by Jo Robertson
First, she must speak to Thomas about the Machado family, about the quarrel between the older son and the parents. Interviewing the Machado sister was another possibility she should investigate. Third, she'd ask Malachi about the cleaning girls whose names she'd forgotten. She also must ask him how to arrange a visit with Alma – that was fourth on her list.
Deciding that she would attend to these matters today, Emma glanced toward the closed back door. Should she ask Malachi now about the sister, Phoebe Machado?
She wanted Malachi to see that she'd recovered from last night's experience. Not that she imagined he was likely to care, but she wanted to appear strong. She hated him thinking of her as a weak, frail girl when she certainly was not! In fact, she felt quite herself again.
With this determination fueling her, Emma pushed open the back door and shoved a wooden stop beneath the bottom edge to keep it from locking behind her. She rapped sharply on Malachi's law office door.
No response.
She knocked more loudly and then banged with the flat of her open hand. Damn! Now that she'd gotten up the courage to face him, he wasn't there. Or was he ignoring her? Who else did he imagine would pound on his alley door at this hour of the morning?
The lack of response piqued her temper and she raised her fist to pound again when suddenly the door flew open. Malachi stood there, a scowl on his face, his shirt-sleeves rolled up, no neck cloth, no jacket, and a great many dirty smudges on his forearms and face.
"What?" he shouted at her.
"I – I need to speak with you."
"Damn it, Emma, come to the front of the office like a reasonable person!" He stepped back and grudgingly allowed her to sweep past him.
His office was in as horrible disarray as his person, books stacked on the floor, files flung about the room, some lying in piles on the desk and others littering the wooden floor.
"What are you doing?"
His scowl deepened and his voice rasped with irritability. "What are you doing here?"
She took a deep breath to keep from snapping back at him. "You said we needed to continue with the case as if ... as if nothing happened between us."
"Christ, woman, I didn't think you'd take me literally!" He returned to his dark frowning, while she bristled at the implication that he was the injured party.
"And on the very next day," he added darkly.
"I hardly thought justice would wait for Alma Bentley," she retorted airily. "In spite of what you called our ... our foolishness last evening, our client deserves the best of our efforts, don't you think?"
He had the grace to look away and mutter something she couldn't quite make out.
"What are you doing?" she repeated, gesturing at the messy stacks of files.
"I'm searching for common law cases that involve women who committed felonies, particularly heinous ones."
"Like murder."
"Exactly." He scooped up a pile of folders from the floor, swept aside a clutter of papers on a straight-backed wooden chair, and indicated she should sit.
"Here, start looking," he commanded thrusting the folders in her lap.
"Don't you have bound books that contain this information?" she asked, batting at the dust that settled on her skirts.
He raised a brow and gave her a quelling stare.
She ignored the look. "What is this 'common law' anyway?"
He perched on the edge of his desk and linked his fingers together. "We have no criminal cases as precedent to exonerate Alma. She committed murder, apparently premeditated. She went to the Machado home with a weapon and killed Joseph Machado."
Emma knew she should remain silent, but she could not help making the old argument. "If she's guilty of such an awful deed, she should be judged guilty. Why can't you see that Alma must be held to the same standard as a man?"
The litany was apparently tiresome to him too, for he gave her a disgusted look and pushed off the desk. "Do you intend to help or argue with me?"
When she didn't answer, he continued, "You have no idea what Alma Bentley has endured, do you? The poverty, the hard work? And when she finally believed a man would take care of her, he tossed her aside after a few months and went to the bed of another woman."
"Still – "
"Stop being naive, Emma. Alma is not a wicked woman. She acted impulsively, out of desire and rejection." He eyed her pointedly, one brow arched. "Surely you can understand that perspective."
She felt warmth creep into her cheeks, but she couldn't argue with his logic and fell silent, resisting the urge to squirm under his steely reproach. He nodded as if her lack of response to his charge was agreement enough.
