The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller

by G. Reading Powell

  Harley was scowling at him, brow furrowed, shaking his head.

  Yes, son, it’s time to drive the charge home and finish this.

  “Peter, are you willing to give the court a mark of your trigger finger to see if it matches the bloody finger mark on this derringer?”

  “Of course I will.”

  What?

  Catfish peered into the young man’s face. He was bluffing. He looked worried.

  Call the bluff.

  He got a sheet of paper. With his magic pencil, he traced the outline of the derringer and placed it on the rail in front of Peter. He pulled a handkerchief and got his pen knife from the trial box, then sliced across his left thumb, drawing gasps from the gallery. Two thick globs of blood dripped onto the paper where he’d drawn the barrel of the gun. He pressed his thumb into the handkerchief, folded the knife, and put it back in the trial box.

  Peter’s eyes were wide.

  Exhilaration surged through Catfish. “Peter, touch the blood with your right trigger finger.”

  Admit it—you killed her.

  The jury leaned forward as one.

  Judge Goodrich craned his neck.

  Blair looked uncertain but rose anyway. “I object.”

  Catfish wiped his forehead with the bloody handkerchief. “Judge, is the learned prosecutor objecting to his own finger smudge science?”

  “Overruled.”

  Every eye in the courtroom turned toward Peter. He looked at the judge, glanced back to Catfish, and shot a last questioning look at his father.

  Just as he reached for the paper, a commotion erupted in the gallery. Sterling DeGroote was on his feet, swatting with one hand at the woman next to him who was trying to tug him back into his seat.

  “Stop this slander,” he yelled as he pulled his sleeve free of her grasp. “It’s me he’s protecting. Leave him alone!”

  Chapter 37

  “Hold on just one minute, sir,” Judge Goodrich called to Sterling DeGroote. “You need to take your seat.”

  Catfish’s head was spinning.

  “Question me, not my son,” DeGroote yelled back.

  “Well, sir, maybe they’ll want to get to that in minute—but right now, you sit down and keep quiet or I’ll have the bailiff take you outside.”

  DeGroote settled back into his chair.

  The judge addressed the witness. “Peter, please touch the paper.”

  “Yes, sir.” Peter sat forward and pressed the paper. “There.”

  Some jurors eyed the paper, but most went back to gawking at the intruder in the gallery. How was Sterling DeGroote involved in this mess? Catfish had no choice but to find out.

  “I’ll let that dry while I ask you some more questions,” he said. Catfish tried to see the bloody mark, but he was too far away.

  “So Peter, do you know what your father’s talking about?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Maybe you better tell us, then.”

  Peter looked silently from Catfish to his father.

  “Peter, tell us,” Catfish repeated.

  The elder DeGroote slid to the edge of his seat. His wife clutched his arm. “It’s all right, son. Tell him.”

  Hands on the witness rail, Peter took a slow, deep breath. “I did go to the Red Front and Miss Jessie’s that night, and I’m not proud of it—but I didn’t have anything to do with Georgia’s death. I didn’t want anyone at Baylor to know I was at a whorehouse. I was afraid they’d expel me right before my graduation.”

  Several members of the jury shifted uneasily in their seats.

  “So I told my father. Later, after we heard about Cicero being arrested, Father said since Cicero had been caught red-handed, he’d plead guilty and nobody would have to know I was ever there.”

  Catfish swiped away a rivulet of sweat from his forehead. “So you told your father you were at the sporting house?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And he said nobody would find out you were there if Cicero pleaded guilty?”

  “Yes.”

  That didn’t make sense. “Why did you assume Miss Jessie and her employees wouldn’t tell the police you were there?”

  “They just wouldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  Peter looked reluctant to speak. “Because they work for Father.”

  What? That couldn’t be.

  A murmur rustled through the gallery.

  “They work for who?” Catfish asked.

  “My father owns Miss Jessie’s whorehouse. It’s in her name, but he owns it.”

  “So Miss Jessie, Miss Sadie, and Big Joe all work for your father?”

