The jail yard. A young man hanging from the scaffold, swinging in the breeze, turning toward his father . . . Houston! . . . turning away . . . turning . . . coming around again—no, a different face. This face was not his son. This face was someone else’s son.
Cicero.
The killer was Cicero.
The colonel nuzzled him. He wiped the mud from his face and scrambled up.
What had he done? He’d put Cicero on the stand, and the boy had lied. He did kill her. He’d lied to save his own skin, and now he was going to hang.
Catfish was the one who couldn’t see the truth.
He staggered to the tombstone and touched her name; saw her sweet smile and stumbled down the cemetery road.
God, help me. Let it not be too late to save his life.
The colonel trotted beside him. They came to a tall monument shooting up through the tree branches. In Memory of the Brave Men and Devoted Women of the South. He was standing among departed comrades, gone one by one over the years since the war. He strode down the street. There it was; the marker was small. J. C. Jenkins. Judson Cicero Jenkins. He fell to his knees beside his old friend, his old law partner. Judge Warwick Jenkins’s brother. Cicero Sweet’s namesake. The three had ridden together—Catfish and Henry Sweet and Cicero Jenkins, the daring captain of Company K. Cicero’s commanding voice still rang in his ears: Fear not death, men. The day goes to the bold. Forward! They’d done bold things in those days—terrible things, in order to survive. The three of them had survived.
And that was the answer, wasn’t it? After all this time, it came from the voice of his friend: The day will go to the bold.
He knew how to save Cicero.
***
Miss Peach gripped the seat as the surrey rattled through the gate into Oakwood Cemetery. They turned right down the first lane. The rain had stopped, and the air was steamy.
She held tightly as Harley put the horse into a gallop. “The family plot’s up ahead on the right.”
She scanned the cemetery. Mr. Calloway and the colonel were walking up the road. “Look, there he is.”
Harley turned left in front of the Confederate Memorial and met him in the street. He leaped out, and they embraced. Mr. Calloway’s eyes were shut tight over his son’s shoulder.
Miss Peach turned her face away as her eyes filled.
Harley spoke first. “Are you all right?”
Mr. Calloway broke the embrace and grinned as if he’d seen something amazing. “Of course I am.”
He and the colonel both looked like drowned rats, but it was the old Mr. Calloway. He was standing in a puddle of rainwater, but his bright blue eyes sparkled. “When God got around to making Texas, the only weather he had left was floods and droughts.”
She managed a laugh through the tears she couldn’t hold back.
He jumped into the back seat of the surrey behind her and squeezed her shoulders.
“Colonel, up.” The hound joined him. “Go to my house, son, and be quick about it. I need some dry clothes. Miss Peach, we’ll drop you off at Sam Kee’s first. Get me a plate of fried rice and a pot of ginger tea.” He peeled off some soggy bills from his money clip and handed them over her shoulder. “Take it to the courthouse. Get yourself something too.”
“Are you sure you can eat?” she asked.
“Darlin’, I’m starved. Can’t argue to a jury on an empty stomach. Harley, while I’m changing clothes, I need you to do two things.”
“Yes, sir?”
She snuck a peek at Harley. He felt it too. She could just hug them both until they burst.
Mr. Calloway leaned between them. “Take the jury list with you and stop by the Pat Cleburne Camp office. Check their membership records for which jurors were in the war.”
Miss Peach broke into a big smile and twisted around. “Mr. Calloway, he could just use the talking-phone at the courthouse.”
Mr. Calloway roared with laughter. She beamed back.
Harley glanced at them both, smiling. “I better go in person.”
“And one more thing. Go tell the jailer to bring Cicero to the county courtroom. And get Henry Sweet there too. We’ll talk there over lunch.”
She knew that voice.
Harley nodded. “Yes, sir.” He eyed her.
She just couldn’t hold back the tears. She shrugged and shook her head.
He snapped the reins. “Get up there!”
Chapter 40
“We need to have a very frank conversation.”
