The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📗

courtroom too, waiting to hear what indictments they would return. Harley spotted a reporter among them, but Papa ignored him.

The young man got up from the opposite bench and came over to them. His hat was pitched to one side in a jaunty fashion, and he wore a striped vest with a heavy gold watch chain draped in a rakish way.

“You gents are lawyers, aren’t you?” He didn’t sound as if he was local.

“Yes, sir. Most days,” Papa said. “What can I do for you?”

“Do you mind if we talk?”

“About what?”

“The bawdy house murder. I hear the grand jury is in there meeting about it.”

“Do tell,” Papa answered with apparent lack of interest. “And you’re who?”

“Babcock Brown, Dallas Daily Times-Herald, at your service,” he said with a grin.

“How do, mister,” Papa said with a forced smile.

That look, Harley knew from experience, meant conversation’s over. Papa took the Monday edition of the Evening News from his lap and popped it opened in front of his face.

The reporter appeared surprised. “Does this mean you’re refusing to talk?”

“Not refusing,” Papa said from behind the paper. “Just not talking.”

The doors opened, and a couple of dozen men with serious expressions hurriedly departed and disappeared down the stairs. One of them was an alderman—not Shaughnessy, thankfully.

Harley peered through the open doors. Another gentleman lingered inside, speaking with the county attorney. He looked familiar. He had a horseshoe mustache and a black bowler and carried a blackthorn cane. As he turned toward the door, Harley realized he did indeed know this man. He looked older than he remembered, but then again it had been eight years.

To his surprise, the man came out and stopped right in front of them. He nudged Papa’s newspaper down with his cane and cracked a wry smile. “Well, well, I haven’t seen you in quite some time, Mr. Calloway.”

Papa’s eyebrows shot up. He neither spoke nor moved.

“Funny we should meet here of all places.”

Papa didn’t react.

“I heard you didn’t go to court anymore.”

Harley shifted in his seat. Papa wasn’t afraid to go to court.

Papa’s eyes narrowed.

“Well,” the man said after a moment of silence, “I heard you might have an interest in one of the cases we took up today. I can’t talk about grand jury business, of course, but you might want to check the true bills.”

Papa didn’t blink.

The man huffed and began descending the stairs, his cane clicking the cast iron steps every other one. He stopped on the landing and looked back. “I’m surprised you’re still defending murder cases. I didn’t think you could bear to watch another client . . . hang.”

He thumped his way down the rest of the stairs.

Papa stared at the newspaper, but he wasn’t reading.

“Thaddeus Schoolcraft,” Harley murmured near Papa’s shoulder after the man was gone. “The railroad detective, right?”

Papa gave a tight nod.

The county attorney was the last man out of the court chamber. Harley had seen Tom Blair in action in the courtroom several times and had a number of cases against him, though none had gone to trial. He was a formidable adversary. A pony-built man in his late forties, the popular Blair, known by everyone as Captain Blair, had served as the county’s chief prosecutor off and on for years. In one trial, Blair had supposedly gotten into an argument with the opposing lawyer, leading to a fistfight across the counsel table. Judge Gerald had adjourned until they finished pummeling one another, and then the trial had proceeded as before. Papa deeply respected Blair’s ability.

“Howdy, Catfish,” Blair said in a friendly way. “Good to see you too, Harley. How’s working for the old man?”

“Good afternoon, Captain. Papa’s like an overseer sometimes, but he hasn’t administered any lashes yet.”

Blair winked at Papa. “Grand jury just returned some true bills. You might be interested in one of them.”

Papa’s eyes widened. “Who?”

“Let’s see here,” Blair said, examining the document as if he didn’t remember the name, though the ink on the foreman’s signature was likely still wet. For an experienced politician, he wasn’t a very convincing actor. “Name’s Cicero Sweet.”

Harley suppressed his reaction. The indictment wasn’t surprising but what was the charge?

“Cicero Sweet indicted, is that so?” Papa said.

“You have a minute?” Blair asked.

“Sure.”

Harley and Catfish followed Blair back into the courtroom, and Papa shut the door on the reporters. The prosecutor slouched in a chair at the bar table and propped his feet on another chair.

Papa leaned against the jury rail. “What you got?”

Blair passed the document to Papa. “Here’s the indictment.”

Harley peered over his father’s shoulder.

In the name and by the authority of the State of Texas: Be it remembered that on the sixteenth day of April 1894, the defendant, CICERO SWEET, in the City of Waco and the County of McLennan, did then and there, willfully and with malice aforethought, murder GEORGIA VIRGINIA GAMBLE, a single woman of this county, against the peace and dignity of the State of Texas.

Papa straightened.

Harley wasn’t exactly surprised the indictment charged first-degree murder. It was common to indict on the most serious possible offense and then try the case on a lesser included offense like second-degree murder or even manslaughter. He’d expected this.

“Rumor is you’re defending,” Blair said.

“Yes, sir. Boy’s father is a friend. When’s the arraignment?”

“Thursday.”

“How about agreeing to bail?”

“Can’t do it,” he said, shaking his head. “The judge won’t have it.”

“He got a soft spot for sporting girls?”

“He just doesn’t like citizens getting shot.”

“First-degree’s pretty hard, Tom. Cicero’s just a boy.”

Blair’s expression grew serious. “It’s a death penalty case, Catfish.”

Harley was stunned, but Papa didn’t react, except for the slightest tightening of his jaw.

“Would you consider probation for a guilty plea?” Harley blurted.

Papa’s glance said he shouldn’t have opened his mouth.

Harley leaned back against the jury rail.

Papa deliberately turned the indictment to the second page. Only the foreman’s signature and the date appeared there.

“No probation,” Blair said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could convince the judge to approve it. People want the maximum punishment to send a message. That preacher’s