The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller

by G. Reading Powell

  Catfish shrugged. “Well, sir, truth is he didn’t murder her. You must be mistaken.”

  Shaughnessy charged on. “They caught him virtually in the act. I’ve spoken with several gentlemen of substance, and it’s our desire that this unfortunate matter be resolved swiftly and surely, for the good of the city.” He pulled a box from his drawer. “Cigar?”

  “Kind of you, but no thanks.”

  Shaughnessy took one for himself, sliced off the end, and flicked it into a spittoon at his feet. He lit up and blew a cloud of smoke. “What we require of you is simple: Plead your client guilty to first-degree murder, and I’ll see to it he gets out of prison long before he’s an old man.”

  For the first time he flashed a smile, but it disappeared like the smoke.

  This fella was used to getting his way.

  “Mr. Shaughnessy, that’s mighty thoughtful of you, but I don’t believe we can do that.”

  “And why not, sir?”

  “Because as I’ve said already, he’s not guilty.”

  Shaughnessy, now hunched over slightly, stared at him and took another draw on his black-as-night cigar. He rocked back, the chair creaking again under his weight, and blew smoke at the ceiling. He stabbed the earthy Figurado directly at Catfish. “I’m not sure you quite understand what I am saying to you, sir. If you plead him guilty, he will get prison time.” He flicked ash into the spittoon. “I could only put it plainer if I said he would not be sentenced to death.”

  “Oh, I understood exactly what you’re saying.” Catfish stared straight back at the black eyes. “My answer’s the same.”

  Shaughnessy considered the answer without expression. “Perhaps you know the grand jury meets tomorrow afternoon. You say you understand my position, but I’m not sure it’s really quite clear to you, so I’ll be blunt. If you don’t agree to my terms, young Sweet will be prosecuted to the fullest and made an example of. We won’t tolerate lawlessness in the Reservation. There’ll be no mercy, and he’ll hang—hang, sir. Hang by the neck until he’s dead.”

  What itch was he scratching? Or whose back? Catfish glared back. “Appears to me it’s you who’s having trouble understanding. Cicero Sweet has no interest at all in pleading guilty to anything, much less first-degree murder. He’s innocent. Didn’t shoot her.”

  “Your reputation is not that of a fool, Mr. Calloway.”

  Catfish grinned. “Well, sir, that’s awful nice to hear. My momma’d be proud. Thank you very much. Is there anything else you want?”

  “You, sir, are impertinent. I might add that your own prospects for future legal work in this town are now in serious jeopardy. I have many friends. So I advise you to think again about my proposal.”

  “Good day.”

  ***

  The next afternoon, the courtroom doors were shut with a deputy posted outside to prevent any eavesdropping. That meant one thing: The grand jury was indeed in session. Others had gathered in the waiting area outside the district courtroom too, waiting to hear what indictments they would return. Harley spotted a reporter among them, but Papa ignored him.

  The young man got up from the opposite bench and came over to them. His hat was pitched to one side in a jaunty fashion, and he wore a striped vest with a heavy gold watch chain draped in a rakish way.

  “You gents are lawyers, aren’t you?” He didn’t sound as if he was local.

  “Yes, sir. Most days,” Papa said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Do you mind if we talk?”

  “About what?”

  “The bawdy house murder. I hear the grand jury is in there meeting about it.”

  “Do tell,” Papa answered with apparent lack of interest. “And you’re who?”

  “Babcock Brown, Dallas Daily Times-Herald, at your service,” he said with a grin.

  “How do, mister,” Papa said with a forced smile.

  That look, Harley knew from experience, meant conversation’s over. Papa took the Monday edition of the Evening News from his lap and popped it opened in front of his face.

  The reporter appeared surprised. “Does this mean you’re refusing to talk?”

  “Not refusing,” Papa said from behind the paper. “Just not talking.”

  The doors opened, and a couple of dozen men with serious expressions hurriedly departed and disappeared down the stairs. One of them was an alderman—not Shaughnessy, thankfully.

