Frail Blood

by Jo Robertson

  She stepped back, flint steeled her eyes, and she quickly rallied. "Time for that later," she snapped with a wave of her gloved hand.

  The next moment she changed the subject in a surprise tactic he hadn't expected. "Now, how do you intend to defend Miss Bentley?"

  He raised his brows. "Beg your pardon?"

  "Miss Bentley," she reiterated with the mock patience of one speaking to a child. "How will you defend her in the face of such overwhelming evidence of premeditated murder? Coupled with her admission of guilt."

  Now it was she who took a step closer, her chin jutting toward his necktie. "How will you handle Alma Bentley's defense? How will you appeal to a jury of men when no women are on the panel?"

  He flashed an icy look that had quelled many an opposing attorney. "I have no intention of discussing trial tactics with you, Miss Knight."

  She ignored his freezing tone and pushed obstinately forward. "Perhaps Miss Bentley would be better served by a female attorney to defend her."

  Malachi clenched his jaw. A woman lawyer? What kind of nonsense was the woman spouting? Alma Bentley could not afford his services, let alone make demands about who should represent her – man or woman.

  "Perhaps you would care to represent her?" he ground out.

  "Posh, don't be ridiculous."

  Posh?

  Miss Knight frowned. "I'm not an attorney."

  "And yet you have so many opinions about the law and lawyering," he scoffed.

  He was certain, then, that she intended to stomp off, and he was glad to be rid of her. He wasn't sure why this wealthy, pampered heiress bothered him so much when another reporter might have done the same as she. Perhaps because she was rich and spoiled, and couldn't possibly understand Alma's plight, while his client's dilemma tugged at the strings of his own heart – a heart he'd been sure he no longer possessed.

  Malachi opened his mouth to lambaste her further when he heard someone enter the reception area behind her. A gentleman stood in the foyer and Malachi recognized him immediately from his years of practice in San Francisco – Stephen Knight, artist and entrepreneur. And surely a relative of Emma Knight.

  "Mr. Rivers, I believe," Knight exclaimed, extending his hand in greeting. "I've heard a great deal about you."

  Malachi nodded briefly, feeling quite outnumbered and outmaneuvered. He wondered exactly what Stephen Knight thought he knew. The entire tawdry situation with Constance had happened nearly ten years ago in San Francisco.

  "I see you've met the new editor of The Placer Gazette!" The older man's face beamed with pride as he added, "My niece and partner, Emma Knight."

  Knight's grip was crushing, and although broader and shorter by several inches, he carried his stockiness like the banner of the self-made man Malachi knew him to be.

  "Yes, sir, I've just had the pleasure," he answered, glancing at the startled look on Miss Knight's face.

  "How long have you been practicing law in Placer Hills, Mr. Rivers?" Knight asked.

  "Five years or so, since I left San Francisco."

  "Ah, I see." Knight's eagle eyes seemed to convey more than he expressed.

  Malachi checked his pocket watch and gathered up his satchel. "I'm sorry, but I must return to court."

  Knight scrutinized him in a thoughtful manner before turning to his niece. "Emma, dear, you must invite Mr. Rivers to supper on Friday."

  "Uncle Stephen," she protested, "I'm sure Mr. Rivers is unavailable on such short notice."

  Malachi's first inclination was to decline the invitation. Supping with an irritating reporter and her discerning uncle held no appeal to him. But something about the self-satisfaction on Miss Knight's face – the confidence with which she assumed he wouldn't accept – changed his mind.

  "On the contrary. I'm completely at your disposal." Malachi grinned and again enjoyed the flush seeping up Miss Knight's neck and cheeks, this time clearly in annoyance.

  "If you'll excuse me, it's nearly time for the afternoon session." He nodded to each in turn and then made his way to the front where he locked his office behind them.

  It wasn't until he'd ascended the stairs to the second floor courtroom that he wondered if he hadn't made a serious miscalculation.

  Chapter 3

  "... function is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is but what is not." – Macbeth

  Dratted man, Emma groused silently, as she and Stephen walked back up Main Street to the courthouse. Her beloved uncle actually seemed to like Mr. Rivers. She pasted a wide smile on her face.

