While Mrs. Hardy paid the cabman, I hurried inside the building housing the SPCA. Upon entering the second-floor office, I found Ricardo Ruiz shouting at Mr. Dinwitty, who, although cowed by this tongue-lashing, appeared to be doing his best to stand up to the fiery Mexican aristocrat. Behind Ruiz stood a uniformed policeman, along with the same two brawny men who seemed to accompany their employer everywhere.
Mr. Dinwitty’s wife, Celestia, was seated at a nearby desk, her dark green ensemble once again styled more formally than the circumstances would seem to warrant. Her oversize hat was an unbecoming shade of olive green and looked as if someone had tossed an assortment of flowers, feathers, and one or two stuffed birds onto it in no particular order for decoration. Her round, fleshy face peered out from beneath this garish chapeau, bearing its usual expression of arrogant disapproval. As usual, she held her small brown dog tightly to her bosom, where it regarded us all with distrustful, beady black eyes. About half a dozen society workers and volunteers were clustered around the back of the room, as if trying to get as far away from Señor Ruiz and his thugs as possible.
When Mr. Dinwitty caught sight of me, his expression became one of profound relief. “Miss Woolson, I am so grateful to see you. Will you please explain to—”
Before he could finish speaking, the police constable stepped in front of me. “I’m sorry, miss, but this office is temporarily closed. If you’ll please return later, I’m sure they will be able to help you at that time.”
“Officer, this is Miss Sarah Woolson,” Dinwitty protested. “She is the society’s attorney.”
The young police officer looked from the tall, nervous man, to Señor Ruiz, and finally back to me. “An attorney?” he asked in considerable surprise. “But she’s a woman.”
“How astute of you, Officer,” I replied, unable to mask my sarcasm. I was growing infinitely weary of having to justify my legal credentials. “Despite my gender, I am a licensed attorney in the state of California. As Mr. Dinwitty stated, I am representing this society in their efforts to prevent a bullring from being constructed in San Francisco.”
Mrs. Dinwitty snorted with indignation. “On that score, at least, Miss Woolson is correct,” she proclaimed. Her agitation caused the small dog in her lap to commence barking. “This man plans to debase our city by constructing a vile arena dedicated to violence and the slaughter of innocent animals.”
“My dear, please,” her husband said, moving to where his wife was sitting. Placing a tentative hand on her shoulder, he attempted to quiet both her and the dog. “Miss Woolson will take this situation in hand, I am sure.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Bernard,” his wife snapped, trying unsuccessfully to quiet her dog. “The police do not even recognize her as a legitimate attorney. I warned you that hiring this woman to represent us was a mistake, but you would insist—”
“Please, ma’am,” the policeman said, eyeing the dog with distaste. “Can you make him stop barking?”
While Mrs. Dinwitty murmured soothing words to her pet, I noticed that Ricardo Ruiz did not look pleased to see me here. For a moment intense anger showed on his handsome face, only to be squelched almost instantly. Assuming a smile so insincere that it would not have fooled a five-year-old child, he removed his hat and bowed respectfully.
“Ah, the beautiful Señorita Woolson, what a delightful surprise to see you again. Unfortunately, as you can see, I am presently occupied on a matter of business which need not concern you.”
“I beg to differ with you, Señor Ruiz,” I said coolly. “Your business with this society is of considerable concern to me, as I’m the legal representative of the SPCA.” I turned my attention to the policeman, who continued to glare at the dog in Mrs. Dinwitty’s lap. “Would you kindly give me your name, Officer, as well as why you have accompanied Señor Ruiz to this office?”
The young man shot Ruiz a perplexed look, as if not sure whether or not to respond to my questions. At Ruiz’s curt nod, he said, “I’m Rodney Kimball, miss. Mr. Ruiz has accused this group of bullying people to sign the petitions they’ve been taking all over town.”
“Bullying people?” I asked incredulously.
