“There’s something afoot here,” McParland continued. “Every one of my fibers knows it. And yours should too. He was healthy just last night.”
“Looked it,” said Iain.
“You sure it was him?”
“I am, Chief.”
“Tell me again. He was at the river, near the Ninth Street bridge. Just walking?”
“He and Captain Swain. They crossed, but not at the bridge.”
“Where?” McParland asked, referring to a map on his desk.
“There’s a ferry rope there,” Iain said, pointing. He then glanced at Jack. “Where he crossed before.”
Jack glanced at McParland. “I’m not sure—”
“Darrow crossed there?”
Iain frowned, glancing between Jack and McParland. “Yes, Sir.”
“Did you hear what they were saying?”
“Swain said something about Chicago, but that’s all I—”
“Alright.” McParland stared at the map. “Get out there, Agent Lennox. Take some men. See where the tracks lead you.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Iain, and added, “Agent Garrett may know—”
“Leave that alone,” said McParland.
Iain paused. “Aye, Chief”
“Find him ... before too many rumors spread.”
“Maybe Darrow got what the sheriff was sick with.”
“The sheriff was just at his dizzy age,” said McParland. “If Darrow’s sick—and I don’t think he is—he’ll be with his wife.”
“His wife?” asked Iain.
“Ruby Hammerstrom,” said Jack.
“Aye. A first-rate muckraker.” McParland looked at Jack. “Has she checked out of the Saratoga?”
“Aye, Sir.” Jack glanced at the upright clock. “A couple of hours ago. Wouldn’t talk with anyone. She’s still at the depot. Bought a ticket for the 3:45 to Chicago. Should we detain her?”
“Detain her? Agent Garrett, on what grounds do you intend to arrest the wife of the defense attorney?”
“Of course not,” said Jack. “Should I go to—”
“No,” said McParland. “I’ll talk with her.”
***
Boise’s depot bustled and hummed—its usual state since the assassination. McParland saw Ruby sitting alone near one wall, reading a book. He adjusted his coat, straightened his vest, and strolled in front of her.
“Mrs. Hammerstrom?”
She looked up and set her book aside. “Yes, Detective?”
He removed his hat. “Ma’am,” he said. He looked at her bag on the bench beside her. “May I?”
“If you wish.” She moved her bag to the floor.
He sat, placing his hat in his lap, resting both hands on the brass knob of his cane. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”
“My husband is ill, Detective. He made that clear. I’m leaving to join him. Other than that, I have nothing to say.”
“You’re joining him in Chicago?”
“Yes.”
McParland looked away, as if studying others in the depot. “Well, that’s just not true.”
“It is.”
“I had men on both of today’s trains to Chicago, Ma’am.”
“He left last night. You missed him.”
“Were that true—first, you would’ve gone with him, and second, he wouldn’t have been seen here in Boise late last night.”
Ruby didn’t speak.
“Will you at least assure me he’s well?”
“No, he’s sick.”
“I mean, nothing afoul has occurred. You’d tell me, surely.”
Ruby gave a small snort. “Afoul? You mean rumors that the Pinkertons killed him.”
“Well,” said McParland, “of course that’s not true. So, if Mr. Darrow is ill, then where is he? Let one of my men confirm.”
“If he’s ill? I don’t appreciate— Listen to me, Detective, my husband wants his privacy. Can you not understand that?”
“Aye, but the press are stirring up ideas, saying the trial must end. You’re a journalist. Perhaps you can help me.” He put on a grandfatherly smile. “Dear, just set minds at ease that no one has been poisoned.”
“Poison? You poison the truth every day, at every turn.”
McParland’s jaw rippled where he clenched it.
“I’m returning to Chicago to be with my husband,” she continued. “You and I have finished talking.”
“Chicago. Aye. Maybe we should look for him at that socialist bullpen, Hull House.”
Ruby looked away.
