Clint Adams, Detective

by J. R. Roberts

  “By all accounts, John Taylor is going to hang.”

  “Not if we can help it.”

  “What do you expect my brother to do?”

  “Help us.”

  “He’s young and inexperienced.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  She closed her hand over his arm more tightly.

  “I’m very protective of my brother, Mr. Adams,” she said. He was surprised at her strength. “I wouldn’t want anyone to get him into something where he was over his head.”

  “Believe me, Miss Orwell—”

  “Wait a minute,” she said, pulling him to a stop. She yanked on him and turned him to face her. “Did you tell him that story about my father knowing Mark Twain was true?”

  “Sam Clemens assured me that he knew your father, Miss Orwell,” Clint told her.

  “My father was a notorious liar.”

  “Sam isn’t.”

  “He tells stories for a living.”

  “He writes fiction,” Clint said. “That’s not the same as lying.”

  She stepped back and folded her arms. There was a spray of freckles across her nose. Her mouth was wide and lovely and she had a long, graceful neck. Clint thought he would much rather have been in bed with her than arguing with her on the street. He wanted to know Melanie the woman, not Melanie the older sister.

  “This is still not right,” she said.

  “Miss Orwell—”

  “Oh, you better start calling me Melanie,” she said.

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”

  “We are?”

  “I’m not about to let my brother get in deep water with you and Mark Twain without me there to look out for him,” she said.

  “Then you’ll be there at nine tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll be there every morning, Mr. Adams,” Melanie said. “You’re not going to be able to get rid of me.”

  “Melanie,” he said, “nothing could be further from my mind.”

  FOURTEEN

  Clint didn’t think he’d make it, but he got to court in time and sat in the back of the gallery. Up front he could see John Taylor from the back, and he was wearing new clothes. He glanced over at the twelve jurors, and it was pretty obvious they noticed the change. A few rows farther up he also saw the back of Sam Clemens’s head. The shock of unruly white hair was hard not to notice.

  Finally, he saw young Orwell sitting next to John Taylor. Every so often their heads would move together and they’d exchange a few words.

  Finally, the judge entered and the bailiff called for them to all rise.

  The judge’s name was Walter Barnhill. He was in his sixties and had some impressive white locks of his own. He seated himself on the bench, donned a pair of wire-framed glasses, and stared out at the assemblage before him.

  “Before we start, I understand we have a dignitary in the gallery, Mr. Mark Twain. Sir, I’m sure we all appreciate the interest you’re taking in this case, and we thank you for your attendance.”

  A murmur went through the half of the crowd who hadn’t realized he was there. Clemens only raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  “I understand we have new counsel for the defense?” His Honor asked. “A new motion?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Orwell said. “My name is Clark Orwell, and I will be assisting in Mr. Taylor’s offense from this point on.”

  “Assisting?” Barnhill touched his glasses. “Then who will be running the defense, Mr. Orwell?”

  “Uh, Your Honor, that would be Mr. Taylor himself.”

  “The defendant wishes to defend himself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barnhill looked at Taylor. His eyebrows were up, as if he noticed for the first time the change in John Taylor’s dress.

  “Mr. Taylor, please stand.”

  Taylor obeyed.

  “Is this true? You wish to take over your defense yourself?”

  “It’s true, Your Honor.”

  Barnhill leaned forward now, with interest. Clint wondered if this was the first time the judge had heard Taylor speak.

  “Young man, are you familiar with the adage that any man who defends himself has a fool for a client?”

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  “Well, think it over, son. Do you have a degree I am unaware of?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I do.”

  That surprised the judge.

  “A law degree?” the older man asked.

  “No, sir, my degree is in engineering. I do not have a law degree.”

  “Then why would you want to defend yourself?”

  “Your Honor, if it pleases the court,” Taylor said, proof that he had been listening during the trial, “no one believes in my innocence as much as I do.”

