The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller

by G. Reading Powell

  Blair started to rise and object, but then settled back in his chair.

  Jasper took a deep breath. “I was happy to do it, in a way, and not so happy in another. I liked the idea of getting smarter and learning things. I like learning a lot, but honest truth is I just didn’t want to leave home. I miss my folks and my brothers and sisters real bad. I miss the farm. Just everything about it. The big city’s an awful nice place, and folks are real nice here”—he glanced at the jury—“but if I had my druthers, I’d be back home with my family.” Tears burst from his eyes, and he quickly wiped them away with his sleeve and sniffled. “My mother wanted me to go to college and better myself. It was the most important thing in the whole world to her, and so it was real important to me.” He broke up again. “It’d break her heart if I didn’t get educated.”

  Catfish discreetly glanced at Burleson, whose expression remained unchanged, and then at the jury. Every single head was bent.

  “Not much more, Jasper,” he said, “but we got to talk about that night.”

  They had to help Cicero.

  “Yes, sir. I’m fine.”

  “When you and Cicero were talking about going to a bawdy house, did he ever say he wanted to kill anybody?”

  “Of course not, Mr. Calloway. He’s not like that.”

  “Did he take a gun with him?”

  Jasper shook his head. “They don’t allow no guns in the dorm.”

  “Ever see him angry that night?”

  “No, sir.”

  Catfish leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands under his chin. “Jasper, this is really important now.” He touched his own forehead. “Did you ever see Cicero hit his head that night?”

  “No.”

  “So when he went upstairs with Miss Georgia, did he have a knot on his head?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, two more things and we’ll be done.” He rolled his chair back from the table and wheeled it around toward the jury. “When you were outside Miss Jessie’s, did you see any other men?”

  “Yes, sir. A bald man was fixing to come in as I was going out.”

  “And did you see any carriages outside?”

  “Yes, sir. A two-wheeler rig was parked on the street all the time I was under that tree.”

  “Anybody there with it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Describe that carriage for the gentlemen of the jury.”

  “Like I said, it was a two-wheeler buggy. Just one horse, of course. It was red. The seat had a fancy back to it.”

  “Spindle-back?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Was that red carriage still there when you heard the scream?”

  “It sure was.”

  “Last question: You ever heard of a fella named Bud Orman?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thanks, Jasper. That’s all.”

  Catfish felt as relieved as Jasper looked. Jasper’s testimony proved to Burleson he wasn’t a bad boy, and on top of that, he’d backed up Cicero’s story. Now the jury had also heard about the red buggy and the presence of the other man.

  Three witnesses done, and things couldn’t be going better.

  The judge gave the jury a midafternoon break before the next witness. Catfish, Harley, and Miss Peach lingered outside the courtroom in the waiting area while the judge dealt with some other matters.

  Catfish put his hand on Harley’s shoulder. “I’d say we’re in mighty good shape, wouldn’t you?”

  Harley shot a glance at Miss Peach, who didn’t react. “I think it’d be better if you stopped mentioning Bud Orman.”

  Catfish frowned. “Why?”

  “The more they hear of him the more they’ll expect us to prove he’s the killer.”

  Catfish nodded. “We will.”

  Miss Peach cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but I think I’ll wait inside.” She returned to the courtroom.

  “We’re not changing our trial strategy this late,” Catfish said. “And it’s working. Jasper did a beautiful job. Burleson won’t expel him after that.”

  Harley shook his head. “Jasper isn’t the one on trial. But if Cicero gets convicted of murder, they’ll both suffer the consequences.” There was something new in his voice, not quite anger.

  Catfish stiffened. Harley needed to get over it. They both had to have clear heads. “Our clients deserve lawyers who believe in what they’re doing.”

  He expelled a breath. “I’m not sure I do.”

  This was no time for dissension. Two innocent boys and their parents were counting on him. “Then stay out of my way.”

  He threw the courtroom door open and left Harley standing outside.

  Chapter 29

  “I’ve got one more witness for today, Judge, and we should be able to finish up our case in the morning,” Blair announced. “We call Miss Jessie Rose.”

  As the bailiff went to get her, Harley leaned over. “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  Catfish ignored him and watched the door. The bailiff sounded the hallway, and she sashayed in, her skirt sweeping the floor. Wore a wide-brimmed shade hat and a blouse of fine linen with a high collar and a black bow tie. How many faces did this gal have? This was the same girl who’d showed up at the inquest, but she was an entirely different genus and species from the madam they’d met at the sporting house. Maybe there was yet another face to peel back for the jury.

  “State your name, please,” Blair said from his seat at the table.

  “Jessica Rose.”

  “Are you a licensed madam in the Reservation?”

  She answered with an elegant elevation of her chin, as if she’d been anointed by a royal decree. “I am licensed by the city of Waco to operate a lady’s boarding house.”

  “How long have you had the house?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Washington Street.”

  Blair stood just feet away from her, but the men on the jury paid him little mind. They gawked at the dark-haired madam. She had that effect on men.

