The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller

by G. Reading Powell

  “But—”

  “No buts, Harley. Our defense is he didn’t kill her.”

  Harley’s face was getting red. “Papa, I’ve researched similar cases, and I think we have manslaughter facts. I know Mr. Sweet is your friend, but that doesn’t change the facts.”

  “I’ll just have to note your exception, son.”

  Harley was slow to answer. “Yes, sir.”

  Miss Peach fanned herself with her notepad.

  Catfish flicked ashes impatiently. “Either of you need a cold drink?”

  He’d put some bottles in his icebox the night before, and they’d be refreshingly chilled by then. Maybe cool Harley down so he could do his job.

  “That would be lovely,” she said. “I’ll get them.”

  “None for me,” said Harley.

  “Icebox in the kitchen, darlin’. Bring me a Dr. Pepper, and a Circle-A for Colonel Terry.”

  He cut a glance at Harley and put his cigar out. “Judge Clark offered us the use of his library. I’m sure he’d be happy for you to go there after we get finished here.”

  “Right,” Harley said.

  “Here’s my plan,” Catfish said, propping his feet on a stool and staring at the ceiling fan. “I’ve been holding off on a subpoena of Orman because I didn’t want Tom to know our defense. Let’s get one out first thing in the morning and get him there Tuesday afternoon, just in case they finish up early. I expect they got about two days of testimony.”

  “Are you sure we can prove Orman did it?”

  “Of course. He’ll break under cross-examination.”

  Harley stiffened. “I’m not so sure of that, Papa. I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”

  Catfish exhaled and shook his head. They’d been over that before too. He covered his annoyance by accepting his Dr. Pepper from Miss Peach, who headed to the front porch with a bowl of ginger ale for the colonel.

  “You’ve just got to trust my judgment,” he said to Harley. “I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He took a long swig of soda and stared up at the ceiling fan. Neither of them spoke further on the subject, and the silence got louder.

  “Well, gentlemen,” Miss Peach said, returning to the hush of the parlor, “we do have some good news, don’t we?”

  “What’s that?” Catfish said.

  “It’s no news—there’s nothing at all in the papers about Cicero.” She handed Catfish the two newspapers he hadn’t bothered to bring in.

  The main headline in Saturday’s Evening News was about a man named Debs leading a railway strike in Chicago. The headline of the Artesia reported Josephine Jenkins’s wedding to George Truett. Whoops—he was supposed to have attended that. He’d have to make excuses to Judge Jenkins.

  “The only court news of interest I saw was about Judge Goodrich getting hung in effigy in Gatesville for the case he just finished,” Harley said.

  “That’ll put him in a sour disposition,” Catfish said. “But nothing about Baylor expelling Cicero, then—that’s good news. Professor Perkins told me we should expect to see Burleson in the courtroom watching some of the trial.”

  “Maybe the jury will think he’s there to support Cicero,” Miss Peach said.

  “Maybe. Can’t hurt, as long as he keeps his mouth shut in front of the jury.”

  “Papa, do you still intend to call Professor Perkins as a character witness?”

  Catfish shrugged. “Depends on how things go. We’ll make that decision after we see their case. He’ll be expecting to hear from Miss Peach if we need him.”

  Colonel Terry ambled in, belched, and plopped down in front of Catfish. He was rewarded by an ear rub and promptly went back to sleep.

  A tall man walked down the sidewalk past the front window.

  “There’s Wade Morrison,” Catfish said. “Harley, he’s on the jury list.”

  “I didn’t realize he lived around here.”

  “Across the street two blocks up. He walks Washington on weekends, though I’m surprised to see him out in this heat.”

  Miss Peach put her soda on the table. “He’s Mr. Lazenby’s partner in the bottling company, right?”

  “And he owns the Old Corner Drug,” Harley added. “Do you think he’ll be friendly to us if he gets on the jury?”

  Catfish nodded. “Probably. Tom’ll probably strike him.”

  Miss Peach examined the city directory that lay open on the table. “That reminds me, Mr. Calloway, I found something on that other venireman we were discussing earlier.”

