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

by James Scott Bell

  Kit had been this close to murder before. Back in New York, when one of the boys who worked for the sisters at Leo House went walking home one night and never arrived. A bootblack found the poor boy's body in an alley, his neck broken. There was no motive—who would kill a penniless boy?—and no one was ever brought to justice for the crime. For weeks Kit brooded about it. She liked the boy, Mickey O'Sullivan, a mere ten-year-old. She wondered how something so senseless could happen under God's watchful eye.

  Those same feelings had come flooding back to her earlier this day, when she had ventured to Thomas Ryan's pitiful shanty. His shack was full of lit candles.

  "She was a changed girl," he told Kit, "sure as I'm still alive. Told me she was going to leave her life of sin and come back to live with me. She wanted to find a way to serve God, she said. Thanks to you, Miss Shannon."

  A pounding on the door ripped her from her reverie. Kit saw just how dark it was now. Only thin slivers of moonlight entered through the window.

  Pounding again.

  Kit didn't move. Who would be here at this time of night? This wasn't the soft knock of Corazón.

  The pounding became more insistent. Then a voice. "Kit! Are you in there?"

  It sounded like . . . Ted Fox! What would he be doing here now?

  Kit practically leaped from her chair. When she opened the door, Ted shot into the room and closed the door himself. "It's dark in here," he said, breathless. "Good."

  "Ted, what is it?"

  "I need help."

  He raced to the window, opened the wooden slats with his hand, and looked out. Then he turned to her, his face barely visible in the dim moonlight that seeped into the office. His eyes were dark pools. "Tell me, if somebody does something, not knowing . . ."

  "Not knowing what?"

  "What he's doing. Not of sound mind."

  "Yes?"

  "Does the law say he's guilty?"

  "Why, are you—"

  "Just tell me!"

  Kit took in a deep breath. "Sometimes not. There's mens rea."

  "What's that?"

  "Guilty mind. For crimes requiring intent. Please tell me—"

  "So if somebody doesn't know what he's doing, the law won't make him pay, right?"

  "Sometimes. But the facts . . . Ted, what are you telling me?"

  He didn't answer immediately, looking toward the window again. "Do you hear something?"

  Kit strained to listen. At first she did not hear anything, but then got a sense that there was someone else in the building, perhaps more than one person.

  Then an insistent knocking on her door.

  "They're here," Ted whispered.

  A voice outside the door said, "Police!"

  "Don't say anything!" Ted urged.

  "I have to answer," Kit said.

  "No!"

  The door burst open, splintering wood, slamming against the wall. Light from the single gas lamp in the hall backlit two figures in police uniforms. One of them was so enormous he almost obscured the other.

  "Stop!" Kit said. "You can't come in here!"

  "Who says?" the big one snapped, moving toward her.

  Before she could answer, Ted made an attempt to run out the door. With grunts and curses, the two cops apprehended him.

  "What's this about?" Kit said.

  "Look out," the big cop said.

  "I demand an answer!"

  "You do, eh?" the cop said with barely veiled derision. "Well, if it's any of yer business, this guy's under arrest for murder."

  Kit's heart bucked.

  "Oh, yeah," the cop said. "He's been a bad boy, this one. A very bad boy."

  Part Two

  Chapter Eighteen

  NOW HER CASTLE was a prison.

  Frederica Stamper Fairbank gazed out the large, leaded windows of her home and could not catch her breath. Her face was flushed, her head felt light. She could not venture out into the city, she could not! What if she should luncheon at the Women's Club and faint dead away at the first titters of gossip? What of furtive looks? The whispers behind fans and gloved hands?

  Gossip there would be, gossip there was—she was sure! She could almost hear it now, as if it came up from the city below and echoed through Angeleno Heights like some scandalous yodel.

  Did you hear? Freddy's great-niece, the wild one from back East?

  Do tell!

  Working for that common lawyer, Rogers, and defending a killer!

  Oh my, yes . . . and Ted Fox, too. Weren't they seen together before this? Poor Elinor.