  Barnhill cleared his throat and said, “Well, that may be true, but . . .”

  “Your Honor, at this time I’d like to motion for a recess so I can prepare my defense.”

  “Mr. Taylor, you don’t want a recess, you want a postponement.”

  “Uh, yes, Your Honor.”

  Barnhill slammed his gavel down.

  “Can’t have one,” he said. “This trial has been going on too long as it is.” He looked at his gavel then and muttered, “Best part of this job.”

  “Your Honor—”

  “But I do understand that you’ll need time to confer with your new, ah, associate,” Barnhill said. “I’ll give you until this time tomorrow. So you see, Mr. Taylor, you will have a recess . . . for twenty-four hours.”

  “Your Honor, I protest.” The prosecutor, Louis Whitley, jumped to his feet.

  “What do you protest, Mr. Whitley?”

  “This is . . . unheard of. This man can’t defend himself. He’s not educated—”

  “But he is, Mr. Whitley. You heard the man himself say he has an engineering degree. He may not be a lawyer, but he’s educated.”

  “But . . . but . . .”

  “Mr. Whitley, it doesn’t appear to me that you’ve been losing this case,” the judge said. “Do you seriously think having Mr. Taylor take over his own defense is going to make your job harder?”

  “Well, er, no, sir—”

  “Then shut up.” He banged his gavel again. “Everybody back here nine tomorrow morning . . . sharp!” He slammed his gavel a final time, stood up, and left.

  The court was stunned, and Clint didn’t know if it was the recess, Clemens’s presence, the change in Taylor’s appearance, or the fact that he had been able to speak so intelligently.

  Clint stood and moved against the tide to make his way to the defense table. At one point he passed the prosecutor, who was berating his assistant for not knowing that this was going to happen. He wanted to tell the man that no one knew it was going to happen until he came on the scene and, on the spur of the moment, fired Taylor’s defense attorney and started this whole business in motion.

  When he reached Taylor and Orwell, Clemens had already joined them.

  “You did fine, John,” Clemens was saying, “just fine.”

  “Thank you, sir. Hey, Mr. Adams.”

  Clint came forward and shook Taylor’s hand.

  “You did great, J.T.,” Clint said, “and so did you, Clark.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Clark, I’m—” Clemens began, but Orwell cut him off.

  “I know who you are, sir,” the young man said, shaking the writer’s hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Where’s Melanie?” Clint asked Orwell.

  “Melanie?” Clemens asked.

  “My sister,” Orwell said. He looked at Clint. “She wanted to come and I stopped her. I think she’ll be waiting outside, though.”

  “His sister wants to keep an eye on us,” Clint explained to Clemens. “So we don’t lead her little brother down the garden path.”

  “She sounds like a fine girl,” Clemens said.

  “You’re not going to get away with
this!”

  The words came from behind Clint, and when he turned he saw that the prosecutor, Whitley, had returned.

  “Get away with what, sir?” Clemens asked.

  “This . . . parlor trick. It’s not going to work. You can dress him up all you want, and teach him to talk—”

  “Mr. Whitley,” Taylor said, “no one taught me to talk. If you’d bothered to have a conversation with me at any point—”

  “I don’t talk to murderers,” Whitley said. “I put them in jail.”

  “Mr. Whitley, is it?” Clemens asked. “This is very unseemly—”

  “And I’m surprised at you, Mr. Twain,” Whitley said. “Letting yourself be . . . be tricked into—”

  “I wasn’t tricked into anything, sir,” Clemens said.

  “Fact is, Mr. Taylor here is a friend of my family and I happen to think he’s innocent.”

  Whitley regarded them all for a moment, sputtering, then finally said, “This is madness,” and stormed off. By this time the courtroom was empty. As he went out the door, Melanie Orwell appeared in it and waved to her brother.

  “Excuse me,” he said. Then to Taylor, “We’re going to talk before they take you back to your cell.”

