“They say you’re defending Harry McCandless?” she began without preamble.
“That’s right,” Kilgore said. “Mind if I take off this coat?”
“Why, no,” said Laurie. “Can I get you a whisky?”
“I’d be mighty grateful,” Kilgore replied. He waited quietly while the woman went to the hall and called down to the clerk to send up a bottle and two glasses. It was clear that Honey Morgan’s mother was holding herself in tight control.
“Well, Kilgore?” she asked finally. “You got some reason to be here?”
Kilgore nodded. “I just want to make sure Harry McCandless gets a fair trial, Laurie. I don’t want the general prejudice against Dan to influence the situation. I think you might help.”
“You think I would help?” Laurie asked after a pause. “Now, why?”
“I don’t think you’d want the wrong man to swing for it,” said Kilgore. “You’ve got character, Laurie. If your little girl’s death means anything, you’ll want justice to come out of it. Not injustice.”
Laurie paused. “I guess that’s a compliment, Jake Kilgore. What makes you think Harry McCandless is innocent?”
“What reason would he have for such a thing?” Kilgore replied. “Honey had a good thing in Harry. He had a good thing in her. What’s the point?”
Laurie Morgan had been sitting quietly, staring at the massive lawyer whose rugged face, illuminated by the wintry sun, bore an expression of pain. A bitter look accumulated on her face.
“I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Kilgore,” she said quietly. “We been good friends and I understand your position. You’re a lawyer and you got a duty to your client. But I’ll tell you this. Harry McCandless killed my little girl. He broke her head open for no reason at all except his own cruelty. He looks like a milksop but he’s one of those men who take it out on girls like Honey. I saw the body at the funeral parlor. A man who could do a thing like that deserves to die.”
Kilgore closed his eyes. “What makes you think Harry McCandless would ever want to hurt your little girl? Could you tell me, Laurie?”
Laurie shook her head. “I’m under instructions not to say anything, Kilgore. I’ve got good and substantial reasons for knowing he had an important motive, and you’ll hear them at the trial. I don’t want to give you any handle to twist my testimony when I tell my story to the jury. I want Harry McCandless to hang.”
Kilgore sighed. There was no point in answering the embittered woman. “That won’t bring Honey back to life,” he said mildly.
“It’ll keep him from doing the same thing to some other poor girl. I don’t see how you’ll find it in you to defend him.”
Oh, Lord! Kilgore wished he were a thousand miles away. It was the most difficult and distasteful aspect of the case, this matter of dealing with the family of the dead. There would also be the family of the living to consider. He arose. “Even if I thought for sure Harry killed her, I’d defend him somehow. I’d find something to say in his behalf—if it’s only a plea for clemency. That’s fundamental to our system of laws.”
Laurie said with wonder, “Even where a man is proved to be a murderer?”
Kilgore nodded. “Laurie, this is a tragic moment for you, and I know it. But that’s the test. Anybody can speak up for an innocent man. A child knows enough to make that kind of argument. In your own moment of sorrow, looking back on your own life, you ought to know that every human being is shaped by mysterious and wonderful forces which he’s got nothing to say about. He don’t ask to be born and he don’t ask to die. Every one of us is guilty of something and human justice is imperfect. I’ll try to get Harry McCandless off because that’s my obligation as a lawyer. But if I can’t make the court see that as a proposition of justice—I’ll plead for mercy. And if I can’t get justice, or mercy, why, then, Harry McCandless will hang—unless I figure out something else. I figure everybody needs a defense. All I ask is a fair trial and a chance to sum up to an unprejudiced jury.” The lawyer paused. “What are your plans?”
Laurie Morgan walked to the window and stared at the frozen ground. I’ll bury my little girl in the churchyard here and “I’ll go back to Santa Fe. Mike Duer has promised to let me know in good time when I’ve got to get back for the trial.”
Kilgore waited in the silence and opened the door. “Don’t be bloodthirsty, Laurie,” he said in a troubled voice. “There’s things about this case I can’t understand. Harry McCandless is a waster, but he’s got a father and mother and sister and you’ve got to consider how serious to them any testimony you give will be. I’m that sorry we’ve got to meet in court, Laurie.”