  Harley peered through the open doors. Another gentleman lingered inside, speaking with the county attorney. He looked familiar. He had a horseshoe mustache and a black bowler and carried a blackthorn cane. As he turned toward the door, Harley realized he did indeed know this man. He looked older than he remembered, but then again it had been eight years.

  To his surprise, the man came out and stopped right in front of them. He nudged Papa’s newspaper down with his cane and cracked a wry smile. “Well, well, I haven’t seen you in quite some time, Mr. Calloway.”

  Papa’s eyebrows shot up. He neither spoke nor moved.

  “Funny we should meet here of all places.”

  Papa didn’t react.

  “I heard you didn’t go to court anymore.”

  Harley shifted in his seat. Papa wasn’t afraid to go to court.

  Papa’s eyes narrowed.

  “Well,” the man said after a moment of silence, “I heard you might have an interest in one of the cases we took up today. I can’t talk about grand jury business, of course, but you might want to check the true bills.”

  Papa didn’t blink.

  The man huffed and began descending the stairs, his cane clicking the cast iron steps every other one. He stopped on the landing and looked back. “I’m surprised you’re still defending murder cases. I didn’t think you could bear to watch another client . . . hang.”

  He thumped his way down the rest of the stairs.

  Papa stared at the newspaper, but he wasn’t reading.

  “Thaddeus Schoolcraft,” Harley murmured near Papa’s shoulder after the man was gone. “The railroad detective, right?”

  Papa gave a tight nod.

  The county attorney was the last man out of the court chamber. Harley had seen Tom Blair in action in the courtroom several times and had a number of cases against him, though none had gone to trial. He was a formidable adversary. A pony-built man in his late forties, the popular Blair, known by everyone as Captain Blair, had served as the county’s chief prosecutor off and on for years. In one trial, Blair had supposedly gotten into an argument with the opposing lawyer, leading to a fistfight across the counsel table. Judge Gerald had adjourned until they finished pummeling one another, and then the trial had proceeded as before. Papa deeply respected Blair’s ability.

  “Howdy, Catfish,” Blair said in a friendly way. “Good to see you too, Harley. How’s working for the old man?”

  “Good afternoon, Captain. Papa’s like an overseer sometimes, but he hasn’t administered any lashes yet.”

  Blair winked at Papa. “Grand jury just returned some true bills. You might be interested in one of them.”

  Papa’s eyes widened. “Who?”

  “Let’s see here,” Blair said, examining the document as if he didn’t remember the name, though the ink on the foreman’s signature was likely still wet. For an experienced politician, he wasn’t a very convincing actor. “Name’s Cicero Sweet.”

  Harley suppressed his reaction. The indictment wasn’t surprising but what was the charge?

  “Cicero Sweet indicted, is that so?” Papa said.

  “You have a minute?” Blair asked.

  “Sure.”

  Harley and Catfish followed Blair back into the courtroom, and Papa shut the door on the reporters. The prosecutor slouched in a chair at the bar table and propped his feet on another chair.

  Papa leaned against the jury rail. “What you got?”

  Blair passed the document to Papa. “Here’s the indictment.”

  Harley peered over his father’s shoulder.

  In
the name and by the authority of the State of Texas: Be it remembered that on the sixteenth day of April 1894, the defendant, CICERO SWEET, in the City of Waco and the County of McLennan, did then and there, willfully and with malice aforethought, murder GEORGIA VIRGINIA GAMBLE, a single woman of this county, against the peace and dignity of the State of Texas.

  Papa straightened.

  Harley wasn’t exactly surprised the indictment charged first-degree murder. It was common to indict on the most serious possible offense and then try the case on a lesser included offense like second-degree murder or even manslaughter. He’d expected this.

  “Rumor is you’re defending,” Blair said.

  “Yes, sir. Boy’s father is a friend. When’s the arraignment?”

  “Thursday.”