I stared at Mr. Dinwitty, who was anxiously wringing his hands. His wife uttered a cry of outrage, causing the dog she was holding to once again begin its dreadful yapping.
“No, no, absolutely not!” Mr. Dinwitty proclaimed. “I assure you, Miss Woolson, that we have done no such thing. Each and every name on our petitions has been lawfully obtained, without any coercion on our part.” He motioned to the people standing in the back of the room. “Please, ask our volunteers. They will tell you they have followed my instructions to the letter.”
I studied the one man and eight women standing at the back of the room and had to repress a smile. Accusing any of these well-dressed, middle-aged matrons of coercion was ludicrous in the extreme. As for the gentleman, he was slightly built, gray-haired, and well into his sixties. He looked as if he would have a difficult time taking a cookie away from a baby.
“These are the people who have been circulating the petitions?” I asked.
Mr. Dinwitty nodded, undoubtedly guessing the direction of my thoughts. “Indeed they are. I am proud to say that these fine volunteers have worked tirelessly to collect the signatures of individuals opposed to the bullring.” He picked up a pile of papers from his desk. “So far, we have exceeded our goal.”
Ricardo Ruiz grabbed for the petitions, but Mr. Dinwitty was too quick for him, hastily returning them to his desk.
“If you refuse to turn those worthless papers over to me immediately, you will leave me with no choice but to have you arrested,” Ruiz threatened. He nodded to the policeman, who took a step forward.
“One moment please, Officer Kimball,” I said, blocking his path to my clients. “Before you do anything rash, I would like to speak to the people who are bringing these charges against the society. Are they here with you, Señor Ruiz?”
He hesitated only a moment, then indicated that the complainants were waiting downstairs. At my request, he ordered one of his burly guards to bring them up to the office. Despite his bluster, he did not appear happy to do so, which gave me hope that the matter might be more readily settled than he had let on.
It was a sad little group that straggled upstairs some minutes later. Ricardo Ruiz must have been truly desperate to attempt such an outrageous ploy, I thought. The accusers consisted of three frightened older women and a wide-eyed boy of about sixteen. They were all poorly dressed in clothes that were little better than rags. The soles of the boy’s shoes were held together with strings, and his mop of tangled hair hadn’t been washed in heaven knew how long. The women ranged in age from early forties to perhaps sixty or older; they were so thin and bedraggled that it was difficult to venture an accurate guess. All four appeared frightened and confused, as if they weren’t sure why they were standing here in a room full of strangers.
“This is patently ridiculous,” Mrs. Dinwitty proclaimed. Her pale eyes roamed disdainfully over the motley band. Once again, her dreadful little dog punctuated her words with another outburst of barking. “These are people you have taken off the street, Señor Ruiz. You cannot expect us to believe a word they utter.”
“My dear,” her husband said, trying to calm his wife. “Let us allow Miss Woolson to handle this.”
“Bah!” the woman declared, subjecting me to a withering look and ignoring her noisy pet. “She is not qualified to handle a—”
Officer Kimball appeared to have had enough. “Ma’am, if you cannot keep that dog quiet, I will have to ask you to leave the room.” Although his back was to me as he faced Mrs. Dinwitty, there must have been something in his face that, for once, cut the woman’s words off short. She began shushing her dog, rocking it in her arms as if it were a small child. I silently applauded Officer Kimball and made a mental note to mention him to George Lewis.
“Tell the policeman your stories,” Ruiz tersely instructed
the shabby assortment of litigants once the incessant yapping had stopped. He nodded toward one of the women, indicating that she was to begin first.
The unfortunate soul looked from Ruiz to the policeman, then to the rest of the people in the room, her expression so anxious that I was afraid she might dissolve into tears.
“Go on,” Ruiz prompted when she lowered her eyes to stare at the floor. “You can speak, can you not, woman?”
“Señor Ruiz, the poor soul is terrified,” I chastised him. “Perhaps we should begin with the boy.”
The youngster started at this. “I, ah,” he began, staring uncertainly at Officer Kimball as if he had never been this close to a policeman before. Or if he had, that it had not been a pleasant encounter.
