City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1)

by James Scott Bell

  That is it! Kit thought. The skill of the lawyer to see justice done in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles! It moved her as nothing had before in her life. She never thought criminal law could make her feel this way. But she had not known Earl Rogers.

  And when she found herself seated at a table for two in an exquisite restaurant, across from this legal miracle worker, it had seemed like a continuation of God's mighty hand.

  She had a million questions for him, and he had a few for her. As they dined he elicited from Kit her desire to practice law, her education, and a bit of her background. He seemed most interested. Then Kit asked about the cross-examination he had conducted, and his eyes flashed with passion.

  "Cross-examination is the greatest engine of truth ever invented," he said. "But it is an art as well as a science. The witness, especially the lying witness, will do everything in his power to protect his story. The trial lawyer must know how to pry the truth loose."

  "How?" Kit asked.

  Rogers chuckled. "A number of ways. In every cross-examination there should be one major aim. Like a magician, the lawyer must misdirect the witness from that aim, lest he hide behind some prevarication. At precisely the right moment, the lawyer can change his course, leave an innocuous line of questioning, and suddenly thrust home."

  "But how does he know when that moment occurs?"

  Rogers tapped his head. "Instinct, mostly. Also knowing what the witness will likely say. Like the good doctor."

  "How did you know what he would say?"

  "Because I was more prepared than he was. That's the key."

  There was that word again. Preparation. Hardly pausing for a breath, Kit said, "Will the jury believe your version?"

  "Yes," said Rogers without hesitation.

  "How can you know that?"

  Rogers smiled as a teacher would at an eager student. "Because of the Rule of Human Probabilities."

  Kit frowned. "What is that?"

  "It's really very simple. Everyone judges events against a standard of human experience. They ask themselves, how would I act under similar circumstances? If the action seems in line with common sense or experience, it is likely to be accepted as true."

  Rogers leaned forward and placed the elegant salt and pepper shakers together. "Now, when two people get together, they combine that experience of observation, and it becomes sharper. But put twelve good and true men in the jury box, and you have the Rule of Human Probabilities in its greatest force. I merely try to anticipate what is probable human action, and then undertake to show the jury why they should believe one or the other."

  Then Rogers pointed a finger at Kit's head. "Just remember this," he said. "You have an instinct, right up there, that will help you find the truth. You can size people up and determine what they probably did or did not do. That's what it takes to become a great trial lawyer."

  Those last words were the ones that quickened her heart. Was he really saying she might become a trial lawyer, too? Like him? But how?

  Then he asked, "How would you like to work for me?"

  Kit thought for a moment she might faint—fall right off her chair and lie there on the floor in front of a dozen aghast patrons. Some of them would grumble before turning back to their brandy or beef Bourguignon, while others would snap for the maître d' and order the baggage removed.

  How could this cream of society possibly understand that the course of her life had just taken a hairpin turn?

  Rogers must have seen the color leave her face, for he quickly offered her a glass of water. Laughing, he said, "Did I upset you?"

  Waving a hand in front of her face, Kit said, "I don't know what to say." And in truth, she didn't. On the one hand, this seemed to be an offer God had dropped in her lap. On the other, though, was the thought of what had happened when she was offered a position by Heath Sloate. That memory made her shiver.

  At that precise moment, Rogers said, "I determine, from the Rule of Human Probabilities, that you are concerned about my intentions."

  Amazing! she thought. Like a reader of minds!

  "Let me assure you," said Rogers, "that this offer is strictly professional. My wife's name is Hazel, and I have a daughter, Adela. And mind, I am only asking for you to help with research and working up cases. I can't pay you much. You'll have to prove yourself. But if you do, I promise you this. I'll train you and then stand with you for the bar."

  Kit hesitated. How could she be sure this was right? Would she be acting merely on her own feelings and desires? She could almost hear her father's deep voice, paraphrasing Scripture: "Do not be wise in your own eyes."

  "What were you thinking just then?" Rogers asked.

  Smiling sheepishly, Kit said, "Just of my father."

  "Where is he?"

  She looked down at the table. "He was killed when I was eleven."

  "I'm sorry," Rogers said.

  "He was a preacher. I miss him terribly." When she looked up, wondering if she had said too much, she was surprised to see a look of sadness etched across Rogers' face. At first she was afraid she'd offended him somehow, bringing ruin to what had been a lovely dinner.

  Then he said, "That's quite a coincidence. My father was also a preacher. He also died, and I also miss him terribly."

  There was in that moment such a vulnerability in Rogers that Kit knew she could trust him. The fact that they had this much in common seemed like a sign.

  Kit said, "I would be honored to work for you, Mr. Rogers. When can I begin?"

  "Would next week be too soon?"

  "No, sir."

  "Then next week it is."

  The meal thus became a celebration, and Kit took in all she could from Rogers about Los Angeles, the courts, and the practice of law in the new century.

  When they stepped outside, Rogers ordered her a cab. The night air was warm and inviting. As the horse-drawn carriage clopped up to them, Kit heard a young voice breaking through. "Extra! Extra!" cried the newsboy.