There was no reply, and he left for his office. Light flakes of snow were beginning to spiral through the overcast as he strode across the plaza to his office. It was brutal weather, he thought, with worse to come. The entire Territory seemed locked in the stiffening cold of winter. And there was a different sort of cold, too, the cold in the hearts of men. Mike Duer was a cold man. Joel Tilley, another. And Dan McCandless a third. Kilgore strode on, conscious that his labored breath was blowing great plumes of steam in the icy air. The cold men were at each other’s throat. And it was his task—as a man with a warm heart—to carry the burden of justice to a bitter conclusion.
Clem Erskine was waiting in the office as Kilgore strode in, shivering and rubbing his hands. When they were settled in the office, Sarah Hilleboe was dispatched back to her typewriter and Kilgore invited his assistant to make his report. Erskine was glowing with the excitement and importance of having covered the courthouse during the afternoon.
Kilgore smiled through pain. “Well?”
Erskine hitched forward. “Coroner’s jury rendered a verdict while you were at the hotel, Mr. Kilgore. It was just what you expected.”
“Death by murder at the hands of parties unknown?”
“That’s it.”
Kilgore grunted. “Any indication when to expect the arraignment? I haven’t been able to raise any information out of McCartney.”
Kilgore was referring to Hugh McCartney, district attorney of San Carlos County.
“No, sir,” said Erskine. “I had some trouble picking up information, but I did overhear talk that McCartney expected to be superseded by someone coming down from Santa Fe.”
“Expected,” Kilgore grunted. “Who?”
Erskine paused, having held back the important morsel of news for the end. “I was told that Attorney General Beaudoin is coming down for the arraignment himself.”
If there was any element of surprise, it was not evident in Kilgore’s manner.
“Why not?” Kilgore asked. “This isn’t some Indian they’re trying to hang. It’s Dan McCandless’ son and Kilgore for the defense. They’re going to pull out all the stops.” He poured himself another whisky. “This damnable ear is going to drive me out of my mind,” he muttered. “That is, if Sarah doesn’t. Sarah screams when I go into court with liquor on my breath, and my ear plagues me when I don’t. There’s a lesson for you, Erskine. Man’s life is a bunch of conflicts, seriatim. Thou must is always warring with thou cannot. But I guess it’s necessary that way. We’d die of boredom otherwise.” Kilgore managed a shaky smile. “Get me that newspaper, Erskine. And then see if you can’t shine up the spittoon. There is no greater reproach to a law office than a rusty spit bucket. If a lawyer can’t keep a brass pot clean and shining, what can he keep?”
It was a joke, but all the same it came with an effort.
7.
JUSTICE of the Peace Tom Harrell sat in a shabby courtroom housed in a decrepit building that also housed the district court of the Fifth Judicial District. He was a flabby old man who had held his political position for many years without benefit of legal training or the qualifications of more than moderate training. He banged a gavel, and the murmur of voices came to a halt.
“We waited just about long enough,” he announced. “I’m going to grant an adjournment—”
“Hold it!” said Kilgor
e dramatically.
Kilgore had timed his entrance for best effect, gauging nicely the moment when the justice would grant the application made by the sheriff to postpone the hearing upon the arraignment. All eyes turned toward him, and there was a general shift and murmur of excitement as he strode into the crowded courtroom and made his way to the bar. Harry McCandless was seated to one side, manacled, with an air of pale excitement, quite different from the detachment of the day of arrest. Also present were Laurie Morgan, quietly dressed in a skirt and severe blouse of black, and Police Chief Joe Valdez, who wore an air of excitement and importance. Mike Duer stood apart in a corner, earnestly in discussion with a lean and elegantly dapper man in his late forties—Pierre Beaudoin, attorney general of the Territory. Sam Dodge, editor of the Journal, was in conversation with an artist he had hired for the occasion to make line drawings for a special edition of his paper.
“Somebody might have had the goodness to notify me that this case would be called first on the calendar,” Kilgore complained. “Is there a conspiracy going on to keep my client from having his day in court?”
