In that moment of seeing such a little thing, he saw it all. He knew he’d been manipulated, and how it’d been done. Agent Jack Garrett had never been a double. Garrett was a Pinkerton, and only a Pinkerton—then and now. McParland had run Garrett at him, just as both Haywood and Swain had warned, posing Garrett as sympathetic to the union cause. And that meant Carla had also betrayed Darrow. Her lover and confidant had fooled him into allowing Sebern into the jury box. Not just that, but Darrow had proactively picked the man. He’d sought out and chosen Sebern, for godsakes! Borah must have rejoiced when he did that. It meant Sebern would vote guilty, regardless. He saw Carla sitting on the prosecution side, like at a divided wedding—not an accidental placement at all. Of course she knew Jack was not a real double agent. But when did she learn that? Had she always been betraying the Federation? Betraying him?
He could never admit this to Haywood—no damned way. And he had to hope Haywood never learned of it from some other source. If Haywood wasn’t hanged at the end of this, the man could seriously damage Darrow’s reputation. But if he did hang, and the Federation thought their leader’s death was due to Darrow betraying them—throwing the case by putting a guilty vote on the jury—they might kill him. He felt the blood fleeing his face. His secret plan had to work. It was all he had left now.
***
After Judge Wood entered, draped in his black robe, the trial commenced. Borah rose to give his opening statement for the State. He began with a spirited discussion of the positive qualities of organized labor activity: fair wages, limited work hours, child-labor laws, safer conditions. And he allowed that the Western Federation of Miners, and indeed the defendant himself, William Haywood, the union’s president, were central to those advancements for the working American. But no amount of virtue, no degree of good intentions, could possibly absolve such an individual from the heinous act of murder. He leaned further into the distinction between the union and the man. The Western Federation of Miners is not on trial here. Labor unions are not on trial. And this shouldn’t be considered a referendum on the Socialist Party. Likewise, nor were the mine owners on trial. And certainly not Governor Steunenberg. The only one on trial was a solitary man, William Haywood, who ordered the murder of—
“Objection!” Darrow stood. “Argumentative, Your Honor.”
“Overruled.”
“But, Your Honor, saying my client ordered any such thing is not within the bounds of the proposed evidence, which Senator Borah is limited by the rules of procedure to be—”
Judge Wood peered over his small round glasses. “Mr. Darrow, I said your objection is overruled.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Borah continued, diving back into the assassination of Governor Steunenberg. He hadn’t gone beyond, “the fishing line laid by Harry Orchard,” before Darrow was on his feet again.
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Basis?”
“Argumentative. The senator is not outlining specific evidence he can later present, he is straying into his suppositions as to the imagined use of what he hopes this jury will believe to be evidence.”
Borah interjected, “The evidence will be the testimony of Mr. Harry Orchard, Your Honor.”
“The objection is sustained, Mr. Borah,” said Wood, to Darrow’s surprise. “You may re-phase.” Darrow knew Judge Wood thought it more proper to refer to Borah as Mr. Borah, not Senator Borah, during the trial. But Darrow had no intention of letting this jury forget that this was David versus Goliath, that the special prosecutor was not just some attorney appointed for the State of Idaho. No, Borah was a sitting United States Senator, and as such he represented the oppression of a national government a continent away that had come to this remote state, to this small city, to lecture these local men.
Borah resumed his walk-through of the bombing, only to be interrupted by Darrow’s objections fifteen more times. Darrow was just warming up. When Borah turned to the testimonies of Harry Orchard and Steve Adams, how they directly inculpated Haywood, Darrow grew relentless.
“Objection, Your Honor,” Darrow said, shrugging an apology to the jury. “The government’s special prosecutor seems to think this is the floor of the United States Senate where he can say anything he wants without the bother of truth. Understandable, as he is a politician, but this is a court of law.”
Borah snapped, “Your Honor! I’m making my opening statement under Idaho’s rules of procedure. But Mr. Darrow wants to turn my time into a conversation, apparently. Not even that, but a grandstanding debate. Anything to obscure the evidentiary facts from the good men of this jury.”
“Oh, now,” said Darrow, “the good men of this jury understand what they’re listening to—a politician’s sales pitch.” Keeping his eyes fixed on Borah, Darrow added, “And not just the good men on the jury, but the others too.” Chuckles went through the jury box and rippled across the gallery.
Judge Wood banged his gavel. “Mr. Borah, you will continue. And Mr. Darrow, you will resume your chair.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Darrow. Once seated, he asked, “For the record, Your Honor, was my objection sustained?”
“No, Mr. Darrow. Most emphatically not.”
“To preserve my objection, may I know if it was overruled?”
Judge Wood scowled at Darrow. “It was.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Then to Borah: “My apologies, Senator. Please continue.”
Borah hesitated, then began again. Only this time, his argument was truncated and moved in fits and spurts. Darrow’s bite had set its venom.
***
After Borah concluded his opening, Judge Wood motioned toward the defense table. Darrow rose and declared, “The defense elects to not give an opening statement at this point, but rather to do so at the commencement of the defense’s case in prime.”
