“Not testifying in court, but it’s well-known science around the world. There was a scholarly article published in Nature magazine in 1880 about studies done by Dr. Henry Faulds, a Scottish physician, while he was in Japan. I believe he even worked with Charles Darwin on it. Other scholars have taken up the study in the last seven or eight years, particularly in Britain. Scotland Yard, as I said, has great interest in it. The technique is used by prisons and police departments in this country for identification purposes of many kinds. The army uses it to identify recruits.”
“Nature magazine, eh? So you based your work on this scholarly magazine article?”
“In part.”
“Got a copy of it I can look at?”
“No.”
“You read it?”
“I’ve never actually seen a copy of that article, no. I’ve just heard about it.”
“Did you check with the library here in town?”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” Papa said, thoughtfully, “I suppose you can’t be expected to read an article you don’t have, can you?”
“Certainly not.”
“Read any other articles about finger smudge science?”
“No.”
“Not a one?”
The detective had the sense to look uncomfortable by this point. “No.”
“Well, I’ll circle back to that in a minute. But first, you said something a few minutes ago I thought was so well put, I’d like to remind the jury of it.”
Papa went back to Miss Peach and took her notepad. Since her notes were for him, she’d taught him to read her shorthand.
Back at the defense table, he pinched on his pince-nez, flipped through the pages, and placed the pad on top of an open magazine, leaning over it with both arms extended in support. “Miss Peach takes down the testimony for me word for word, and I wonder if she got this right.”
Palmer sat upright, straining his neck, struggling to see what Papa was reading.
“You tell me if she didn’t record it right. Here goes: ‘Every human being carries with him from his cradle to his grave certain physical marks which do not change their character, and by which he can always be identified, and that without shade of doubt or question. These marks are his signature, his physiological autograph, so to speak’”—he peered at the jury as he said the words—“‘and this autograph cannot be counterfeited, nor can he disguise it or hide it away, nor can it become illegible by the wear and the mutations of time.’”
He looked up over his spectacles straight at Palmer. “Does that sound like what you just testified to?”
Palmer’s eyes darted to Blair then back to Papa. “Very close. I don’t believe I discussed mutations.”
“No, I don’t think you did either. In fact, I’m afraid I might have misled you a bit, Detective. I wasn’t actually reading Miss Peach’s notes. I was reading from this magazine article.”
He held up a magazine.
Blair jumped up. “Objection! Hearsay.”
Papa shrugged. “Impeachment.”
“Overruled.”
Papa took the magazine over to the witness stand. “It’s not Nature magazine. It’s The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine. Take a look at page 237 in the June 1894 issue.” He pointed to the relevant passage and held it out toward Palmer. “Did I read that cradle-to-grave part exactly how it’s written there?”
Palmer studied the magazine page, then flipped to the next and back again. He turned it over to see the front cover, then the back, and then returned to the page in question. He took so long the jurors began to glance at one another.
Finally, he spoke. “It appears so.”
“Isn’t that passage from Century Magazine identical to the testimony you gave on direct examination a few minutes ago?”
“I don’t remember my words exactly, sir.”
“Fair enough,” Papa said.
Palmer should have just admitted it and saved himself some embarrassment.
“Miss Peach did take these notes of what else you said earlier,” Papa said, putting down the magazine and picking up the notepad. “Let me quote you from her notes this time: ‘There are no duplicates of a man’s finger markings in all the swarming populations of the globe. This autograph consists of the marks on the hands and the feet. If you look at your fingers, you’ll see clearly defined patterns, such as arches, circles, long curves, and whorls.’ Was that your exact, word-for-word testimony?”
Palmer stared at him silently.
“Detective?”
“It sounds similar, but I’m not sure it’s exact.”
“Now, listen to this from the article in Cent—”
Blair exploded. “I object to this, Your Honor. This article’s not evidence. It’s hearsay.”
“Goes to the man’s credibility, judge. It may be hearsay, but it’s hearsay he’s spouting in court like it’s his own.”
“Overruled.”
Harley crossed his arms and smiled discreetly.
“Listen to this passage from the magazine, detective: ‘Whereas this signature is each man’s very own, there is no duplicate of it among the swarming populations of the globe.’ You and the author here both see folks swarming around the globe, huh?”
Silence.
Palmer swallowed hard. “The author and I are both speaking about a common truth, so I’m not surprised by similarity of expression.”
“So you and this author both coincidentally chose the words ‘swarming populations of the globe’?” Papa peered over his pince-nez.
“Apparently.”
“All right.” Papa nodded. “That author goes on, ‘If you will look at the balls of your fingers, you that have very sharp eyesight, you will observe that these dainty curving lines lie close together, like those that indicate the borders of oceans in maps, and that they form various clearly defined patterns, such as arches, circles, long curves, whorls, etc., and that these patterns differ on the different fingers.’ Sure sounds like what you said, doesn’t it?”
“There are material differences, counselor.”
