He’d never seen his father like this, not even in Houston’s trial. “No, Papa, Orman was outside when you called him. He wasn’t sitting with Schoolcraft.”
“He was. I—saw them.”
There was a sudden commotion behind them. Harley twisted to see Jasper trying to hold Mr. Sweet back. Mrs. Sweet gripped his arm.
Henry Sweet shook his fist at Papa and yelled, “What are you doing? You’re going to get my son convicted.”
Papa rose and lifted his hands toward his old friend. “Henry . . .”
“He’s doing his best,” Jasper said.
Harley got between them. “Please, Mr. Sweet, let me deal with this. It’ll be fine.”
“Is this the way you repay your debts?” Mr. Sweet shouted.
Mrs. Sweet seized one of his hands, begging him to stop. Her pleas finally prevailed, and with Jasper’s help, she led him away.
Miss Peach pulled Harley away from Papa and breathed a horrified whisper into his ear. “Harley, his pistol is in that cigar box. He was going to shoot Orman.”
“Get him back to the office. I’ll take care of things here.”
They left.
***
When court reconvened, Harley apologized again and advised the court he would take over while his father was indisposed. He wished Miss Peach was still there.
Cicero’s eyes were wide, and he was breathing heavily. Harley gave him a reassuring look.
The next thunderclap was louder than the last. The dangling lightbulbs over the bar shivered as lightning flashed through the south windows. The bailiff went to close them.
The prosecutor approached Orman. “Where were you on the evening of April fifteenth of this year?”
“I was playing cards at the Pacific Hotel.”
“Who with?”
“Thaddeus Schoolcraft, that man out there in the gallery,” he said, pointing.
Schoolcraft nodded at Blair.
“Who is he?”
“He’s a detective for the Katy Railroad.”
“Who else was there?”
“Oh, let’s see, it was Cooter Shaughnessy and Sterling DeGroote.”
“Mr. Shaughnessy the city alderman?”
“Yes, sir. Mighty fine card player.”
“When did you finish your game?”
“Late, about two o’clock in the morning, if I recall.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Harley half rose from his chair. “No questions. We rest our rebuttal case.”
Harley sat silently at the defense table as Orman and the others left. DeGroote had bought the whorehouse from Orman, and he’d known all along that Peter was there at the time of the killing. Shaughnessy had tried to pressure Papa into pleading Cicero guilty, and Schoolcraft had been on the grand jury that indicted Cicero, then tormented Papa at every opportunity.
Harley bit his lip. So Peter hadn’t shot Miss Georgia, but why had they protected him? Was it nothing more than to protect the good DeGroote name?
The courtroom finally emptied. Since Judge Goodrich had adjourned until two o’clock in the afternoon, Harley went back to the law office. Miss Peach was there alone. Jasper had escorted the Sweets back to their hotel room, she said, and Papa had taken off walking down Fourth Street. A thunderstorm was drenching downtown, but she’d been unable to stop him from going out in it.
“Harley, what’s wrong with your father?” she asked as soon as he’d put down his things.
He sighed and shook his head.
“That was not the same Catfish Calloway who won Lawson’s case last year with his brilliant cross-examination of the accusing witness.” She stood with her hands on both hips. “His examinations of Peter and Orman were disastrous.”
“That’s unkind.”
“It’s not—it’s troubling. Something is wrong with him. He became so emotional. He doesn’t lose control of himself like that. That’s not who he is.” She sat in a chair next to him, her arm on the table. “Before this case, he never would’ve hurled unsupported accusations at a witness. Catfish Calloway is a master of cross-examination, but that Catfish Calloway didn’t show up today. Something’s wrong.”
“He’s just under pressure. And he’s tired.”
“It’s more than that. He screamed at Orman. He cursed in court—the Catfish Calloway I know doesn’t even curse in front of ladies, much less in court. And he was going to shoot Bud Orman. He just was. Orman was right: Mr. Calloway was unhinged. Have you ever seen him act like that in court?”
