“Do you have the money?” came the nervous inquiry of a clearly inebriated individual known to Matthew as Otis Pike, a slender man in ill health who had been chosen earlier in the day to sit as a juror in Farber v. Gillette. Pike had seemed sympathetic to Farber’s cause, and Matthew had been surprised when Barbour left him on the jury.
“Will I have my verdict, Pike?” asked a voice Matthew had no trouble identifying as Caleb Barbour’s.
“I said I’d deliver, and I will.”
“Have the others agreed?”
“Yes, yes. Now let me have my money. I don’t want us seen together.”
Matthew’s initial impulse was to rise up and face the conspirators, but he was armed only with his knife, and he had heard that Barbour was a mean shot. After a moment of indecision, Matthew moved deeper into the shadows and crouched down. He listened to the clink of coins changing hands and a promise that more would be forthcoming when Gillette won his verdict.
Matthew’s legs were beginning to cramp, and he worried about making noise if he moved, but Pike saved him by walking off. Barbour followed soon after, leaving by a separate path so as not to be seen with his coconspirator. Matthew considered following Pike to discover the identity of the other felonious jurors, but Pike had too much of a head start, and Matthew knew that there was a risk that he would be discovered eavesdropping. As he waited in the shadows for Barbour to get far enough away that he could risk standing, Matthew wondered if he should confront Benjamin Gillette. He had never heard a word that would suggest that Gillette was the type of man who would try to subvert justice, but Matthew could not be certain that Gillette was not in on Barbour’s scheme.
When he could stand it no longer, Matthew rose up and stretched his cramped muscles. He had not slept well since leaving Portland, and he reckoned that there was only a slim chance that he would sleep tonight. As he headed back to his canvas room at the Hotel Parisian, he hoped that some miracle would bring him relief from his fatigue and a solution to his dilemma.
CHAPTER 7
Matthew Penny remained awake for most of his second night in the Hotel Parisian as he tried to devise a plan to deal with Caleb Barbour’s treachery. If he went to Justice Tyler, Barbour and Pike would deny his accusation. His word alone would not win the day. Worthy Brown was a witness to Barbour’s dishonesty, but no judge would take a Negro’s word over a white man’s, assuming that Justice Tyler would even listen to Brown. When the sun rose to signal the imminent opening of court, Matthew was still not certain what he would do, but an idea had begun to germinate in his sleep-deprived brain.
The trial in Farber v. Gillette took up the morning session, and the evidence in the land-sale case clearly favored Farber. When both sides rested, Matthew had no doubt that he would win the trial if the jury was untainted. As the plaintiff’s lawyer, Matthew had the honor of giving his closing argument first. Then he was allowed to rebut Barbour when Gillette’s lawyer finished arguing the defense case. In his first appearance before the jury, Matthew reviewed the evidence, establishing for jurors and spectators alike that Glen Farber’s cause was just. He made certain to direct many of his remarks to Otis Pike, whom, he noted with pleasure, would not meet his eye. When he finished his opening argument, he took his seat and waited to see what Caleb Barbour would say.
Though the evidence supported few of his points, Barbour looked supremely confident as he argued Gillette’s position, and there was a swagger in his step when he returned to his client’s side. When Matthew rose for rebuttal, he planted himself directly in front of Otis Pike and addressed the jury.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Farber has relied solely on the evidence to maintain his rights in this case. He has not endeavored to influence your judgment by approaching you secretly.”
Matthew watched with satisfaction as Pike and two other jurors lost color.
“The other side has not acted accordingly. They have not been content that you should weigh only the evidence. They have endeavored to corrupt your minds and pervert your judgments. Although you have sworn to Almighty God to render a verdict according to the evidence, they believe some of you to be so low and debased as to be willing to decide against the evidence for pay and let perjury rest on their souls.”
Matthew paused. Behind him, he heard murmurs and movement in the crowd. The three jurors who had been caught out stirred uneasily. The other jurors looked confused or offended. Matthew pointed at Otis Pike.
“I know you have been approached, Mr. Pike. I know you agreed to accept a bribe on behalf of yourself and other jurors because I sat in the dark by the river behind the inn while you conspired with Caleb Barbour. You didn’t guess that anyone else was privy to your cowardly conversation, but I overheard your foul bargain.”
There was the click of a pistol cocking from the vicinity of the defense table and an answering click from Glen Farber’s gun. Matthew had told Farber about Barbour’s actions and what he planned to do. Farber had come prepared to do violence to protect his lawyer. Matthew turned and faced Barbour, who was on his feet.
“There is no terror for me in your pistol, sir,” Matthew said, though in truth his insides were roiling from fear. “You won’t win your argument by shooting me. You can win in only one way—by showing that you deserve to prevail under the laws of this state. You will never win this case by bribery or threats of violence.”
Justice Tyler slammed the butt of his revolver onto the table several times and shouted for order. Then he pointed his pistol in the direction of both counsel tables.
“Put down your weapons, gentlemen. Remember, you’re in a court of law.”
Barbour hesitated for a moment before holstering his gun. Farber lowered his as soon as he was certain Matthew was safe.