In truth, after last night she should understand a woman's motivations. Had Alma merely wanted to experience the same pleasures as a man? Or having once tasted the forbidden nectar, had she become insanely jealous of her rival?
When Emma failed to respond, Malachi stood in front of his desk, looked down at her, and continued his explanation of what she should do. "We're looking for judicial opinions or decisions that can be used as a precedent to help Alma's case."
"What should I look for specifically?"
"Those are California cases." He nodded to the stack in her lap and on the floor next to her. "Look for California versus any woman's name. When you find one, scan it to determine what the primary charge against the woman was. If you find something you think might apply to Alma's case, put it aside for me."
He sat down at his desk and swiveled away from her as though she wasn't worth any more of his time.
#
They worked in silence for nearly an hour until Malachi stretched and glanced up from his reading to notice the time. Court began shortly. Emma bowed her head over a case file, a tiny frown marring the smooth skin between her brows. He watched her for another moment or two, noting the way she fingered her bottom lip while she concentrated.
"Find anything?"
Emma reached for three files she'd placed on the floor by her feet. "You might be able to use something in these cases." She pushed them across the desk.
He skimmed through the contents. "Good work. This one – California v. Margaret Striker – could be helpful."
She nodded and stood up. "Thomas should be here by now. I'll speak to him about the Machado's older son." She opened the door and stood in the alley a moment. "I'd like to speak with the Machado's daughter too – Phoebe."
Steeped in planning how to use the Striker case, Malachi stood and unbuttoned his shirt. He presented his back to her and fetched a clean shirt from a hook behind the door. Chucking the soiled one, he quickly fastened the buttons and faced her again. Her face had flushed slightly.
"Speak with Phoebe Machado during the morning session," he instructed. "We can talk to Thomas together at the luncheon break."
Emma nodded and quickly stepped across the alley toward her office. He watched her slender figure retreat through the open door of her office, her back straight, her hips swaying gently, until the door closed with a firm click.
He scraped his hand over his shadowed face, wondering if he had time to remove the whiskers that'd begun to sprout there. But his thoughts weren't focused on his grooming.
How would he and Emma be able to work together if she reacted to him so easily and he imagined her unclothed body every time he looked at her? A startling vivid image of her hips, naked and slick with sweat, stayed with him long into the court session.
#
Malachi presented three witnesses during the morning session of court. As he watched Alma maintain her anxious, agitated demeanor, he wondered again if the look of her would win the sympathy of the men of the jury or simply irritate them.
The first witness testified that Alma was a hardworking girl, one who'd been proper and meek until she began to work in the Machado household.
"Then, sudden-like she changed." Maryanne Bell, a plump, round-faced girl of twenty, had worked with Alma Bentley in her previous employment.
"How
did Miss Bentley change?" Malachi asked.
"Objection!" Charles Fulton's third objection in almost as many minutes began to weigh on Malachi's patience. He tossed the attorney a quelling look.
"Miss Bell is hardly qualified to explain how Alma changed," Fulton intoned. "She's not a doctor, nor did she work with the defendant during the last four months."
"Sit down, Mr. Fulton," Judge Underwood snarled, apparently as annoyed as Malachi with the incessant interruptions. He waved a beefy hand at Malachi. "Continue, Mr. Rivers."
Malachi hadn't missed how Fulton addressed everyone except the defendant with the utmost respect. With Alma he used only her given name, a clear attempt to lower her status in the eyes of the jurors. But Malachi hoped the very ploy of painting the accused as a lowly, unworthy woman would work against the prosecution.
"Please explain for the court," he asked the witness, "how you came to notice Miss Bentley's changes."
"Well, we still saw each other regular on our days off, you know. Weren't many, but usually Sundays we had a good visit and talked a storm." Maryanne's thin brows knitted. "She changed after bein' there, Mr. Rivers. She was louder, more brassy like, you know."
