Having walked out just after Neva and George, Winnie shuffled down the courthouse’s stairwell, avoiding the elbows and shoulders of the press—some coming up, most barreling down, racing to feed the world the verdict.
***
At the front of the courtroom, Haywood spun, elated, hoping to find Winnie and Neva—but both were gone. He asked Darrow if he’d seen Winnie, but Darrow hadn’t. Darrow pivoted to Senator Borah and shook his hand.
“Clarence,” said Borah, his tone brusque. “Congratulations.”
Darrow sighed. “Senator.”
“Tough battle,” said Borah. “I’m surprised, of course.”
“Without a second witness—”
“Yes, Steve Adams.” Borah shook his head. “How?”
“He changed his mind,” Darrow said firmly.
Borah sucked air through his teeth. “Nah, no … I’ll figure out the truth. Then maybe I’ll let the Illinois bar know it.”
Darrow felt a shimmer of anger and grabbed Borah’s arm. “What truth, Senator? It’s all vagaries. You know that. Transient facts. You and your private army—” He nodded toward McParland who was approaching. “You did as you pleased. Ran roughshod over the Constitution. Kidnapped a man in the name of the law. Before that, your client imprisoned thousands without trial. And now you want truth?” Borah started to move away, but Darrow pressed, still talking quietly. “You bottle truth like my aunt cans her peaches. What you can’t use here”—he gestured toward the judge’s vacant bench—“you hide in your basement or throw to the pigs.”
“Be happy with your win, Clarence,” Borah admonished.
As McParland was now standing beside Borah, Darrow addressed them both. “You want to know why Adams changed his plea? You want to know why you lost?” Darrow’s face was flushed. “No ... no.” He turned and started to gather his things.
“Mr. Darrow,” began McParland, “we’ve only begun to look—”
Darrow wheeled on him. “I fought on the battlefield of your making, Detective. You defined the high ground. And you dug the low as well. You did that before I got here. So, truth? Facts? I say, do as you please. Follow the strings into the damn woods. See where they take you. Vagaries. That’s all you’ll find, vagaries of the truth. No matter how far you go. Because, gentlemen, the strings were yours all along.” He stared at them, nodded and moved quickly toward the exit. He wanted nothing more to do with them, with all of this. He wanted to leave Boise and never return. And he would. But there was one man he had to speak with first.
***
At one of the hitching rails along the edge of the courthouse lawn, O. V. Sebern prepared to mount his horse. “Mr. Sebern?” cried Darrow, approaching hurriedly. “Mr. Sebern, if I may?” Darrow offered his hand to the wrinkled rancher.
“Mr. Darrow,” said Sebern, shaking the attorney’s hand.
“This has been a grueling time for us all.”
“Were you not paid?” asked Sebern.
“Yes, I was.”
“So—one of us was.”
Darrow attempted a smile. “Your service was appreciated.”
“Two dollars a day, they gave us. For two months.”
“Yes, Sir. I wish they paid jurors more, I do. I know you must be exhausted after your all-night work, and I’m sure you want to get home to your family. But, before you go, may I ask you a question? I promise to be quick.”
“If you don’t ask me right here, are you planning to come knocking at the ranch? Gonna bother me there?”
“I don’t intend to bother you, but ... Would that be better?”
“God no,” said Sebern. “Just spill it here, Mr. Darrow.”
“Thank you.” Darrow sniffed. “Could you share with me how the jury came to its verdict?”
“I’m allowed to do that?”
“Yes, Sir. Now that the trial is done.”
Sebern glanced around. “Took us six ballots, one every few hours or so. We started at eight for acquittal, two guilty, and two couldn’t decide.”
“Am I right that you were one of the two guilty?”
Sebern frowned. “Why would you assume that?”
“You seemed certain of his guilt, at the beginning.”
“I was and I still am.” He peered at Darrow. “Why select me then, if you knew my mind was made against your client?”
“The Pinkertons had a spy in my— It doesn’t matter.”
“Mn-huh,” grumbled Sebern.
Darrow frowned at the acknowledgment, as if Sebern might have known he’d been used. “You were saying, about the decision?”
“We had to acquit the man.”
“Why was that?”
“The State only had the one witness.”
Darrow nodded.
“Some were all worked up from your long speech, there at the end. I didn’t care how they got to the right decision, just that they did. We couldn’t convict the sorry son of a bitch no matter how much he deserved it. Your fancy speech didn’t matter to me.”
“You convinced the other four?”
“I did. Me and another. Took the night. Couple stubborn assess, they were. I’ll tell you straight, Mr. Darrow, I heard you did something to get that other witness, that Adams fella, to change his mind. But I couldn’t think on it as I knew nothing about it. The law is the law. And who made the law but us anyhow? If we say it takes two witnesses to hang a man, then by God it oughta take two witnesses. It doesn’t matter how much I despise those union vermin—Haywood and his bunch. Or the Pinkertons. Damn em all. They’re all corrupt, you ask me. And you, with your smooth talk, saying unions do bad sometimes, like that might justify anything.”
Darrow dipped his head. “You noticed that.”