  Do you think they were lovers?

  I've always had my doubts about Mr. Ted Fox! And now this fast girl comes in. . . . Poor Freddy! How will she ever overcome it?

  Freddy shook her head. Oh, why wouldn't Kit listen to her in the first place?

  Perhaps she could go to her. Take her back in. Maybe now she was ready to listen to her, to withdraw from this ugly position she was in. Surely enough time had elapsed.

  But what would Heath say? That was why she had summoned him. How she needed him now!

  She then noted his carriage coming up the drive. Black as a hearse—even the horse was the color of coal—but oh, he was her only light. He would tell her what to do.

  When he was announced and came into the morning room, Freddy thought he looked annoyed with her, as if her desperate plea—she had tried to be moderate in her note, but could not, for this was all so confusing and hurtful—was more an imposition than the duty of a suitor.

  "Heath!" Her voice escaped before she could stop it. She went quickly to him, her silk day dress sounding a desperate swish, then all but threw herself into his embrace, which seemed stiff yet efficient. "Thank you, dear, for coming," Freddy said. "Oh, I am in such a state."

  "There, there," Sloate said. "Let's sit, shall we? You can tell me all about it."

  With his arm he guided her to one of the chairs near the fireplace, which lay cold. Why hadn't she ordered a fire? Heath would have appreciated it, but it was too late now. Freddy took a lace handkerchief from her dress, preparing for the tears she knew would come.

  Sloate sat opposite her on the settee. Freddy noticed he gave a quick look at his pocket watch before he crossed his legs and said, "Now, what is this terrible situation, my dear?"

  "Heath, have you heard the news?"

  "There is much news, Freddy. That young Italian tenor Enrico Caruso is getting rave notices in Rigoletto."

  "Please, Heath, don't play with me. I mean about my niece, about those horrid murders!"

  "Ah," he said, but it was as if he knew this was her concern all along. "Of course I've heard, Freddy. It's the most sensational and sordid crime story this city has ever seen."

  "My point exactly! And Kit in the middle of it!" The first of her tears began to fall.

  "Yes, Fox has retained the services of Rogers."

  "You mean his mother has, poor thing. Dorothea has always been, shall we say, a trifle dotty, but this must have absolutely taken her to the limit," Freddy continued. "What shall I do, Heath? I can't stand to think that Kit will be involved in all this!"

  "You mean you can't stand the talk that will be going around, eh?"

  "That's mean, Heath. Please don't hurt me so."

  "But isn't it the truth?"

  Freddy knew it was, yet somewhere deep inside she knew also that she had an affection for her niece, a love that was equally strong.

  "I don't want her to go down this path of life," Freddy said. "Shouldn't I reconcile with her? Bring her back under my roof where I might be of some influence?"

  "That would be foolish," said Sloate.

  "But why?"

  "You must remain firm."

  Nodding, Freddy said, "I suppose I must."

  "Of course you must. You will understand when I tell you my news."

  "Oh, please do, dear!"

  "I have been busy these last few days. First, I want you to know that I have talked to a well-placed city councilman regarding the lovely g
reenbelt in memory of Jasper's accomplishments. I can assure you, without reservation, that you will see Jasper properly honored for all posterity."

  "Oh, Heath! Thank you, thank you!" Tears of joy sprang to her eyes.

  "It is my pleasure, dear one. I know what that means to you, and while I cannot entertain the notion that I should replace Jasper in your affections, I can at least hope that I should attain one small measure of fondness within your heart."

  Freddy could not contain herself any longer. She rose from her chair, went to him, and embraced the only part of him she could encircle—his head. "Don't you worry, Heath, my darling. You have found that place in my heart already. Now and forevermore."

  She realized at once she might be suffocating him and stepped back. Indeed, he took in a deep breath. "I am giddy with delight," he said flatly.

  "And what other news do you have?"

  He rose, walked to the mantel, and leaned upon it. "I have been to see the District Attorney."

  "Whatever for?"

