“I see,” he murmured. “Would you please inform us why you have requested this hearing? Briefly, Miss Woolson. We have a full agenda this morning.”
“Of course, Mr.…”
“Shaw, Miss Woolson,” he replied a bit testily.
“Yes, Mr. Shaw. New information has come to my attention which disputes Señor Ruiz’s title to the land he claims to own in San Francisco’s Mission District.”
Having prepared myself for his outburst, I did not flinch when Ricardo Ruiz flew to his feet and unleashed an indignant stream of Spanish. No translator was required to understand that his comments were not meant to be cordial.
Mr. Shaw glared at Ruiz, demanding that his attorneys instruct him to remain quiet until he was called upon to rebut my accusations. Ruiz looked at me furiously, then finally yielded to his lawyer’s admonishments and curtly resumed his seat.
“Please continue, Miss Woolson,” he directed.
I cleared my throat. “We do not contest the fact that Señor Ruiz’s father, Javier Ruiz, purchased landholdings in southern California, as well as here in San Francisco.”
Shaw made a dismissive sound in his throat and shuffled irritably in his chair. “If Señor Ruiz’s land claim is not in question, then why are you here wasting our time, Miss Woolson?”
Once again, I suppressed my annoyance, answering calmly, “If you will allow me to continue, Mr. Shaw, I will endeavor to explain why I have requested this hearing.”
“Very well, go on,” he told me abruptly. “But take care that you confine your comments to the matter at hand. This council has no time to listen to frivolous female nattering.”
I heard a loud gasp of indignation from somewhere behind me—Mrs. Hardy’s, I suspected—and a wave of laughter and whispered comments rippled through the room, some of sympathy, far more from satisfaction that I had been put soundly in my place.
“Very well, Mr. Shaw,” I said evenly, “I shall come directly to the point. Señor Ruiz does not hold legal title to the Mission District land, where he plans to build his bullring.”
This time, the noise that filled the room was more raucous. Ruiz was again on his feet, gesturing with his arms and loudly protesting my claim in a mixture of Spanish and English. His two attorneys were attempting to calm him, while Mr. Shaw shouted to be heard over the fracas.
When he had finally regained control of the room, Shaw turned back to me. “Miss Woolson, I warned you against squandering the council’s time. Not five minutes ago you said you were not here to dispute Señor Ruiz’s land claims. Either explain yourself, or let us get on with valid city business.”
I referred to one of my papers. “I’m sure that you recall the Board of Land Commissioners, established by the United States Congress in 1851? Their job was to settle land claims inherited from the period of Mexican rule.”
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Shaw said dismissively. “What of it?”
“Under the terms of this act, any individual who claimed a title derived from the Mexican government was given five years to prove his claim.”
I looked toward Señor Ruiz, who half rose from his seat and waved a sheaf of papers at me. “And that is just what my father did. Here is proof that he was granted title to his lands.”
“Yes, señor, that is correct as far as it goes.” I opened a new file. “I have been able to locate the land claims Señor Javier Ruiz originally submitted to the Board of Land Commissioners in 1852. They were for a considerable number of acres in southern California—where I understand the Ruiz family had long maintained rancheros—along with the much smaller land parcel located here in San Francisco’s Mission District.”
“Yes, Miss Woolson,” Shaw pressed. “Please get to the point.”
“I am attempting to do just that, Mr. Shaw.” At his curt nod, I continued. “Although the Board of Land Commissioners ratified all of Señor Ruiz’s deeds, their decision was challenged by local city and county governments. Like a great number of other claimants, Señor Ruiz was forced to appeal his case to the district court, and eventually to the United States Supreme Court. It took nearly twenty years for the matter to be resolved.”
Ricardo Ruiz once again stood and waved his deeds. “You say it yourself, señorita. I hold in my hands the land claims my father was finally able to obtain after so many years of fighting your lastimoso, your pitiful court system.”