“Yeah, sure,” scoffed Sebern. “I’m not saying you’re no good at what you do, Mister. You are. You got most all the jury going with you. But not me. I wasn’t gonna fall for it.”
Darrow nodded. “That’s fair.”
“But I got them others to come round.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“Yeah. Well, you have yourself a good day.”
“You too,” said Darrow.
With that, Mr. O. V. Sebern mounted his horse and rode away.
<><><>
An hour into McParland supervising the crating of his Idanha Hotel office, his telephone jangled.
“James McParland.”
Ah, Jim, said Robert Pinkerton on the other end.
“Mr. Pinkerton,” McParland replied, then heard a deep sigh over the line. “We did our best. Whether Senator Borah could pull out a win was—”
I’m not going to sugar coat it. The Tribune has been unkind of late.
“I imagine so,” said McParland.
Darrow’s wife was already riding us rough-shod— Then the verdict.
“Mn-huh, I’ve read some of it.”
That was a serious shelling you bought down on us.
“The men did their best.”
I’m sure they did.
“We lost the one in San Francisco. Otherwise—”
Jim, now you know that’s not the shelling I’m meaning.
“No. You mean Morris Friedman.”
Yeah. How’d that Jew get to say all that rubbish about your work?
“Courtroom procedure is Senator Borah’s—”
The senator knows my displeasure. The phone remained silent for a moment, as if the device itself knew what was coming. Finally, Pinkerton resumed, We need to make some changes.
“Oh?”
Yeah, I’m afraid so. With the Jew, and then all the other things.
“I had your approval on our—”
Jim, now, we’re not going to discuss anything operational.
“Of course not.”
How about, instead of heading
back to Denver, you come to Chicago for a stretch. We’ll bring Mary here too, for you.
“For a stretch,” said McParland, feeling his voice crack.
For a stretch. We’ll talk.
“I want to first get to the bottom of this matter with Darrow,” McParland said, clambering for a slippery lifeline. “Where he went. We need to know how he got Adams to switch—”
No, Jim, I’m telling you to let that go. We got whipped. That’s just the way it is. The how of it all doesn’t matter right now. That’ll sort itself in time. Put Jack Garrett on it, if you want. Let’s see what he can do running Denver. He’ll make a good detective, from your reports. But, let’s you and me have this conversation in person.
McParland felt his throat tightening, his face warming, his career sliding to an end. “I understand, Sir.”
Good. And don’t worry about a thing. We’ll talk over fourteen-year-old Jameson and some fine Partagás. We’ll see what’s best. Hell, Jim, at some point, a man has to think on retirement. Mary would be thrilled if you were home more.
McParland cleared his throat. “Aye, Sir. Of course, Sir.”
<><><>
– 70 –
TUESDAY
July 30, 1907
The Minor sisters were riding next to each other in the first-class passenger car of a Union Pacific train rolling slowly across the Green River bridge, east bound. Though Neva sat nearest the window, only Winnie was focused outside. But once across, Neva also looked out, seeing the waning sun casting its flame over the rocky hills, the tree clusters, and the long Wyoming grasses hurrying along. A mile later, and unknown to them, they passed the site where, four months earlier, the local Sheriff Wilkins and two of his men were machine-gunned to death as they attempted to blow the track and rescue Neva’s husband.
“I’ll miss you terribly,” said Neva.
“We’ll see each other,” said Winnie. “I’ll just be in Chicago … or Kansas.”
“I know, but— You kn0w.”
“Yeah,” said Winnie. “I can’t believe you want to go back to Walla Walla. I don’t think I could.”
“We’ll see. For the time being, I’ll stay in Denver. The house is perfect for the girls. And George likes that it’s so close to City Park and the new museum.”
“George,” Winnie mused warmly.
“Yes. George.” Neva nodded and flashed a rueful smile.
“I’m happy for you, that you have him, Sissy.”
Ten minutes passed before Neva leaned close to Winnie and whispered, “I hope that socialist, Debs, knows what he’s getting himself into—bringing on a mustang like you.”
Winnie shrugged. “He said they need my spirit, so …”
After another mile, Neva spoke again. “It was kind of Mrs. Darrow to credential you for Mr. Deb’s newspaper.”
“Yes. It’s called Appeal to Reason. I like that.” Winnie produced an issue from her satchel.
“Oh, yes,” said Neva, scowling at the socialist rag, as if Winnie had proudly pulled a dead rat from her bag.
Twenty-five minutes, two trestles and one tunnel later, Winnie asked, “Are we going to talk about Bill?”
“Must we?”
“I suppose not.”
“Good.”
“He’ll be in Denver?” Winnie asked.
“Tomorrow, I believe.”
“I want to see him.”
“Do what you will,” Neva said dryly.
“But you aren’t—”
“I told you, I’ll never speak to him again. There must be consequences for what he’s said and done. I thought we weren’t going to talk about him.”
“Yes, all right,” Winnie murmured.
“You’re a grown woman, Sissy,” said Neva. “If you love the man, well, Lord help you, but that’s something you need to resolve on your own.” She looked out the window before continuing. “I don’t love him. I’m not sure I ever did. I’d divorce him if I could.” Her mind wandered at the thought. She’d been chewing on the idea of divorce for so long that it’d begun to soften and tear. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’m getting the girls back. And George and I will— I’m going to live my life. And so will you.”