She blushed, a bright red that left her round cheeks as red as apples. "She talked about things a proper girl ain't supposed to discuss."
"What things?"
The girl dipped her head and twisted her fingers in the lap of her garment. "Things sort of ... intimate, like."
After Malachi finished with Miss Bell, several other witnesses testified to the change in Alma Bentley's demeanor. One former employer explained what a good, trustworthy girl Alma had been until she came under the influence of Joseph Machado and his womanizing nature.
A general buzz set up in the courtroom after the lady testified and Malachi carefully calculated the jurors' faces. Their eyes strayed from the small bundle of nerves that was Alma Bentley to the large, florid face of Mr. Machado. It wasn't difficult to see them weighing Alma's smallness against the overwhelming bulkiness of the Machado clan, imagining the strength and size of Joseph through his father's imposing figure.
Good. If Malachi had gotten them to think about poor Alma's plight, he'd opened a crack in the door to her acquittal.
Chapter 16
"As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their sport." – King Lear
After the court session Emma greeted Malachi outside the courthouse at the same place where she'd first accosted him all those days ago. At that time she'd proposed that Alma Bentley was better defended by a woman lawyer.
Malachi smiled at the memory.
She looked quite pretty this afternoon, her hair tucked beneath a bright green hat with yellow flowers scattered across the brim. The jacket of her tan suit showed a spot of green at the neck and sleeves and her pale face was flushed as if she'd been running.
Unwittingly, he thought of Connie. At nineteen Constance Bancroft had the delicate features and wide-eyed gaze of a true ingénue, and he'd been youthful enough to believe her lies of chastity and pregnancy. He'd married her because he was a gentleman, or so he'd thought himself.
Now he saw he'd only been a gullible, young fool.
The full truth, when it surfaced, was worse. He wasn't even the father of the child growing in her belly, and Constance had been intimate with more men than a Parisian whore could claim association with. He had vowed not to be stupid enough to fall again into the same pit.
He consciously wiped the smile from his face, and replaced it with a frown.
Emma stopped short where he leaned against the outer brick wall of the courthouse. "Malachi," she said breathlessly, "I've just spoken with Phoebe Machado, Joseph's sister."
"So soon?"
"Yes, earlier today I looked around the courtroom and saw she wasn't in attendance so I took a chance that if she'd remained home, but wasn't too indisposed or upset to talk to me."
Malachi hadn't even noticed the girl was absent, but now that he thought of it, he remembered the heavy Portuguese father, Joseph, Sr., and the round, compact form of the mother sitting side by side several rows behind the prosecution table.
"I take it you've learned something," he said, grasping her arm and turning her toward the path that led to Main Street and his law office.
They walked in silence, she fairly skipping along in her exultation, he more slowly. She must have learned something significant from the sister. He was tempted to probe her for information now, but knew they'd have greater privacy in his office, away from prying eyes and listening ears.
"Are you hungry?" he asked suddenly, throwing her off balance as he halted mid-stride.
"No, I've breakfasted."
"I'm hungry, so let us see if Molly over at the Tea Room can put up a lunch for us."
She merely lifted her brows, but he knew she questioned the propriety of their lunching alone in a secluded office. Malachi felt irrationally annoyed. After what they'd already done, that cat was out of the bag.
"I promise I won't lay a hand on you," he said wryly, ushering her into the front door of his office. "You can invite Thomas Gant to chaperone if you feel safer."
He left her in the office foyer and spun around to walk the half block to Molly's Tea Room. When he returned twenty minutes later, bearing a basket of victuals, the lobby and office were both empty, but the back door propped open. He could see Emma across the narrow alley between their two offices.
Thomas Gant sat awkwardly on an overturned crate near the desk. Emma had removed her hat and jacket and sat behind the desk.
Apparently, she hadn't trusted his word.
"Hello, Mr. Gant," Malachi greeted the older man, who shuffled to his feet and looked awkward, shy even, but extended his hand politely enough. "There's plenty to eat. Would you like to join Miss Knight and me?"