  "Now, you must let me be about my work," she admonished when they reached the courthouse steps.

  "I rather like that young man," Stephen said by way of answer, patting her arm for emphasis.

  Emma batted at a few stray hairs that had thrown themselves across her forehead. "But you hardly know him."

  He smiled and touched her cheek. "A man in my position hears things, Emma. Rivers is an upright citizen with a fine future. He boasts an impeccable reputation in his profession."

  He frowned, the movement creasing the crinkles on his weathered face. "There's something else about him, but I can't seem to remember what." He shook his head. "Some notoriety, I think."

  "A scandal?"

  "Hmmm, don't recollect right now." His face cleared and he smiled at his niece. "Whatever it is mustn't be very nefarious. It doesn't seem to have done him much harm."

  Emma banished Mr. Knight's mysterious past from her mind, patted her uncle's arm, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I'll see you on Friday, darling. Dinner at eight."

  Knight called after her. "Don't forget the invitation includes Mr. Rivers."

  But Emma had begun to climb the steps with the rest of the crowd and merely waved in a noncommittal gesture. Forcing a social situation between Mr. Rivers and her was ridiculous. It was one thing for Stephen to admire the attorney, but to invite him to dinner? What was her uncle thinking?

  #

  The afternoon court session moved forward in agonizing tedium and Emma entertained herself by observing Mr. Rivers. He had even features, just skewed enough to prevent a pretty look. Already in this late afternoon his beard had begun to shadow his jaw, casting him in a disreputable light. By contrast Mr. Fulton remained impeccably groomed.

  Rivers was a large man – raw and commanding – but moved with athletic grace. Emma watched in fascination as his large hands, sprinkled with dark hair, pressed down on his notepad and fiddled with a pencil.

  Early in the afternoon's proceedings the prosecutor called his first witness to the stand. A domestic in the Machado household, Anne Gulley came weekly to do what she called the "tough work." The four of them – father, mother, sister, and Joseph, Jr., – had lived at the same residence where Joe was killed.

  "Mrs. Gulley, on what day did you regularly visit the Machado home to engage in your services?" asked Mr. Fulton.

  "Usually I come on Fridays, so's to get the house readied for the weekend company," the round-bodied woman answered.

  "And what time do you generally arrive there?"

  "Likely 'round sebben in the morning."

  "So early?" Fulton asked, a look of surprise on his face. "Aren't the household members still abed at that hour?"

  "Upstairs. But I work first in the kitchen downstairs."

  "I see." Fulton stepped closer to the woman and leaned conspiratorially against the witness box. "Does Alma Bentley also work on Fridays?"

  Anne Gulley smiled, revealing several gaps in her front teeth. "Mayhap you could call it that." She snorted, flashing a sly glance toward the defendant.

  Fulton's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? What do you mean?"

  "Lemme jest say, Alma's there ... but she ain't working." Her small eyes glinting, the woman added maliciously, "Unless it's on her back."

  An uproar began in the courtroom as Mr. Rivers jumped to his feet. "Your honor, I object!"

  Finally an objection, Emma thought through the shock of the woman's insinuation.

  Jud
ge Underwood banged his gavel rigorously on the wooden podium through the buzz of noise. "Silence!" he thundered. "Silence or I'll clear the goddamn courtroom!"

  A hush descended on the gallery. Emma's cheeks warmed. She glanced around the room to observe the other women whose flushed faces showed their reaction to Mrs. Gulley's claim and the judge's profane outburst.

  Some of the men looked appalled, but others suppressed knowing grins.

  "Mrs. Gulley, you will confine your remarks to facts, not speculation. Objection sustained." Underwood glowered at Fulton. "Keep your witness within the bounds of decorum, Mr. District Attorney," he warned.

  Mr. Fulton dismissed his witness, Mr. Rivers had no questions of the woman – now why didn't that fact surprise Emma? – and Judge Underwood adjourned the afternoon court session.

  It wasn't until later that Emma realized again that she should've taken prodigious notes during the entire session, but had, in fact, not written a single line. She sighed heavily.

