The Trials of Kate Hope

by Wick Downing

I didn’t feel much like playing that particular game, but it was better at the moment than riding home alone. “You have to be cool, I guess. Nothing really bothered you. When you stood up in front of the judge and the jury, you just seemed to know that God was in Heaven looking after you, and that Justice Will Be Done—even when it doesn’t look like it will at all. How do you do that?”

  “I assume the worst,” he said. “Then nothing surprises me.”

  “You picked up on little things that I’d have glossed over. When the officer said he’d seen the tools in the truck? He made it sound like he’d just peeked in the window and seen them, but you made him admit he’d actually opened the door and looked behind the seat.”

  “You did that for me,” the old man said. “You reminded me that photographs had been taken of the tools while they were still in the truck. So you pick up on little things too.”

  “But getting him to admit it—how did you do that?”

  “I took a chance,” Grandfather said. “I thought those pictures were taken for a reason, and they were. The officers took them to prove guilt, because they showed how well the tools were hidden. And you’ll notice, too, that the officer didn’t lie about it. He just wanted to be misunderstood.”

  “How did you know he wouldn’t lie?”

  “I didn’t. But I took the chance because he’s a policeman. Down deep, most of them are honest. They don’t want to convict a man of something he didn’t do, which is a little-known fact, especially in this day and age when everybody believes the worst about everybody else, especially the police.”

  Suddenly his face tightened up with pain. “Grandfather! What is it?”

  “Nothin’, Kate darlin’,” he said a second later. “Just a wrinkle in my system, but it’s gone.”

  I leaned back in my chair, feeling sorry for myself and wishing I could talk to him about Mike and Sally. “What’s justice, Judge?” I asked him. “If it hadn’t been for you and your tricks, Mr. Alvarez would have been convicted of something he didn’t do, and sent back to Mexico. But he actually was guilty of drunk driving, and nothing will happen to him for that. Did today have anything to do with justice, or was it just a contest to see which lawyer was the best?”

  He cocked his head. “Something eating you, Kate?” he asked.

  “No.” I lied. “Is this another trick of yours to keep from answering my question?”

  “Well. I’ll answer the best I can, then you go home, young lady. You need the rest of the day off before we tackle that Willow woman’s case. It needs some work, I expect.” He sat back in his chair. “I won’t say you always get justice after a trial, but the strange fact is you usually do.”

  “Really?” I said. “How come it’s only poor people who get ripped off, then? Not Mr. Alvarez, because he had you to fight for him. What if he’d had me?”

  Was I trying to start a fight with him? If so, it didn’t work. He didn’t get the least bit mad at me. “It’s true what you say,” he said. “If you’re poor in this country, you don’t get justice as often as when you’re rich. But the amazing thing is that you get it at all.

  “Look around the world, Kate. There aren’t many countries where poor people ever get a fair shake. But in this country, they actually do, at least now and then.” Sweat popped out on his forehead, which surprised me because it wasn’t that hot. “It’s more than now and then, of course. Even the poor people in this country get justice more often than they don’t, in spite of what you read in the newspapers.”

  I was ready to tell him he was full of it, when he clutched his stomach. “Uh-oh,” he said, suddenly folding into himself. I jumped up and ran to his side. “Dang. Another twitch.” I held him in place as he struggled to get up. “Better help me, honey.”

  “I’m calling a doctor!” I told him, trying to keep him from falling out of his chair.

  “Don’t do that,” he said as he finally managed to get to his feet. “Just walk me to my hotel. I’ll be all right.”

  And then he collapsed.

  Chapter Twenty

  GRANDFATHER’S EYES OPENED SLOWLY, then seemed to freeze. “Kate?” he asked, sniffing the air.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m right here.”

  “Who’s the woman with you? It ain’t Mrs. Roulette.”

  “It’s me, Dad,” Mom said, patting his arm.

  “Am I in a hospital?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Thought so. It smells like iodine in here.”

  “How do you feel?” I asked from my side of the bed.

  “Fine. Like I always feel after a little nap.” He tried to climb out of bed, but the guardrail penned him in, so he swore at it.