“No conspiracy,” Tom Harrell replied. “You’re expected to know when the court starts. You’re no privileged character, just because this is a court of limited jurisdiction. It’s still a court of law. This here is just for taking the arraignment.”
“Fine and dandy!” Kilgore announced. “Let’s get on with it. What’s the stage of this travesty?”
Harrell banged his gavel. “Jake Kilgore, you behave, or I’m going to test out the limits of my power to hold you in contempt. This is no chicken-stealing case we’re dealing with. This is an important murder case, and you’re not going to suck me into making any mistakes. We’re honored by the presence of the attorney general, and I’m going to demand some respect.”
“Naturally,” Kilgore said. “I apologize. Hello, Pete,” he added, grinning broadly as he turned to the attorney general and stuck out a meaty hand. “I couldn’t ask for a better tribute to the weakness of the case against Harry McCandless than your presence. Let’s get on. Call your first witness.”
Beaudoin smiled. “Thanks, Kilgore, but if you don’t mind, I’ll have an application.”
The attorney general’s voice was powerful and controlled like that of a Shakespearean actor, touched slightly with the accent of Louisiana and Creole ancestors. His eyes were cold and his mouth cruel.
Mike Duer stepped forward. “Judge, I’m handing up this sworn affidavit setting forth my reasons to believe that Harry McCandless—”
Kilgore interrupted. “Let’s have the prisoner to the bar while this conversation takes place. He’s entitled to hear the content of this mumbling.”
A bailiff stepped forward and nudged Harry McCandless to the bar. Kilgore stepped to the side of his client and said hoarsely, “This is all just a formal pack of lies, Harry. The real perjury comes later. But it’s useful to have it committed to paper.”
A warning gavel brought silence, and the sheriff continued to explain the nature of his application. The inquest of the coroner’s jury had resulted in a verdict that Honey Morgan had met her death at the hands of parties unknown. On his own affidavit, he had previously obtained a warrant of arrest and now presented his prisoner before the justice of the peace for pleading.
Kilgore waited with folded arms as the proceedings went on. “Oh, now!” he complained finally, “all this is just a waste of time. We plead not guilty, and now I’ve got an application.”
“What application, Mr. Kilgore?”
Kilgore gazed stolidly at the array of faces. A hostile atmosphere hung over the crowded court. Murderous hate was expressed against the son of Dan McCandless. Duer—Laurie— Beaudoin—Valdez. He turned back and pointed an expressive finger.
“I ask that the prisoner be admitted to bail pending his appearance before the district court,” he said quietly.
“Bail!”
A dozen men seemed to be talking at once, until Harrell made himself heard. “I can’t do that, Mr. Kilgore,” the justice of the peace protested. “This here offense is a hanging offense. It’s above the grade of felony. I don’t have the power.”
“No power?” Kilgore roared suddenly. “Why, you’ve got to be satisfied from the papers that they’ve got the right man. It don’t matter the grade of offense. Mike Duer hasn’t got a shred of case against this boy. Matter of fact, I move to discharge him entirely on the ground that all the affidavits taken together don’t show any probable cause to believe that Harry McCandless was involved in this poor girl’s death. Set bail or set him free!”
For a long moment the storm of protest raged. Kilgore stood at its center, the waves of sound beating painfully against his swollen eardrum. Tom Harrell pounded his desk and tried ineffectually to regain order.
Silence returned. Tom Harrell said in his weak voice, “The papers are all regular, Jake. It would exceed my authority to grant bail.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Kilgore,” said Pierre Beaudoin suddenly. His voice was as elegant as his posture; he spoke with a purr, but yet it was a purr that could carry to the farthest reaches of a courtroom gallery. “You seem to be operating under a fundamental misunderstanding of the function of Mr. Harrell here. As a justice of the peace, he’s not empowered to set bail in a murder case. That would certainly exceed his authority, as I am sure you must have been well aware when you brought the entire matter up.”
Kilgore put one hand behind his throbbing ear and glanced with narrowed eyes at Beaudoin. “Am I to understand that the attorney general will remain with us to provide legal advice during the trial?”