“I’m sure you do, señor,” I said before Mr. Shaw could intervene. “However, I believe if you examine the deeds, you will find that whereas the southern California property was finally ratified, the San Francisco property, located in the Mission District, was never confirmed by the Supreme Court.”
“Are you able to prove this accusation, Miss Woolson?” Shaw asked me, displaying the first glimmer of interest since I had stepped to the podium.
“I am, Mr. Shaw,” I said. “I have here documents indicating that Señor Ruiz’s father spent most of those twenty years attempting to gain legal title over his vast holdings in southern California. The land he owned here in San Francisco undoubtedly seemed insignificant by comparison, and was not as rigorously pursued.”
“Never!” Ruiz shouted before his lawyers could restrain him. “My father harbored a deep love for San Francisco.”
“That may be true, señor,” I replied equably. “However, he apparently loved his many thousands of acres in the Los Angeles area even more, because that is where he concentrated his time, and the considerable outlay of money necessary to pay for lawyers, additional surveys, court appearances, and transportation expenses to bring himself and his witnesses into this country from Mexico.”
Mr. Shaw directed his gaze to the flurry of activity going on between Señor Ruiz and his attorneys as he rifled angrily through the deeds.
“Señor Ruiz, bring me those papers. Por favor,” he added as an afterthought, and in dreadfully pronounced Spanish.
“What nonsense is this?” Ruiz demanded. “I don’t comprehend.”
One of his lawyers said something to his client, then took the documents from him, rapidly examining each one in turn. He stopped and pulled out a paper, then handed it to his fellow attorney to inspect.
“Well, Señor Ruiz?” said Shaw, watching the two men as they bent their heads over what I took to be the deed to the San Francisco property.
One of the lawyers finally explained something to his agitated client, then stood and carried the entire sheaf of documents to Mr. Shaw.
“We appear to have a small problem, Mr. Shaw,” the man said with a relaxed smile, an expression that I was certain fooled no one in the hearing room, since his face was red and glistened with nervous perspiration. “Señor Ruiz has in his possession all of the southern California deeds, as he has pointed out. However, we appear to be missing the one relating to the San Francisco holding.”
Shaw had been going through the deeds while the man spoke. Finally, he held up a heavy, slightly yellowing document.
“Here is the deed issued to Señor Javier Ruiz by the Mexican government,” he said, then pointed to the rest of the papers. “What we need to see is the deed which was eventually validated by the Supreme Court, like the rest of these.”
The lawyer gave a little chuckle, as if this were but a minor detail that could be easily resolved. “I realize this, Mr. Shaw. That is why I am requesting that we postpone this hearing for one month, to give Señor Ruiz time to locate the missing document. He fears he may have inadvertently left it at his hacienda in Mexico City.”
Mr. Shaw gave the man a sharp look, then turned to consult with his fellow council members. After several minutes, he turned back to the attorney.
“Because of the seriousness of this matter, we have decided to grant your request to postpone this hearing for one month. At that time, it will be incumbent upon Señor Ruiz to present a properly executed deed to the San Francisco property, issued by the United States of America. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the lawyer said. He reached for the
documents he had shared with the council and returned to his seat. Once again, he leaned over to explain the situation to his client, who had turned very red in the face.
“Excuse me, Mr. Shaw,” I said. “I have not yet finished presenting my evidence against Señor Ruiz’s bullring.”
Shaw glanced at me as if I were a pesky fly that refused to go away. “What is it now, Miss Woolson? This hearing has been officially postponed.”
“Before this case is held over,” I continued doggedly, “I must inform the council that I have come across evidence of adverse possession in regards to the Mission District property. This may make the question of Señor Ruiz’s locating the San Francisco deed, if it exists, a moot point.”
Shaw looked confused. “Adverse possession? What are you talking about?”