  "I know one thing about our D.A. for certain, and that is that he is tired of losing to Earl Rogers. So I asked him to appoint me as special prosecutorial counsel for this case."

  Freddy's heart began to beat faster. "You don't mean . . . Kit . . ."

  "I do, Freddy. For all concerned, it is best that Rogers be stopped dead in his tracks, and your niece along with him. Then she may see the light."

  It sounded so hard to Freddy, yet somehow unavoidable. Yes, Heath was right, as usual. She would have to stay the course.

  "I hope it won't break her spirit," Freddy sighed.

  "I hope it will do just that," said Sloate. "Without that, there can be no correction. And giving her aid and comfort, my dear, would be the worst thing you could do. Besides . . ." He leaned toward her. "I wouldn't want your niece to come between us."

  Freddy put her hand on her chest. "But why would she?"

  "We would be at cross-purposes, and that would be intolerable. Freddy, let us be adult about this. It is fast becoming time to solemnize our companionship. In fact, I thought as I drove up here that after the trial is completed, it might be a fitting way to celebrate my victory. What would you say to that, Freddy dear?"

  He was asking her to marry him! At last!

  "Oh, Heath . . ."

  "But let us keep it a secret until then, eh?"

  "Yes, Heath, yes. Whatever you say, dear, I shall do."

  ———

  "And so we go to war," Earl Rogers said.

  They were all gathered in his office—Kit, Bill Jory, Luther Brown—and for the first time in her life, Kit was going to be part of a criminal trial team.

  Or was she?

  Even before being summoned into Rogers' chamber, Kit knew he was expecting her to play a pivotal role in the preparation of the defense of Ted Fox. Now she faced the question she had been trying to avoid—could she undertake defense of someone she believed could be guilty?

  That was what she had been contemplating ever since the arrest. It all made sense, fit into a pattern. Ted had a darkness somewhere inside him, and Kit had been warned about it. His odd behavior the night he came to the office. His unwillingness to share information. Though Kit believed in the presumption of innocence, a standard for the jury, she was under no such compulsion as a lawyer or a person. She could not deny her own mind.

  It tore at her, this belief. Because inside her was that part that had been drawn to Ted Fox, that had seen something in him that was strong and visionary. She did not want him to be guilty, but she could not deny the circumstances.

  One of those was his admission that he had done something when "not of sound mind." What did he mean by that? Was it possible he was really insane?

  Kit remembered her class in criminal law and the so-called M'Naghton Rule. In 1843, in England, a man named Daniel M'Naghton shot and killed one Edward Drummond, private secretary to Sir Robert Peel. M'Naghton thought Peel was heading a conspiracy to kill him, and shot Drummond because he mistakenly thought him to be Peel. M'Naghton claimed at his trial that he was delusional, and the jury found him not guilty by reason of insanity.

  There was outrage over the verdict, and the House of Lords eventually enacted a rule, named for the M'Naghton case, for a defense based on insanity. That rule stated that the defendant must suffer a diseased mind so that at the time of the act he did not know the nature of the act or that the act was wrong.

  Did Ted suffer from a diseased mind? It certainly didn't seem so. He was lucid, aware, and able to get along with people. Though there seemed to be much talk these days about "split personalities," as in the Jekyll and Hyde story, Kit knew this could not yet be proven in open court.

  Nor did it seem possible that Ted didn't know that what he was doing was wrong. His behavior at her office indicated he knew he was in trouble. That awareness cut against a claim of moral unawareness. So insanity was probably not going to fly as a defense, which meant that Ted Fox was probably guilty and . . .

  Rogers' voice broke through her thoughts. "Kit, where are you?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Well, listen. This is crucial."

  "Yes, sir."

  "So far we know the cops have an eyewitness who is going to say he or she saw Fox leaving Millie Ryan's room the night she was murdered. We have to find out who that witness is. I have a feeling it's one of the crib girls."

  Another prostitute. That would make sense. They were always on the street, in doorways. They saw things in the night.

  "We have to find out," Rogers continued, "because that's going to be half the case. We have to prepare to take that witness apart."