  “Yes.”

  Catfish pressed his temples. What did it mean? “They lied to protect you and your father?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because you shot Georgia Gamble?”

  “No, sir, I did not.” Peter glanced at the jury, then at the paper in front of him. “Compare the marks. You’ll see.”

  Killers lie.

  Catfish wiped away the sweat from his temples. Every person in the courtroom watched him intently, waiting to see if he would step forward to compare the marks. He glanced into the gallery at Henry Sweet. Henry nodded. Catfish resisted the urge to look to the left but did. Schoolcraft flashed him a grin.

  He took a step back. Exhaustion drained every muscle.

  “Catfish, are you finished?” the judge asked.

  He had no choice.

  “No, sir.”

  Catfish walked over to the witness stand. He laid the pistol on the paper side by side with the drawing, studied it a moment, turned the derringer to face the opposite way, and studied it again.

  He stepped back. The boy was telling the truth.

  “Pass the witness.” He went back to his table, unable to meet his client’s gaze, and sagged into his chair.

  “Papa?” Harley whispered. “Does it match?”

  Catfish rubbed his forehead with one hand. Who killed the whore? If it wasn’t Peter—just as he thought all along: Orman was the killer.

  “Papa?”

  “It’s Orman,” he whispered back.

  “What?”

  “Captain Blair, do you have questions?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor, a few more.” Blair walked to the witness stand and examined the finger marks for himself. He left the papers and gun there and went back to his table. “Peter, let’s get to the truth of this. Tell us what happened when you went to the bawdy house.”

  “I went there about nine thirty or ten—maybe later, I don’t remember. I went upstairs with Georgia. I liked her. She was nice to me, and we were . . . together. Then I left for the Red Front to get a beer. After that, I went back to Miss Jessie’s and up to Georgia’s room. I found her in bed with Cicero. I got mad and yelled at him to get out, and he yelled back. Georgia tried to get us to stop. I yelled at her for being with him, and she said he was no man compared to me. She laughed at his manhood, and that made him madder. He got up in my face.”

  The boy looked at Cicero this time, frank and forthright.

  “That’s when she pulled her derringer from the drawer and pointed it at us and told us both to get out.”

  Cicero gripped the table.

  Peter’s head shook ever so slightly. “I slugged him, and I left. I was mad. I just ran out.”

  “Where did you hit the defendant?”

  Peter shifted his focus back to Blair, his face sober. “In the head.”

  “With your right or your left fist?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you knock him to the floor?”

  “He fell back on the bed.”

  The pieces were coming together more clearly now. The boy must be telling the truth; how else would he know about the blow to Cicero’s head? But when had Orman arrived?

  “Was Georgia alive when you left?” Blair continued.

  “Yes, sir. I swear to God.”

  “Alone with the defendant?”

  “Yes,
sir.”

  “And she had the derringer?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I went downstairs to leave. Just about the time I got to the downstairs hall, I heard the gunshot. Miss Jessie asked me what happened, and I told her. She got her gun and we all went back upstairs. We found Georgia dead and Cicero lying unconscious on the floor. Miss Jessie told me to leave, she’d take care of things. So I did.”

  . . . Orman . . .?

  “Where did you go after you left Miss Jessie’s?”

  The words were tumbling from the boy like a creek after a gully washer. “I went to the Pacific Hotel. I was supposed to pick up my father, who was playing cards there. He was expecting me.”

  “Tell us what happened there.”

  “I went in and found Father in the bar with Mr. Orman, Mr. Schoolcraft, and Mr. Shaughnessy.”

  Catfish’s head snapped up. Of course! Orman was in cahoots with Schoolcraft.

  “So your father was playing cards with Bud Orman, Thaddeus Schoolcraft, and Cooter Shaughnessy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you speak with them about what happened to Miss Georgia?”

  “I did.”

  Catfish gazed at the dizzying rotation of the ceiling fan above. But Orman already knew what had happened, didn’t he?

  Blair rubbed his chin. “What did you say?”