  “Which one?”

  “Thomas C. Tibbs. He’s the manager of a clothing manufacturer on Fourth Street, Blake Manufacturing Company. The directory shows he’s also got a real estate company and is a first vice-president at Provident Bank.”

  “Think I’ve met him. Blake is Slayden’s company. Tibbs should be fine. Pretty far down the jury list, anyway.”

  Harley spoke as if he’d been preoccupied with something else. “Papa, will I be taking some witnesses?”

  Catfish shook his head. “I promised Henry I’d handle it myself.”

  “Yes, sir.” His head sagged.

  “What about the red buggy?” Catfish continued. “Find out anything new?”

  “Mr. Moon hasn’t seen it,” Harley replied. “I’ve checked every livery stable in town, but I found only one that stabled a horse for a Stanhope gig. It belonged to a fellow who moved here from St. Louis, but his rig has been down with a broken spring since before the murder. It’s over at Hopkins Brothers. They’re still waiting on a new spring to come in from back east.” He shrugged. “And it wasn’t red, anyway.”

  He started to say something else, then stopped and stared dolefully at Catfish. He’d picked up that look from Martha. Something was still on his mind.

  Spit it out, son.

  Finally, Harley continued. “I know you believe in Cicero, but we can’t prove anybody else shot her, and they have a circumstantial evidence case we can’t explain away. We should reconsider that plea offer.” He had that please, Papa look. “He’s going to get convicted if we go to trial.”

  Well, Harley was young. His spirit was still brittle. Catfish had been that way once—he’d just started trying cases and lost three in a row. He was rattled with self-doubt. Judge Clark pulled him aside and counseled him that a trial lawyer had to be fearless. If he was afraid of losing, he was finished. Harley just needed reassurance.

  “Cicero’s not getting convicted,” he said with his jury voice. “I don’t try cases to lose. You can count on that.”

  Harley got quiet. His eyes retreated downward before rising to meet his. “He’s not Houston, Papa. He’s just not. This is different.”

  Catfish tensed. So it was weighing on him too.

  He studied Harley’s face. Houston’s hair had been a little lighter, but the eyes were the same. Except eight years ago, there’d been terror in Houston’s eyes.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Houston’s case was different, and I see the difference. Trust me, son.”

  “I do, but I feel as if I must speak up on this because I disagree with you. It’s your call, though.”

  Catfish didn’t respond.

  “I better go on over to Judge Clark’s now,” Harley concluded.

  “I’ll help you if you like,” Miss Peach said. She’d been watching.

  “Thanks, that’d be helpful.”

  They got up to leave. Catfish stood too and wrapped his arms around Harley.

  “I know how you feel, and I hear you,” he said softly. “There’s no bringing Houston back, but we can win this case.” He pressed Harley’s head tightly against his shoulder. “I love you, son.”

  “I love you too, Papa. No matter what.”

  Catfish stepped back, still holding his son by the shoulders. “No matter what.”

  ***

  Harley drove the carriage with Miss Peach to Judge Clark’s house over at Ninth and Columbus. The jud
ge was an old friend of Papa’s. He’d served in various posts in government, been a judge on the court of appeals, and was now practicing law again in Waco. He’d written a wonderful treatise on Texas criminal law that Papa always carried with him to court. He had a large private law library at his office in the Provident Building. At his home, they got the key and some well wishes from the judge, then rode on to the judge’s office.

  Harley wasn’t in the mood to talk.

  Miss Peach broke the silence. “Your father’s really good at cross-examination.”

  “Maybe he’s got something planned I just don’t know about. He sure is confident about something. I just don’t understand why he’s accepted Cicero’s story without really questioning it. He only sees Cicero’s side.”

  “Do you honestly think Cicero has a chance?”

  He wished he were as strong as Papa. He was a rock. To Harley, it felt like Houston’s case all over again. And even rocks would shatter from a hard blow.

  He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m worried.”

  “It’s probably none of my business,” she asked, “but what did you mean when you said Cicero wasn’t Houston?”