  Almost involuntarily, Kit said, "What if she's telling the truth?"

  Silence. Jory, Brown, and Rogers exchanged glances. "That doesn't matter," Rogers said finally.

  "How can the truth not matter?" Kit said.

  "The truth is for the jury. Our job is to defeat the prosecution."

  "But—"

  "Do you have an objection to that?" Rogers' voice was cold and hard as steel.

  Did she? Yes, somewhere inside, she did have that problem.

  "Well?" Rogers said.

  Kit felt the eyes of the three men boring holes in her. "I want to know what really happened," she said. And then she stood up. "If that's not good enough, Mr. Rogers, then I shall take my leave."

  For a long moment it seemed to Kit that Rogers would dismiss her then and there. His hands were balled into fists and resting on his desk. His blue eyes were intense. Then he stood.

  "Don't be rash," he said. "Tell you what. You want to know what really happened? You want the truth?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you go down to the jail. See if you can get any more out of Fox than I've been able to. Maybe you're the one to do it. Go over the sequence of events with him. Look into his eyes. Then report back to me."

  Her throat felt dry. Face Ted Fox? Take a statement? Yes, that is what he was challenging her to do. She had dared Rogers, and he had thrown it back at her. If she was really interested in the truth, as she had said, then now was the time to prove it. That, or quit right now and get her ticket back to New York.

  "I'll see him," Kit said.

  ———

  The Los Angeles County Jail was a stern, four-story building of gray granite blocks with barred windows set in narrow recesses. It sat on Temple Street near Broadway, across the street from the courthouse. It was a short walk from the offices of Earl Rogers.

  Kit trembled slightly as she entered the front doors, drawing looks from uniformed sheriff's deputies, who no doubt wondered about her business here. She approached the deputy who sat at the duty desk. He was casually reading a newspaper and did not look up when she reached him.

  "Excuse me?" she said.

  The deputy raised his head. He was an older man with a bushy gray mustache sprouting under a bulbous, pink nose. "Visitors through that door," he said, then returned to his paper.

  "I am not a visitor," Kit said.
>
  "What's that?"

  "I am here to see a client."

  He looked up again. "You're a woman," he said.

  "I work for Earl Rogers."

  A slight flush came to his face, his cheeks now matching his nose in coloration. "I don't believe it," he said.

  "You may believe it," she said and handed him the letter Rogers had given her just before she left his office. It was his written assurance of her employment.

  The deputy read it and shook his head. "Don't know what this world is coming to," he muttered. "Women coming in here to conduct business!"

  "May I see Theodore Fox, please?"

  The deputy was still muttering when he led Kit to a small room at the end of a hall. She entered and sat on a hard wooden chair at a spare table. Ten minutes later the same deputy let Ted Fox into the room and said, "I'll give you thirty minutes."

  Kit said, "I'll notify you when I am finished."

  That brought a grumble this time, and then the door slammed.

  Ted Fox, steel shackles on his hands, garbed in the colorless coveralls of the jail, stood before her. "Why are you here?" he said.

  "Why don't you sit down, Mr. Fox?" Kit did not like the way her voice sounded. Official. Unfriendly. But she couldn't be familiar with him, not now.

  "I prefer to stand."

  "I am here to ask you some questions."

  "Why?"

  "Because that's my job."

  "How much is my mother paying Rogers?"

  "I don't know."

  "Got to be ten thousand at least."

  "Ted . . . Mr. Fox, I have to ask you—"

  "How do you like it?"

  Kit looked at him quizzically.

  Ted said, "The ugly side of life."

  Why was he saying this? He seemed aloof, even angry at her presence. "I'm here to help," she said.

  "You shouldn't be here at all. This is not the place for you."

  "Well, I am here. And I'm not going until I get some answers."

  For a brief moment Ted's face softened, and she saw in his eyes the illumination she had seen the night she first met him. But then the flickering light faded as if doused by a bucket of water. "All right," he said. "Do what you have to do and then leave."