by Jo Robertson
“Screw your courage to the sticking place and we’ll not fail” – Macbeth
Chapter 1
Blast it! Malachi Rivers tightened both fists on the defense table’s rough surface and scanned the newspaper article again. A “clear admission of guilt”?
Alma Bentley tentatively touched his jacket sleeve. “I know it were wrong, Mr. Rivers. But the lady reporter – she was so nice, I . . . I thought it’d be all right to talk to her.”
Malachi couldn’t expect his client, a poor, unschooled girl, to understand what her public confession meant. But this Knight woman knew exactly what she’d done.
And Jesus! How was he to extricate Alma from the tangle of her own loose tongue?
Taking a deep breath, he relaxed his grip, turned to his left, and forced an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry, Alma. We’ll figure it all out.”
Because today was merely the arraignment, few observers graced the gallery of Judge Underwood’s tiny courtroom. In good time, onlookers would congregate in droves to gawp at a woman on trial for murder. But not today. These sedate proceedings held little scandal for the public’s need for drama.
Calmer now, Malachi watched District Attorney Charles Fulton strut down the courtroom aisle. He paused beside the defense table, clapping a friendly hand on Malachi’s shoulder.
“Good morning, counselor.” The district attorney made a moue that was a cross between a smile and a smirk.
Malachi had little respect for Fulton, but he pasted on a pleasant expression and nodded politely. “Charlie.”
The attorney’s face tightened as a flush crept up his neck to contrast starkly against the stiff white starch of his collar. Malachi smiled widely. The prosecutor enjoyed the veneer of formality and hated the shortening of his given name.
Fulton took his seat at the prosecution table, where his protégés hovered on each side of him, like eager courtiers at the feet of a king. The two assistant district attorneys were young and ambitious, and their presence today was a mere show of power aimed at intimidating the defense.
Malachi’s client, a small, dark-complexioned woman, hunched defensively in her chair, her eyes alarmingly round as she focused on the prosecutor’s table.
Malachi leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Hold your chin up, Alma. You don’t want to appear guilty.”
Alma’s plain face scrunched as if she were in pain. “But I am guilty, Mr. Rivers.”
“Shh, don’t say such things.” He swiveled around and frowned sternly as she ducked her head. He touched her arm, compelling her to look up at him. “Do you understand? Never speak of anything resembling guilt. Never think of it.”
Alma nodded mutely and continued to worry her small, rough hands as she perched quietly at the edge of the wooden chair. Malachi sighed inwardly. Once the jurors appeared, his client’s behavior in court might well turn out to be the most damning evidence against her.
As he’d advised, Alma wore a modest suit, but the cuffs were frayed and the hem unfashionably short where her scuffed boots showed beneath the skirt. A woman with an ordinary face and a timid air, she hardly looked capable of fostering passion, yet alone of murdering a man.
But she had. She’d confessed as much to him. Worse, she’d admitted it to a reporter who’d recorded her statement for all the community to read.
Malachi looked straight ahead at the magistrate’s podium where the United States and Bear State flags flapped gently in the breeze from an open window. Glancing to his right, he observed the prosecuting attorneys hunched shoulder to shoulder, whispering to one another as if the fate of the world lay in their scheming.
Hardly even the fate of the county, Malachi thought. Just one small woman shabbily dressed.
In contrast to his client, the prosecutors looked like wealthy businessmen in their formal day attire of winged-collar shirts, cut-away morning coats, and striped trousers. District Attorney Charles Fulton swept his icy blue eyes over Malachi and inclined his head in a condescending nod. The two baby-faced attorneys leaned forward, no doubt to catch a glimpse of the famous Malachi Rivers.
He suppressed a guffaw. Time was when he’d been flattered to draw the attention of the likes of those three. He was a whelp then, a few years out of law school, and uncommonly successful.
But within a few more years he’d met Constance and his notoriety had gone to his head with ugly and disastrous consequences.