  She was right about the first part, anyway. It just wasn’t something he could talk about. He glanced over and then back at the road ahead.

  “Looks as though we’re about there.”

  ***

  Catfish shuffled into the Growlery, the name he used for his library based on a similar room in Bleak House. He used to retreat there to save the family from the bad humors evoked by his cases. Now it was a place of gathered memories. He collapsed into his favorite chair next to the lamp table with Martha’s photograph, the only one.

  He closed his eyes. So many images. Her joyous laugh. Her merry eyes. Her gentle heart—his, captured. A kiss. Their vow. Two babies. Two men. Her illness . . . The day she passed. Their bed upstairs. Her pale face. Her cold hand. Her brave, sweet smile. Her voice, so weak: When we were first acquent . . . your locks, like the raven . . . now like snow. She couldn’t finish the verse.

  “And hand in hand we’ll go.”

  Colonel Terry nudged his dangling arm, and he opened his eyes and wiped away a tear. “We both miss her, don’t we, old boy? You were just a pup.” He reached down and stroked the colonel’s head. “We miss them both.”

  He closed his eyes again. So tired. Ten years ago, trying cases had been exhilarating. Now it was exhausting.

  I’m worn out, Martha.

  He sank his head back and drifted from that chair, that room. A gentle wind through giant oaks. One grave. Too soon, another. Why?

  A different place. A dark shape hanging from a pitiless scaffold, swinging in the breeze. Turning. A face coming around, not yet distinct.

  The shape changes somehow. Nearby, another face—watching. A bowler hat, a horseshoe mustache, a blackthorn cane. The face contorts in laughter. Old man, you just don’t have what it takes anymore. Isn’t one failure enough to convince you? Save yourself. Quit now.

  The face vanishes, but Catfish bolts upright, flooded with doubt. Could he be right?

  I told Harley he had to be fearless. But Martha . . . I’m so scared it’s happening again.

  Chapter 25

  Miss Peach got up from the bench and went to the open window overlooking Second Street. She fanned herself with her notepad. It was dreadfully hot and still. She leaned out the window. Below, Colonel Terry slumbered on the top step of the courthouse. That sweet old dog wasn’t about to abandon his master.

  She turned back toward the doorway into the Nineteenth District Court. Next to it on the right, Jasper fidgeted on the bench.

  To the left, Miss Jessie and Big Joe waited. Memories of his intrusion into Sadie’s bedroom flooded over her—his foul odor, his drooping eye. He watched her right now as she crossed the waiting area and peered through the window in the courtroom door. She pushed him out of her mind.

  Courtrooms always took her breath away. Mr. Calloway said a courtroom was a sacred place in a secular sense. This one was imposing—about sixty feet square and two stories high, with over a dozen tall compass-head windows beneath a ceiling beautifully tinned in elaborate patterns. Judge Goodrich administered justice from a decorated oak bench against the wall. Behind the bench stood a large docket cabinet. The court reporter, Mr. Lord, was at his desk. Waiting empty nearby were the witness stand and the jury box against the far wall.

  Mr. Calloway, Harley, and Cicero sat around the defense table. Her chair was just behind them next to the bar rail. At the far table, Captain Blair sat alone. Two naked electric lightbulbs dangled on long wires from the high ceiling, and three ceiling fans rotated over the bar. Outside the bar rail under three more ceiling fans, a throng of faces packed the spectator gallery—men in every row of the cast iron, wooden-backed seats. Those to the front were the veniremen.

  Mrs. Sweet sat next to her husband, and a handful of other women dotted the back rows. When Miss Peach took her place in court, she would be the only woman inside the bar.

  Judge Goodrich finished speaking to the venire. Though Miss Peach couldn’t hear a word, she knew that jury selection was almost over. The three lawyers crowded the bench, and Harley motioned for her to come in.

  She turned to Jasper. Sweat streamed down his face.

  “Wait here,” she told the poor boy. “It won’t be long.”