Cicero and his parents sat on the other side of the table from Catfish, watching him with anxious eyes as he gulped a heaping plate of fried rice. The county court deliberation room where they met was small, stuffy, and smelly. No fan, only one window. No one else had an appetite.
He looked straight at Cicero. “Be honest, whether what you have to say is good or bad for your case. Now’s the time to tell it straight. My question’s this: Do you actually remember what happened or not?”
Cicero shook his head immediately.
“You see, I’ve got some doubts about your story after hearing you testify.”
Cicero opened his mouth to answer, but Catfish held up a hand. “Wait. Before you answer, let me just tell you a few things. I’m sorry to say this, but I believe the jury’s gonna convict you based on the testimony they’ve heard, especially today. Peter DeGroote was honest once he finally decided to be, but you were inconsistent and confused. I never should have asked him to give a finger mark, but I did—and even to my eye, it was completely different from the one on the derringer.”
Catfish took a sip of ginger tea and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “I’ve defended you based on what you told me the truth was, but I think other witnesses have disproved your story. I’ve tried to prove someone else shot Georgia Gamble, but the evidence always comes back to you.”
Henry shook his head. “You’re wro—”
Catfish thrust a hand toward him. “Wait! You’ll have your say when I’m done.”
Cicero started breathing rapidly. “I—"
“Hear me out,” Catfish commanded. “When court reconvenes, Judge Goodrich will charge the jury. He’ll tell ’em that if they believe beyond a reasonable doubt you’re guilty of first-degree murder, they should convict you. He’ll tell ’em if you’re guilty of first-degree murder, they may punish you by death.”
He paused to let that sink in. Cicero stiffened, then began to tremble. His mother sobbed into her handkerchief, and Henry patted her back gently.
Catfish spoke with all the authority he could muster. “After the judge reads that charge to the jury, we’ll argue your case to the jury. Captain Blair will argue for first-degree murder, and I believe the jury will agree with him. Captain Blair will ask for death.”
He pushed his plate away and sat back. “What shall I argue, Cicero? I can’t tell ’em someone else killed her. The evidence foreclosed that defense. I could argue in good faith that the state failed to prove your guilt beyond a reasonable doubt—there’s still no eyewitness to the actual shooting, so the case is circumstantial—but I can’t in good faith argue that you’re innocent because I don’t believe that anymore. So what should I argue?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Cicero’s voice cracked.
“I believe there’s a way to save your life, but it’ll require you to take the witness stand again—and tell the truth.”
Cicero’s eyebrows shot up, and he nodded enthusiastically. “I did, Mr. Calloway, I did.”
He lit a cigar, leaned back on two legs of the chair, and blew smoke to the ceiling.
“I’m speaking as your lawyer, and in my opinion, the jury thinks you lied to them. I believe correcting the lie is the only way to save your life.”
Cicero’s facade dissolved, and he buried his face in his hands. His father put an arm around him, but he pushed it away.
Henry folded his arms and glared at Catfish. “Now look here, you can’t just abandon Cicero like this. Catfish, you owe me.
”
He’d known this would be a bitter pill to swallow. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Henry, but I don’t have any choice. I’ve made some mistakes in this case, and I regret them. I should have pushed for a plea bargain in the beginning. Harley tried to get me to do that, but I was pigheaded. I think we could’ve gotten an agreement for a reasonable number of years in pri—”
“No, no prison,” Henry said.
“Yes, prison—but it’s too late for a deal now. Our only chance now is giving the jury the option to choose prison over death.”
Mrs. Sweet’s sobs intensified.
Henry leaned forward, sliding both palms forward on the table toward Catfish. “I haven’t testified. I could take the stand and say I overheard Peter admit he shot her. Put me up there, Catfish, and I’ll say that. You owe me, dam—”
Catfish shook his head and held up both hands. “No, sir, I’m not putting anybody on that witness stand to lie. Done that already, and that’s why we’re here. There are only two options. Either I argue to my best ability that there’s reasonable doubt and ask for an acquittal, or I argue that he’s guilty of manslaughter and try to save his life. Those are the only two options—and frankly, Henry, in my opinion there’s only one.”