“Take your time, young man,” I told the lad. “The officer will not harm you. Just tell us your story truthfully and all will be well.”
He looked at me as if he wanted to believe my reassurances but was too hardened by a lifetime of brutal survival to accept the word of a stranger.
“Come on, boy,” Ruiz said, losing what little remained of his patience. “Spit it out. What did these people do to you?”
“They brung me that paper to sign,” the lad said, pointing a dirty finger at the petitions lying on Dinwitty’s desk. His voice was so soft that even though I stood not three feet away, I had difficulty catching the words.
“And did you put your name to it?” Ruiz persisted.
“I dunno how to write,” the boy admitted, lowering his face to the floor.
“¡Madre de Dios!” said Ruiz. “So what happened then?”
The boy shuffled from one foot to the other. “The gent said if I didn’t make my mark, he’d settle my hash good an’ proper.”
In obvious frustration, Ruiz picked up the boy’s right hand and, pushing back his torn and filthy sleeve, revealed a jagged cut that ran from his wrist halfway up to his elbow. The wound appeared fresh and was still oozing a small amount of blood. It also looked very dirty and likely to fester if not cleaned immediately.
“Did he do this to you?” Ruiz demanded. “Did this ‘gent’ cut your arm?”
The boy nodded without raising his face. Señor Ruiz jerked him forward until his arm was practically beneath Officer Kimball’s nose. The policeman bent over and examined the wound.
“You say someone from this office used a knife to force you to sign the petition?” he asked.
Once again the lad nodded, keeping his eyes lowered.
“Could you identify this man if you saw him again?” Kimball asked.
The boy hesitated a moment before answering. “I, ah, guess so.”
Kimball turned the lad around so that he had a clear view of the entire room. “Do you see him here? Raise your face, boy. We haven’t got all day.”
The frightened lad looked as if he might burst into tears, but he dutifully looked around the room. At last, he raised a hand and pointed at the elderly man standing with the women at the back of the office.
“That there’s the gent what cut me,” he said softly, instantly dropping his eyes back to the floor.
The accused man gasped and took a step forward. “I have never seen this boy,” he cried. “I didn’t injure him. I don’t even carry a knife.”
“Officer,” Ruiz said, “you’ve heard the boy’s story. Either make these people turn over their so-called petitions, or arrest them all for assault.”
“Wait a moment, Officer,” I said, placing a restraining hand on his arm. I turned to the boy. “Young man, you have made a very serious accusation, and we must make certain that you aren’t mistaken. Now, what is your name?”
“Henry, ma’am,” he answered in a small voice, still unable to meet my eyes.
“All right, Henry,” I said, trying to make my tone reassuring. The boy glanced quickly at the door, as if wanting nothing more than to be out of this room. “You say that Mr.…” I looked questioningly at the gray-haired gentleman at the back of the room.
“Alfred Jenson,” the man replied, eyeing the boy in considerable distress. “I assure you that I have never injured another person in my entire life. Most particularly not that boy!”
“Yes, Mr. Jenson, I’m sure you haven’t,” I told the man calmly. Turning back to the boy, I said, “Now, Henry, please tell me where you were when you encountered Mr. Jenson.”
The lad looked at me in confusion. “Huh?”
“Where did you meet Mr. Jenson, Henry?” I said, rephrasing my question.
He still looked confused. Darting a panicked look at Ruiz, he finally mumbled, “I dunno. I was on the street.”
“Which street, Henry?” I persisted. “Surely you can remember where you met the person who made that terrible cut on your arm. It must have been quite painful.”
“I swarn it hurt like a son of a—”
“Yes, I’m sure it did,” I interjected hastily. “If you can’t remember exactly where it happened, Henry, perhaps you can tell us when you received that terrible cut?”
Henry rubbed at his wound, wincing a bit and causing it to start bleeding afresh. “It were yesterday morning,” he said, looking again at Ruiz as if seeking approval for having the answer to this question, at least.