  Taylor looked around at the lawmen who were surrounding him—three of them waiting to take him out—and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  As Orwell went up the aisle to talk to his sister, Taylor asked Clint, “Is he any good?”

  “He’s young, and hungry,” Clint said. “And he knows the law.”

  “I knew his father,” Clemens said, “as I knew yours. I think you’ll make a good team.”

  “I hope you’re right, sir.”

  “Did you see the jury?” Clint asked Taylor. “Already they have a whole new picture of you.”

  “That’s good,” Taylor said, “because the other picture they have in their heads is of me killing a white woman.”

  “We’ll get that out of their heads, if we haven’t already done it,” Clemens said. He looked at his vest watch. “I have a meeting to attend. Clint, I’d like to have dinner with you and young Orwell. LuLu Belle’s at seven?”

  “Sure,” Clint said. “I’ll tell him.”

  “Don’t worry, lad,” Clemens said to Taylor. “We’re a team now.”

  As Clemens went up the aisle, pausing only to be introduced to Melanie, Taylor said to Clint, “Do you know what I say to that?”

  “What?”

  “Why?”

  FIFTEEN

  “Why?” Sam Clemens looked confused.

  “That’s what he asked me.”

  “He asked why I said we are a team now?”

  “He doesn’t understand why you’ve suddenly come forward to help him,” Clint said.

  “It’s not sudden,” Clemens said. “I paid that idiot Wainwright.”

  “I told him you wanted to help him because you knew his father, but I don’t think he felt that was reason enough.”

  “So what does he think?”

  Clint hesitated, then said, “Sam, I’m afraid he thinks you’re doing it for the publicity.”

  “Publicity?” Clemens barked. “What the hell kind of publicity does he think I can get from this, except bad?”

  Clint shrugged.

  “I’m just telling you what he told me, and the feeling I got from it,” he explained. “If you want to clarify it, maybe you should talk to him yourself.”

  “Maybe I should,” Clemens said. “Damn fool kid. Try to help him and he looks a gift horse in the mouth.”

  “Well, look at it from his point of view,” Clint said. “He’s all alone, no family, nobody to turn to. Wainwright never told him who was paying him, right?”

  “That’s right,” Clemens said. “That was part of the deal, that he keep my involvement quiet.”

  “So now suddenly Wainwright’s gone, Orwell shows up, you, me . . . It’s natural he’s got some questions, wonders what the hell is going on.”

  “Okay,” Clemens said, “I see your point. I’ll have a talk with lad. Now, what is this about Orwell’s sister?”

  “Well, she’s another one with questions,” Clint said. “I think she thinks we’re trying to take advantage of him somehow.”

  “Advantage? We’re payin’ him, givin’ him a chance to be involved in the biggest murder trial this town has ever seen—”

  “Yeah, well, I think she’s worried about what defending John Taylor might do to his reputation.”

  “It’ll make him, that’s what it’ll do,” Clemens said. “Goddamn women . . . If she was here now, I’d tell her a thing or two about—”

  “Here’s your chance,” Clint said, looking past Clemens.

  “Wha—” Clemens turned in his chair and saw Clark Orwell approaching, with Melanie right behind him.

  “What the hell is she doin’ here?” Clemens demanded. “I told you I wanted to have dinner with you and the lawyer. I didn’t say anythin’ about her.”

  “Well, here’s your chance to ask her yourself,” Clint said.

  Clemens had something else to say, but he had to cut it off, stand, and smile as the woman approached. Clint also stood.

  “What a surprise,” Clemens said. “Hello, Miss Orwell.”

  “I tried to stop her,” Orwell confessed. “Honest.”

  “Nonsense,” Melanie said. “I told Clark you gentlemen wouldn’t mind if a lady joined you.”

  “Well,” Clemens said, “we are goin’ to be discussin’ matters that might not be suitable—”

  “Mr. Clemens,” Melanie said, with a laugh, “you are so cute.”