It wasn’t the time for this.
“Well, I haven’t,” she said.
He stared at the table.
“When I graduated from Baylor,” she said, “I thought I was in love with a young gentleman. I was convinced we were a perfect match, and I’d already imagined our wedding day. My friends didn’t think he was right for me, and I couldn’t understand why. It was only after he left me for another girl, when I got some distance from the relationship, that I was able to see things more clearly. I think when you want something to be true badly enough, especially something very personal, then sometimes you ignore things that don’t seem right to a more detached eye. I think Mr. Calloway wants to believe Cicero so much that he can’t see the truth about him.”
Maybe she was right. “Why he would become so emotional about it, though?”
“Do you think it’s something to do with your brother? I’ve noticed you two never speak of him—except once, last Sunday when you said we should accept Blair’s plea offer and you said Cicero wasn’t Houston.”
He met her eyes reluctantly.
“What does Houston have to do with this case, Harley?”
The world dropped out beneath him. Everything. It had everything to do with Houston. Why had he not realized that?
He stood on wobbly legs. “We’ve got to find Papa.”
Chapter 39
Catfish charged through the downpour. He hadn’t expected a thunderstorm when he set out from the office, but the rain didn’t matter one bit. Nothing mattered. By the time he crossed Franklin Avenue, he was drenched. His frock coat was sodden, slapping his legs as he churned past the post office.
Colonel Terry trotted along beside him.
“Scat! Get on back, Colonel,” he commanded, but the hound ignored him.
The Baptist church loomed ahead through the slanting rain. Henry’s voice resounded in his head. What are you doing? Thunder cracked overhead. You’re going to get my son convicted.
He broke into a trot down the alley beside the Blake building.
Is this the way you repay your debts?
Lightning flashed in the western sky. He turned on Fifth Street, then crossed the tracks on Mary Street.
Orman cackled. Counselor, you’re coming unhinged.
A tall spire barely visible ahead through the deluge. Turned right on Jackson. He ran. Afraid you’re losing this case too. Stumbled in a pool of rainwater. Methodist Church on the left—got up. You’re losing. Ran along the Katy tracks past Sixth Street—losing—across Seventh—this case too—the rain slackened—this—case—too.
He slowed. Almost out of breath. The colonel stopped ahead of him and looked back, panting.
Catfish bent over double, wheezing for air. Water streamed down his face. He could barely make out landmarks ahead. Just beyond Eighth Street, the Brazos Compress smokestack rose into the mist beside near the Katy Hotel. In front of it, a locomotive; to the right, the green-and-yellow passenger depot. He fixed on that place and slogged toward it. Why did it draw him?
Bootblack Ben perched on a stool under the hotel awning, waiting for a customer. He waved. Catfish ignored him and stumbled toward the place. The train. The Katy depot.
He staggered to a stop. It was the first time in eight years he’d stood so near that spot.
It all looked so different. Back then it had been a MOPAC depot. There was the spot where—he couldn’t go there. His legs wouldn’t move, and he didn’t want them to.
Was th
ere someone standing on the spot? He squinted through the drizzle.
There was, yes. A bowler hat, a horseshoe mustache, a blackthorn cane. His hand like a noose around his neck, laughing: This case, too.
He dissolved in the mist.
Catfish slogged back the way he’d come, the colonel beside him, down Jackson to Seventh. Away from the depot—Houston!—away from the spot.
I’m so sorry.
Away.
***
Miss Peach touched Harley’s arm. “I’m scared.”
“I am too,” he said.
She wished she could just hold him tightly.
He brought the surrey around, and she scrambled in.
Gentle rain pelted the fabric roof. He lashed the horse, and the carriage lurched forward. They went south down Fourth Street. Few people were out in that rain. Some waited under shop awnings for it to let up.
She glanced across the seat at him. Harley couldn’t keep holding it in. She had to help him. “Have you ever seen your father like this?”
