The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller
Page 23
“What did you hold in your hand last night when you and I spoke?”
“Objection, leading.”
“Catfish, he’s your witness. Don’t lead him.”
Papa glared at the witness intently. “Where’s your blackjack now, Joe?”
He had a blank look. “What blackjack?”
“Ever met a hoot owl named Iver?”
What was Papa doing?
Joe chuckled. “Met an owl?”
“Your Honor, I’m done with Joe.”
Papa slid back into his chair next to Harley and said under his breath, “Joe may look dumb as a stump, but he’s not.”
No more witnesses, thankfully. It was time to cut their losses.
As Joe exited the courtroom, Harley saw someone outside who made his heart sink. He nudged Papa and nodded toward the man, still visible through the window. It was Bud Orman.
“Papa, we don’t need him. Let’s rest our case.”
“It’s not his time yet, son.”
Harley riffled the edges of the papers before him, trying to tamp down his rising panic. This whole case was spinning out of control. Did his father have any plan left at all, or had he been reduced to grabbing at straws? How could it get any worse?
Papa stood up and addressed the court. “We call Cicero Sweet.”
Chapter 35
Catfish sniffed victory in the sultry courtroom air. He’d routed the haughty detective’s frontal attack. All that remained was to march Cicero out in front of the jury, parade that characteristic Sweet family sincerity, and then deliver the coup de main—the cross-examination of Bud Orman—to expose his mendacity and leave the real killer for all to see.
“Do you swear to tell the truth so help you God?” the bailiff asked.
Cicero stood straight as an arrow, his youthful face innocent, earnest. “I do.”
As Cicero mounted the witness chair, Catfish positioned himself in front of the jury. “Turn to these men over here. I want you to look them in the eye and tell them the honest truth. Did you shoot Miss Georgia Gamble?”
“I don’t believe I did, sir, but honestly, I don’t remember what happened.”
“So you can’t truthfully swear either you did or didn’t?”
“No, sir.”
Catfish held Miss Peach’s notepad before him. “The two sporting girls swore, and this is word for word out of both their mouths, that you came to and said, ‘I’m sorry I shot her.’ Now tell the jury, did you say that?”
“I don’t remember saying that, but I don’t think I would have, since I don’t believe I did shoot her. I had no reason to.”
Catfish returned to his swivel chair, rocked back, and crossed his legs. He’d have preferred a stronger denial, but with the boy’s memory loss, that’s all they would get. Would have to do. He wheeled around so he could see the Sweets. Henry locked eyes with him.
Trust me.
He scanned the side of the courtroom where the Sweets were. There were fewer folks here than when the sporting girls testified. Brann sat in the back, as did Babcock Brown and some other reporters. Jasper perched next to Mrs. Sweet; the judge had excused him from the subpoena after he testified, and he was no longer required to remain outside the courtroom.
“Are your folks here in court?” Catfish asked.
“Yes, sir. They’re back there on the front row.” Cicero pointed.
It was at that moment that he spotted Thaddeus Schoolcraft on the other side of the gallery. The bastard’s blackthorn cane stood upright in front of him, and he’d folded his hands over its head. Their eyes met, and Schoolcraft grinned.
He glanced at Henry Sweet, who looked back with an expression of hope. Catfish groped for his trial box and the spent minié ball, then made a show of studying his notes for almost a minute. He had to expel Schoolcraft and that other trial from his mind. Henry deserved his full attention.
“Catfish, you done?” the judge finally asked.
“No, Your Honor, I’m not.” He shuffled through his papers. “Cicero, is your family here in court?”
Cicero shot a glance at Harley. “Like I just told you, my mother and father are over there.” He pointed again.
“Right.” Catfish squeezed the bullet tightly. “Got brothers and sisters?”
“Yes, sir. I’m the oldest. I have two brothers and one sister back home.”
“Lived in Washington County all your life?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why’re you in Waco now?”
“I attend Baylor University. I started last fall, and I’m in my second semester now—or I was until this happened.”
Catfish glanced at Dr. Burleson, still on the front row.
“I’ve been in jail since April,” Cicero finished.
“Let’s talk about what led to that.” He stood up and continued the questioning from the corner of the defense table. “Where’d you and Jasper go on the evening of April fifteenth?”
“To a revival at the Tabernacle. Mr. Greer took all us boys to see it.”
“Now, Cicero,” Catfish said in a fatherly tone, “did you go to Miss Jessie’s sporting house after that sermon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it your idea or Jasper’s idea to go there?”
“It was mine. Jasper just went along because I wanted him to. He didn’t have anything to do with all this, Mr. Calloway. He was just there. I feel bad I got him in trouble.”
Catfish hoped President Burleson was listening.
“You said you don’t remember what happened that night. Is there anything you do remember?”
“I remember the revival, and going back to the dorm, and taking a hack to the Reservation. I remember going in and meeting the madam and the girls.”
“You remember Miss Georgia?”