  She hurried in and took her chair behind the defense table, where she would take down the testimony so that Mr. Calloway could quote it exactly in his closing argument. Her actual job was more than that, though. Mr. Calloway had given her his usual trial instructions: Sit behind us so you can see everything. Be my eyes and ears. Don’t let me miss a thing, no matter how small. If a juror blinks, I want to know how many times.

  It was thrilling.

  A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead. Even inside the building, the July swelter was oppressive. The tall courtroom windows had been thrown open to admit air, but the ceiling fans kicked it around in a torrid breeze that seemed worse than no breeze at all. Spectators fanned themselves with whatever they had available; her notepad, in fact, was saving her from heat expiration.

  The lawyers returned to their seats, and the judge addressed the veniremen. “I want the following men to come forward, right there through that gate, and find you a place in the jury box: Mr. Eugene Cammack, Mr. Albert Durie, Mr. Edgar Russell, Mr. Frank Mitchell, Mr. William Plunkett, Mr. Fauntley Johnson, Mr. Wade Morrison, Mr. Samuel Powell, Mr. Philip Owens, Mr. Morton Smith, Mr. Joseph Wickham, and Mr. William Neale. Gentlemen, step up quickly now, please.”

  She’d researched all twelve. She marked a check beside each juror on her venire list. How interesting: Captain Blair hadn’t struck Mr. Morrison as they’d anticipated. Mr. Calloway would be pleased. The twelve rose from all around the gallery and made their way to the front. The bailiff held open the swinging gate in the bar rail as one by one, they found their places in the jury box. It was nice to finally associate faces with the names.

  The judge addressed those whose names he hadn’t called. “The rest of you men may go about your business now. You’re excused. Thank you for your service.”

  The room filled with the bustle of people leaving.

  She took that opportunity to observe the gentlemen of the jury. Some were young but most were older, dressed in business suits of black, gray, or brown. They seemed somber and attentive. They could as easily have been in their Sunday pews.

  The judge finished his instructions, asked the jurors to stand and raise their right hands, and then administered the oath: “I will a true verdict render, according to the law and the evidence, so help me God.”

  “Your Honor,” Mr. Calloway said, rising, “we invoke the rule.”

  He always did that. He’d explained to her it was based on the wisdom of an old Bible story. If witnesses weren’t allowed to hear each other’s testimony, they’d be less likely to change their stories to be consistent with what other
s said. Good way to catch a liar, Mr. Calloway explained.

  “All right, the rule’s been invoked, and I’ll ask all those who’re going to be witnesses to stand up so I can talk to you about a thing or two. If there are any witnesses in the hallway, go get ’em.”

  Cicero looked at Mr. Calloway, who shook his head. They would decide later if he would testify. Miss Peach drummed her notepad. Her two bosses would probably disagree about that.

  The bailiff went to the door and motioned for those outside to come in.

  “Come stand over there,” the judge said, directing Jasper, Miss Jessie, and Big Joe to stand at the bar rail. Two police officers joined them. “All you who’re standing will need to go and wait outside until you’re called. You’re not permitted to hear the testimony of other witnesses. You can talk to the lawyers in the case, but nobody else. Y’all understand?”

  They all nodded and then departed.

  “Mr. Blair, you may proceed with the indictment.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Gentlemen of the jury, I’ll now read to you the true bill of indictment returned by the McLennan County grand jury: ‘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 …’”

  No need to listen to the rest. She’d read it before. She drew daisies on her notepad.

  “The defendant will rise,” the judge said. “Mr. Sweet, you’ve heard the charges against you. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty.”

  He sounded confident. Good. The jurors watched him, except for Mr. Mitchell. She jotted a note.

  “Mr. Blair, you may open.”

  “May it please the court.” He nodded to the judge and strode to a spot directly in front of the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury, I’ll be brief. This is a murder case, and it’s tragically simple. A young man went to the Reservation for pleasure. He drank beer, and he lusted after one of the legal working girls, Miss Georgia Virginia Gamble. They went to her bedroom. She laughed at his manhood. He got mad and mean. She pulled out a small derringer that she kept for protection against rowdy customers. Somehow he wrestled the gun away from her and shot her in her own bed.”