“Mr. Penny has made a serious charge, and we need to settle this matter before I can instruct the jury,” the judge said. “I’m going to adjourn court. All of the parties will meet with me in the back room of the inn in fifteen minutes.”
Tyler told the jurors to stay in the field, but he forbade anyone to approach them, and he forbade the jurors to discuss the case until he had charged them. Then he walked toward the inn. A crowd surrounded Matthew and Caleb Barbour.
“I demand satisfaction, you bastard,” Barbour said as soon as the judge was out of earshot.
Glen Farber took a step toward the attorney, but Matthew held out his arm and blocked his client.
“You tried to play dirty, and I caught you out,” Matthew said. “Take your medicine like a man.”
“I said I demand satisfaction.”
“Demand away.”
“So you’re a coward as well as a slanderer.”
Matthew was opposed to dueling, but he couldn’t risk being branded a coward. In Ohio, if a man was rude, you could turn away from him, but Matthew had learned quickly that men in Oregon were likely to take liberties with someone who did not stand up for himself. The only way to get along was to hold every man responsible and resent every trespass on one’s rights.
“Very well,” Matthew answered softly. “And since it’s your challenge, it’s my choice of weapons.”
“Choose, then.”
Matthew drew his knife from under the folds of his coat and held it up for all to see.
“We’ll fight with bowie knives in a sealed room.”
The color drained from Barbour’s face. Though deadly with a pistol, he had no skill with a knife. He was also a natural coward and a bully, and the idea of a knife fight terrified him.
“I won’t fight with knives. They’re not a gentleman’s weapon,” Barbour responded, managing to keep the fear from his voice.
“True, but you’ve accused me of being no gentleman.”
“An accusation we know to be groundless, Mr. Penny,” said Benjamin Gillette.
A large, dangerous-looking man stepped out of the crowd and moved in behind Gillette as soon a
s the businessman inserted his considerable bulk into the argument. Matthew had never met Francis Gibney, but he recognized the bodyguard, who accompanied Gillette everywhere.
“Come, Caleb,” Gillette said, “let this matter be decided by law. Nothing will be served by dueling.”
“But . . .” Barbour started.
Gillette closed his hand on Barbour’s forearm. “Enough,” he said forcefully.
Barbour’s fear of losing Gillette’s retainer decided the question.
“Why don’t you wait for me at the inn,” Gillette said. Barbour didn’t like the idea of leaving his client with Penny, but it was clear that Gillette wanted him gone, so he cast a disdainful look at Matthew and walked away.
“You know my reputation, do you not?” Gillette asked Matthew.
Matthew nodded, uncertain where this conversation was going.
“Then you know that I am very well connected in this state. If your argument to the jury is a trick to gain an advantage for your client, I will destroy you.”
Matthew knew that his career depended on meeting Gillette’s eye.
“Last night I saw Caleb Barbour pay a bribe to Otis Pike. The money was for Pike and some of the other jurors, with more to come if you prevailed.”
“If you knew about this last night, why didn’t you come to me?”
“I’ll be blunt, Mr. Gillette. I didn’t come to you because I didn’t know whether Caleb was acting on his own or was following your orders.”
Rather than get angry, Gillette looked suddenly tired. “If there was a bribe, I can assure you that it was not my doing. This case may be important to your client, but the amount involved is a pittance for me.”
“Then why have you fought so hard against our claim?”
“If I give in to your client, every son of a bitch in the state will think he can back me down, and I’ll spend my every waking hour in court defending frivolous lawsuits.
“But that brings me to something that’s had me puzzled. Why would Caleb risk his career over such a minor matter? That’s what’s got me wondering about your accusation.”
Matthew remembered what Worthy Brown had told him. “Caleb Barbour might risk everything to win this case if he felt that losing it could cost him your business. Farber’s claim isn’t frivolous, but Barbour convinced you it was. He gave you bad legal advice. That’s why he bribed Pike. He doesn’t want to look bad to you.”
Gillette mulled over Matthew’s answer, and Matthew was certain he’d scored a point.
“Would Mr. Farber be willing to settle his case?” Gillette asked.
“He might. I would certainly advise him to do so if the sum you offered was sufficient.”
“Then I’ll settle for the amount of your demand plus your attorney fees on the condition that Mr. Farber agrees to keep the settlement secret and you agree to let this bribery allegation die. Your accusations have tarnished my reputation as well as Caleb’s, and I want the matter buried.”
Gillette’s offer was far more than Matthew had expected, but he did not show that he was surprised.
“I’ll talk to my client,” Matthew said.
GLEN FARBER WAS JUBILANT WHEN Matthew told him what his conference with Gillette had accomplished. Matthew was as elated as his client. The attorney fee would go far toward digging him out of the financial hole in which he found himself.
With Farber in tow, Matthew followed Benjamin Gillette to the inn. When they were almost there, he noticed Worthy Brown tending Barbour’s horse and a mule he guessed was the servant’s mount. Matthew was tempted to send a signal of gratitude to Brown but wise enough to do nothing that would put the Negro at risk.