Henry pulled back indignantly. “They can’t convict a decent boy for killing a whore. Tell them she was just a whore.”
“They’ll give him death if I say that. I know you’re scared, Henry. Believe me, I understand how helpless you feel right now. I’ve been in your shoes. As much as you want to do something to protect Cicero, there’s nothing you can do. But there is a way he can save his own life. It’s risky, but it’s his only chance.”
Henry’s face crumpled. He tried to touch his son again, but Cicero wouldn’t let him.
“The choice is yours, Cicero,” Catfish said, “nobody else’s. So I’ll ask you the question again. Do you actually remember what happened?”
Cicero threw himself forward onto the table, arms over his head, and sobbed uncontrollably. After a minute or so, he answered in a barely audible voice. “Yes.”
“You willing to testify to the truth?”
“Yes.” He sat up, red-faced. “I don’t want to die. I’ll do whatever I need to.”
Catfish finished his ginger tea and slid the cup out of the way. “I just want you to tell the truth. Let’s talk about what we’ll do.”
***
Not a single juror more than glanced at Cicero when he took the stand. Wade Morrison bent his head and crossed his arms; he’d even avoided eye contact with Catfish when the jury came in. Only a single juror watched Cicero now.
“Cicero, is there something you want to say to the court and the jury?” Catfish asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Go ahead.”
Cicero turned in the witness chair to face the jury. His eyes were red, but he didn’t cry. “I haven’t been exactly honest with you about what happened. I do remember some other things.”
Catfish peeked at the jury. Half were now more attentive. That’s progress.
“I remember being in bed with Miss Georgia. I don’t remember Peter DeGroote being there, but maybe he was at some point. Anyway, I was on the bed. I felt real dizzy and everything was blurry. She was poking me and yelling at me. She had that pistol and was pointing it at me. I tried to knock it away and it went off. I saw blood on my hand, and I wiped it on the sheet. I remember trying to get off the bed. I reached for the doorknob, but the door swung closed and I fell. The next thing I knew, the police were carrying me away.”
A sob burst from his throat. “I didn’t mean to shoot her. I’m so sorry.”
Catfish eased closer to the jury box. Some of the jurors were still eying Cicero; most didn’t. He faced Cicero and crossed his arms. “Did you lie to these men earlier?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“I was scared. I don’t want to die.”
“Did you intend to kill her?”
“No, sir. I had no reason.”
“Do you regret what you did?”
“I do.”
“Anything else you want to say?”
“No, sir. Just, I’m so sorry.”
Catfish nodded. “Pass the witness.”
“All right.” The judge rubbed the back of his neck. “Captain Blair?”
Blair rose stiffly. He wasn’t likely to let Cicero off easily.
“So, Mr. Sweet, your new story is you do remember what happened?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That you shot her but didn’t mean to?”
“That’s the truth.”
Blair scowled at the boy. “So when you told us before you didn’t remember anything that happened after the two of you danced, that was a lie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were lying then, but you aren’t lying now?”
“That right.”
Blair shook his head. “You want us to believe your new story, but not your old story?”
“Yes, sir.” He cast an imploring look at Catfish.
Catfish rolled the minié ball in his hand. He’d done all he could do; justice would take its course.
“I think I understand.” Blair shot a knowing look at the jury. “Nothing further, Judge.”
Chapter 41
The clock tower struck four. Catfish scanned the spectator gallery as the judge concluded his charge to the jury. Almost every seat in the courtroom was occupied. Watchers fanned themselves against the sultry heat left behind by the afternoon thunderstorm. They were all there—Schoolcraft, Orman, Shaughnessy. Three other aldermen, the mayor’s imps, sat in different spots. Brann, Brown, and the other reporters were scattered through the gallery, hunched over their notes. Even Miss Jessie had made a public appearance, tastefully attired at the end of the last row, fanning herself with her oriental fan. The seat next to her remained empty—the last empty seat in the whole courtroom. The Sweets clutched hands tightly in their front row seats. Jasper watched from two rows behind President Burleson. Miss Peach smiled encouragement.