Cicero nodded. “I danced with her, and then we must have gone upstairs, but I don’t remember anything after that.”
“How many beers you have?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Way more than one.”
“Tell the gentlemen of the jury whether you felt the effects of that beer?”
Cicero smiled. “I sure did. As a matter of fact, I felt it well into the next day. I had a powerful bad headache.”
Catfish paced behind the prosecution table toward the jury box. They were very attentive.
Keep it up, son.
“You remember receiving a blow to your head?”
“I sure don’t. I do remember having a big goose egg on my head the next day, though, and it hurt awful bad.”
“Show the jury where it was.”
Cicero pointed to the right side of his forehead.
“Did you have that knot when you danced with Miss Georgia?”
“No, sir. I don’t know how I got it.”
“What’s the next thing you remember after dancing with the sporting girl?”
“Being in the county jail.”
Catfish blinked approval at Cicero. “Pass the witness.”
As he strode back to his seat, he fought the urge to glance at Schoolcraft, but then looked anyway. The man’s right hand moved deliberately from the head of his cane to his throat. He wrapped his fingers around his neck and tightened them so slightly that probably only Catfish noticed.
He answered with a cold, hard stare. Go to hell.
He slid into his chair, avoiding Harley’s attempts to catch his eye. He was done being second-guessed by his own son. Henry was depending on him. His strategy was working.
Blair swaggered forward. “Mr. Sweet, my name’s Tom Blair, and I’m the county attorney for McLennan County. I have a few questions for you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Blair picked up the derringer from the court reporter’s desk and held it in front of Cicero. He turned it so that the bloody mark was visible to the jury.
“Have you ever seen this gun?”
“Only here in court.”
“You see this dried blood on it?” he asked, turning the bloody mark toward Cicer
o.
“Yes, sir.”
“And the finger mark in it?”
“I’m not sure what that is, sir.”
“Have you ever held this gun?”
“Never.”
“Did you ever touch it here on this spot where the dried blood is?”
“No, sir.”
“So your sworn testimony is that’s not your finger mark on the bloody derringer?”
“No, sir. It can’t be.”
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Sweet, hold this derringer in your right hand,” he said, handing over the pistol. “Now, extend your right trigger finger for me and hold it so the jury can see. Is that bloody mark right under the tip of your trigger finger?”
Cicero checked. “It looks like it.”
“All right,” Blair said, taking it back and laying it near the court reporter. He returned to his table. “You and your friend Jasper Cantrell went to the Tabernacle earlier that evening, you said?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You heard Reverend Sam Jones deliver a sermon?”
“We sure did.”
“In that sermon he preached on licentiousness and drinking?”
“And all the other sins too.”
“Yes, he did. And condemned them too, didn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let me read you what the newspaper said about that sermon and see if you remember it the same way. It says this: ‘If you can block off a place, call it a Reservation, and license licentiousness, why don’t you reserve a few blocks where a man can commit murder and go unpunished?’ Do you recall him saying that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You remember the preacher’s words pretty well, then?”
“I do.”
“Did you consider the Reservation a lawless place where murder might go unpunished, Mr. Sweet?”
“No, sir. I never thought about it, really.”
“Isn’t it true you got the idea of going to the Reservation from listening to that sermon?”
Cicero shifted in his chair. “Probably.”
Blair advanced toward him. “You went there intending to drink beer?”
“We were thirsty. It was a warm evening.”
And closer. “And to lay with a bawdy girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
Closer still. “Before you went upstairs you drank beer?”
“Like I said earlier, yes, sir.”
Now he was face to face with the boy. “You had at least six Busch beers, didn’t you?”
“No, sir. It was Lone Star.”
Catfish tensed. Steady, boy.
Blair fired back: “You remember it was Lone Star?”
“Yes.”
“You remember that well?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You weren’t drunk before you went upstairs?”
“No, sir.”
“You got upstairs without falling?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Took your clothes off?”
“I reckon.”
“Well, they found you naked. You’re not saying Miss Georgia undressed you, are you?”
“No, sir. She didn’t do that for sure,” he said, blushing. “She just tended to her own clothes. I took my own clothes off.”
Catfish’s fingers opened and closed around the minié ball. Cicero had claimed he didn’t remember anything. Careful, son.
Blair paused as if surprised. “So you do remember it?”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Cicero stammered, “but I don’t think she’d have to take my clothes off me.”
Blair pressed him. “Well, do you remember it or not?”
“I don’t, I—”
“So she could have undressed you?”
“I just don’t know.”
“You lay with her, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You do remember it after all?”
“No, sir.”
“Which is it—you do or you don’t?”
Cicero clenched the witness rail. “You have me confused, Mr. Blair.”
“Your Honor,” Catfish said, jumping up, “I object, he’s being unfair with the witness.”
“Cross-examination,” Blair replied, shaking his head.
“Overruled.”