“As you know, Pinkerton headquarters aren’t too far from it. There’s no place we don’t have access to, in some way. Especially in Chicago.”
“This bully tactic won’t work on me, Detective. I’m not impressed by, nor afraid of you. Mr. Darrow and I proudly attend events at Hull House, gatherings of people whom you would not begin to understand.”
“You’re right,” said McParland, his brogue emphasized. “I’m just an old Irishman. Not educated beyond a Cork primary school— The nuns tried their best,” he said dissembling. “So, no, I wouldn’t understand all the bourgeois socialism and hedonism promoted out of Hull House. Maybe you can explain it to me? But start with your unnatural relationship with Miss Rebecca Tarleton.”
Ruby’s eyes hardened. She blinked, sniffed, glanced away, and then back at McParland. “You may go and rightly fuck yourself, Detective,” she said calmly as she stood. She gathered her bag and walked away.
McParland took a deep breath and watched her go, irritated at himself for letting his temper get the best of him.
<><><>
– 63 –
THURSDAY
July 4, 1907
Every several days during the trial’s six-week suspension, a telegram arrived in Boise, addressed from Ruby in Chicago to Judge Wood. Each message reported the changing health status of her husband:
MR. DARROW HAS HIGH FEVER.
DOCTOR IS HOPEFUL IT WILL TURN.
MR. DARROW IS BETTER TODAY.
MR. DARROW HAS RELAPSED TO ILLNESS.
HE IS MUCH IMPROVED THIS WEEK.
A small army of Pinkertons, including McParland himself, had fanned out in Chicago, searching for Darrow, but to no avail. They even tried to spot Ruby at one of the telegraph offices, but never did. In one of the telegrams, Ruby said they were not at their home or Hull House—but the Pinkertons already knew that. One thing the telegrams did do was settle the rumors that Darrow had been poisoned. After all, the messages were from his wife. Or were they really? McParland continued to be wracked with anxiety, fearing the famous attorney’s body would show up at any moment.
Judge Wood had let the jurymen retire to their homes, but with orders to be ready to return swiftly upon summons.
May turned to June.
Other than nine days in Washington DC, Senator Borah remained at the Idanha Hotel. Isolated in his sheriff’s-office cell, Haywood plowed through six more books and engaged in copious correspondence, primarily with the leaders of other labor unions, and with Eugene Debs of the American Socialist Party.
June turned to July.
***
Then, on Thursday, July 4, in the midst of an Independence Day celebration, Clarence Darrow stepped from a train onto the Boise depot platform. Making his way past its railings festooned in red, white, and blue bunting and banners, Darrow looked well, wearing a new light-wool suit, freshly cut hair, eyes lively and ready. At the taxi stand, he turned to consider a men’s acapella group singing a new patriotic song, “America the Beautiful.” When someone in the small crowd recognized Darrow, he resumed his progress, hiring a coach to the courthouse. There he declared his readiness to commence the defense’s case, and Judge Wood set the trial to resume the following Monday. Deputies were dispatched to the ho
mes of the twelve jurors, and to the prosecution team at the Idanha Hotel.
***
McParland got the news in Chicago by telegram. From Pinkerton headquarters, he dialed the phone and spoke with the Idanha’s front desk attendant.
“Agent Garrett, please. Right away.”
After a short wait, Jack came on the line. This is Agent Garrett.
“Jack, McParland here. Which train did Darrow arrive on?”
Union Pacific, from Walla Walla.
“From the west?”
Yes, Sir.
“He boarded in Walla Walla?”
We’re still interviewing, but that’s the earliest any recalled seeing him.
“Damnit.” After a moment, he continued, “Swain’s still there in Boise?”
Yes, Sir. Might this all be Captain Swain’s doing?
“I don’t know,” McParland muttered, eyes closed. Like a safe-cracker listening intently to a lock’s tumbler, the chief detective let his mind drift through the rack of possibilities, hoping to hear the distinctive, distant click of truth. “Swain lives in Spokane, up from Walla Walla. But he’s stayed in Boise?”