  “Let me take you back to the evening of April fifteenth at about eleven o’clock,” Blair said, crossing his arms and shifting closer to the heedless jury. “Were you at the house?”

  “I was.”

  “Who arrived about that time?”

  “Two young men.”

  “Do you see one of them in this courtroom?”

  “That young man there.” She pointed a delicate finger, and the jurors gaze followed its direction to Cicero.

  Cicero looked down.

  “Your Honor, may the record show that Miss Jessie identified the defendant, Cicero Sweet?”

  “The record will show that.”

  “Now, Miss Jessie, in your own words, tell the gentlemen of the jury what happened after they arrived.” Blair sat on the corner of the table.

  The rumbling, hissing, whistling noise of a locomotive swelled outside the south windows, drowning out every other sound and rattling the courtroom. Miss Jessie fanned herself with an oriental fan for several minutes until the train passed and quiet returned.

  She faced the jury and spoke in an easy manner. “The young gentlemen were”—the clock tower above the courtroom struck four times, and she waited for that too—“the young gentlemen were quite excited to meet the ladies of my household. I invited them into the parlor, where we had polite conversation. They were both very charming. They desired beer, so I had some brought over from a nearby establishment. They began to drink, and we were soon joined by Miss Georgia, who had been upstairs getting acquainted with another gentleman. Mr. Cicero was particularly attracted to her, and they danced to the music of my player piano. It wasn’t long before he led her upstairs. The other young man left.”

  Catfish shifted in his chair. She was good at testifying. Must’ve spent more time in court than some lawyers.

  Blair jotted a note. “What time was that?”

  “I wasn’t looking at the c
lock, but it was after eleven o’clock.”

  “What was the next you saw or heard of the defendant or Miss Georgia?”

  “Just after midnight, I was reading in the parlor and I heard a scream. It sounded like Miss Georgia and it came from her room, which is just above the parlor. A gunshot exploded right above me—it startled me so. Big Joe came in, and I retrieved my pistol. We waited at the bottom of the stairs to see if anyone came down.”

  “Where was Miss Sadie?”

  “I think she was in a back room. We all met at the stairs.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothing. It was quiet.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We went upstairs, outside Georgia’s door, but didn’t hear anything. I knocked and called her name, but she didn’t answer.”

  “What happened then?”

  “We opened the door.”

  “What’d you see?”

  “She was on the bed, shot dead. There was blood everywhere.”

  “Describe how she appeared.”

  Catfish raised his eyebrows. It was coming—the look of ineffable terror.

  “Her eyes were open. She had a look of ineffable terror.”

  The only two times he’d ever heard the word ineffable uttered in Waco were by that sporting woman in that courthouse.

  Blair turned his back on the jury and crossed the room, stopping between the defense table and the judge’s bench. Damn, Catfish should have warned Cicero about this. Blair always did this in murder cases.

  Don’t look down, son!

  Slowly, deliberately, Blair faced Cicero, eye to eye. Cicero appeared unsettled and looked down.

  “What else did you see?” Blair asked, without taking his eyes off Cicero.

  “Mr. Cicero was passed out on the floor.”

  “Where was he exactly?”

  “At the foot of the bed. Sprawled on the floor.”

  “Describe him,” Blair said, still staring at Cicero.

  “He was naked and unconscious. A derringer was on the floor near him.”

  Blair finally lifted his stare from Cicero, who looked up only when Blair sauntered back toward the court reporter’s desk. Cicero shot a glance at his lawyer.

  Catfish suppressed any reaction. The jury was still watching.

  Blair retrieved the derringer from the desk. “Did it look like State’s Exhibit One?”

  “That’s Miss Georgia’s gun. She kept it in the nightstand by her bed in case of trouble.”

  “What else did you see?”

  “Empty Lone Star beer bottles all over.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Big Joe checked Miss Georgia, but she was dead. He held my gun on Mr. Cicero, and I went downstairs and telephoned the police.”

  “Was the defendant ever awake before the police arrived?”

  “Just once, for only a minute or so.” She eyed the jury and opened her mouth as though she intended to add something but decided against it. She peered at Catfish.

  He stiffened. Something was up.

  “Then he passed out again.”

  “I see,” Blair said. “Between the time the defendant and Miss Georgia went upstairs and the time you heard the scream and the gunshot, did anyone else go to her room?”

  She lifted her chin and nodded without hesitation. “No.”

  Catfish watched her closely. She thought she was as formidable as he.

  “How can you be sure?” Blair asked.

  “We had only one other gentleman visiting after that, and he went to a downstairs bedroom with Miss Sadie. Nobody else went upstairs.”

  “When did the police arrive?”

  “Within minutes.”

  Blair nodded to her. “Thank you, Miss Rose. Pass the witness.”

  “Ma’am,” Catfish said, rising to question her from his table, “this is not the first time we’ve met, is it?”