“It’s very simple, Mr. Shaw,” I told him. “Under the doctrine of adverse possession, if a person openly occupies land that belongs to someone else, and does so for a designated number of years, the title shifts to the occupier. The original owner effectively loses his right to the land.”
Once again Ruiz was on his feet, shouting out in Spanish, while his attorneys attempted more or less unsuccessfully to defuse his outburst. At the same time, the city council members had their heads together, obviously trying to digest this latest bombshell.
I continued speaking, raising my voice in order to be heard over the din. “Since Señor Javier Ruiz has been deceased for the past nine years, and his son Ricardo Ruiz has neither constructed a building on the site nor resided on the property, the land reverts by law to those individuals who have been living there, secure in the belief that the land legally belonged to them.”
The council appeared to select one of its fellows as spokesperson. “I am familiar with the doctrine of adverse possession, Miss Woolson,” said a tall, thin man seated at the far end of the table. “However, in order to use this argument, it is necessary to determine how long an individual has lived on the land in question, and if he has paid taxes on that property.”
“Yes, sir,” I agreed, pulling documents from yet another file. “In order to address that question, I have obtained files from the Hall of Records, containing details of various individuals who have resided on the property for the required five years or more, and who have also paid their taxes in a timely and orderly manner.”
The man looked surprised. “Really? I would be interested to hear what you have learned about these people, if you please, Miss Woolson.”
Starting with the small general store located on the east corner of Twenty-third and Harrison Streets—which had been there for twenty-two years—I listed the eight homes and businesses whose owners could claim they had resided on their plot of land for over five years and who had dutifully paid taxes on said land.
“I have made copies of these documents for the council,” I said. “The originals, of course, can be found in the Hall of Records.”
Closing the file, I continued, “As you can see, even if Señor Ruiz is successful in finding the properly executed deed to the San Francisco land he claims to own, it will still be impossible for him to construct a bullring, or any other edifice, for that matter, on this acreage, until the adverse possession question has been settled.”
The stir in the room grew louder, and the council members put their heads together for yet another hurried discussion.
I glanced over at Ruiz, to find him glaring at me with an expression of open malevolence on his flushed face.
“You will not stop me!” he shouted, raising his fist threateningly. “Despite your stupid laws and your female obstinacy, I will build my bullring.”
After ruling that the city council would review the information I had submitted, and instructing Señor Ruiz to find the deed to his property, if he was able, Mr. Shaw called the next case to be heard before the council, and I returned to my place.
Samuel squeezed my hand, and Mr. Dinwitty was fairly dancing in his seat with excitement and relief. Mrs. Hardy was grinning at me as if I had just been elevated to sainthood, and even Mrs. Dinwitty was smiling, one of the first satisfied expressions I had ever seen on her arrogant face.
* * *
Samuel and I arrived at the jail shortly after noon. When we were shown into Mortimer Remy’s cell, I was forced to bite my tongue. The poor man looked terrible. He had not shaved since he had been arrested, and his beard was coming in almost completely white. His eyes were sunken, his hair was uncombed, and his skin had an unhealthy pallor. He had been in jail for four days, but his appearance made it seem more like four weeks.
He insisted that I take my usual seat on his cot, while he stood with Samuel beneath the cell’s solitary barred window. We spent several minutes discussing what was happening at his newspaper in his absence, then our talk centered on his case. I related what Eddie had learned the previous day when he, Fanny, and I canvassed the streets located in the vicinity of the California Theatre.
“Some boys actually saw Aleric being struck and forced into a carriage?” he asked, astonished. “That’s wonderful news! Surely this proves that I had nothing to do with his death?”
“It might if we had any way of identifying the mysterious driver,” Samuel told him. “The boys told Eddie that it was too dark to get a good look at the man’s face.”
“But I don’t own a Dearborn carriage,” he protested. “I own no carriage at all. I never have.”
“The police must consider the possibility that you borrowed or rented one, Mr. Remy,” I said, hating myself for dampening the hope that had flickered in his tired eyes. “However, they’re going to question your neighbors today about seeing a Dearborn. It’s decorated with a distinctive design, which may make it easier to remember.”