  Orman. Orman did it.

  Harley leaped up. “Objection, hearsay.”

  What?

  Blair shook his head. “Spontaneous utterance, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled. You may answer.”

  “I said Cicero Sweet killed a whore.”

  Blair had Mr. Lord mark the paper with the bloody fingerprint as an exhibit, and the court admitted it into evidence. “Peter, is that your finger mark on the derringer?”

  It was Orman’s.

  “No, sir, it’s not.”

  Blair took the derringer and the paper to the jury rail and laid them out side by side for the jurors to see. They all crowded around. Couldn’t they see that it was Orman’s print?

  Catfish grabbed the minié ball from his trial box and clutched it tightly, looking back at Henry. I won’t let this happen. I couldn’t save my own son, but I won’t let this happen to yours.

  “Pass the witness,” Blair said.

  Everyone looked at Catfish.

  Didn’t they understand?

  Harley touched his sleeve. “Papa?”

  He gaped at his son.

  Schoolcraft glared at him.

  His head throbbed. Orman and … Schoolcraft. They were mixed up together. Schoolcraft had caused all this, just like he had in Houston’s case. He’d call Schoolcraft next, after Orman.

  “Catfish?” Judge Goodrich asked.

  “Papa, do something.”

  Catfish stared at the minié ball in his hand, a shot from another time.

  Harley rose again. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  Chapter 38

  Harley spent the recess begging his father not to call Orman, but he wouldn’t budge. Papa said Orman was involved somehow—Peter proved that. If Peter hadn’t touched that gun, he said, it must have been Orman.

  It made no sense to Harley, but Papa was convinced.

  Harley asked Miss Peach to sit with them at the defense table rather than behind. Maybe her presence would calm him. Calm them both.

  “We call Bud Orman.” Papa stared into the spectator gallery, his jaw pulsing.

  Harley twisted around and followed his gaze to Thaddeus Schoolcraft. Why was he here, and why was he having such an effect on Papa?

  Papa opened his clenched right hand and placed the spent minié ball on the table. “Your name is Bud Orman, isn’t it?”

  “William Orman, to be exact.”

  Papa leaned forward on his hands. “Mr. Orman, did you murder Georgia Gamble?”

  “Of course not. Your client did, counselor.”

  Papa rose slowly. “You’re not the sort who’d kill somebody?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “So you don’t you find occasion to kill people from time to time?”

  “Objection!” Blair jumped up. “He’s impeaching his own witness.”

  “Catfish,” the judge said sternly, “if you put him on the stand, you vouch for his credibility.”

  “Judge, respectfully, if I might?”

  “Come up here, gentlemen,” the judge said testily.

  All three lawyers hurried to the bench.

  Harley strained to hear as Papa spoke in a suppressed voice. “I don’t believe that’s the law anymore. I’m entitled to impeach any lying witness, including one I put on the stand. He’s not free to lie just because I called him.”

  “Your Honor,” Captain Blair said, “it’s right here in the Code of Criminal Procedure, article six hundred sixty-eight: ‘The rule that a party introducing a witness shall not attack his testimony is so far modified as that any party, when facts stated by the witness are injurious to his cause, may attack his testimony in any manner”—he looked up at the others—“except by proving the bad character of the witness.’ That’s what he’s trying to do, Judge, prove bad character.”

  “If you have a prior inconsistent statement to impeach him with, Catfish, I’ll consider it,” the judge said, frowning at Papa, “but you can’t just attack his character like that.”

  “Judge, I beg you, it’s the heart of our defense. If I can’t show he’s a murderer, I can’t prove he killed Miss Georgia.”

  “He just told the jury the killer was Peter DeGroote,” Blair said. “Which is it?”

  “I’ll sustain the objection.”

  The lawyers returned to their places. Papa clutched his minié ball in his left hand. His right began to tremble.

  “Papa,” Harley whispered.

  Papa didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on Orman. His hand still shook.

  He finally erupted, voice cracking and eyes blazing. “Did you shoot W. F. Houghston?”