  “Ma’am?” Clemens said, not sure he’d heard her correctly.

  “I’m sure there’s nothin’ you gentlemen could discuss that would shock me. I am, after all, a modern woman.”

  This was evident in the way she dressed. When she removed the shawl she was wearing, she revealed her bare shoulders and bosom, which Clint found extremely disconcerting—attractive, but disconcerting in their setting.

  “Did you know that this building used to house a notorious whorehouse?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Clemens said, “as a matter of fact I did know that.” His tone said he wasn’t happy with the change.

  “Oh well, of course you did,” she said. “Look who I’m talking to.”

  She waited until finally Clint took hold of a chair and held it for her.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Orwell just looked at Clemens and shrugged helplessly.

  “Shall we order drinks?” she asked, smiling broadly.

  SIXTEEN

  It was clear to Clint that Clemens was inhibited by the presence of Melanie Orwell. For his part he would have found her a lovely and charming dinner companion under different circumstances. As it was, she was annoyingly sweet and he felt he was going to have to have a talk with her brother after this dinner. Clark was going to have to put his foot down, if he was man enough to do it—which seemed doubtful.

  Finally, Clemens had enough of her inane chatter and decided to get down to business.

  “Tell me, Miss Orwell, what seems to be the problem with Clint and I hirin’ your brother to help defend John Taylor?”

  “Oh, did Clint tell you that?”

  “Of course he did,” Clemens said. “As I told Taylor this mornin’, we’re a team now.”

  “Oh? And am I considered a member of that team?”

  “As a matter of fact, no, you are not.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Are you a lawyer?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well, we needed a lawyer, and we hired one,” Clemens said. “We did not expect to get a . . . sister in the process.”

  “A nosy sister?” she asked. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  Clemens smiled and replied, “You’ll find, Miss Orwell, that I always say what I mean.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You mean like when I walked
in and you said it was a surprise?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You meant an ‘unpleasant’ surprise, right?”

  “I meant what I said, Miss Orwell,” Clemens maintained. “Your presence here is a surprise.”

  She sat back in her chair and regarded them all.

  “I’m just trying to look out for my brother,” she said. “He’s very trusting—”

  “Your brother is a grown man,” Clemens said. “He should be able to look out for himself. You know, I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “How dare—”

  “I think Clint should leave with you, and your brother and I will stay and chat.” He looked at Clark. “What do you think of that, Mr. Orwell?”

  “Uh, I think that’s a good idea, Mr. Clemens,” he said.

  He didn’t know it, but at that moment, with that reply, he’d saved his job. If he hadn’t stepped up at that moment and stood up to his sister, Clemens would have fired him.

  “Melanie,” he said, “Mr. Adams will see you home.”

  “But, Clark—”

  “Mr. Clemens and I need to discuss strategy,” Orwell said. “And then I’ll need to see John Taylor again.” He looked at Clemens. “Can you get me in to see him in the jail this late?”

  “We’ll work it out,” Clemens said.

  Clemens looked at Clint, who had not been consulted on this decision. But he figured Clemens was laying out the money, so the shots were his to call.

  “Come on, Melanie,” Clint said, standing. “I can tell when we’re not wanted.”

  “Oh,” she said, throwing down her napkin, “you’re not fooling anybody.” But she did stand up and storm out.

  “Thanks for goin’ along with this,” Clemens said. “Meet me at the house later.”

  “I will,” Clint said, and hurried out to catch up to Melanie.

  He managed to reach her before she got too far, and convinced her to eat with him somewhere else.

  “I am hungry,” she said, grudgingly.

  “So am I,” he said. “Come on, take me to a place you like. I’ll buy and we can talk.”

  “Well,” she said, “all right. But I’m taking you someplace expensive.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Clint knew the place was going to cost him a lot. Part of the prices on the menu were for the plush furnishings, he was sure. The place was all mahogany and red velvet, and the waiters were all wearing tuxedos. It was called The Club.