"No sir, the missus fixed me up a right nice lunch which I already ate. Thank ye, anyway."
After Malachi took the straight-backed guest chair, Thomas sat down, flattening the edges of the large printer's apron covering his work clothes. The man obviously felt uncomfortable.
"Like I was sayin' to Miz Knight," Thomas said, "the Machados come to Bigler County 'bout 1863, bought eighty acres up in Newcastle, raised fruit up there, apricots, peaches, and the like."
"Mr. Gant, we were hoping you'd remember something about the elder Machado son," Emma said.
"Aaron?" Thomas asked, his bushy gray brows edging up to meet his disheveled hair. "He's been gone for years. Whadda you wanna know about him?
"We understood there was some kind of family quarrel," Emma said, leaning across the desk. "Do you know anything about that?"
Thomas wrinkled his brow and rubbed his gnarled hand over his head. "Well, that Aaron, he was a hot-tempered one, always wantin' his dad to give him cash for this idea or that one. Thought of himself as an entrepreneur." Thomas pronounced the word as if it rhymed with "entertainer."
Emma smiled and reached out to touch the old man's arm. Clearly she had a good deal of affection for Gant. "He wanted his father to finance his business ventures?"
Thomas snorted. "More like losing ventures. Every scheme the kid came up with was dang foolish. The old man, Mr. Machado, was a pretty good businessman. He wasn't about to waste money on Aaron's ideas."
"What happened?" Malachi asked.
"Had a big dust-up. Aaron called the old man a penny-pinching bast – " Thomas interrupted himself. "Anyway, they parted on pretty bad terms. Aaron said he'd make it without his father's money. Took off to Bakersfield 'swhat I heard."
"Does he ever visit?" Emma asked.
"Not likely. He hates the old man, doubt he'd ever come back this way." Thomas looked around the office and pushed up off the makeshift chair. "I'd best be setting the type for Wednesday's edition, ma'am. Mr. Stephen's got a long piece on the trial."
"Thank you, sir," Malachi said, standing and shaking the man's hand.
Emma walked to the front of the office with Gant, who turned
back to Malachi. "Oh, you know who'd know more about the family than me? Try Miz Henderson, the midwife." He laughed, showing strong, white teeth. "Norah makes a point to know just about everybody's business."
Emma instructed Gant in some business matters while Malachi laid out the lunch Molly had prepared for them and waited patiently for her to return. He was eager to discuss what Phoebe Machado, the only daughter in the Machado family, had said to Emma.
"Should I contact Mrs. Henderson?" Emma asked, entering the back room, and then interrupted herself. "Oh, this looks nice."
She looked at the spread of food lying on the overturned crate Gant had just vacated. Picking up a sandwich, she nibbled at one corner and paced the room. "Hmm, these are delicious. I'm hungrier than I thought."
"You'd be better at talking to a midwife than I would. And I still want you to talk to Alma again." Malachi reached for a thick slice of bread and slathered it with butter. "What did Phoebe Machado have to say?"
"She's an interesting woman," Emma said, gesturing with the remnant of her sandwich. "She lives with her parents in a fairly large house, her brother occupies a section of the second floor where her bedroom suite is situated, and she claims to have known nothing about the affair between her brother and Alma."
"How could she not? Is she slow-witted?"
"Hardly," Emma said dryly. "She has a calculating air about her. I doubt anything happens in her family that she's unaware of."
"Was she younger than Joseph?"
"Definitely not, she's a spinster, apparently. Joseph was the baby of the family and from all accounts spoiled silly by his mama and sister."
When she caught Malachi's challenging look, she flushed.
"I may have been indulged by my parents," she huffed, "but I learned to be independent of them. I traveled across the nation to attend college, I own a business, and I live alone."
She believed fiercely in her independence. Malachi hated to be the one to plant her feet on terra firma. "You should ride down to the docks one day, Emma."