  Papa!

  Blair leaped from his chair and pounded his fist on the table. “Judge!”

  Papa turned on Blair.

  “You defended him,” he shouted.

  Blair made a move toward Papa, but Judge Goodrich intervened. “Stop! Both of you. Mr. Calloway, I sustain the objection. You will move on to something else. Now!”

  Harley sagged in horror.

  Papa nodded and ran trembling fingers through his hair, causing it to straggle over his forehead. He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “You’re a bartender and sporting house tycoon, aren’t you?”

  “Objection, leading.”

  “Sustained.” The judge’s face was still red.

  Papa braced himself again on the table and took another deep breath. The intensity in his voice was so unlike him. “What—do—you—do for a—living?”

  “I sell real estate.”

  “Do you—own—Miss Jessie’s—sporting house?”

  “I used to, but I sold it long before your boy there paid a call on her whores.”

  Papa shifted the minié ball to his right hand, then stared at it in the palm of his hand. Slowly, his eyes rose to meet Orman’s. “Isn’t the truth that you did own it on April fifteenth, that you shot Georgia Gamble because she wasn’t working hard enough to suit you, and Miss Jessie and Peter DeGroote are lying to protect you?”

  Harley looked away. Sterling DeGroote owned Miss Jessie’s. It was clear on the record.

  Orman smiled and replied calmly. “As I already told you, I didn’t shoot her, and I don’t even know Jessie Rose.”

  Papa’s jaw clinched, and he thrust a shaking finger at Orman. “You went there—in a—red—buggy?”

  “No.”

  “The same red buggy—you came to court in today—with Peter DeGroote?”

  Papa, stop.

  “I came here on the trolley. One of the jurors sat near me.” Orman pointed. “Mr. Morrison. Ask him.”


  Morrison seemed startled, glanced toward Papa, and quickly looked down.

  “You rode here in DeGroote’s red buggy, didn’t you? You goddamned—liar …”

  Papa.

  Blair shifted in his seat but didn’t object.

  Judge Goodrich intervened anyway. “Mr. Calloway—”

  “. . . you goddamned—murdering liar. Tell the truth.”

  Orman cackled. “Counselor, you’re coming unhinged. Afraid you’re losing this case too?”

  A snicker sounded from the gallery. It was Schoolcraft.

  Papa jerked toward him, then twisted back to the grinning Orman. Papa’s eyes turned feral, and he lunged for the White Owl box on the defense table.

  Harley’s pen went clattering across the table as Miss Peach brushed past him and snatched the box away. Her face was as white as the owl on the lid.

  “Damn you,” Papa bellowed at Orman.

  “All right, that’s enough,” the judge shouted. “Counsel, up here, right now!”

  Blair hastened to the bench. Harley rose quickly and led Papa by his arm.

  “Mr. Calloway,” the judge said, the veins in his neck straining, “I will have you removed from the courtroom unless you control yourself.”

  Papa was motionless.

  “Do you hear me, counselor?”

  Papa gripped the edge of the bench so tightly his knuckles went white.

  Harley raised his free hand in supplication. This was over. “Your Honor, he does hear you, and I promise it won’t happen again. Perhaps we could have a short recess?”

  The judge pointed at Harley, his finger shaking. “Get control of him, Harley.” He looked up at the jurors. “Court is in recess for fifteen minutes. Bailiff, remove the jury.” He stormed off the bench and disappeared through the side door.

  What was happening?

  “Papa, come over here and sit down,” Harley said, steering him by the arm.

  Miss Peach helped guide Papa back to his chair. A distant peal of thunder sounded through the windows behind the judge’s bench. Harley shuddered.

  Papa sat breathing heavily, staring straight ahead, clutching the arms of the chair. “Did you see—Orman—whispering—with Schoolcraft?”

  “What?” Harley asked.

  “When I called him to the stand—he was sitting back there”—he pointed to the spectator gallery—“whispering with Thaddeus Schoolcraft—did you see him?” His eyes were wide as if he’d seen a ghost.