Catfish shot Cicero a cautionary look: Listen carefully to the questions.
“How could you be confused?” Blair asked without letup. “You were there. Either you remember or you don’t, Mr. Sweet.”
“I don’t recall anything.”
“Oh, so now you don’t remember anything at all?”
“No, sir, I do remember some things.”
Catfish’s grasp of the minié ball tightened.
“You remember dancing?”
“Yes.”
“Going upstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Taking your clothes off?”
“Maybe.”
“Laying with Miss Georgia?”
“I don’t exactly recollect it.”
“Didn’t she make light of your manhoo—”
Cicero pounded the witness rail. “No!”
His response dissipated into the silence of the courtroom.
“You’re saying now you do remember what happened?”
Cicero blinked rapidly. “Ah . . . no, sir.”
“So she could have said that?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“And you got mad?”
“Like I say, I don’t rightly remember anything about that.”
“And she got scared and pulled her derringer?”
The boy’s voice dropped. “I sure didn’t see anything like that.”
“Are you saying you actually remember that she didn’t pull her gun?”
He shook his head, slowly at first and then faster and faster. “No, sir.”
“Then you took it away from her and shot her dead, didn’t you?”
Cicero slammed both hands down on the rail and shouted, “No, sir, no, sir. I didn’t shoot her.”
A juror looked away. Another shook his head. Others stared down. Catfish willed the boy to meet his gaze, gain some composure.
“So you remember it now?” Blair asked.
Cicero returned his gaze from Catfish to Blair and drew a long, shaky breath. “No, sir, I don’t. But I wouldn’t have shot her. It’s not my way.”
Damn it! He’d warned Cicero about that. Catfish squeezed the minié ball until it hurt.
Blair let silence overtake the room, then spoke deliberately. “It’s not your way.”
There it was—Blair was on it. Too late to stop him from smearing the boy with the tale about Peter DeGroote.
“So you’re not the kind of young man who’d murder somebody?”
Cicero folded his hands in his lap. “No, sir. I wouldn’t hurt anybody.”
“So you’ve never been in any fights before?”
Catfish sprang to his feet. “Objection! Character evidence, not admissible.”
“He opened the door to the defendant’s character when he said he wasn’t the kind of man to hurt somebody,” Blair replied mildly.
“Overruled.”
“Back to my question. Are you saying you haven’t been in any other fights?”
“No, sir. I haven’t, not that I recall.”
“If it’s contrary to your nature to fight, wouldn’t you remember whether you’d ever been in one?”
“Probably.”
“And you don’t remember any?”
“No, sir.”
“So you’re denying you’ve ever been in a fight?”
Catfish half rose again. “Judge, I object, this is getting repetitious.”
“I’m just trying to get a straight answer.”
“Overruled. Answer the question.”
“No, sir,” Cicero said. “I haven’t been in any fights.”
“Ever?”
“Never.” He clutched the witness rail.
Blair paused, stil
l intent. Still motionless.
Cicero stared back, wide-eyed.
“You remember having a debate last fall on campus with another Baylor student named Peter DeGroote?”
The boy’s eyes cut rapidly from side to side, then settled again on the prosecutor. “Yes, sir. He whipped me good.”
“And you got mad, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Drank beer to get your courage up?” Blair’s color was rising.
“No.”
“Hunted him down?”
“I did run into him at the creek.”
“You were angry?”
“No.”
“You whipped him good, didn’t you?”
“I didn’t.”
Blair was almost shouting.
“You punched him and knocked him to the ground, didn’t you?”
“No, that just didn’t happen.”
Cicero lifted his chin and sat back.
“So.” Blair spoke slowly and deliberately, surveying the jury. “You’re just not the kind of young man who’d hurt anybody?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Well, we’ll have to see what Peter has to say about that.” Blair spun around and headed back to his table. “Nothing further, Judge.”
***
The judge darted out the side door, leaving everyone in place.
“He’s gotta answer the call of nature,” Papa said to Harley. He motioned for everyone to gather close around the defense table. “Miss Peach, go out to the waiting area and make sure Orman’s still there.”
She left. Henry Sweet joined them and put his hands on Cicero’s shoulders.
“Mr. Calloway, how’d I do?” Cicero asked.
“You did fine, son, just fine.”
Harley glanced away. Papa was just reassuring him; Blair had turned him every way but loose.
Papa grasped Harley’s elbow. “Let’s get the killer in here next.”
He blanched. “There’s reasonable doubt in the evidence already. Is that really nec—”
“We need him now for sure. We’ve got to prove he’s the killer before Blair can call Peter DeGroote in rebuttal to talk about that fight.”
It was now or never.
Harley cleared his throat. “I feel strongly about this. We don’t have anything at all on Bud Orman. He won’t help us. Let’s rest our case and just deal with Peter if they call him. They may not. All he can say is that he and Cicero got in a fight. He can’t say anything about the killing of Miss Georgia. It’s just a distraction.”