Malachi fiddled with his notes, but he wasn’t nervous, merely eager to begin the trial, for he knew exactly how he would present his case to acquit his client of a murder charge. And in the process he intended to legalistically whip the tar out of Charlie Fulton.
Little doubt existed that Alma Bentley was indeed guilty of the crime of which she’d been accused. The defense’s strategy lay in the why. And it was with this why that Malachi believed he could save her from the gallows.
A hush came over the room. Malachi rose to his feet along with the other court officers. Judge Phineas T. Underwood huffed slowly into the room from a door at the front and sank into his seat behind the podium.
A large, florid-faced man, he peered over the tops of his spectacles and cleared his throat with a guttural sound. He produced a cigar from beneath the folds of his robe, clipped the end, and placed the cigar in his mouth, chomping down hard on it. A prop, Malachi knew, for in the five years he’d been practicing law in Bigler County, he’d never once seen the judge smoke. For all his outward slovenliness, Judge Underwood was a stickler for courtroom decorum.
“Sit down, sit down,” Underwood muttered, waving his arm across the room. “Bailiff, read the charges.”
A thin, wiry man, Jacob Streetman scratched his chest beneath his uniform before he gazed at the paper shaking in his palsied hand. Streetman had been closing in on eighty when Malachi set up residence in Bigler County. The man’s ancient, weathered face bore the look of a hound dog Malachi’s father had once owned, defeat and life’s vagaries carved in the crevices.
“The defendant will rise,” intoned Streetman.
Malachi grasped Alma’s arm and assisted her to her feet. She wavered beneath his hand and he held her elbow more firmly. “Courage, Alma.”
“State your name for the court,” Streetman directed.
“Alma Bentley,” she whispered in a gravelly voice, as if speaking louder might suck the wind out of her thin frame.
After the court ascertained that the defendant was represented by counsel, the bailiff began the formal reading of the charges to which Alma must plead.
“How do you answer to the charges brought against you?” the magistrate asked.
After a long pause, Malachi whispered in her ear. “You must say the words aloud, Alma. ‘Not guilty.’”
She began shaking her head, a dubious frown distorting her features. “But . . .”
“Not guilty,” he repeated. “Trust me.”
Alma entered the plea, although to anyone not completely half-witted, she appeared far from innocent.
Guilt stamped her face like a shiny penny.
#
Pain pounded in Emma Knight’s temples like clash cymbals. Sitting at the massive desk installed by the previous owner of The Placer Gazette, she picked up the letter from the desktop and held it between a thumb and forefinger as if it were some loathsome bug.
She glanced balefully at it. Despite Mr. Rivers’ fiery accusations, Emma had no intention to – how had he put it? – yes, here in the second paragraph: “write about weddings and tea parties and leave the weighty business of news publishing to men folk.”
Insufferable man! Emma had heard dark rumors about Rivers’ past and his questionable law practice before he’d fled San Francisco. Of his consorting with unsavory elements. Those charges, coupled with the contents of his letter, confirmed her opinion that he was a crass, lowborn individual. Despite his phenomenal success as an attorney, in her mind he bore none of the marks of a gentleman.
She tossed the offending letter onto her desk.
From
the press machinery room at the front of the office, she heard old Thomas Gant, her compositor and printing press operator, setting the type for the weekly issue. When she’d arrived this morning, she’d found him hovering over a selection of cast metal sorts.
“Morning, Miss Knight,” he’d greeted her cheerily even though the hour was unspeakably early.
Thomas’ employment was one of the reasons she hadn’t yet purchased a Linotype machine for The Gazette. Although acquiring the Linotype was imperative to her ambition of producing more than a single weekly and one weekend edition of the paper, she wasn’t sure he could adjust to the new keyboard.
Hearing the soft jangle of the bell at the entrance to the outer office, Emma rose, put on her jacket, and walked out of the back room to greet the visitor. The sun shone through the wide glass window, shadowing the person’s face, and it was a moment before she recognized him.
“Uncle Stephen, what a delightful surprise!”