“What’s going to happen to him?” asked Winnie.
“To George? Nothing. He did nothing. There’s—”
“No, Sissy, to Bill. What’s going to happen to Bill?”
“I don’t care.”
“But, do you know?”
Neva took a considered breath. “I have a pretty good idea.”
“What?” Winnie implored. “What’s going to happen?”
Neva sat motionless for a moment before taking one of Winnie’s gloved hands into her own. “I’m not saying this to be impolite. I’m not, truly. But I’m not going to tell you what the Federation has in mind for Bill. He stole a great deal of money from them. I know you’d probably tell him and—”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You probably would, Sissy. So, let’s just leave things as they are, shall we? Let’s not let that man come between us any more.”
Winnie withdrew her hand and looked out the windows on the far side. “So, you won’t tell me?”
Neva smiled at her petulant young sister. “No, crock-cratcher, I won’t.”
Winnie held her face stern for as long as she could before finally her cheeks burst, laughing at the ridiculous memory.
<><><>
– 71 –
WEDNESDAY
July 31, 1907
Three days after the trial ended, Jack and Carla met the train from Spokane. As Iain stepped onto the platform with a bag, Jack shook his hand, and Carla gave a smile. Her dark hair was pompadoured under a narrow-brimmed motoring hat that Jack had bought her that morning.
“What a circus you missed,” said Jack.
“Been reading about it,” said Iain. “All the way from Spokane.”
“You have bags to collect?” asked Carla.
“Just this one.”
“Spokane?” asked Jack. “I thought you were in Walla Walla.”
“Trail carried me north.”
The three were quiet until they approached the depot’s curb where horse-drawn coaches were passing. Iain started to hail one. “No, we’re taking you,” Jack said, grabbing Iain’s bag and walking away with it. Carla walked alongside.
Iain followed, curious and bemused. Across the street, he laughed seeing Jack toss the bag onto the rear luggage platform of an open-topped, 1907 Mason Runabout—cherry red with two cream leather seats.
“I’m done with horses!” declared Jack, going around to hold Carla’s gloved hand as she stepped aboard.
“Oh, I don’t get shotgun?” asked Iain.
Carla turned. “I’d drive, but he wants to show off to you.”
“Show off? I’ve seen his driving. I endured it for two hundred miles. For godsakes, please do drive, Miss Capone.”
“Alright, damnit,” said Jack, laughing as he got in behind the wheel. “You both have to squeeze your butts into that seat.”
Iain climbed aboard, but his big frame was too much to share the seat with Carla, so she moved over and sat on Jack’s lap. She turned her head and kissed his cheek, though it was awkward under his hat’s wide brim. “You need to take this off or you’ll lose it,” she said, playfully reaching for it.
He grinned and leaned away from her. “Not so fast.”
“If I get lucky,” she said, settling against his chest, “it’ll just blow away.” She fluttered her hand in the air.
“I guess I have to get out and crank?” Iain asked.
“If you will,” said Jack.
As Iain did so, he muttered, “Don’t run me over.”
Minutes later, while crossing the small bridge into the center of town, Jack got Car
la’s hair in his mouth. She chuckled, tucking the fly-a-ways.
“Can you see where you’re goin?” asked Iain.
“Don’t worry,” Jack replied, smiling. “Carla wants to see the governor’s house. Do you want to go with us? Or should we drop you at the Saratoga?”
“No, I’ll go,” said Iain. “But they probably don’t want lurkers.”
“It’s all right. They’re all gone.”
After blowing the horn to startle some children, Jack asked, “See? Pretty good driving.”
“We’re not dead yet,” said Iain.
After an hour, they rolled to a stop in front of the boarded-up Steunenberg house—abandoned bleakness among the greens and flowering colors of the neighborhood. Jack killed the engine, and none of them spoke. It fell silent, save for the birds and a slight breeze in the trees. After a minute, Carla and Iain stepped out, followed by Jack. Iain walked ahead, past the collapsed remains of the fence, across the over-grown lawn, and up to the front of the house. For Jack, standing in the street was close enough. Carla joined him and they looked at the house and yard and watched Iain on the front porch.
“That’s it?” asked Carla.
“That’s it,” Jack replied.
“It’s so awful.”
“Yes, it is.” With the snow long gone, the yard was full of grass and weeds. Jack pictured everything: the fence, the children at the window, the man, the bomb. The blood. When Iain returned, Jack asked, “What do you think?”
“It’s haunted.” Iain leaned against the front of the Runabout and glanced at Jack who was doing the same. “We can’t do this with a horse.”
Jack smiled and slapped the hood. “Nope, we sure can’t.”
“Look at us,” said Iain, grinning. “Leaning on an automobile.”
“So easily amused,” Carla said with a grin. “I think I’ll get in.”
“As you wish,” said Jack, “but you’ll miss out on the leaning.”
“You boys go ahead.”
After offering his hand to help Carla aboard, Jack rejoined Iain. “What did you find in Spokane? Where Darrow went?”
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