  "Breaking news," Rogers commented, and he waved to the newsy. A lad no older than twelve, wearing a cap on his head and a grin on his dirty face, bounded over holding a stack of newspapers. Rogers fished out a dime, told the boy to keep the change, and took a paper.

  Kit saw that it was an Examiner.

  "Hmm," said Rogers, perusing it. "Another prostitute murdered."

  The thought filled Kit with dread. "Another?"

  "Second one," Rogers said. "It could be unrelated, or it could be the same killer."

  A killer of unfortunate women at large in the city? This wasn't what she had thought Los Angeles would be like. On the lower east side of Manhattan she'd come across her share of criminality. But out here?

  Then she thought, Why wouldn't it be? People are the same everywhere. Sinful, fallen. There is no place free from the darkness of evil intentions. Hadn't she experienced that truth firsthand in Sloate's office?

  Rogers put her in a cab and waved her off. The look on his face told Kit that in spite of this darker news, he was pleased. Pleased with himself—maybe even pleased with her and the challenge she represented.

  This was her first step toward her dream and, in a way, vindication for her mother. A more generous and loving woman had never existed on the earth. Molly Morgan had married a handsome Irishman named Harry Shannon. Together they had given life to their love in the form of a baby girl.

  Kit had been spoiled by their love, lavished with encouragement and praise the way society children were with toys and sweets.

  "You can do anything you put your mind to, Kit," her mother was fond of saying.

  Of course, that had been prior to her husband's death. After his passing, her mother was never the same. She strived to be supportive of Kit, to keep her spirits high and her focus on the knowledge that they would all see Harry again in heaven. But Kit knew her mother's heart was broken.

  And that broken heart was only tormented by the knowledge that a supposed family friend had robbed them blind. Posing
as trusted legal counsel, shoving papers at her mother she did not understand, the man had systematically taken what little they had left of value.

  That had been the final straw.

  Molly eventually succumbed to her broken heart and the weight of worrying over how she would provide for her young daughter.

  "Oh, Mother," Kit whispered in a sigh. "I want so much to make you proud of me—to keep others from facing what you had to go through."

  She thought of the murdered prostitutes then and shivered. There was an ugliness in the world that she would have to fight against over and over so long as she worked with Earl Rogers. Was she up to it? Could she master what would be necessary to face such evil and yet remain untainted by it? Would her mother—her father—have approved of her choice?

  The cab drew her upward toward Angeleno Heights and Aunt Freddy's estate. The bittersweet memory of her mother faded as the Fairbank mansion came into view. Kit sat up a little straighter and squared her shoulders. The time for looking back was past. Through obstacles big or small, Kit pledged her commitment toward the future.

  Her future.

  Her dream.

  ———

  Frederica always rose early to greet the day. It was a habit of many years, one her dear Jasper had thrust upon her. "The oil won't come to you," he had loved to say, springing from his bed just before dawn. "You've got to go to the oil!"

  She loved that about him most, his vigor and enterprise. Another of his favorite sayings was "Jump first, and grow wings later." That was the life of a wildcatter, and it is undoubtedly what led to his wealth. If there was one thing she could have changed about him, however, it would have been his manners. Jasper was not one for the niceties of the social graces.

  That, in fact, had been what had driven a wedge between Frederica Stamper and her family. Proper Bostonians, they were aghast when Freddy had fallen under the charms of a dashing wildcatter from the South. Jasper Fairbank was rugged and handsome, but he hadn't been within miles of any proper school. And he had no patience for those who, he would say, "drank with their pinkies in the air." That immediately set the Stamper clan against him.

  They put tremendous pressure on Freddy. Worst of the bunch was her older sister, Dabne, who almost single-handedly created a whispering campaign in the upper crust of Boston society. Freddy was forced into a choice, and she chose Jasper. Together they fled the East and the comforts of culture for an uncertain future of digging in the ground.

  But Jasper had a sixth sense about oil and struck it rich just before the Civil War. He lost his fortune in the post-war depression, then gained it all back in Texas and later added to it in California.

  And Freddy was finally able to reclaim a position in the upper echelons of society, this time in Los Angeles, where she knew she belonged.

  Now, as she moved through the dim light of her Angeleno Heights mansion, she realized she was facing another choice, much like the one she'd had to make all those years ago.

  Kit would have to go back to New York. If she stayed in Los Angeles, it was clear that there would be no avoiding scandal and, for Freddy, personal hurt.

  Freddy reached into her morning coat for the letter she'd received yesterday. Maybe, if she read it again, there would be something in it she hadn't seen the first time, some small ray of hope beaming out from between the lines. Something that would allow her to keep Kit here, after all the effort she had gone through to find her.

  Her mind flashed to her sister Dabne's face, screwed up tightly in that malevolent scowl she'd inherited from Mother, and her promise that Freddy would never have contact with the family "as long as I live." Well, that had been true, and Freddy had been completely cut off until word of Dabne's death in 1891.

  From there, bits of news and pictures had come Freddy's way. Her other sister, Esther, had married and given birth to several children, who in turn had blessed her with grandchildren. One of these was a girl named Kathleen, but there had been some "bad business" in that family Freddy didn't fully understand. She decided she was going to understand, if for nothing else than to put to rest the memory of Dabne. Regaining family contact would be her revenge.