Remy shook his head, sighed, then stiffened his spine as if determined to put up a good front. “What about my neighbors on the Hill? Has anyone come forward to say they saw me in my cottage last Wednesday night?”
“The police are interrogating everyone who resides on that side of Telegraph Hill today.” I smiled, hoping to lift his spirits while at the same time crossing my fingers that George had indeed been able to commence the search. “I am committed to knocking on every door, Mr. Remy. We shall not give up until the entire neighborhood has been queried.”
This time, Remy’s smile reached his eyes. “You are a wonder, Miss Woolson. I realize all too well that I have saddled you with an extraordinarily difficult case. As you have pointed out, the evidence against me is largely circumstantial, but it is nonetheless compelling.”
“You mustn’t give up, Mortimer,” Samuel said. He was trying his best to appear confident, but I doubt that his friend was taken in by the act.
I was struck by a sudden thought. “You know, Robert keeps saying that given the disparity of the victims, this case makes no sense. I’m beginning to believe he’s right.”
“What are you suggesting?” asked my brother.
“Everyone seems to think that you and I being shot at has nothing to do with Dunn’s, Foldger’s, and Aleric’s deaths. But they may have everything to do with them. What if we’re looking at this from the wrong perspective? I think we must go back to the beginning.”
“You mean the night of Wilde’s reading?” asked Remy.
“Exactly,” I said. “We’re missing something here, I just can’t put my finger on it. However inexplicable, that’s when it all began. If we could just—”
There was a sudden commotion in the corridor outside Remy’s cell. We heard the sound of men talking, then the door was flung open with a clang. To my surprise, George Lewis stepped inside.
“We’ve found a witness who claims to have seen two men digging a grave on Telegraph Hill last Wednesday night,” he told us without preamble.
“Who is it?” I asked, feeling a surge of hope. “What did they see?”
“It’s that Sullivan woman, the one who was wet-nursing the Dunn baby. Officer Turner got her to admit she’d seen the men last Wednesday night, then s
he panicked and slammed the door in his face. She’s locked herself and her children in that house, and refuses to have anything to do with the police.”
He looked at the two men. “Sorry about this, Samuel, Mr. Remy, but Mrs. Sullivan insists she’ll speak to no one but Miss Sarah.”
“Of course,” I agreed hastily. “We must go there at once.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” George said, looking relieved. “I’ve got the police wagon waiting outside.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
In the end, Samuel and I rode in Eddie’s brougham to Telegraph Hill. It was far more comfortable than the police wagon, and George knew that the boy was bound to follow him at any rate. Since each of the vehicles was pulled by a single horse, however, we were forced to once again park and ascend the Filbert Street Steps on foot.
Before leaving the jail, I had jotted a quick note to Robert explaining where I was going, then asked one of the officers to deliver it to him at Shepard’s law offices. I decided it was the least I could do to avoid another lecture and, I admit, to ease his mind.
I could hear the sound of Mrs. Sullivan’s boisterous children long before we reached her cottage. Requesting the men to stand back, I walked onto the cluttered porch and knocked on the door. After a few minutes, the woman’s frightened voice came from inside.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Miss Woolson, Mrs. Sullivan,” I replied. “Sergeant Lewis said you wished to speak to me.”
The door was opened the barest crack, and I could see her fearful eyes inspecting me. Satisfied that I was who I claimed to be, she pulled the door open far enough for me to squeeze inside, then quickly closed it behind me. As on the occasion of my first visit following Claude Dunn’s death, the cottage was filled with small children and several dogs, all seeming to be fighting over a rather mangy rubber ball.
“I’m that glad to see you, Miss Woolson,” she said, clearing a path toward the only two chairs in the room. “Them police came here again, askin’ more questions.”
Death on Telegraph Hill Page 32