A stout, round-faced version of her father beamed at her. “Emmie, m’dear.” Stephen Knight held both her hands in his and twirled her around so he could examine her. In the eyes of her uncle she could do no wrong.
Emma laughed delightedly and planted a kiss on his cheek. After they’d settled into her office, her uncle on a stiff-backed Ingram chair she’d brought from home, and she behind her desk, she satisfied her curiosity. “To what do I owe this surprise visit?”
“Oh, this and that. Business, here and there.”
“I thought you had minions to take care of your business interests,” she teased.
“Ah, but this investment,” – he gestured broadly around the room to indicate the entirety of The Gazette – “attracts my special concern.” His green eyes twinkled. “Involving as it does a partnership with my favorite niece.”
“Your only niece.” She laughed as she corrected him, but hoped her uncle didn’t regret his generous offer of making her a partner in the newspaper.
“Yes, yes.” A thoughtful cast passed over his face before he sat forward on the edge of his chair. “This trial business, Emma, that’s what I’ve come about.”
“Alma Bentley’s murder trial? What about it?”
“I attended the arraignment.”
Emma couldn’t keep the bewilderment from her voice. “Why?”
Her uncle shifted awkwardly in his chair, a sure sign he intended to chastise her. He crossed his legs at the knees, his Homburg bouncing gently on his thigh. “I rather expected to see you there.”
Emma carefully monitored her tone. “Since Miss Bentley admitted her guilt to me in our interview, I – I believed little purpose could be served by attending the arraignment.”
Stephen reached across the desk to lift her chin. “Emma, there’s no right or wrong in this business.” He sighed noisily. “It’s a matter of good and better decisions.”
“And I made the less good decision,” she muttered.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” He paused. “Surprisingly, Alma Bentley pled not guilty at the arraignment. Now that news makes a good newspaper article.”
“What? Not guilty? But she is guilty! She confessed.”
Suddenly warm in the small room, Emma jumped up and removed her jacket. She walked to the back door and propped it ajar to capture a breeze from the alley. “I printed her admission.”
“As you should have. Her confession was news that you were obliged to report. And covering her retraction is good reporting too.”
Doubt filled Emma’s mind as she recalled the details of the interview last week. Had she wrangled a confession out of the woman? “I didn’t ask permission of her attorney.”
Stephen’s hand sliced through the air. “Doesn’t matter. Miss Bentley shouldn’t have spoken to you. But, in a moment of egregious misjudgment, she did.”
“Still ... ” she began, but stopped abruptly and merely handed her uncle the letter from Mr. Rivers.
“Malachi Rivers, Miss Bentley’s attorney.” He rubbed his chin slowly as he read the remaining lines. “Hmmmm, pretty harsh.” He placed the letter on her desk. “You must expect such unpleasantries in this business, Emma.” He paused a moment. “Speaking of which, my brother won’t be pleased about this,” he warned.
Emma wrinkled her nose. “Papa approves of very few of my activities.”
Stephen shook his head sadly. “This public controversy is just the kind of notoriety your father and mother abhor.”
Emma covered the distance between them, bent to wrap her arms around him, and dropped another kiss on his cheek. “Poor Uncle Stephen, Papa’s never quite forgiven you for being rich and famous without benefit of the Knight fortune.”
He gave her a pensive gaze. “You are quite like my mother, Emma, a woman far ahead of her time. And nothing like your father. Franklin always seems to have a stick up his . . . Well, never mind about that.” He laughed, slapping his thighs decisively and reaching for his walking stick.
His parting words cheered Emma’s spirits more than anything else. “You did the right thing to print the interview, m’dear. As a newspaper woman, you could do no less.”
#
In the evening after the arraignment, Malachi climbed the hill above his small cabin. At the summit he looked at the sight below, one that never failed to send a thrill of pleasure through him. His own land, however small, his own home built with the sweat of his own labor.
The woodsy smell of damp nettles and decaying logs wafted from downwind and he could sense the moisture that blew off the lake at his back. The silence was broken only by the crush of his boots and the susurration of insects.