  “How about agreeing to bail?”

  “Can’t do it,” he said, shaking his head. “The judge won’t have it.”

  “He got a soft spot for sporting girls?”

  “He just doesn’t like citizens getting shot.”

  “First-degree’s pretty hard, Tom. Cicero’s just a boy.”

  Blair’s expression grew serious. “It’s a death penalty case, Catfish.”

  Harley was stunned, but Papa didn’t react, except for the slightest tightening of his jaw.

  “Would you consider probation for a guilty plea?” Harley blurted.

  Papa’s glance said he shouldn’t have opened his mouth.

  Harley leaned back against the jury rail.

  Papa deliberately turned the indictment to the second page. Only the foreman’s signature and the date appeared there.

  “No probation,” Blair said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could convince the judge to approve it. People want the maximum punishment to send a message. That preacher’s gotten under everybody’s skin. I might push for a deal, but only if the boy goes to Huntsville for a long time.”

  Papa lifted his chin. “No, sir. No prison time. No probation. Plea will be not guilty. When you gonna set it for trial?”

  “Next term. It’ll be the first setting on the July docket.” Blair swung his feet to the floor. “Look, my friend, you’ve got a hard one.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me. I know you already know this. The boy was caught naked and passed out in the bawdy house with a derringer at his fingertips and a dead whore on the bed.”

  Papa smiled faintly. “Well now, Tom, you know things aren’t always the way they look.”

  “Maybe not always, but they are this time.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve got witnesses.”

  “Who?” Harley asked.

  “Eyewitnesses?” Papa added.

  “Next best thing. Three people right under the bedroom when it happened. They heard the gunshot and found your boy there by the dead whore minutes later.”

  Papa huffed. “You gonna build a case on the testimony of sporting girls?”

  “Why not?” Blair smiled, but then turned serious again. “But that’s not all we have, anyway.”

  Harley folded his arms and forced himself to look down.

  “What else?” Papa calmly asked.

  Blair’s eyes narrowed. “The boy confessed.”

  Chapter 8

  How did Papa appear so calm at hearing their client confessed? Harley unclenched his fists.

  “So he confessed, did he?” Papa said. “Well, I’ll be. That’s news to me, and I talked to him myself. Who’d he confess to?”

  “You know I’m not going to show my cards before trial,” Blair said with a grin. He got up and headed for the door. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  Papa took a chair.

  Harley met his eyes. “Do you think Cicero really confessed?”

  “He’s puffing.” Papa swatted the air as if the news were a bothersome horsefly. “If he really had a confession, he’d be willing to tell me the name of his witness just to scare me. He’s thinking about the next election. It’s time to show folks how tough he is. He’s campaigning as much against Preacher Jones as his actual opponent. Yes, sir, Tom’s champing at the bit to try this one, whether he’s got a case or not. He’s counting on a jury convicting Cicero just ’cause of the circumstances.”

  Harley sat on the corner of the state’s table. “Those circumstances look pretty damning to me.” How could it have been any clearer? They were alone in the room. The gun lay beside him. She was shot dead. Why would Blair say he’d confessed if he didn’t have a witness that he did? This was one to plead out, not try. Get the best deal they could. “You don’t still think he’s innocent, do you?”

  “I do, for a fact.”

  Harley tilted his head. There must be something he was missing. “Why are you so sure?”

  “No son of Henry Sweet would do something like that. They’re not that kind. I’ll be damned if I’ll let Henry’s boy get punished just so the politicians can answer Sam Jones in the election.”

  That was all? Harley’s head dipped to his chest. “All right. What do we do?”

  “Since he can’t remember anything, the only way to defend Cicero is to find the real killer and prove it in court.”

  Harley stood. Maybe he was wrong. Papa had defended murder cases as long as Harley had been alive. “Tell me what to do.”