  Being a bona fide newspaper woman was not going to be an easy task.

  #

  Judge Underwood ordered Malachi and Fulton into his chambers, an ignominious space behind the courtroom where he also conducted his weekly poker game. The bailiff ushered them into the unoccupied room as if it were the sacrosanct chambers of a Supreme Court justice.

  Glaring at both attorneys, Underwood fell back into one of the four wooden chairs surrounding a battered old table. He sized up Malachi, then turned an eagle eye on Fulton.

  "Charles, if you call any more witnesses like that woman, you'd better plan on spending a night in my jail," he threatened, poking a finger the district attorney's way.

  Fulton spread his hands, palms upward like a supplicant. "I had no idea, Phineas. When I prepared the woman, she gave no indication she held such – "

  "Malice toward my client?" Malachi provided, lounging against the door.

  Fulton was too clever a prosecutor to allow a witness full rein on the stand. Likely he not only knew what the woman would say, but had supplied the words with which to say it.

  "Held such animosity in her opinions about the defendant," Fulton continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "I apologize, Your Honor. It will not happen again."

  "See that it don't." The judge stuffed his unlit cigar back in his mouth and angrily waved the two men off. Malachi glanced back to see the magistrate pulling off his robe and stuffing his heavy arms into a jacket.

  At the stairs, Fulton veered right toward the prosecutor's office while Malachi stared after him before walking one floor down the circular marble stairs to the lower exit and then outside. The air was still warm in the late afternoon, the clouds fluffy and white on the horizon, the trees laden with leaves that hadn't begun to turn.

  He walked beneath the long flight of the outdoor concrete steps and stood in front of the small, windowless alcove tucked beneath the back of the steps, a hole dug out especially for Alma. Iron bars covered the opening from top to bottom.

  Alma Bentley would soon occupy this tiny prison until her fate was decided at the hands of twelve upstanding citizens of the community. All men, because no woman could sit on a jury. On that one point, Miss Knight was correct. Alma would not be judged by a jury of her peers.

  Malachi shook his head and wandered off down the hill. The thought of returning to his small cabin just yet seemed stifling. Too restless to return to work, he ambled aimlessly down Main Street and past the meager sign over his office.

  The shingle read Malachi J. Rivers, Attorney at Law, in a simple wooden carving. He could afford to replace the crude sign, but he liked the reminder of his lowly beginnings. It was a stark contrast to the kind of life he'd lived with Constance and kept him rooted in simplicity and honesty, qualities he hadn't always valued.

  The town tavern loomed brightly to his left at the end of Main Street. Malachi seldom indulged in spirits, but tonight the rowdy atmosphere suited his mood. And perhaps the loose tongues often found in such places would provide a barometer to gauge the town's mood concerning Alma Bentley.

  He slid onto a stool at the bar, ordered soda water, and sipped idly for a while. The boisterousness rose steadily as the crowd increased after the supper hour and men drifted in for a respite from work or home. An hour later Malachi had overheard the occasional comment about the trial.

  "Poor woman, to be used so poorly!"

  "I heard tell she clamped the pistol to her thigh and went a huntin' for the poor bastard."

  "I say he got what he deserved."

  "Joe, Jr., sure was a ladies' man."

  "Letch more like it."

  "He shouldn'a throwed her off after being so sweet on her."

  "Still, she kilt the man in cold blood."

  "Murder will out, they say!"

  "Shut the fuck up, Boyd. You ain't got no idea what them words mean, nor even where they come from."

  "Mebbe not who said 'em, but the meaning's clear as day."

  Malachi estimated the sentiment against Alma was as strong as for her. Good, on such a dichotomy would he build the case.

  At nearly eight o'clock Stephen Knight entered the tavern and approached him at the bar. To Malachi's surprise, Knight nodded toward an empty table at the back of the room.

  "Join me?" Knight suggested.

  Malachi hesitated a mere moment. He might learn some intriguing tidbit about the man's niece that would prove amusing, if not helpful in keeping her in rein as she continued to report on the case.