Inside the private dining room, Benjamin Gillette told Justice Tyler that both parties wanted the matter of Farber v. Gillette settled. Matthew avoided looking at Caleb Barbour, who stood apart from the others, scowling angrily, his arms folded tightly across his chest.
“Do you plan to pursue your accusations against Juror Pike and Mr. Barbour?” Tyler asked Matthew.
“Mr. Farber and I see no reason to go any further with the matter now that the case is settled.”
Matthew thought the judge looked relieved. The Oregon legal community was small and tight knit, and Matthew suspected that Tyler had not been looking forward to conducting an inquiry into the honesty of one of its members.
“Very well, Mr. Penny. Will you prepare the papers?”
“I’ll get on it as soon as I’m back in Portland.”
Tyler stood. “I’ll tell the jury that the case has been settled. There’s no need for you gentlemen to accompany me.”
“Thank you, Judge,” Gillette said. “I’m giving Miss Hill a ride back to Portland, and I know she’s eager to continue her journey.”
WITH COURT ADJOURNED FOR THE DAY, Harry Chambers’s bar was packed. Glen Farber stood Matthew to drinks at the inn to celebrate their victory, and several others customers who had been thoroughly entertained by the afternoon’s proceedings also treated the jubilant attorney. By the time Farber left for home, Matthew was tipsy and it was too late for him to start for Portland.
Matthew ordered dinner and settled in a corner of the barroom while Harry fetched his meal. His lack of sleep had caught up with him now that the adrenaline that had kept him going in court had worn off. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his arms, snapping to when Harry waddled over with a steaming bowl of stew.
“This meal is on the house,” Harry said as he set the bowl on the table. “We were all rooting for Glen.” Harry laughed. “You sure showed up Barbour. It’s all anyone’s talked about since you backed down that coward.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Matthew answered with a smile, which vanished as soon as Harry turned his back. Matthew had been elated after his rout of Caleb Barbour and the settlement he’d won for Glen Farber, but he suddenly remembered Clyde Lukens and the injustice the salesman had suffered. Matthew sighed. Law was like that. Victory and elation one minute, and a crushing defeat the next.
PART TWO
WORTHY BROWN’S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER 8
Matthew Penny paid eighty dollars a month to rent an office on the second floor of a three-story building on the fringes of Portland’s commercial district. The rent was a little more than he wanted to pay, but the cost was offset by a high-ceilinged loft above the office, which was intended for storage but served as the lawyer’s apartment. Matthew had furnished the empty space with a pine table and a rocking chair he’d taken in trade for legal services. He’d used credit to purchase a cot and a stool, which he used as a washstand. Each day, Matthew brought the water he needed from a nearby well, and, with a tin basin, a pail, a piece of soap, a toothbrush, a razor, a comb, blankets for the cot, and a few towels, his apartment was all rigged out.
Three weeks after his trip to Phoenix, Matthew was in his law office with his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, seated on a high stool, hunched over a slanted wooden desk, making copies of court papers that had to be filed by noon. Summer was hanging on, and the sound of steamer whistles, the conversations of passersby, and the clatter of wagon wheels invaded through his open window. When he looked up from his task, he could see sailing vessels bobbing at anchor at the end of a dusty street lined with two- and three-story whitewashed clapboard buildings.
Matthew’s hand cramped constantly, and his eyes burned as he worked on the legal papers. He hated every minute of this scrivener’s work, but he didn’t have the money to hire a scrivener on a regular basis, so he did the small jobs himself. Matthew dipped his quill pen into the well, then shook off the excess ink carefully so none would spatter on his white shirt. The copies had to be duplicates of the original, and, worst of all, they had to be neat and legible. He sighed with relief when he had blotted the last copy of the last page dry.
A freckle-faced boy was waiting impatiently for the documents. M
atthew told him what to do with them then flipped a coin to him when he repeated his instructions accurately. The boy pocketed his pay, opened the office door, and froze in midstep. Worthy Brown filled the doorway, a floppy, wide-brimmed hat held before him in his thick calloused hands.
The messenger squeezed past Worthy and bounded down the stairs, casting several curious glances over his shoulder on the way. Though the weather was warm, Worthy wore a red flannel shirt. His feet, which had been bare in Phoenix, were encased in badly worn, homemade shoes, which Matthew was willing to bet were brought out only on special occasions.
“I wondered when you’d come calling, Mr. Brown,” Matthew said as he showed his visitor to a chair in front of his rolltop desk. The rolltop, the desk at which the scrivener’s work was accomplished; two wooden chairs; and a potbellied stove that provided warmth in winter were all one could find in the way of furnishings in Matthew’s office. Its sole decorations were Matthew’s framed certificate to practice law and a landscape showing Mount Hood that Matthew had purchased from a street artist.
“I still don’t have money for your fee, Mr. Penny,” Brown said as his hands worried the brim of his hat in nervous anticipation of rejection.
“You needn’t worry about legal fees. Your assistance in Phoenix was much appreciated. Now how may I help you?” asked Matthew, who had been wondering about Brown’s legal problem since the Negro had tantalized him with his vague references to it during their clandestine meeting.
“Suh, Mr. Barbour has my child, and he won’t give her up.”
“I’m not certain I follow you.”
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