguments. They say: ‘the accused’”— he glanced at Haywood—“‘may not receive asylum
in any state from another.’”
“I wasn’t asylumed in Colorado, goddamnit! I live there!” After a pause, he motioned Darrow to continue.
Darrow read silently for a moment, and then said, “Basically, they’re saying that once the accused is physically in the jurisdiction of the state where he’s been accused of a crime, then he must stay there and stand trial.” He read some more. “They say the method by which the accused was brought to that state doesn’t matter. Once he’s there, he’s there.”
“That’s how they said it?”
“No, I was summarizing. The accused, uhmm … ‘is not excused from answering to the state whose laws he has violated because violence has been done to him in bringing him within the state.’”
“That’s wrong, Clarence. These states, these corporations, with their private armies, with no oversight, no protections for the people they’re supposed to serve. They do whatever they goddamned-well please.”
Darrow nodded. “Compete violation of the Constitution.”
“Bunch of skunks. It’s because it’s me. That’s why.”
“Probably.”
“And what did that son of a bitch Roosevelt have to say? I bet he’s behind this. He and Borah are bastards of the first order.”
“To my knowledge, he didn’t—”
“Oh, I’m sure he put his bully thumb on the goddamned scales.”
Darrow shrugged and looked down.
“What did the one smart one say? McKenna, was it?”
“Yes, Justice McKenna dissented.” Darrow flipped and scanned. “He wrote, ‘Kidnapping is a crime, pure and simple. All of the officers of the state are supposed to be on guard against it. But how is it when the law becomes a kidnapper? When the officers of the law, using its forms and exerting its power, become abductors?’ He’s right.”
“Goddamned right, he’s right. But right won’t save my neck.”
“It’s rough. It sure is.”
American Red Page 46