“Yes.” He kept his eyes on the road, but she still saw the fear in his eyes. “Once.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago. During Houston’s trial.”
“I didn’t know he was a lawyer.”
“He wasn’t. He was the defendant.”
“What?”
“He was on trial for murder.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my.” How could she not have known something so important about her employers’ family?
Harley turned right onto Webster. There was no sign of Mr. Calloway. She twisted her hands in her lap during the awkward silence as they turned back toward town on Fifth.
“He was accused of murdering a man at the MOPAC Railroad depot.”
Was she sure she wanted to hear more?
“Papa defended him—he was convinced it was self-defense. He couldn’t accept that Houston would deliberately kill someone.”
Goose bumps prickled her arms. “And did he?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. There were several eyewitnesses. They said the man got off the train and was walking toward the passenger terminal. Houston got off the train behind him and yelled at him to stop. Houston had a gun. When he turned around and saw Houston’s gun, he reached for something, and Houston shot him.”
That didn’t make sense. “But why?”
Harley turned left on Franklin. “Houston was coming home from a trip. They said a carpetbagger from back east was sitting across the aisle. They struck up a conversation, and the carpetbagger asked Houston about his family. He told the man about Papa, about his service in the war, but the man took offense and called Papa a traitor to his country. They got into a shoving match, and a railroad detective on the train had to separate them.”
“So Houston shot the man because he insulted your father?”
“That’s what the railroad detective testified. Papa cross-examined him, trying to shake his story about Houston’s animus toward the man, but Papa got so upset—like he was today—that all he could do by the end was curse at the witness.”
“Oh, my.”
They passed the Hotel Palmo. Still no signs of her boss. Her hand was shaking.
“That detective was in court today,” Harley said unexpectedly.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. His name is Thaddeus Schoolcraft.”
“The one who played cards with Orman? Mr. Calloway said he was whispering with Orman in court.”
He nodded grimly. “I think seeing him today is what upset Papa so. Schoolcraft took on Houston’s case almost as a crusade and saw to it he was prosecuted aggressively. Schoolcraft and Papa hate each other.”
Dampness appeared around his eyes. This must be so hard on Harley—and on top of that, to watch his father fall apart. Poor dear.
She touched his sleeve lightly. “Were you and Houston close?”
“We were the only children in the family to survive into adulthood. He was born before Papa went off to war, and I was born after he got back. He was my big brother, and … Yes. We were very close.”
She leaned out into the mist as if searching down the cross street, trying to give him a moment of privacy. “I’m so sorry.”
“The jury convicted him. They gave him the death penalty.”
She snuck a glance at his face. “So he was hanged?”
Harley reined the horse left onto Eighth Street and nodded. “Papa blamed Schoolcraft.”
Miss Peach frowned. Maybe not just Schoolcraft. Houston’s trial had obviously been very personal to Mr. Calloway. He’d gotten too emotionally involved in the defense—just as he had now with his war buddy’s son.
That was it.
She clutched Harley’s sleeve again. “Don’t you see what’s happening now, Harley? He blamed himself for Houston’s death because he couldn’t save him in the trial. His emotions got in the way. He thinks Houston died because of his failure as a lawyer—and now it’s happening all over again with Henry Sweet’s son. He must be terrified.”
Harley’s eyes grew large. “Not Papa.”
“Yes, don’t you see? Cicero’s case is very personal too—Mr. Sweet saved Mr. Calloway’s life in the war. Did you see the way your father was fingering that bullet?”
Harley was silent. He lashed the horse.
Miss Peach twisted to look every direction as the buggy rattled up Mary Street and crossed the Cotton Belt tracks. Where was Mr. Calloway? When they reached the Jackson Street crossing near the Katy Hotel, Bootblack Ben waved and beckoned them over.
“Haw!” Harley barked, pulling the surrey around the parked locomotive and toward the hotel.
“Mr. Harley,” Ben called, “I done seen your father out running in this rain. Something was awful wrong.”