  “Lie down, Dad. You have to stay put. Doctor’s orders.”

  “I’m not staying in a hospital, Annie. People die in hospitals. I don’t have time for that.”

  “You aren’t going to die,” she said, brushing hair off his forehead.

  He leaned back on his pillow, tired from the excitement of waking up in a strange place and complaining about it. “What happened to me?”

  “You passed out yesterday,” I told him, the knot in my stomach tightening.

  “Yesterday! What time is it?”

  “Six thirty.”

  “That don’t tell me much. Is it morning or night?”

  “It’s evening,” Mom said. “You were exhausted, among other things. You’ve been asleep for more than twenty hours.”

  “What!” He struggled to sit up again, but his muscles wouldn’t cooperate and he settled back into his pillow. “They’ve loaded me up with drugs, haven’t they? That’s what they do in hospitals to make you sick and dependent.” His eyelids drooped. “What’s the prognosis?”

  “You’ll live,” Mom said. “Some gastric problem that will keep you here a few days. They’ve scheduled some tests.”

  “Um.” He relaxed . . . until his eyes popped open and he sat up. “That Willow case, Kate. When is it set for?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said, trying desperately to settle the swarm of bees in my stomach and praying there weren’t any biters in the horde.

  “Get my trousers.” He shook the bars that kept him from falling out of bed. “Take these dang things down!”

  “Judge,” I said loudly. “We’re partners, aren’t we?”

  He stopped. “Yes we are, young woman. Partners in the law.”

  “Then you’ll have to trust me when I tell you I don’t need you because the case is under control.”

  “Did you get a continuance?”

  “No. But it’s in good shape.” I turned my back to Mom so she wouldn’t see my quivering lips.

  “You can’t do that trial, Kate!” He was more determined than ever to get his feet on the floor. “You don’t have the experience!”

  That was what I’d argued to Judge Steinbrunner, but Carl Thomas said I was licensed to practice law in Colorado, so I was presumed to have the experience to try a lawsuit. He’d also said that the public interest in getting dangerous dogs out of circulation was too important to delay the case, and Judge Steinbrunner had agreed with him.

  “Well, he’ll get a piece of my mind, then!” Grandfather said. But moving around exhausted him, and he lay back down. “You say it’s in good shape, do you?”

  “Yes,” I lied. The case was in horrible shape. All I knew was that Herman was a hero—according to an old man who had seen the whole thing. But I didn’t know what had happened, and that was just for starters. Picking a jury? Opening statement? Cross-examination of witnesses? I’d filled a legal pad with notes I couldn’t read. And just when I needed him most, Mike had deserted me. Why was I not surprised? That’s what boys are good at, I thought.

  I was also thinking seriously about riding my bicycle in front of a trolley bus.

  “Ask Mrs. Roulette to find Chenoweth v. Municipal Court. It’s in the files in the basement.”

  “That was Daddy’s case? Where he made the municipal court give jury trials to dogs?�
�

  “How’d you know about it?”

  “Judge Steinbrunner.”

  “Your father lost that case, but the file still might help some. I doubt that the law has changed much from then to now. There aren’t that many jury trials for dogs. What’s your evidence?”

  “There’s an eyewitness who saw what really happened that day at City Park.” I didn’t tell him that I didn’t even know where he was.

  “What will he say?”

  “That Herman was a hero.” I swallowed. What was the baby doing in the jaws of a hero?

  But the old man wasn’t listening. His head had twisted into the pillow like a puppy burrowing into his mama’s stomach. Still, words dragged out of his mouth as though from a tape that was running down. “Your father didn’t mean it, Kate,” he said. “He couldn’t help it.”

  I stared at him. “Didn’t mean what?” I asked him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t blame him for leaving you all alone in this world. Don’t blame yourself, either.”

  My body was shaking all over when I felt Mom’s arms around me, hugging me. “What is he talking about?” I asked her, in a voice that was barely a whisper.

  An eye opened, and he looked at me as though he’d just waked up. “You’ve got the makin’s,” he said. “If the doctors haven’t killed me and you have some time, come by tomorrow and we’ll talk.”