  “I want to know everybody who was at the sporting house that night—or might’ve been. Who had a motive to kill her? I want to find out everything I can about all of ’em. Mainly Miss Jessie. She’s the star witness, and she was hiding something at the inquest.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t know exactly. Just a feeling I got. Let’s make a call on her.”

  Harley smiled. “During daylight hours, I hope.”

  His father grinned back. “But first, you go talk to Jasper again and see if he remembers anything else. Press him for details.”

  “Right. What about Peter DeGroote?”

  “Yes, sir. Forgot about him. Go see Peter after you talk to Jasper, and then we’ll scout out the sporting house together.”

  “Right.”

  Papa steepled his hands on the table, lost in thought as Harley jotted some notes.

  “I overheard you and Mr. Sweet talking in the back of the surrey the other day,” Harley observed mildly, without looking up from his notepad. “I got the feeling you weren’t sure you’d defend Cicero yourself.”

  “That was before he got indicted.”

  He snuck a peek at his father. “Did you know Thaddeus Schoolcraft was on the grand jury?”

  “No.”

  He waited for his father to say more about the railroad detective, but he didn’t. Why couldn’t they talk about this? He tucked the notepad into his jacket. “Are you sure you ought to try Cicero’s case?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  “It’s just . . .” He struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “If Mr. Sweet is such a good friend, maybe you should get somebody else to handle it.”

  “Why’s that, Harley?”

  “I don’t know, maybe you’re too close to it. And besides, you haven’t tried a murder case since—”

  “I know the last murder case I tried.” Papa’s eyes darted away. “And as far as referring the case to somebody else, there’s nobody else I’d trust to do it right.”

  “Why? There’s other good law—”

  “I promised Henry I’d give it my personal attention.”

  “Mr. Sweet would understand. I think Mr. Sleeper would do a fine job.” Harley took a breath. He hadn’t tried a felony himself yet, but he knew he was ready. “Or me, Papa. I could try it.”

  Papa leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and looked up with the wisp of a smile and a blue-eyed gleam that was now just for him. “I know you could, but it’s my responsibility and mine alone. You’ll ride shotgun for me.” He glanced at his satchel, and his voice cracked. “Henry saved my life once. I owe him.”

  Harley had never heard this before. It must have been in
the war. But if Papa felt that way, why had he seemed so reluctant to defend Cicero when Mr. Sweet first asked?

  Papa sat up. “Why don’t you go on back to the office, and I’ll be along directly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Maybe Harley was wrong. They’d see.

  ***

  After Harley had gone, Catfish remained in his old seat at the defense table. So many times he’d risen to announce Catfish Calloway for the defense. He rocked back in the creaking swivel chair.

  The saddle-leather satchel resting on the table in front of him was old and worn now. How many times had he heaved that bag onto the bar table? It was big enough to tote Judge Clark’s Criminal Laws of Texas and still have room for a case reporter and the White Owl cigar box he used as his trial box. His sons had given him that satchel for Christmas some years back. With their mother’s help, they’d arranged for Tom Padgett to make it using his old cavalry tack. The gold lettering on the outside of the flap, Catfish Calloway, was chipped and faded. Tom had sewn a brass Texas star button onto the flap beneath his name.

  Catfish loved the feel and smell of that old bag, and it always made him think of his sons. And his pals from the war. Martha, you always accused me of being sentimental. Guess you were right.

  He wiped away the dampness in his eyes and unbuckled the bag.

  He opened the trial box and dug through the things he used in court, pens and pencils and such, until he found the spent minié ball. It was mostly misshapen but still cylindrical at the base. He rolled the old bullet in his hand. It was tarnished with the passage of so many years, but his memory of that day in Kentucky was not.

  I won’t let you down, Henry.

  Pasted on the underside of the cigar box lid was a sheet of paper with the Latin inscription Audi Alteram Partem. He put it there to remind him of his calling: Hear the other side. Did he still have it in him to make a murder jury hear the other side? He hadn’t the last time, when it had mattered most. That had been eight years ago now, but that memory was untarnished too.