Two spots of color appeared on either cheek. “Jack never knew who owned the shop. Paddy McGuire ran things. In fact, I think he was the one who nailed the door shut. Another man came in every couple of weeks to check up on things. Jack never knew his name, neither, but thought maybe he was the owner.”
“Have you spoken to Mr. McGuire?”
“Just once. Claims he don’t know who owns the shop. He says the fire did him out of a job, too.”
“Did your husband ever describe this man he thought might be the owner?”
She considered a moment. “He said he was big and always smokin’ a cigar. Oh, and he wore a bowler hat too small for his head. Jack used to laugh at that.” This simple memory brought fresh tears to her eyes.
Not much to go on, I thought. The description fit half of San Francisco’s male population. If the story about the back door being nailed shut was true, we might have grounds to sue the sweatshop for criminal negligence. First I’d have to search for legal precedents, then we’d have to locate the owner of the shop, which might not prove easy. The men who held title to these places were reluctant to have their names known.
“When is your baby due, Mrs. Mankin?”
“In three months.”
“How much money do you have left to support your family?”
“I can pay my rent for another week—and buy bread and milk. After that, we’ll be out on the street.”
“I trust it won’t come to that,” I said, giving her what I hoped was a supportive smile. “I can’t promise anything, but I give you my word I’ll do everything possible to ensure that you and your children are taken care of.”
The smile she gave me in return warmed my heart and at the same time chilled the part of my brain that recognized the difficulties I’d be facing. She was frightened enough without my explaining how hard assigning liability in this sort of case would be.
Mrs. Mankin supplied her address, along with a description of Paddy McGuire, after which I saw her to the front door. I had just started back to my office when I was intercepted by an irate Joseph Shepard, a pile of file folders tucked under his arm.
“Who was that woman?” he demanded suspiciously. “Did she ask to see an attorney?”
I saw by Hubert Perkins’s smug expression that he’d wasted no time reporting my interview with Mrs. Mankin.
“I’m an attorney, Mr. Shepard,” I reminded him evenly. “As a matter of fact, she asked to speak to me.”
“Don’t talk rubbish. What possible business could she have with you?”
Oh well, I thought, I might as well be in for a dollar as for a penny. I described Mrs. Mankin’s problem, then, hoping to touch some nerve of kindness buried beneath my employer’s layers of greed, explained about the new baby expected in the spring.
I could have saved my breath. He instantly fastened on the legal ramifications of the case, ignoring any humanitarian issues that might be involved.
“You realize, of course, such a case is impossible to win.” He glared at me over his pince-nez. “I trust you didn’t promise this woman our representation?”
“Of course not. I would never commit the firm to a case without speaking to you first. I pledged only my own efforts on her behalf.”
“You did what?”
I should have seen it coming, but I was taken off guard when he started that awful sound at the back of his nose, the one he invariably makes when someone has the audacity to thwart him.
I had long since grown weary of these tantrums. “So, you see, Mr. Shepard, you need not trouble yourself,” I continued, doing my best to ignore this outbreak. “Mrs. Mankin will be my responsibility.”
“She will be no such thing! Under no circumstances are you to take that woman’s case. Do you understand me?”
I was dismayed to feel my own temper rising; above all, I was determined to maintain my composure. “As you are fond of pointing out, Mr. Shepard, I am a mere woman. Nevertheless, you have made yourself perfectly clear.” I didn’t think it expedient to add that, despite its clarity, I had no intention of obeying his edict.
He wasn’t quite sure how to take this. “Well, ah, that’s good.” He seemed to remember something. “I just passed the tea closet and noticed a number of dishes waiting to be washed. What if a client required coffee or tea? This sort of laxity is unacceptable.”
Fixing him with a sharp look, I turned and started toward the room set aside for refreshments—strictly reserved for clients, of course.