While Judge Wood was accepting that declaration, the central gallery doors creaked open and a tousled man shuffled in. Fully bearded, with no hat, he wore a soiled deerskin coat that, by its askew appearance, must have been the first its maker ever attempted. In his hands, both of which were muddy or perhaps bloody, he carried a package wrapped in sackcloth. Before anything could register, two deputies rushed in behind him, tackling him to the floor, kicking the package back into hallway, while the word “bomb” cracker-popped through the room. Some in the gallery flung themselves to the floor, others pushed to the outer walls, while others streamed from the room, stumbling directly over the package and into the hall like bats at dusk.
But the only explosion was that instant conflagration of scrambling, shoving and shouting. Guards removed the man. People settled back in. It was over. Judge Wood brought the room to order and called for a ten-minute recess. During that time, they learned the man was a sheepherder come to town for the day, only to wander into the center of the town’s focus, sniffing out the hub-bub. In the package: dirty overalls destined for an in-town laundry woman for their monthly cleaning.
<><><>
– 59 –
FRIDAY
May 10, 1907
Knowing his first big witness would be Harry Orchard, Senator Borah began by calling a smattering of people to testify about the bomb and the bomber. One group witnessed the explosion—some from a distance, some from next door to the Steunenberg home. Others had observed Orchard acting shiftily before the bombing, including seeing him surveilling the house with binoculars. And one had seen him leaving the Saratoga Hotel the morning of the explosion. Borah then called McParland, who walked the jury through the evidence in Orchard’s room, most importantly the fishing line, bottle of acid, and the plaster of Paris.
Then it was Darrow’s turn—his time to cross-examine McParland. His primary objective was to confuse the jury by painting all the minutia of the State’s evidence in a cloud of doubt, while impugning McParland’s judgment in the process. He began by staying in his chair for the initial quest
ions—a clear statement to the jury that the famous Clarence Darrow was not impressed by the famous Chief Detective McParland, and neither should they be. “Mr. McParland … I would call you Detective McParland, as Senator Borah did, but that might imply some title granted by a government authority. It might imply some level of assumed responsibility on behalf of the public.”
“As you wish,” said McParland, his brogue resolute in the silent courtroom.
“I thank you for that, because I know you pride yourself not only on the detective title that the Pinkerton Agency has bestowed upon you, but ‘chief detective,’ no less.”
McParland didn’t respond.
“Even Sherlock Holmes has been investigating you—I mean with you, I heard.”
Laughter flowed in the courtroom and Judge Wood’s chair squeaked. “Do you have a question for the witness?”
“Many, Your Honor.” Then to McParland: “As you know, I’m not allowed to ask you about how you kidnapped Mr. Haywood.”
“Objection!” shouted Borah.
“Sustained. Counselors approach.” When Borah and Darrow were up to the edge of the bench, Wood said, “Mr. Darrow, you’ve been clearly instructed on this.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Darrow, leaving his voice just loud enough to be heard by the jury. “My purpose was to acknowledge it to the witness. I thought he might be confused as to why I didn’t immediately address the controversy about illegally capturing—”
“There will be no more on that matter,” barked Wood. “The Supreme Court gave its answer. Clearly.”
“Clearly,” echoed Borah.
Darrow looked at Borah. “Clearly.”
Wood ordered them to step back, and Darrow walked to McParland. “Let’s talk about the items you claim to have found in Mr. Orchard’s room at the Saratoga Hotel. You said it was a fishing line, a bottle of acid, and some plaster, correct?”
“Correct. Among other things.”
“The fishing line. What did Mr. Orchard say, when you were in his room, as to why he had it?”
“Said he’d been fishing.”
“Fishing—with fishing line?” (a few chuckles from the gallery)
“Yes.”
“Is that unusual? Fishing with fishing line?” (more laughter)
“That’s not what he had it for, I don’t believe.”
“And the acid?”
“He tried to claim it wasn’t his.”
“Tried to claim? Or he did claim?”
“He claimed.”
“And the plaster of Paris?”
“He said he’d made loaded dice.”
Darrow nodded. “To cheat with? That sort of dice?”
“I suppose.”
“Well, are there any other reasons to make a pair of loaded dice, other than to cheat?” (chuckles)
“Objection,” said Borah. “Asking for a speculation on a matter not relevant—”
“Sustained.”
Darrow turned imperiously toward McParland, refusing even a flicker of defeat. “Loaded dice? That’s what Mr. Orchard said?”
“Yes.”
“How did he say that, about the dice? I mean, did he have to think first?”
“I don’t remember.”
“But you didn’t believe him, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right.”
“Why is that? What did you think the plaster was for?”
“To bind a bomb to its trigger. Done in mining, sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” said Darrow, walking to the prosecution’s table. There he lifted a small jar containing white powder, and then brought it to the witness stand. “This plaster is what you found in Mr. Orchard’s room?”
“I believe so.”
“No, Sir. A moment ago, when you were talking with your friend, Senator Borah, you two agreed that this was indeed the plaster found in that room.”