  He was asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MY BROTHER STOOD NEXT TO ME ON THE STAGE. With bright stage lights glaring in our faces, we gazed over the heads of the large audience gathered in the auditorium at Hill—when Law’s cheeks started sprouting grizzled old whiskers that looked like . . .“Spencer Phipps!” The dream evaporated and I sat up in bed, wide awake.

  I hadn’t seen Spence since Sunday, and had no idea where the old wreck was. Had he really been an eyewitness? He was my only hope. But would he be at the trial? He’d said he’d be there, but he had not impressed me with his sense of responsibility. I had to find him!

  I stared at the clock on my nightstand, the numbers glowing like red coals: 3:24 A.M. The trial would start in less than six hours! Mom had ironed a silk blouse that matched the tailored dress she’d bought me to wear, and her plan was to drive me to the office so my outfit would be clean and fresh. But I had to get there now. I stepped into my jean cutoffs, put on a sweatshirt, snuck down the stairs, and left her a note on the kitchen table:

  Hi. With Herman’s fate dangling in the balance I forgot all about Spencer Phipps! This will make absolutely no sense to you. Call me? Kate

  I stuffed a dress and clean underwear in my panniers and wheeled my bike quietly out the back door of the garage, wondering what Mike would do if I snuck over to his house like a cat burglar and woke him up. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since he rode away, his face grinding out angry tears. Did he hate me? If he knew how badly I needed him now, would he come out of his snit and help? I didn’t know what to do. Would he be better at not knowing what to do than I was?

  How should a teenage girl go about finding a drunk in the streets of Denver? If it meant searching around on Skid Row, a teenage boy would be better at it than a girl—especially a boy as big as Mike. I snuck into his backyard. His bedroom is in the back, on the first floor, and his window was open to catch the cool air, so I climbed up on my bike and scratched his screen. “Mike! Wake up!”

  Nothing. The slug. A little louder this time: “Mike!”

  I heard some movement, some grumping—and then a light went on in the house and I froze, making myself invisible. “Mike?” Mrs. Doyle asked, her shadow hovering over his bed like the Wicked Witch. I silently slipped away.

  That’s what happens when you try to get help from someone, I thought, realizing for the umpteenth time in my fourteen years on this planet that the only person I know I can count on is me.

  It was still dark when I got to the office. Now what? I wondered, taking my panniers inside and trying to make myself think. What would Two-Fingers do? How would he go about finding Phipps?

  He’d turn himself into Phipps so he could think like him. Where would an old wanderer spend his nights? Parks? Alleys? Doorways on Eighteenth Street? Flophouses? Missions? I could feel my stomach growing an ulcer. Could I look in those places without getting attacked?

  A Denver Bears baseball cap hung on a hook in my office. I put it on, hoping to look like a boy with long hair, and climbed back on my bike. I rode down Broadway, past the Brown Palace and the Shirley Savoy Hotel, to Eighteenth Street, where the hobos hung out in doorways near the missions. Would he be in a flophouse? I wondered, riding by the Windsor Hotel—which was pretty upscale for a bum, but Spencer Phipps was a pretty upscale bum. Beds were $2.50 a night, $10.00 a week.

  Worth a try, I decided, putting a chain around my bike and walking into a tiny lobby where a man who hadn’t shaved in a week slept with his head on a desk. I shook his shoulder. “Hi, kid,” he said, trying to wake up. “Want a room?”

  “No, sir.” I deepened my voice, hoping it sounded like a boy, and it squeaked as though it was changing. “I’m looking for Spencer Phipps and wondered if he was staying here.”

  “You his grandson?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, how about a drink, then?” He pulled out a flask, then stared at me strangely. “You aren’t a boy. You’re a girl.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked him, defensively.

  “Get out of here, miss. You could be misunderstood.”

  I tried to hide behind the bill of my cap as I hurried out of the old hotel. There was a mission across the street with a blue neon sign in the form of a cross that said JESUS SAVES. Inside, a uniformed guard sat behind a desk. His jaw dropped when he saw me. “Miss Hope?” he asked, standing up. “Are you lookin’ for me?”