“Sure, you’re right. Let’s try another then. Did you also say this on direct examination, as Miss Peach recorded it? ‘On the barrel of that gun stands the assassin’s natal autograph, written in the blood of the helpless whore. There is only one man in the whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign, the defendant, Cicero Sweet.’ Did you say that to the jury under oath?”
There was another extended moment of silence before Palmer finally answered aloud, voice tight. “Something like that, I think.”
“So the ‘assassin’s natal autograph,’ that’s the way you put it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, sir, let me read to you one final passage from this article,” he said, placing his finger on the bottom of the page. “‘Upon this haft stands the assassin’s natal autograph, written in the blood of that helpless and unoffending old man who loved you and whom you all loved.’” He paused and stared at the jury. “‘There is but one man in the whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign.’”
Papa tossed the magazine back on the table and stroked his whiskers thoughtfully. “So you and this author both coincidentally came up with the phrase ‘assassin’s natal autograph’—and the ‘crimson sign,’ to boot?”
“It appears so,” Palmer said quietly.
Papa nodded. “Well, sir, to be honest, you did read a magazine article after all now, didn’t you?”
Palmer picked at a bit of skin on one finger. “It’s possible I read it sometime back and forgot about it. Perhaps I adopted someone else’s verbiage without realizing it. But the science is sound.”
“Detective, I expect there’s nothing really wrong with borrowing a few words here and there, is there?”
“Not at all, as long as they’re correct.”
“Right, and as long as you borrow ’em from someone writing the truth?”
Suspicion flickered across his face. “I suppose
.”
Poor fellow. He was right to feel the noose tightening.
Papa showed him the magazine again. “Look back here at the beginning of this article. It was published just last month. Do you see the author’s name there?”
Silence.
“Detective?”
“I do.”
“It’s not Dr. Henry Faulds, is it?”
“No.”
“You said he wrote the truth in Nature magazine?”
“He did.”
“And this author’s not Charles Darwin?”
“No.”
Papa took a step backward and raised his voice. “If you don’t mind, read the name of the learned man of science for our jury, please sir.”
Palmer closed his eyes briefly and sighed.
“Mark Twain.”
Chapter 34
The courtroom erupted in laughter.
“Mark Twain?” Papa asked Detective Palmer. “You mean the storyteller?”
Palmer remained silent.
“Isn’t the article part six of a serial called ‘The Tragedy of Pudd’nhead Wilson’?”
The witness was silent.
Papa flashed Harley a triumphant look as he turned toward the bench. “Judge, I’d sure like the jury to read all about Pudd’nhead Wilson’s learned smudge science. So if Mr. Lord will mark these six magazines as defense exhibits, I offer them into evidence.”
“No objection,” Blair muttered, neither looking up nor rising.
“They’re admitted,” the judge ruled.
“That’s all my questions, Judge,” Papa said. He turned toward his adversary with a grin. “Say, Captain Blair, was that Huck Finn I saw in the waiting area? He your next witness?”
The courtroom broke into laughter again.
“Order!”
“The state rests,” Blair said.
“We’ll take our lunch break now, gentlemen. Be back at one o’clock.”
The room exploded into motion and talk.
Harley watched his father mingle with the others with a mixture of pride and amazement. Only Catfish Calloway could get the entire courtroom to laugh at the state’s expert witness right at the apex of the prosecution case. His cross-examination had left them with plenty of reasonable doubt. Papa had always told him to end on high note.
Harley pulled his files toward him, gathering his thoughts. “Are we going to rest now too?”
Papa rocked back in his chair, relishing the moment.
“We don’t need to call any witnesses, do we?” he repeated.
“We got ’em on the run now,” Papa said.
Surely he wouldn’t call Orman and the others now; there was no reason to. It was done. They shouldn’t give Blair a chance to recover. Papa knew that. Papa preached that. At least he always had in the past.
“So we rest, right?”
“No, son, we can’t let ’em get away. It’s time to sound the charge.”
Harley blinked, struggling not to appear defiant. The burden of proof was on Blair, not the defense. Had Papa forgotten things that had always been gospel to him? Apparently he had something else in mind now.
When court reconvened at one o’clock, Papa announced he intended to call witnesses and make his opening statement.
“May it please the court,” he said, nodding to the judge.
“Counsel,” the judge replied.
“Gentlemen of the jury, it’s time for you to hear the other side of this sorry business. What you’ll see is a murder did occur in the sporting house, but the killer wasn’t this young man.” He placed his hand on Cicero’s shoulder. “This boy was there to enjoy pleasures he had no business thinking about. Like the old proverb goes, you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas. The Reservation is a place where deplorable things happen, and unfortunately, Cicero didn’t realize that. He should have known better, but he’s only eighteen. And now he finds himself here in court, accused of a terrible crime by a madam trying to protect somebody and a police department too willing to accept things at face value. They want you to convict this boy based on a young pup detective’s fiction science. Well, gentlemen, if the state of Texas won’t bring you the truth, I will. I’m gonna put Cicero in the witness chair and let you judge him for yourself. Unfortunately, he can’t remember what happened that night, probably a combination of too much beer and a blow to the head delivered by somebody you haven’t heard about. Yet. One thing you’ll know for sure, though. If he was a killer, he wouldn’t be saying he didn’t remember. He’d have made up a story. Because killers lie, don’t they? And other people sometimes lie to protect killers.”