  That had led to the hiring of a Pinkerton man and the eventual unfolding of the story of Kit's years in a Catholic orphanage in Boston and her life in a poor section of New York.

  Now, after all that and her determination to bring Kit to Los Angeles to become the sort of woman Freddy knew she could forge—yes, a project, she would admit, but a socially acceptable one—her great-niece's presence was threatening everything Freddy had worked so hard to gain.

  Freddy sat on the window bench in the library, gazed again at the letter in the impeccable hand of Heath Sloate, and read.

  My Dear Frederica,

  It is with deep regret and profound sorrow that I write to you. My heartfelt concern, however, and my own pervading feelings of affection for you, prompt me to do so.

  Since I have known you these last several, wonderful years, I have perceived that you have always been one who wishes to know the truth, unadorned, even when it is a truth that affects you directly. It is my unhappy duty, then, to tell you the truth.

  Your niece is a social danger, and I would advise that you send her back to New York. She will bring you nothing but grief in the months to come.

  Today, as you know, I had an interview with her in my office. The purpose was to see if I might, in some small way, help your niece to find a position that would make use of her education without involving her in the masculine pursuit of a legal career. It was as a friendly uncle that I made this gesture, out of respect for you, dear Freddy.

  My hopes to be of service, however, were dashed the moment she set foot in my office. She was unmannered and insulting. She questioned my integrity and competence, relating to the brief conversation we'd had at your party. I will not tell you the name she called me, but it is one that I had thought reserved for the waterfront and never one I expected to be mouthed by any feminine creature.

  When I attempted to interrupt her tirade, your niece struck me on the side of the head.

  I thought for a moment of notifying the police and issuing a complaint against her for battery. For your sake, Freddy, I did not. In the cool light of reflection, I have come to believe that your niece may be unstable, perhaps owing to her years of confinement as a young girl.

  Whatever the reason, Freddy, it is imperative that you send your niece back to New York. It would be of no consequence then if you sent her an occasional sum of money, conditioned upon her seeking treatment from medical authorities and seeking a job.

  If she stays, it will be a social disaster for you. Already I have heard from two women of high station. I shan't give you their names as they have sought my advice in confidence. Suffice to say that your niece's continuing to live under your roof will result, inevitably, in painful ostracism. I will be in no position to help you.

  Finally, I cannot see our own social intercourse continuing so long as your niece remains here. That would be grievous to me, as I am growing to love you more each day. Dare I think that matrimony might be our shared destiny? I dare not, unless our shared malady, your niece, is dealt with, and decisively.

  Freddy, it is imperative that you keep all this to yourself. Only tell your niece she must go, and do not back down. Do not listen to anything she might say in her defense. I am afraid that, in view of her recklessness, she is not above lying.

  You know my reputation, Freddy. You know that I have a stainless record of integrity. You must also know that my heart is heavy in writing this. However, I cannot in good conscience keep from telling you the truth.

  For the good of all concerned, including your niece, send her forthwith whence she came.

  Assured of your good sense and firm resolve, I remain,

  Yours very truly,

  Heath W. Sloate

  Hot tears stung Freddy's eyes. It was all so complicated now and so, so tragic. There was no equivocating in the letter
. As hard as it was to accept, Freddy knew Heath's way was the only way.

  "He loves me," she reasoned aloud. Perhaps it was that love that drove him to such demands. He feared for her. He only wanted the best for her, and obviously the best wasn't keeping Kit in Los Angeles.

  But what of her family obligations? She had already grown fond of Kit, but fondness alone was not enough to allow her to stay. And, in a way, it would be for Kit's own good. Forcing her back to New York would disabuse her of her fantasy about practicing law. Kit would have to learn practicality, something that Los Angeles was apparently not teaching her.

  Freddy folded the letter, put it back in her pocket, and began to rehearse what she would say to Kit.

  It may have been an hour—Freddy lost track of the time—but when she heard Kit calling her name, her body jolted to attention.

  "In the library," Freddy said.

  Kit entered, looking fresh as a magnolia in a flowing gown of layered white muslin. How very innocent she appeared. So unspoiled—so sweet. A perfect blossom. For a moment Freddy thought of relenting, of throwing her arms around Kit and squeezing her until she forgot about everything. But she reminded herself that this was a flower that held a social poison. Pretty, but ultimately deadly. Freddy did not want to crush her, only see her transplanted in another soil far away.

  When Kit kissed her on the cheek, Freddy sensed she had something to say. Rather than immediately proceeding to the business at hand, Freddy said, "You seem invigorated this morning."

  "I am!" Kit said, her green eyes dancing. Could such eyes hold a hidden malice? Freddy had seen Kit's Irish temper flare. And after living seventy years, she knew that things often were not as they seemed. Still, the girl seemed so gentle and sincere. Perhaps there were reasons for her actions with Heath. Perhaps they were misunderstood actions.

  Her niece continued. "I did not see you last night."

  Freddy snapped to attention. "Yes, I am well aware of that. You had me worried. A young lady of quality cannot parade around the city unaccompanied—especially after dark. It simply isn't prudent."