Miss Peach’s stomach clenched.
“Where was he headed?” Harley asked.
“That away.” He thumbed south over his shoulder. “Had Colonel Terry with him.”
Harley raised a hand. “Thanks, Mr. Moon.”
She gripped the side of the surrey as he lashed the horse into a trot and they surged into the downpour.
“Hold on,” he said. “I know where he’s headed.”
***
Catfish slumped back against a live oak tree, his legs splayed before him. Rain fell from the overhanging limbs in steady drips, as it did from every oak and pecan in Oakwood Cemetery. The colonel’s head nestled on his thigh. Both of them were soaked to the bone.
“It doesn’t matter, Colonel.” He rubbed the hound’s ear until his eyes closed.
Eight feet away was a tombstone: Martha Calloway. Beloved Wife & Mother. 1836–1885. Rest in Peace.
Numbness washed over him. “Martha, I need your guidance. I feel so helpless. No matter what I do, it turns out wrong. Henry Sweet’s boy is going to hang unless I find a way. Henry’s counting on me, as I counted on him in Kentucky.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I acted the fool in court today, honey. I embarrassed Harley. I failed Cicero. I let Henry down, and Jasper too. What do I do now?”
A gust of wind blew a small branch loose from the tree to his right. It fell in front the other marker, the one that was harder to look at. Houston Calloway. Audi Alteram Partem.
The other side.
He never could make them hear Houston’s side.
“I’m so sorry, son. It’s my fault.”
Now it was happening again. Why couldn’t he make people see the truth anymore? Was he the only one who saw it clearly, or was he the one who could no longer see?
He was bone-weary—hadn’t slept during the trial. He turned back to his wife’s headstone and closed his eyes. So tired.
Miss Jessie’s garishly painted face taunted him from behind his eyelids: Would you like me to tell you what your client said? She couldn’t be telling the truth. He turned his head. I’m sorry I shot her—Cicero couldn’t have said that. 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.
“Martha, there’s nothing to this finger smudge science,” he murmured.
I’m gonna put Cicero in the witness chair and let you judge him for yourself.
When I called Cicero, he did tell them the truth as he remembered it—I danced with her, and then we must have gone upstairs, but I don’t remember anything after that. Because of the beer, or a blow to the head? You’re not saying Miss Georgia undressed you, are you? No, sir. She didn’t do that for sure. Cicero was just confused. She just tended to her own clothes.
He flung an arm over his closed eyes as a shield against the rain. “He was confused.”
I took my own clothes off. Confused, right? Wasn’t he? He said he didn’t remember. I don’t recall anything. That had to be the truth. And she got scared and pulled her derringer? I sure didn’t see anything like that. He meant he didn’t remember, didn’t he? I’m not the kind to hurt anybody . . . I haven’t been in any fights . . . You’re just not the kind of young man who’d hurt anybody? No, sir, I’m not.
“He’s not, Martha. Is he? Henry’s boy couldn’t be.”
Cicero pushed me down. When I got back up, he punched me and knocked me into the creek. That didn’t have anything to do with Georgia’s death. She laughed at his manhood, and that made him madder. Peter was lying? Just about the time I got to the downstairs hall, I heard the gunshot . . . We found Georgia dead and Cicero lying unconscious on the floor.
His arm fell away from his eyes, and he straightened, hands sinking into the mud as he pushed away from the tree. The rain was stopping. He had to share the truth with his truest partner.
“I told the jury myself: Killers lie, don’t they? Killers do lie. And I told them I would put the actual killer in that witness chair.”
A glint of sun streaking through the parting clouds bounced off of her tombstone.
“God help me, Martha, I did. I did put the killer on.”
He pressed his muddy hands over his face, hoping not to see any more, but he did. The tighter he shut his eyes, the clearer it became. The same courtroom. The same witness chair. Thaddeus Schoolcraft’s grinning face, blurring into Bud Orman—you’re losing this case too.
The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Page 26
