He propped his elbows on the bar table—the same table—and cradled his head in his hands. Before him, the witness stand—the same witness stand—was fifteen feet away, now vacant. To his left, twelve empty chairs. The judge’s bench loomed silently to his right. He stared at the witness stand, letting the memories wash over him. He drew a deep breath of polished wood and saddle-leather from his satchel. His eyes lost focus. The familiar witness stand blurred before him. He blinked, but it got blurrier. A man appeared there, his face indistinct, staring back. Catfish shut his eyes, but the man remained. His mind formed a question for the man, but no words came out of his mouth—no answer from this witness. Another question formed but failed, and still no answer.
Why wouldn’t the words come? Why couldn’t he make him admit the lie?
Catfish lowered his head like a bull, glaring at the witness. The man raised his blackthorn cane to nudge up the brim of his bowler hat, revealing a hideous grin framed by a horseshoe mustache. The man laughed, and the laughter spread to twelve new faces, all indistinct, in the jury box.
Gentlemen of the jury, why can’t you hear the other side?
To Catfish’s right, on the bench, a black-robed figure joined in.
Why were they all laughing? Why did his words fail him?
He felt a presence beside him and swung around to see. In the client’s chair sat another man, his face indistinct yet so familiar, younger than the others. He wasn’t laughing: I don’t want to die.
Then all went quiet. His client vanished. The laughing stopped too.
Catfish turned back. The man with the mustache and bowler had gone, as had the twelve jurors and the judge. He closed his damp eyes but couldn’t shut out what he knew was there—the scaffold. A body swung there, turning in a gentle breeze.
Before the face could turn toward him, he forced his eyes open and jumped from his chair. He dropped the minié ball into the cigar box, stuffed it into the satchel, and escaped the courtroom.
On the front steps of the courthouse, he drew in deep drafts of fresh air. His faithful companion was waiting there patiently.
“Let’s go, Colonel. Time to save a boy’s life.”
And a father’s broken heart.
Chapter 9
Harley lashed the carriage horse toward the DeGroote home. What was it that Peter DeGroote knew about Cicero Sweet? Mr. DeGroote left the impression it was something bad. Maybe it would knock some sense into Papa. It was already so clear from the circumstances—they should persuade Captain Blair to accept a guilty plea in exchange for prison time.
Harley was no longer fresh out of the new law school at the University of Texas. There was still much to learn from Papa, but he could do more than carry his father’s brief case to court. He hadn’t pressed before now because the time never seemed right. They’d been through hard times together, Mama dying while he was in Baylor and then losing his big brother during the law school years. Harley had come home still unmarried, and he and Papa had found healing in hard work.
Papa was a rock. He’d endured the same losses, but he never let it get him down. On the other hand, Papa still wouldn’t turn over the reins on important cases. Didn’t he trust his own son? Harley was ready to be beyond the struggles of the past and get on with his career.
Meanwhile, Waco was boldly flexing its muscle as a commercial center nestled along the river. There were twenty-one thermal artesian wells as well as four colleges and universities. The Chisholm Trail might no longer cross the Brazos on the Roebling-built suspension bridge, but five railroads now ran through Waco. Talk was that three more would extend their lines through town by the next year. There was still money to be made trading in cotton and cattle, but investment also poured into the woolen mill, the two electric street car lines, the bottling businesses, and the gas and electric companies. Bankers and homebuilders prospered with them. Clients needed lawyers to help them secure that prosperity. This city on the frontier between industrial audacity and wild west grit had its own brand of pluck, and it was time for Harley to be a part of it.
He couldn’t just wait for it to happen. The good times wouldn’t last forever. The year 1893 had been a bad one most other places. The collapse of the wheat market had devastated the heartland of America. A credit crisis and high unemployment ravaged the entire country, and labor unrest plagued the industrial cities back east. Ordinary people had lost their homes to foreclosure. Stock prices had plummeted. Three railroads had failed, and hundreds of banks closed. Maybe hard times elsewhere were what brought desperate women to the Reservation.