  After another hour Emma Knight's uncle had finished off his third Busch Bavarian while Malachi still sipped at his second soda water. They'd covered the topics of weather, the upcoming grape harvest, and the reconstruction of San Francisco after the earthquake three years ago. They'd both sustained considerable loss of property during the subsequent fire.

  They carefully skirted the subject of the trial.

  "Are you a temperance man?" Knight asked at last, nodding toward the water.

  "Not really."

  Knight shrugged his bear-like shoulders. "Oh, I see."

  "Really, sir, do you?"

  "I know a bit about your family, Mr. Rivers." Knight cleared his throat. "Your father, in particular."

  Malachi merely raised an eyebrow. What the hell was the older man getting at? Malachi had returned to reside in Placer Hills only after the death of his mother and many years after his father had been killed.

  "His drinking, I mean," Knight clarified, taking another swig of his beer.

  "Then you'll understand why I don't speak of my father."

  "Of course."

  Malachi shifted restlessly in his chair. Although he'd been happy to join Knight for a drink, now was the time to leave. He had no inclination to discuss his private life with someone he hardly knew.

  He made a show of pulling out his pocket watch. "If you'll excuse me, sir, I have notes to complete for the trial."

  Knight placed a firm hand on Malachi's arm. "Speaking of the case, I wonder if you might perform a small favor for me."

  Ah, so this was why the elder man had sought him. What favor did Knight think Malachi could do?

  "My niece," Knight began on a sigh. "Emma is ... head strong. And a little stubborn. She guards her independence fiercely." His voice contained both pride and frustration.

  Malachi smothered a snort. "Willful" was more like what he'd witnessed. He pointed out the obvious. "She's hardly independent if you purchased The Gazette for her."

  "Aye," Knight smiled. "But her name's beside mine on the legal document. It's all in the perception now, isn't it?"

  "She does seem like a strong-minded woman," Malachi hedged.

  "Obstinate's more like it. God, I love the girl dearly, but she's got all these notions." He waved his fingers vaguely.

  "Notions?"

  "Not that her ideas are wrong, mind you. They're just too far ahead of the times." Knight eyed the golden liquid in his glass. "Like her grandmother, she is."

  Curious in spite of himse
lf, Malachi inspected the older man. "Ideas about what?"

  "About women – their rights, the vote, God knows what else that fancy education at Wellesley put into her pretty mind."

  He shook his head. "Jesus, her father spent thousands of dollars to educate the girl, and all her parents see is a woman who's got no idea how to please a man!"

  "And you, sir?"

  Knight smiled broadly. "Mind, you're talking about my niece. I think she knows everything she needs to know about the world of men."

  "A woman owning property, much less a business, is rare around here," Malachi ventured. "Scandalous enough to rock our small community. Many folks in Bigler County believe a woman has no business meddling in a male arena."

  He stood, reached into his pocket for coins, and tossed them on the table. "But I hardly see how I can help you with your niece, Mr. Knight."

  "You were married once, as I recall," Knight said in a non sequitur. His shrewd eyes raked over Malachi's face.

  "That was a long time ago and an experience best forgotten," Malachi snapped.

  "Humph, seems like you've got a lot of off-limits topics."

  "Perhaps, sir, but a man's secrets are his to keep."

  #

  Malachi had reached the wooden porch and walkway outside the tavern when Knight caught up with him. "Sorry if I offended you, Mr. Rivers. I assure you it was not my intention."

  Malachi paused on the landing and allowed a little exasperation to creep into his voice. "What do you want from me, Mr. Knight? I have a great deal of work to accomplish and very little time."

  "Call me Stephen," Knight insisted.

  Malachi nodded curtly. "Stephen."

  "Let her work with you," Knight returned quickly.

  "What? Who?"

  "Emma. Hire her."

  "What?" Malachi repeated.

  Preposterous. He had no intention of letting anyone, especially a nosy newspaper woman like Emma Knight, be privy to his trial plans. "Impossible. She's already compromised my defense with her article. Why should I beg more trouble?"

  "She merely did her duty as editor of the paper. You must admire that in her." Malachi could tell that Knight was not a man accustomed to begging when he lowered his voice and whispered, "Please."