  I recognized him instantly, even though I’d seen him only once and he’d been totally insane that day. He’d wanted to torch the trailer house he lived in. Now, wearing a uniform and with his hair combed, he looked like a certified member of society. “Hi, Mr. Washington, am I glad to see you!”

  A big smile opened up his face and he stuck out his hand, making mine disappear all the way to the elbow, which he didn’t squeeze into pulp. “What are you doing down here, miss? You aren’t lookin’ for a place to stay, are you?”

  “I’m looking for Spencer Phipps. Do you know him?”

  “Old guy, never cracks a smile, talks like a professor, smells like a sewer?”

  “Yes!” I said, hoping for the best.

  “Saw him Tuesday but he didn’t see me. Too drunk.”

  “I have to find him, Mr. Washington. I need him in court this morning, which gives me only five hours.”

  “He could be anywhere. Union Station, the railroad yard, somebody’s lawn. He goes over to the lake at City Park too and sleeps under trees.”

  My stomach flashed red hot, then ice cold. I fought with my face to keep it from coming apart. “Thanks, Mr. Washington,” I said, walking toward the door. “Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

  “Miss Hope, sit a minute, okay?” He pulled up a chair. “You don’t want to roll a drunk over to see his face. Bad idea.” He lifted the coffeepot off a hotplate and poured oil into two plastic cups, and handed me one. “Four thirty in the morning is not a good time to be poking around for some down-and-outer. Let’s think about it.”

  “But . . .”

  “Let me see who’s here.” He opened the spiral notebook on his desk and ran his index finger down the page. It stopped. “Bearclaw. A Ute Indian who’d rather draw pictures in the sand than talk, but he and Phipps travel together.” He took a sip of coffee. “A pair of squirrels, those two. Phipps brags about his family who came to Colorado in a covered wagon, but Bearclaw and his people were already here. Phipps’s folks moved Bearclaw’s relatives off some pretty good land, is what they’ve decided, but Bearclaw says he don’t have any grudges over it. He’ll drink with anybody.” He closed the book. “If anybody k
nows where Phipps is, he will. How’s the Judge?”

  “He’s at St. Luke’s Hospital,” I told him, which did something awful to my breathing.

  “That’s what I heard. I hope he gets out of there before it’s too late. That’s the very hospital where my wife died. They don’t have a very good record, if you ask me.”

  Hospitals take in people who are sick and dying, so none of them do, I thought.

  “This could take a while,” he said as he stood up. “I’ll have to sober Bearclaw up before I can talk to him, which means putting him in a shower. Why don’t you get out of here now, go where I can call you? You need to get off the streets.”

  “I’ll be at the office,” I said, and gave him the telephone number. “Thank you so much, Mr. Washington.”

  He looked embarrassed. “Don’t mention it.”

  There were a few more cars on the streets as I rode back, but not too many. It wasn’t even five o’clock. I’d wait in the Judge’s office, I decided, and spend the time getting ready for the trial.

  The Judge’s office had been neat and orderly when I turned on the light, which was how Mrs. Roulette always left it. But ten minutes later I’d converted it into a major disaster area, with notes, reports, questions for witnesses, scraps of paper with case citations on them, and lists of things to do scattered all over his desk, the chairs, and the floor. I’d been able to drink only half of Mr. Washington’s coffee, but it must have activated my nervous system. “Time to get organized,” I said to myself, putting on a fake smile and adopting a cheery attitude, just like Mom when she’s frantic and out of her mind. I built piles of papers all over the place, but they didn’t connect with each other. “Make files,” I ordered myself, and jumped up to get file folders out of Mrs. Roulette’s cabinet.

  There weren’t any file folders in her cabinet. Not even one. Suddenly it was after five, and the trial would start in less than four hours!

  The telephone rang and I yanked it out of its cradle. Was Mrs. Roulette calling me to tell me where the file folders were? “Hello?”

  “Is this my lawyer?” a voice full of uncertainty asked.