After four years of riding shotgun for Papa in court, it was Harley’s time to take the reins.
He turned onto Sterling DeGroote’s street in Provident Heights, a new suburb on the northwest edge of town. Mr. DeGroote had moved to Waco from New York following his friend Samuel Colcord, a New York developer whose ambition was to turn this suburb into an aristocratic neighborhood. Already it was really something. The homes were like smaller versions of the mansions built by captains of industry and commerce back east.
Sterling DeGroote appeared to have bold ambition too. Harley tried not to crane his neck like a rube as the DeGrootes greeted him in the foyer. He’d never visited a house with its own indoor ten-pin bowling alley, though he’d read about places like the Breakers and George Vanderbilt’s new home in North Carolina. He wasn’t so sure Mark Twain was right that the extravagance of the captains of industry was just gilding over the hardship of the ordinary people who made them rich.
They settled into velvet-upholstered chairs in the parlor.
“So, Peter, do you live in the dormitory?” Harley asked.
“No, sir. I still live here—until I graduate,” he said, with a smile toward his father. “It’s a long way from school, but the Hobson rail line really helps. And sometimes when I’m late, Father lets me use the buggy. It’s fast.”
Peter DeGroote was a handsome young man, probably about twenty or twenty-one, with a fresh, dimpled face and a winning smile. He was smartly dressed in a serge coat and white duck trousers.
“Your father said there’s something you know about Cicero Sweet we need to hear about,” Harley said.
Peter sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Yes, sir. I know him.”
“How?”
“I’m a senior. Baylor has a literary society, and last semester I debated against him. He’s a freshman.”
“When was this exactly?”
“Probably late November.”
“What happened?”
Peter leaned forward, uncrossing his legs. “It was actually after the debate. I beat him—at least according to the judges—and a young lady-friend of mine who’d come to watch brought a picnic lunch to share afterward. We went across Fifth Street to Waco Creek and spread a blanket on the bank under a cottonwood.”
Someone else to track down. Harley recorded the story in his copybook as fast as he could. “Who was she?”
“Chloe Malone. Anyway, we were just down there enjoying the day, and Cicero came up from campus. He had a Lone Star and was drinking it in big gulps. I couldn’t believe he had beer on campus. I warned him he’d best hide it before somebody saw him, but he just ignored me. I think he was upset about losing. I got the feeling that he thought he was a better talker than he really was, maybe because of his name. He started mouthing to me and bothering Chloe, and I asked him to leave us alone, but he didn’t. He sat down, uninvited.”
Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Chloe didn’t like it, and I asked him to leave again. He finished his beer, threw the bottle in the creek, then pulled another one out of his coat. So I got up and just stood over him and told him to leave.”
“How’d he react to that?”
“He stood up, too, and got up in my face and cussed at me.” He held up his hand to demonstrate how close it was. “He had a foul mouth, and I could tell it upset Chloe. I told her we’d better leave, but then Cicero pushed me down. Well, one thing led to
another, and pretty soon we were swinging at each other. He knocked me into the creek, and then he bothered Chloe while I was getting out.”
Just like he suspected—Cicero was no saint. “What did he do?”
“He tried to take her hand.”
“What happened then?”
“I jumped on him and we rolled around, scuffling. Chloe tried to stop us, and finally Cicero must’ve just gotten tired of it. He said he’d had enough of unsociable people, and he just walked off.”
Peter glanced at his father.
Papa needed to hear this. “Were you hurt?”
“No, sir, not really. Just a little sore.”
“Did you report him?”
“No, sir. I figured he’d just get over it, and so I just let it be.”
“Have you had any trouble with him since?”
“I haven’t run into him much.”