“Miss Woolson,” he called out behind me. “I am not finished with you.” With a sigh, I turned around to be handed the folders he’d been carrying beneath his arm. “Add these cases to your other files. Pages bearing my initials are to be typed.” His eyes narrowed. “Which reminds me, the work you’ve turned in so far is appalling. I’m surprised you’re experiencing so much difficulty with the Caligraph. My clerks could master the device in no time at all.”
I held out the folders he’d just given me. “If they’re so proficient, then perhaps they should type these.”
All six clerks looked up from their work, fixing me with baleful eyes. They needn’t have worried. Joseph Shepard had no intention of letting me off so easily.
“Since you insist on pursuing a—livelihood at my firm, Miss Woolson,” he said through clenched teeth, “it behooves me to find something for you to do. My clerks are occupied with important business (at this, the above-mentioned clerks instantly bent back to their work). You, on the other hand, appear incapable of performing the most rudimentary tasks, much less those of a legal nature. As I informed you on the day you deceived your way into this office: a woman’s place is in the home. It is God’s plan, and no good can come from flaunting His will.”
A dozen angry replies leapt to mind, any one of them more than sufficient to ensure my instant dismissal. That’s just what he wants, I thought. Tact, Sarah, you must use tact. Do not allow him to win in this manner!
Sure enough, the infuriating little man looked visibly disappointed when I refused to rise to his bait.
“I promise,” I replied meekly, “to marshal my feminine frailties and do my best with these files.”
His small eyes squinted until they resembled two shiny marbles; no doubt he feared I was mocking him. But reaching a conclusion on this point seemed beyond his limited ability.
“See that you do,” he snapped, retaining a glint of suspicion. “When you’ve finished typing, you may research the remainder of the files. Since I require everything to be on my desk first thing tomorrow morning, I expect you to stay here until the work is completed.”
His polished patent-leather shoes squeaked as he pivoted and strode toward his office.
The dreaded typewriting took even longer than I feared. Through trial and error, I’d become slightly more proficient at erasing my errors, although some pages came out looking as if they’d been rubbed in the dirt.
I never thought to say it, but when I at last covered the Caligraph machine for the day, it was a relief to move to the law library, even if the room was so dusty it made me sneeze. I was determined to get through Shepard’s work quickly, so that I’d have time to look into Mrs. Mankin’s situation. Unfortunately, when I finally got to the widow’s case, the information I found was not encouraging.
For one thing, negligence in the law of torts—a civil, noncriminal wrong from which one might sue for damages—had only recently come into being and was rarely used. Even when it was employed it usually failed, since the courts almost always favored business, not the employee. To complicate matters, a doctrine called the “fellow servant” rule stated that one employee could not sue his employer for injuries caused by the negligence of another employee. In Mrs. Mankin’s case, that meant before we could sue, we would first have to establish who actually nailed the sweatshop door shut and if it had been done on the owner’s order.
It was after six when Robert poked his head in the door.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been in here all
day,” he said, eyeing the stacks of books and notes piled in front of me.
“Just the last three hours. I haven’t gotten to your probate case yet, if that’s what you’re after.”
He came in and pulled out the chair opposite me. “I told you I’d take care of it myself.” He looked around the gloomy room. “You should light the lamps. It’s too dark in here to read.”
I was surprised to see he was right. I’d been so intent on my tort work, I hadn’t noticed the fading light.
Without waiting for me to agree, he stood, struck a match and lit several gas lamps. Holding one over his head, he perused a bookcase dedicated to probate.
“I’ve got the ones you’re looking for right here.” I pushed a stack of books across the table. “I thought I might get to them this afternoon, but I got sidetracked.”
He glanced at my open tort book. “You aren’t planning to take that widow’s case, are you? She has my sympathy, but you have about as much chance of getting money from that sweatshop as you do of convincing old man Shepard to let you plead a case before the Supreme Court.”
I started to ask how he knew the purpose of Mrs. Mankin’s visit, then remembered the head clerk. “I see Hubert Perkins has been busy gossiping again.”