The entire time, replied Jack. Kept himself visible.
“Anyone else go to Walla Walla?”
Mrs. Haywood did.
“She did?”
On account she’s one of those Adventists.
“Right.” Another long pause and then, “The governor’s wife, Mrs. Steunenberg, she’s an Adventist too. Did she also go to Walla Walla?
No, Sir. She left for Los Angeles a few weeks back. Going someplace near there. Hermosa Beach is what the report said.
“Alright, so what did Mrs. Haywood do in Walla Walla?”
I’m not certain. She’s been back here a week or more.
“We didn’t follow her while she was gone?”
Mrs. Haywood? No, Sir. We heard she was going to Walla Walla College and planned to meet with her preacher, Reverend Sanders, while she was there.
“Maybe she was helping Darrow.”
To do what?
“Don’t ask me. You find out.”
Aye, Chief.
“I’ll be there day after tomorrow. The trial is reset?”
Monday morning.
“Alright. Send Agent Lennox up to Walla Walla. Tell him to sniff around. See what he can find. See if Mrs. Haywood was seen with Darrow there, or anything of the sort. And keep talking with those passengers. I want to know where Darrow first boarded that train back to Boise.”
Aye, Chief.
<><><>
– 64 –
MONDAY
July 8, 1907
After Judge Wood welcomed Darrow back with platitudes of gratefulness for the attorney’s better health, Darrow gave a brief opening statement. Then he called a number of witnesses, each designed to refute some element of Orchard’s confession, his actions, his motives, and especially any direct connection between Orchard and Haywood.
Three days later, he called Morris Friedman to the stand. Clean shaven and wearing thick glasses exaggerating his already large eyes, the young man appeared poised and prepared. One reporter would later write that Friedman “was slow and deliberate in his actions, like the railway conductor who knew the train wouldn’t leave without him.” Borah first objected on the grounds of Friedman being a surprise witness, but Darrow successfully beat back that challenge claiming Friedman had only come to Darrow’s attention during his illness. Borah’s next objection claimed Friedman’s testimony should be rendered privileged, as the Pinkerton agency remained in the employ of the State in this matter. But the judge overruled him. So, Friedman swore on the Bible, and Darrow approached.
“Please state your name, Sir.”
“Morris Friedman. Miroslav by birth, but Morris will do,” he said—his Russian accent thickening his words as they tumbled through his puffy, beet-red lips.
“Mr. Friedman, you were employed, until last October, by the Pinkerton Detective Agency?”
“Of course.”
“Is that a yes? You were—”
“Yes.”
“How long were you so employed?”
“For the most part of five years, or thereabouts.”
“And where did you work, and for whom?”
“In Denver, as stenographer for Chief Detective McParland.”
McParland’s brow furrowed as he leaned to Jack and whispered, “Maybe that’s why Darrow went to Walla Walla—to find this back-stabbing Bolshevik.”
“Mr. Friedman was in St. Louis,” whispered Jack.
“Alright,” said McParland, impressed by the young agent.
Darrow was still talking: “So, what kind of things did you write for him?”
“Correspondences on different matters. Within the agency, for the most part. To Robert Pinkerton and agents in the field.”
“And how would you characterize the nature of those correspondences?” asked Darrow, then saw Friedman was confused. “What was the most common subject of those correspondences, to your recollection?”
“Pinkerton operations. I would say. For the most part.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Borah said, rising to his feet. “This has no bearing on—”
“Perhaps, but I’ll allow it. For now. Let’s see where it goes.”
Darrow looked at Judge Wood. “Thank you, Your Honor.” Then to Friedman: “Operations, you say. Since you were in Denver, working for Detective McParland, would it be correct to say that the majority of those Pinkerton operations were targeted against the Western Federation of Miners?”
“Many.” After a thought, he said, “Most, yes.”