  “I’m not sure. Are you one of my customers?” She gave a coy smile, causing some of the jurors to grin.

  Yes’m, you are formidable.

  He smiled back at her. “No, ma’am. Our meeting was strictly in daylight and on business. My son, Harley, and I visited you at your house not too long after this incident. You remember now?”

  “I think so.” She glanced at the jurors. “We have so many men visit us.”

  “Well, ma’am, we asked to talk with you about what happened when Miss Georgia was killed, didn’t we?”

  “Oh yes, I remember now.”

  “And you refused to discuss it with us, didn’t you?”

  “I recall it was a busy day.”

  “All right, well, I’m happy to discuss it now,” he said in a genial way, “if that’s fine with you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Tell me, Miss Rose, you own that sporting house yourself?”

  “I do, as I told the other gentleman earlier.”

  “Well, what causes me to ask is that an associate of mine talked to Miss Sadie about it,” he said, scratching his head, “and Miss Sadie told her a man actually owned the place and that you called him the boss.”

  She seemed untroubled. “I doubt she said that, because it’s not true.”

  The fleas were hopping. He glanced at Harley.

  Catfish ambled back to the bar rail behind Blair.

  “Well now, Miss Rose, you’ve got a mighty fancy sporting house, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean. I’m proud that it’s a very nice place to entertain guests.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It sure is. It’s the only brick sporting house in the whole Reservation”—he made a sweeping gesture toward that part of town—“isn’t it?”

  “I believe that’s correct.”

  “It’s two stories and has electricity and a talking-phone?”

  “You must mean a telephone.”

  “It’s right there on Washington Avenue, not back on the other side of the creek?”

  “That’s true.”

  “Would you say you’ve got the best venue for a sporting house in the whole Reservation?”

  “Probably.”

  He faced the jury with a dubious expression. “And you own it by yourself?”

  “I do, as I said before.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Well, now, Miss Rose, you came to Waco in 1893, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you bought this place pretty soon after getting here?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Bought it from Bud Orman?” he asked, hurling the name into the jury box again.

  Still no signs it hit.

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s see,” he said, “that was after he got tried for murder, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know the man.”

  “So you moved here last year,” he said, pacing along the rail, “and almost right away you bought the only brick sporting house around?”

  “I believe I answered that earlier.”

  “Before you came here you lived in New Orleans?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you go by the name of Jessica Rose Reneau when you lived there?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You were a sporting girl in New Orleans?”

  “I was an actress. Reneau was my stage name.”

  “Oh, an actress.” That just might have been the truth. “You haven’t done any acting since you moved to Waco, have you?”

  “No, I’m a business owner now.”

  “So you wouldn’t have any reason to use the name Reneau here in Waco?”

  “I might have, I don’t recall.”

  “When Bud Orman deeded you that property, didn’t you go by Jessica Rose Reneau?” He walked to the defense table and picked up a document. “In the legal papers?”

  “I might have.”

  “You say you were an actress in New Orleans? You weren’t a sporting girl?”

  “No, I was an actress.”

  “So there wouldn�
�t be any reason for the authorities to arrest you for being a prostitute?”

  “No.”

  “Play acting’s not against the law in New Orleans, is it?”

  “Not the sort I did.”

  He picked up a different document and flipped through it. “Didn’t you get convicted of vagrancy in New Or—”

  “Judge, I have to object,” Blair said. “That doesn’t have anything to do with this murder.”

  “Goes to her credibility,” Catfish answered quickly.

  “Overruled.”

  “Weren’t you convicted of vagrancy?”

  “Yes, but that’s not prostitution.”

  “Since you’ve moved to Waco, our city police have picked you up for vagrancy too, haven’t they?”

  “Yes, and I paid a small fine and was released,” she answered dismissively.

  “Cost of doing business?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Cost of doing business, ma’am?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Running a sporting house must get mighty expensive, true?”

  “Life’s expensive.”

  “Well, in addition to occasional fines, you pay your bawdy house license fee every quarter, your electricity and talking-phone bills every month, and on top of that I expect you’ve got mortgage payments too?”

  “Running a business is expensive.”

  “Sure is. I agree with you there, ma’am.”

  She shrugged.

  “But you still say you own that building by yourself and nobody’s helping you with expenses?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t have a boss?”

  “Only myself.”

  “By the way, there’s a gentleman visitor to your house who drives a red Stanhope gig buggy, isn’t there?”

  “I have no idea what kind of carriages my guests use.”

  “Have you ever seen a red two-wheel gig parked outside your house?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Let me ask you about the night of the killing.”

  “It’s about time.”

  Catfish smiled. Now she was cracking a little. “Yes, ma’am. My wife used to say sometimes I beat around the bush too much.” He put a hand on Cicero’s shoulder. “Anyway, you got a pretty good look at Mr. Sweet that night?”

  “Mr. Cicero? Yes, I did.”

  “Before he went upstairs with Miss Georgia, did you ever see him hit his head anywhere?”