An hour after finishing a modest dinner prepared on the open flame of the fireplace, Malachi pumped water to soak the dishes. He poured coffee and moved to the front porch where his mother’s rocking chair – the only piece of decent furniture his father hadn’t smashed in a drunken rage years ago – sat like a huge, over-sized gargoyle, its long runners jutting dangerously.
The rocker was his favorite spot to meditate.
As sunset gradually darkened the clearing around his home, he stared into the dense forest and spied a smoky trail in the sky above the tree line. A new owner taken up residence at the old Chester homestead, he figured. Malachi cherished his privacy and the small estate lying a scant four miles to the east of his shack was too close for his satisfaction.
When the night turned inky, he went inside and sat at the oak-hewn table he had fashioned from the trees surrounding the property. Opening a portfolio, he perused his hand-written notes on the Alma Bentley trial.
Opening remarks were scheduled for tomorrow, first the prosecution’s and then his own. Alma’s case would require all his skill as an attorney. He hoped he could extricate her from the Gordian knot of treachery and murder she’d woven for herself.
Premeditated murder, with malice aforethought.
“It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock the meat it feeds on.” – Othello
Chapter 2
Noise in the small courtroom rose to a distracting buzz as latecomers straggled down the aisle one by one. Men garbed in work clothes and those dressed in fashionable morning coats jockeyed for seats in the limited space. Soon they packed the gallery, some hatless, others jauntily angling the latest Homburgs or bowler hats on their heads.
No more than four or five women were scattered among the men – the mother of the victim, of course, dark and heavy in her mourning clothes. The sister of the victim languished beside her mother, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Few other females beyond the defendant were in attendance. After all, this trial would address delicate issues of fornication, betrayal, and murder, not proper fodder for a lady’s mind or conversation.
Unlike the other attorneys, Malachi refused to scrutinize the gallery. The various inhabitants of the courtroom weren’t his primary concern. Rather, he focused on the two rows of gentlemen who lined the jury seats to the right.
Twelve pairs of eyes stared down at his client from their raised dais. Gli
ttering eyes that seemed to rake over the poor quality of Alma’s gray gabardine suit and the plain straw of her bonnet. They were taking in the whole of her, assessing her value much as they’d judge a heifer on the auction block.
They alone were Malachi’s concern because they alone would decide his client’s fate.
A moment later the bailiff called the session to order and the audience settled into an excited hum of expectation. After the magistrate’s charge to the jury and a strict admonition to the audience about proper conduct in the courtroom, the district attorney presented his opening statement to the jury.
Fulton sauntered to his feet, hands gripping the lapels of his coat. Malachi braced himself. He fully expected the prosecution to titillate and inflame the jury by wrenching every sordid detail out of the tale of Joseph Machado’s murder at the hands of his erstwhile lover, Alma Bentley.
Malachi’s eyes wandered to the pews directly behind the wooden railing that separated the attorneys’ table from the area assigned to reporters. Two men occupied the first bench. He looked behind them to the second row.
A newcomer sat in the center of that pew, her auburn hair a flaming messy affair scarcely contained beneath a wide-brimmed hat. No doubt, Emma Knight, the newspaper woman. Wedged between James Spencer from The Sacramento Union and Harold Belcher from The San Francisco Chronicle, she held a pad and pencil as her fingers poised to take notes.
At that moment she lifted her head and met his scrutiny. He blinked back at eyes that were a deep chocolate, as dark as the fine Ghirardelli confections he’d once tasted in San Francisco. Dusty pink spots flushed her cheeks even as she tilted her chin in an unmistakable challenge and returned his stare without faltering.
The sound of Fulton’s voice drew Malachi’s attention and he turned toward the front where the district attorney began his opening remarks.
“Gentlemen of the jury,” Fulton began, facing them and eyeing each juror in turn, “the state thanks you for the service you render this court today, which service is one of the highest performances a true patriot can give.”