Harley shifted in his seat. Maybe this would go more smoothly than he feared.
“Last thing, gentlemen, I will also put the actual killer in that witness chair. Count on it. Thank you.”
No, Papa! Why couldn’t he see the folly of this?
“Call your witness,” the judge said.
Harley glanced at Miss Peach. Her face was blank.
“We call Sadie Wiggins.”
Several minutes passed as everyone waited for the bailiff to return from the waiting area.
Harley began writing Papa a note, but he scratched it out. It was too late. Papa was committed to this course.
“Is she here, Catfish?” the judge asked after a time.
“I don’t know, Judge. She got served with an instanter subpoena last night.”
The courtroom door finally creaked open, and the bailiff held it for Miss Sadie. Big Joe followed her in and plopped down on the front row just across the bar rail from the witness stand. He crossed his burly arms.
Harley slid forward in his chair. If there was any hope Sadie would tell the truth, it was without Joe staring at her. He leaned over to Papa and nodded toward Joe. “The rule.”
Sadie went to the witness stand, where she was sworn.
“Your Honor,” Papa said. “The rule’s been invoked, and another witness just came in.” He pointed at Joe. “That man, Judge.”
The court sent Joe outside. Harley settled back.
“Are you Sadie Wiggins?” Papa asked.
“That’s me.”
“Where do you work?”
“Waco.”
“Who employs you?”
“A lady.”
“What’s her name?”
“Jessie.”
“Jessie Rose?”
“Yep.”
“Let me get right to the point, ma’am. Were you present at Miss Jessie’s sporting house in the early morning hours of April sixteenth?”
“I don’t recall dates very well.”
“Were you there when Miss Georgia Gamble was shot?”
“Yep, but I didn’t see it.”
“Did you go to her room after the gunshot with Miss Jessie and Big Joe?”
“Yep.”
“Did you see this young man?” he said, placing a hand on his client’s shoulder. “Cicero Sweet?”
“Yep.”
“Where was he?”
“On the floor.”
“In what state was he?”
“Drunk.”
“So he was passed out?”
“Yep.” She paused as if gathering her energy. “Except he came to for a minute.”
Harley’s fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. She was going to lie. He willed his father not to press her.
“Did he say anything?”
“Yep, to Miss Jessie,” she replied, confidently. “He said, ‘I shot her. I’m sorry.’”
“Are you sure about that, Miss Sadie?”
“Very sure.”
“Now, we heard Miss Jessie testify about that yesterday.” Papa seemed unaffected. He went back to Miss Peach, whispered to her, and waited while she flipped through her pad. He took the pad and pinched his pince-nez into place. “You sure Cicero didn’t say, ‘I’m sorry—I shot her,’ rather than ‘I shot her—I’m sorry?’”
Miss Sadie looked toward the window in the courtroom door. Joe w
as outside, looking in. She closed her eyes and mouthed something silently. “Yep, you’re right, mister. He said, ‘I’m sorry I shot her.’”
She stole another glance at Joe.
“Isn’t the truth, as you told me last night, that he never came to and didn’t say anything at all?”
She looked away. “That’s a lie.”
Papa returned the notepad to Miss Peach. “Miss Sadie, did you have an opportunity to see Miss Georgia after she’d been shot?”
“Yep.”
“Would you describe her for the jury please, ma’am?”
“She had a look of ineffable terror on her face.”
Papa looked at the jury and raised his eyebrows. “Ineffable terror?”
“Yep.”
“You know what that word ineffable means?”
“I sure do, mister. It means she looked real sorry she’d been killed by your client there.” She pointed at Cicero.
No help at all, really. Harley let out his breath as quietly as he could.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Papa said after a pause. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“No questions,” Blair said.
“Call your next witness, Catfish.”
“Your Honor, we call Joe Buckrum.”
Sadie departed, and Joe took the stand. He gave Miss Peach his one good eye. What was that about? Flies buzzed around his face, but he ignored them.
“Folks call you Big Joe?”
“Some do.”
“What’s your job for Miss Jessie?”
“Working.”
“Do you provide protection for Miss Jessie and the girls?”
“Objection,” Blair called. “Leading.”
“Sustained.”
“Ever have to use your fists?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What for?”
“Knocking on them doors when them customers’ time’s up.”
The answer drew laughter from the jury box, and Papa just shook his head with a smile. “All right, let’s try something else. Did you see me last night talking with Miss Sadie?”
“Objection, leading.”
“Sustained.”
“Where were you about eight o’clock last night?’
“I don’t remember.”
“Who’d you run into on the street?”
“I don’t recollect being on the street.”
The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Page 22