Mr. DeGroote had been sitting back and listening up to that point. “I advised him to avoid the boy. He appeared to be a troublemaker to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Harley nodded. Perfectly consistent with his conduct in the whorehouse. “Peter, have you heard anything else of him? Any other trouble he’s been in?”
“Just that he can’t handle his beer and gets into fights.”
Worse and worse. “Who told you that?”
“I’m not sure. Just some of my friends.” He glanced at his father again.
“Have you ever heard anything about him going to the Reservation?”
“No, sir.”
Harley stopped writing to refill his pen with ink. A full report to Papa would bring him around. “Does Chloe live in the women’s dormitory?”
“No, sir. She doesn’t actually go to school here. Her family was in town visiting friends and taking the waters. I met her at the Natatorium. She lives on the east coast somewhere, maybe South Carolina.”
“Do you have her address?”
Mr. DeGroote nodded and left the room. He returned with her family’s address.
Ink seeped through the joint in Harley’s fountain pen. He screwed it tighter and wiped his fingers with his handkerchief. “Have you seen her since that day?”
“Yes, sir. Once or twice, but not after they went back home.”
“Thank you, Peter, you’ve been very helpful.”
“I’m sorry to get involved in this,” Mr. DeGroote said, “but your father is my friend, and I thought he should know. Maybe the county attorney will let Cicero plead guilty to something less than murder.”
Papa would have to reconsider once he heard what Peter had to say. It was a side of Cicero he hadn’t seen. Did Mr. Sweet know?
“Yes, sir. We appreciate your friendship.”
Harley packed his copybook and pen into his briefcase. Papa’s friendship with Mr. Sweet had gotten them into this fix, but a true friend wouldn’t expect him to win an impossible case. Papa would see.
Chapter 10
He met Harley on the street corner across from Miss Jessie’s two-story brick sporting house. Catfish puffed on a cigar, with the colonel at his feet, while a string of wagons rolled past on First Street from the suspension bridge. He waved at the teamsters as if he knew them. As he told Harley often, today’s passerby could be tomorrow’s juror.
Harley had been busy on the case, and Catfish wanted to hear his report before they met Miss Jessie. Harley arrived with a look that said he’d pinned down all the answers. He revealed his conversation with the DeGrootes in professional detail, consulting his notes. But Peter DeGroote’s story about Cicero didn’t ring true. It was out of character.
“I expect he’s exaggerating what happened,” Catfish said. “Likely they just bowed up to each other like boys do in front of a pretty girl.”
Harley kicked a rock on the sidewalk. “Peter was sincere. I’m sure it happened like he said.”
“Peter’s not gonna run tell Blair about it, is he?”
“No, sir.”
Catfish crossed his arms. “Well then, let’s not worry about problems we don’t have yet.”
“I got the girl’s address. I could send her a wire.”
Catfish let out a sigh. They didn’t have time for any wild goose chases. “Got more important things for you to do. She won’t be here just to testify anyway.”
Harley stared off toward the bridge.
A surrey came rattling along through the gravel pavement on First Street. A teenage boy had the reins, and a gray-haired grandmother and two young girls sat in the back. They were darling, dressed in frilly skirts and flowery bonnets. Martha had always wanted a girl. When they spotted Colonel Terry, they broke into giggles and waved as if he were a long-lost friend. The colonel’s head popped up, but he stayed sphinxlike on the street edge. Good dog.
“How do, ladies,” he called. “Beautiful day for a ride.”
Their surrey turned the corner, the girls watching the colonel over the back seat, giggling all the way.
Catfish turned back to Harley. “What’d Jasper have to say?”
Harley took a deep breath and slowly let it out as he flipped through his copybook. “Jasper said a fellow came downstairs with Miss Georgia and then left. All he could say was he looked pretty young and Georgia liked him.”
“No physical description other than that?”
“No, sir.”
“All right, there’s a man to find. What else did Jasper say?”
“Another man came in just as he went out, older and bald.”
“Dress?”
“He didn’t remember.”
“Did he say anything?”