“Yes.”
“To your knowledge, are there different types of plaster?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Kind like that.” He motioned to the jar. “Used in mining.”
Seeing apprehension form in McParland’s eyes, Darrow pressed his advantage. “Are there other types?”
“Yes.”
“How about medical plaster, for the setting of broken bones?”
McParland hesitated before replying, “That too.”
“But this, it wouldn’t be that soft, powdery, medical sort,” said Darrow, holding up the jar. “That sort wouldn’t be suitable for binding a bomb together. So this must be construction plaster, the kind an experienced bomb maker would use. I mean, if it is what you claim it is. Isn’t that correct?”
McParland didn’t answer.
“Isn’t that correct, Mr. McParland? This must be construction plaster if it was used for a bomb?”
“I would suppose,” was McParland’s muttered response.
Darrow opened the jar and handed it to McParland. “If you will, Sir, please put a small amount here.” He pointed to the witness box’s rail in front of McParland. The detective did as instructed, tapping a small amount of white power on the oak rail.
“Thank you. That’s perfect. So, if that plaster, there in front of you, was medical plaster, not bomb-making plaster, would that surprise you?”
When McParland froze on the question, Darrow knew he had him—the detective was already aware that it wasn’t bomb-making plaster. “I’ll rephrase. You know this is too soft to be—”
“Mr. Orchard said he used it for a bomb—”
“Your Honor, that is hearsay,” said Darrow. “The witness—”
“You’re on cross, Counselor. I’ll allow it.”
“All right, Your Honor.” He looked at McParland, and then at the powder on the rail. “In your opinion, as a man investigating this matter, not as a construction or mining expert, if this is soft, medical plaster, then it wouldn’t be suitable for bomb construction. Is that right?”
“That’s my belief, but I don’t—”
“All right. Thank you, Mr. McParland.” Darrow looked at the plaster on the rail. “I guess we should put that back. Will you?”
McParland pinched at the white plaster, but it slipped through his fingers.
“Apologies,” said Darrow, taking the bottle from McParland. “That looks difficult. Let me.” Using his fingers, Darrow brushed the powder into a small cloud of white that drifted to the floor. “My goodness, that sure is soft plaster,” said Darrow. He returned the lid to the bottle and brought it back to Borah’s table. “Once out of the bottle—” he said quietly, then clicked his tongue and turned. “Mr. McParland, now let’s talk about the bottle of acid you were so certain must’ve been used for bomb-making.”
<><><>
– 60 –
THURSDAY
May 16, 1907
A week later, during a thirty-minute recess, Neva stood in the hallway, looking from the window, leaning on her green crutches that had begun to show evidence of wear. She had stopped using her invalid chair in court, disliking being so low around people who were already looking down on her. She finished the sandwich she had brought and brushed the crumbs from the box pleats on the front of her taffeta waistshirt. Nearing footsteps drew her attention. She turned with modest indifference until she saw George standing there.
“How are you, m’dear?” he asked.
With a faraway smile, she lifted her shoulders and let them fall.
“That well?”
“I’m afraid this’ll take longer than two weeks, George.”
“I believe you’re right,” he said, placing his hand on her back.
She kept her gaze beyond the window, but her mind zeroed on his hand, the warmth, the meaning. Outside and three stories down, the crowd had nearly doubled
since the first day of the trial. News accounts had attracted many travelers who decided to delay their east or west-bound journeys for a day, just to say they’d been there, that they’d seen her villainous husband—and his beautiful, spry, young mistress. Maybe that’s what they thought—the godless wags. And there were more of them than usual today. It was probably, she thought, due to rumors that the State would call its chief witness that afternoon.
As if reading her mind, George said, “Orchard’s next.”
She nodded.
He moved closer, and his woody scent became evident to her. “Why Bill hasn’t killed him yet, I don’t know,” he said.
“He’s not on the stand yet,” she quipped dryly.
George stepped back, giving her room to turn her crutches.
Facing him, she straightened his blood-red bow tie and took his hand. “I love how you smell, George. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“And—”
“Yes?”
“I love you, George.”
He grinned. “Miss Hobble has her humor. That’s good.”
Her eyes glistened at him.
“You’re serious?” he whispered.
She crutched past him. “And what if I was?”
“Not just how I smell?”
“Nope. Not just that.”
***
The trial was underway again with Neva sitting in her place behind her husband’s back, with George directly behind her. With what she’d said in the hall, she knew she’d set George’s world on fire—hopefully the good kind of blaze. Tempted to look back, she imagined he’d flash her a smile. She couldn’t smell him, not with all the other people. A shame, she thought, and then grinned to herself, imagining crawling backwards over her bench. If only the jury were not right there, the closest only a few feet away. Even if they were further, how would that look, the wife of the accused snuggling with another man right there in the courtroom? She would have laughed at the vision, but the truth was not funny—she was no one’s wife. Not really. Certainly not wife to the murdering, thieving man in front of her. She was not his. Not anymore.
American Red Page 48