“The attorney general,” Beaudoin said with a flickering smile, “has been named to prosecute the case. It was felt that he would more efficiently serve the Territory’s purposes than the local district attorney, Mr. McCartney. So we will be adversaries once again, Mr. Kilgore. At the moment, though, I ask you to talk to my point. Is the justice of the peace empowered to set bail? And if you think he is, can you cite proof of your contention?”
“I realize that,” said Kilgore stolidly. “I also realize something more. Bail or no bail, the prosecution has got to show some probable cause—some evidence—some scintilla, as we say—that the prisoner is guilty of the offense. Go ahead with your witnesses, and I’ll show how empty of legality this outrage is. Call your witness!”
There was a moment of silence.
“Are you prepared, Mr. Beaudoin?” asked the justice of the peace.
“Um—” Beaudoin drew out the sound of doubt provocatively, wiped his mouth with a fine linen handkerchief, and turned to the bench. “Judge, I’d like an adjournment for about two weeks, while I give this matter some study. I need a chance to confer with my witnesses—”
“Adjournment?” Kilgore bellowed. “We’re ready! The witnesses are here! My client is languishing! He wants an adjournment because he’s got no case and he knows it! It’s a political frame-up and that’s the fact I’m going to demonstrate—”
A banging gavel finally brought the heated exchange to a conclusion. “Two weeks’ adjournment!” Harrell said, and disappeared from the bench.
Throughout the tumult, Harry McCandless had waited quietly, regarding Kilgore’s dramatic efforts with pale curiosity. He seemed detached, not concerned, appreciative of a performance in which he had no part. When the excitement had died, he responded to the nudge of the bailiff. “One moment.” He came back to the lawyer. “I appreciate your efforts, Mr. Kilgore,” he said. “I just don’t know why you were so surprised when they pulled that dirty trick. I don’t expect justice in any court run by Tilley’s men.”
Kilgore mopped his neck. “Nobody hands you justice on a platter, Harry McCandless. And it can’t be bought for money, or it ain’t justice. It’s something you got to fight for damn hard. I wouldn’t give up.”
“I’m Dan McCandless’ son,” said Harry fatalistically, and was led away.
Kilgore paused and exchanged a troubled glance with Clem Er
skine, whose own heart had been beating sympathetically with the effort of his chief to stand against the array of power represented in the final action of the court. It was a glance that seemed to indicate that the lawyer’s chief problem would be the temperament of his client. Kilgore laughed harshly and turned to the crowd.
“Duer’s scared stiff,” he announced. “He didn’t have the guts to expose himself to cross-examination. When the time comes, he’ll regret this cowardly evasion of his responsibilities. Let’s get back to the office, Erskine. There’s nothing we can do here.”
Stony silence followed them as they left the courtroom. Kilgore’s mammoth appetite was protesting the lack of dinner. At his home, not far from the center of town, his elderly servant, Lupe, was probably boiling with impatience because he was not yet at the table. Well, he thought, dinner would have to wait awhile.
He crossed back to his office, at the far side of the plaza. Erskine said, “Did you really expect to get him out on bail, Mr. Kilgore?”
Kilgore shook his head. “There was just an outside chance with Tom Harrell. He’s semi-illiterate, and jelly-like when I fix him with my good eye, but with Beaudoin here there wasn’t a chance. No, Tom’s been talked to, and he’s in the grip of fear. It was really just a bit of propaganda!” He grinned suddenly. “Pete Beaudoin never had the least intention of letting me get at his witnesses. But at least now there’s a mite of public opinion working against him.”
“Suppose you got him out on bail?” Erskine wondered, as the lesson sank in. “Wouldn’t that have been irregular?”
Kilgore looked up at the towering young man. “The forms are there to guide us, not to bind us. My aim is to get Harry acquitted. Duer and Beaudoin will pull anything dirty to hang him, so I might as well try my tricks, too. Would have surprised me if Beaudoin had swallowed it, though. He’s despicable, but that ain’t to say he isn’t smart.” They entered the office. Sarah Hilleboe emerged, her arms full of typed papers, and inquired with a single raised eyebrow how the session had gone. Kilgore told her in three sentences.
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