“All right, can you give us an example of those Pinkerton operations ... against the Federation?”
“Spying. Some of the men were operatives. They infiltrate the Federation. They’re numbered—each operative has a number.”
“Like Operative 21, for example?” Darrow cut his gaze at Jack.
“Yes,” replied Friedman, also glancing at Jack.
Borah was on his feet again. “Your Honor, the internal, private practices of my client are not relevant to—”
“Your client?” burst Darrow. “So the Pinkertons are—”
“No, I meant the agency in the employ of my client, which is of course the State of Idaho.”
Wood shook his head. “I think you overruled yourself there, Mr. Borah.”
A few chuckles rippled through the gallery.
Borah sighed and sat.
Darrow continued, pleased with how this was going. “Mr. Friedman, for what purpose did these Pinkerton operatives infiltrate the Federation?”
“For the purpose of subverting the Federation’s activities. And to report back on those same activities.”
“How might an operative do that, subvert union activities?”
“A number of ways. Some as suppliers. Pad their bills.”
“They would commit fraud?”
“Yes,” said Friedman. “They’d pull money from the Federation.”
“And where did that money go?”
“To Pinkerton accounts.”
Darrow tightened the knot. “In the five years of such correspondences that you personally read or wrote, could you estimate the amount of dollars taken from the Federation by that means?”
“Something like eighty to one hundred thousand dollars.”
Gasps and rumbles came from the gallery.
“Surely that’s not correct,” said Darrow, feigning surprise. “A hundred thousand dollars stolen by one private organization, the Pinkertons, from another private organization, the Federation? That would be theft, would it not?”
“Objection,” fired Borah. “This testimony is about finances? That’s prejudicial and irrelevant to this case, Your Honor
.”
“Counselors approach,” said Wood.
Darrow began speaking in a hushed tone the moment he and Borah touched the judge’s oak bench. “The State’s case pivots entirely on their assertions as to the inner-workings of the Federation, what the Federation’s president, my client”—he glanced at Borah—“did or did not say to a third party, Mr. Orchard, who claimed to have been working for the organization in the conduct of a crime perpetrated by that same individual, Mr. Orchard. And those assertions are based in whole on the work of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, which has a long-standing extreme and prejudicial bias against my client and the Federation on matters far outside the State’s charge in this case. So, when Senator Borah relied on information provided to him by the Pinkerton Agency, he opened the door for the jury to understand the nature of the relationship between those two organizations—the Pinkertons and the Federation—and specifically between Chief Detective McParland and my client.”
Wood’s head bobbed as he blinked and his eyebrows rose. He turned to Borah. “I think your objection is overruled, Senator.”
Borah clenched. “May I argue in support of my objection?”
“No. Mr. Darrow’s said all there is to say on it. More than I want to hear.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” said Darrow. He gave a dutiful nod toward the bench and stepped back.
Borah walked away muttering under his breath, “There’s more to be said, you two-bit—”
“Counselor,” snarled the judge, crooking a finger at Borah, summoning him back. Darrow also returned. Judge Wood leaned toward Borah and spoke louder than was necessary. “I don’t give a good goddamn that you’re a United States Senator. Not while you’re here in my courtroom. You will conduct yourself accordingly.”
“Yes, Your Honor. My apologies.”
Judge Wood continued, “You chose to climb into the ring with this heavyweight boxer”— he motioned toward Darrow—“so take your punches like a man. Sit on your hands if you must, but I intend to let this witness talk.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Borah glanced toward the jury as he returned to his seat, hoping they’d missed all that.
“Mr. Friedman,” resumed Darrow, “moving along now. You’ve testified that during your five years with the Pinkerton Agency, you witnessed correspondence from Detective McParland indicating that, over that same time period, as much as one hundred thousand dollars belonging to the Western Federation of Miners had been siphoned into Pinkerton accounts? Is that correct? I mean, is that a correct summary of your testimony today, so far?”
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