“No, sir.”
Catfish wagged his head and grinned. “Sunday night’s a busy one for Miss Jessie.”
“One last thing,” Harley said. “Jasper remembers a hack parked across the street, but he didn’t see a driver anywhere.”
Now there was something. Catfish studied the place where the hack must have been. “If it was a hack, the driver might have gone into the Red Front for a drink while his passenger visited either Miss Jessie’s or Miss Ella’s.”
“Or he might have gone in himself.”
“True. Or it could’ve been somebody’s personal rig—maybe not a hack at all.” He pulled out his Waltham, inserted the key, and wound it. Then he glanced at the clock tower on City Hall, opened the watch case, and adjusted the minute hand. “Let’s be sure to run that hack to ground along with the hack driver who took the boys to the Reservation.”
“Already done that, Papa.”
Catfish smiled. That’s my boy. “What’d you learn?”
“I found the driver who took the boys, but not the other. He works for City Transfer. He remembers picking the boys up near Houston Hall and bringing them here. He dropped them off over there on the sidewalk.” Harley pointed to the southwest corner of First and Washington, directly across the street from Miss Jessie’s sporting house. “The last he saw of them as he turned this corner, Cicero was taking off across the street for the house.”
“What time was that?”
Harley checked his copybook. “He didn’t remember exactly, but he said it had to have been around eleven because that’s usually when he goes home.”
“Did he remember the boys saying anything?”
“Not much. They talked about getting a beer. Cicero was pretty anxious to get there, and Jasper wasn’t. That’s consistent with what Jasper told me.”
“Was anybody else out on the street?”
“He remembered some fellows down at the Red Front.”
Catfish stepped into the street. “All right. Let’s go see Miss Jessie’s for ourselves. Colonel, get!”
Miss Jessie’s sporting house was the only brick building on that side of Washington. The rest were mostly one-story wooden frame houses, although a big two-story frame house sat across the alley from Miss Jessie’s—Miss Ella’s sporting house, Harley had learned from Sergeant Quinn. The Red Front Saloon was just beyond that. The alley paralleled the river on the east and Barron�
�s Creek on the west. There were probably twelve to fifteen run-down frame sporting houses on that alley. The sporting girls probably got less comely and the prices got lower the further down you went.
A drunk lay sprawled in the alley. Otherwise, only mangy curs had ventured out. A messenger boy on a bicycle sped by, causing the colonel to growl, before turning down the alley and almost running over the drunk.
“Colonel’s leery of contraptions,” he said, scratching the dog’s ear.
Harley elbowed him. “He must get that from his master.”
There was neither a sidewalk nor a porch in front of Miss Jessie’s. They stopped in the street while Catfish examined the building from the foundation all the way up to the top of the metal cornice.
“Harley, look up there.” He pointed to the pole next to the building. “Any of those electricity wires?”
“The top one is. The one on the bottom is a telephone line.”
“So she has a talking-phone?”
“It looks that way.”
He glanced across the alley. “And Miss Ella’s got one too.” He went to the corner of the house where he could view the other sporting houses down the alley. “The others don’t. How many folks in Waco you reckon got talking-phones these days?”
“I don’t know, maybe one in fifty residences. Half the businesses at most.”
Catfish slapped the telephone pole as he passed. Five hundred folks jabbering on those wires. The modern world was a wondrous thing. “How much ours cost us?”
“Oh, maybe several dollars a month.”
A luxury for those who could afford it. “So consider this. Miss Jessie Rose’s got a two-story brick place with a fancy cornice in a neighborhood of falling-down frame houses. She’s got electricity. She’s got a talking-phone. I don’t see an outhouse, so I expect she’s got indoor plumbing. And all that right here on a nice piece of Washington Avenue real estate, only a hop, skip, and jump from all the fellas working downtown and on the river.”
“True.” Harley looked a bit mystified. “What’s the point?”
The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Page 7