“Perkins’s daily news, more reliable than any newspaper in town.” He frowned. “I suppose you’re going to ignore Shepard and help the widow anyway. And probably lose your job in the process.”
“How much of a loss would that really be, Robert? Any fool can see I’ll never be assigned any worthwhile cases.”
“Hmm. I think you’re taking this too personally.”
“Oh, really. When I joined this firm I knew it wouldn’t be easy. I had no illusions that I’d immediately walk into a courtroom and argue a case. I expected to do my share of research and writing briefs. On the other hand, I hardly expected to be placed in charge of the typewriting machine from hell or to spend my days washing dishes and digging through law books for the benefit of the entire office, including those who are junior to me. Martin Long has been employed here for one month, yet he hasn’t cleaned a single teacup. And he certainly hasn’t had to do battle with the cursed Caligraph.”
“He’s also Judge Long’s son,” Robert pointed out.
“And I’m Judge Woolson’s daughter. If you tell me that’s different, I’ll never speak to you again.”
Robert sighed and opened the first probate book. “Far be it for me to say anything to you, Sarah. It may not be fair, but it is reality. Most people would agree that women have no business practicing law.”
“And you, Robert?” I asked, looking him directly in the eye.
“What do you say?”
He met my gaze, then looked down at his book.
“I say it’s getting late. If we don’t want to be here all night, we’d better get on with our work.”
The next two weeks brought more of the same—as far as Shepard’s firm was concerned. I was relieved when weekends arrived, not because they promised two days of leisure, but because they provided me with the only free time I had to pursue Mrs. Mankin’s case. Of course I had initiated steps to relieve her financial situation. Thanks to Mama’s resources, we’d been able to supply food, clothing and even a midwife to monitor the widow’s pregnancy. We had also sent a good deal of light laundry and mending Lily Mankin’s way, which would help to pay her rent.
The one thing I had not been able to provide was the most important: I couldn’t assure the widow there was any hope of suing the sweatshop.
Naturally, I’d endeavored to learn the name of the individual who owned the contract shop, or sweatshop, as they were coming to be called. Combing through records at the Registry of Deeds, I’d finally found the building registered to McKenzie Properties, listing an address on Sansone Street.
When I visited the business, though, I was disappointed to find a disreputable secondhand store on the ground floor, with two unoccupied rooms upstairs. The proprietor of the shop was not helpful. He claimed that on the first of every month he placed his rent money in an envelope and left it on a table in one of the upstairs rooms. Any mail addressed to McKenzie Properties was similarly handled. He never saw anyone collect either the rent money or the mail, but the table was always empty when he opened his store in the morning.
When I shared my findings with my newspaperman brother Samuel, he told me hiding behind sham companies was standard practice for owners who wished to remain anonymous. Legally, McKenzie Properties held title to the sweatshop, as well as to the building on Sansone Street, but the company might as well be ghosts for all the trail they left.
My only real hope of finding the owner of either building, it seemed, was to locate Paddy McGuire, the employee suspected of nailing the sweatshop door shut. If boarding it up had been Paddy’s idea, then all was lost. On the other hand, if he’d been following the owner’s orders, I would at last be able to file suit.
I’d enlisted Samuel’s help to find McGuire, as well as his friend George Lewis, who had recently been promoted to sergeant on the San Francisco police force. So far we’d come up with nothing—a frustrating state of affairs, to say the least.
That weekend, I decided on a more direct approach: I would visit the site of the fire myself. Hopefully, someone in the neighborhood would be able to lead me to Mr. McGuire or perhaps to one of the other two survivors who made it out of the sweatshop. There was, of course, no guarantee I would succeed in my quest. On the other hand, I was weary of depending on others to do what I could do just as well, if not better, for myself.