“Yesterday morning, you say. Hmmm.” I picked up his arm and studied the wound, turning it this way and that, watching the blood bubble out of the cut to run down his hand and onto the floor. I reached into my reticule and withdrew my handkerchief, which I used to cover the wound. “That’s interesting, Henry. This cut appears remarkably fresh to have been inflicted twenty-four hours ago. Wouldn’t you agree, Officer Kimball?”
He leaned over Henry’s arm, nodded thoughtfully, then stood up and looked the boy in the eye. “Look here, son, lying to the police is a serious matter. You don’t want to land in jail, do you? Now let’s have the truth. When did you get this cut? And who gave it to you?”
The boy’s face had turned pale, and beads of perspiration had appeared on his forehead. “I, ah…” He looked in panic from Officer Kimball to Señor Ruiz, then stammered, “I g-gotta go.” Before anyone could stop him, he turned and ran out the door and down the stairs.
Ruiz said something in Spanish beneath his breath, but when one of his henchmen started after the boy, he told him not to bother.
“Obviously, the guttersnipe lied to me as well,” he told Kimball, putting on a show of righteous indignation. “But these ladies will bear witness to the devious methods this society has used to obtain their fraudulent signatures.”
“Will you, ladies?” I asked, regarding each of the women in turn. “Are you prepared to tell the truth? Please remember that this is a society dedicated to protecting the homeless and stray animals of this city. The reason that they are protesting Señor Ruiz’s bullring is that it will result in the deaths of many innocent animals. And as Officer Kimball told the boy, it is against the law to lie to the police.”
I waited a moment to allow my words to sink in, then let my gaze rest on the first woman, the oldest of the group. “What is your name, madam?”
The woman fidgeted, stole a look at the woman next to her, then opened her thin mouth to reveal a row of missing teeth. “I’m Mrs. Lila Murphy, an’ I ain’t no liar.”
“I am very pleased to hear that, Mrs. Murphy,” I said. “Now, would you please tell us why you are accusing a member of the SPCA of bullying you into signing their petition?”
“I, ah, don’t know how to read, or write, neither,” she said haltingly. “Told ’em so, too.”
“You said this to the person who asked you to sign the petition?” I asked. “Was it a man or a woman?”
“It, ah, were a woman.”
“Do you see that woman here in this office?”
She didn’t even bother to look around. “No. She ain’t here.”
“Well, then, can you describe her?”
“No. Don’t remember.”
“Was she young or old?”
“Don’t remember.”
“She got all huffy, she did. Pushed me right down onto my bum. Then she made me put an ‘x’ on the paper.”
“Did anyone see this woman push you?” I persisted.
“Nobody weren’t around,” she said, her weak eyes darting nervously from me to Ruiz and then to Officer Kimball.
“I see. Did you sustain any bumps, or bruises, when you fell to the ground?”
“If I did, I sure as hell ain’t showin’ ’em to you,” she replied in a huff.
“Mrs. Murphy,” I said coolly, “you have told us a story about an attack that no one witnessed, perpetrated by a woman you can neither name nor describe, in a location you cannot remember, resulting in wounds you refuse to display.” I eyed her steadily. “Are you certain you want to swear to this story? In a court of law? Please remember that the penalty for perjury is prison.”
She blanched. “I don’t want no trouble.” She moved away from Ricardo Ruiz. “He didn’t say nothin’ about goin’ to prison.”
Officer Kimball’s face darkened. “Are you saying that this man put you up to telling that story?”
The elderly woman, tiny to begin with, seemed to shrink even farther into herself. “I don’t want no trouble,” she said again. “It don’t matter what happened. No, no, don’t matter at all.”
Ruiz was regarding the woman with ill-disguised fury, but he said nothing. Kimball was looking at the three remaining women, all of whom bore the expressions of frightened rabbits.
“And what do you ladies have to say for yourselves?” he asked tersely.
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 25