Harley nodded toward Catfish’s right hand. He hadn’t noticed he was drumming his fingers. They both knew this was the biggest risk he’d ever taken in any case, but they agreed it was Cicero’s only chance.
Prison or death.
Captain Blair opened calmly. “Reverend Sam Jones preached here back in April, and everybody went. He said one thing that caused folks to think him a prophet: ‘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?’ Well, gentlemen, not six hours later, Miss Georgia Virginia Gamble fell victim to a murderer’s hand—in the Reservation. There’s no way to change it, but is the rest of what he said prophesy? That a man can murder in the Reservation and go unpunished?”
He moved closer to them. “I say to you, gentlemen, that’s where prophesy fails. Because that’s in your hands, and I’m confident you won’t tolerate murder, whether it’s in the Reservation or in the Baptist church, whether it’s a poor working girl in a bawdy house on the wrong side of town or a banker’s wife in the finest house in the best neighborhood.”
The jury was hanging on his every word. Tom Blair was good. He knew how to connect with folks.
“I say that’s what will happen because I agree with something else Reverend Jones said in that sermon: ‘You can hang a few anarchists in Chicago every few years and think you’ve killed out anarchy, but if you have a law on the books that you don’t enforce, you’ve got anarchy right here in Waco, Texas.’ You remember the striking coal miners in Indiana and what they did last month? The authorities had to call out the militia, didn’t they? Even closer to home, in the Indian Territory, they called out federal troops to protect folks from the miners. When laws aren’t enforced, innocent people get hurt.”
Trying to scare them into a death sentence.
Blair paced in front of the jury box, eyeing each juror as he pas
sed. “If you let murderers go free this time just because the victim’s a bawdy woman, next time it’ll be a decent woman. Or her child. No, gentlemen, Reverend Jones got that one right. ‘The juror who does not bring such offenders to justice is a particeps criminis to their damnable rascality.’”
He stopped at the end of the jury box and turned back to face them. “Do you remember what I asked the defendant?” He sauntered back along the bar and stared at Cicero. “I said, ‘Mr. Sweet, did you consider the Reservation a lawless place where murder might go unpunished?’ He said, ‘I never thought about it.’”
Blair snorted. “Well, gentlemen, he sure did a lot of thinking about that sermon, didn’t he? The preacher preached against drinking, and Mr. Sweet decided he wanted beer. The preacher preached against laying with a bawdy woman, and Mr. Sweet put that sin on his list too. The preacher preached against lawless places like the Reservation where sins go unpunished, and Cicero Sweet felt free to sin as he pleased there. That poor working girl made the mistake of insulting his manhood, and he killed her for it—with malice aforethought. He didn’t think he’d be punished for killing a whore.”
He stood with his hands on his hips. “For most of the trial, the defense claimed some other man somehow shot her while the defendant was passed out on the floor.” He pointed left and spoke in a mocking voice: “It was Bud Orman!” Then he pointed right: “No, no, wait, it was Peter DeGroote!”
He raised both hands to the ceiling and shook his head. “Then they ran out of other men to blame. It was only at the very end of this trial, after failing to put the murder off on somebody else, desperate for a way to survive, that the defendant finally admitted he killed her. He came up with a brand new story, and now he wants you to believe he didn’t mean to kill her.”
Blair cocked his head in puzzlement. “Now how is it Sweet can shoot a girl dead in the heart and not intend to kill her? For the life of me, I don’t see it. No, gentlemen, the defendant acted with malice aforethought. Judge Goodrich instructed you that if he acted deliberately it was first-degree murder. Well, take the defendant’s own words on that. He said to Miss Jessie, ‘I’m sorry I shot her.’ Miss Sadie heard that too.”
The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller Page 27