I arrived home that evening to find everyone out. Pleased to have some time to myself before dinner, I’d just started up the stairs to my room when I heard loud shrieks issuing from the floor above. Taking the stairs two at a time, I reached the nursery to find Charles and Celia’s children, six-year-old Tom and three-year-old Amanda, tied together on the floor by a length of rope. My brother Frederick’s son, Freddie, a badly behaved boy of eight, was arrayed in feathers and armed with a small hatchet as he pranced around his cousins in some kind of Indian war dance. In one hand he held Mandy’s porcelain bride doll, veil missing, only a few sparse hairs left on her bald pate. In the other hand, he clasped the hatchet and a cascade of curly blond doll hair, which he proudly waved about with every whoop.
“Good heavens, Freddie!” I shouted, collaring the little hellion. “Put down that hatchet this instant.”
“We were playing the Battle of Little Bighorn,” Freddie protested. “Tom is General Custer. I’m Chief Sitting Bull.”
At that moment, Nanny Douglas arrived at the nursery door, carrying milk and cookies for the children. Hearing the wails of her charges—by now Freddie’s offended cries were drowning out little Mandy—she nearly dropped her tray.
“Blessed Mary and Joseph!” She looked wide-eyed from me to Freddie’s small captives. “I was only gone to the kitchen for a few moments. Master Freddie said he was hungry.”
“I’m sure he did,” I said, eyeing Frederick Jr.’s ample girth. “He also wanted you out of the room so he could scalp his cousins. Here,” I said, handing her the hatchet. “Get rid of this, then please give the children their snacks. And I wouldn’t leave the room again, if I were you. No matter what Freddie claims to want.”
Mercifully, peace prevailed in the nursery until Freddie’s mother arrived to claim her only offspring. So far, Frederick is the only one of my parents’ children to leave home. He and his wife Henrietta moved out two years earlier, when city government set about destroying Rincon Hill by bisecting it at Second Street. Unable to get Papa to budge from his home of twenty-five years, Frederick erected his own house on the fringe of the Nob Hill swells.
Charles is a different story. Since my physician brother cannot turn anyone away from his surgery, he, Celia and their two children continue to live at home due to financial necessity. And Samuel? Suffice it to say that my youngest brother prizes his personal comforts far too much to go to the bother of mo
ving into new quarters. A decision that suits me admirably. From childhood, Samuel has been my best friend and co-conspirator in mischief and mayhem. If I must remain at home—the edict of an outdated and biased society—at least I had one ally close at hand. Actually, this arrangement was not unusual; many families boasted three and even four generations residing beneath the same roof.
Mama and Celia came in shortly after Henrietta and Freddie’s departure. As it happened, they had attended a board meeting to discuss who should take over leadership of the new Women and Children’s Hospital now that Caroline Godfrey was gone. I was interested to hear they’d chosen Margaret Barlow for the job.
“She lacks Caroline’s imagination and drive,” my mother said as we went upstairs to dress for dinner. “But Caroline had completed the initial planning. What’s needed now is organization and commitment, two of Margaret’s finest qualities. I think she will do very well.”
“I’m relieved to hear you say so,” I said, reaching the door to my room. “I was afraid Mrs. Godfrey’s death might delay the new hospital. Heaven knows the city needs it.”
“That awful man who upset Mrs. Godfrey the night she died was loitering outside the Barlows’ house,” Celia said with a little shudder. “He kept waving his Bible and threatening dire consequences to fallen women who did not repent of their sins.”
Mama clucked with disapproval. “This so-called Reverend Halsey has been turning up all over town, trying to marshal support for his outlandish cause.”
“Mrs. French told me he accosted Mayor Kalloch outside the Metropolitan Temple last Sunday and harangued him about the Chinese issue,” Celia put in. “Reverend Halsey seems to consider the Chinese an even greater threat to Christianity than women.”
The note of asperity in my normally gentle sister-in-law’s voice surprised me. Call it fancy, but I was visited by an awful premonition. If the odious Reverend Halsey was able to provoke even docile Celia, how might a more volatile person react to his ravings?
The Russian Hill Murders Page 3
