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

gotten under everybody’s skin. I might push for a deal, but only if the boy goes to Huntsville for a long time.”

Papa lifted his chin. “No, sir. No prison time. No probation. Plea will be not guilty. When you gonna set it for trial?”

“Next term. It’ll be the first setting on the July docket.” Blair swung his feet to the floor. “Look, my friend, you’ve got a hard one.”

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. I know you already know this. The boy was caught naked and passed out in the bawdy house with a derringer at his fingertips and a dead whore on the bed.”

Papa smiled faintly. “Well now, Tom, you know things aren’t always the way they look.”

“Maybe not always, but they are this time.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve got witnesses.”

“Who?” Harley asked.

“Eyewitnesses?” Papa added.

“Next best thing. Three people right under the bedroom when it happened. They heard the gunshot and found your boy there by the dead whore minutes later.”

Papa huffed. “You gonna build a case on the testimony of sporting girls?”

“Why not?” Blair smiled, but then turned serious again. “But that’s not all we have, anyway.”

Harley folded his arms and forced himself to look down.

“What else?” Papa calmly asked.

Blair’s eyes narrowed. “The boy confessed.”

Chapter 8

How did Papa appear so calm at hearing their client confessed? Harley unclenched his fists.

“So he confessed, did he?” Papa said. “Well, I’ll be. That’s news to me, and I talked to him myself. Who’d he confess to?”

“You know I’m not going to show my cards before trial,” Blair said with a grin. He got up and headed for the door. “I’ll be seeing you.”

Papa took a chair.

Harley met his eyes. “Do you think Cicero really confessed?”

“He’s puffing.” Papa swatted the air as if the news were a bothersome horsefly. “If he really had a confession, he’d be willing to tell me the name of his witness just to scare me. He’s thinking about the next election. It’s time to show folks how tough he is. He’s campaigning as much against Preacher Jones as his actual opponent. Yes, sir, Tom’s champing at the bit to try this one, whether he’s got a case or not. He’s counting on a jury convicting Cicero just ’cause of the circumstances.”

Harley sat on the corner of the state’s table. “Those circumstances look pretty damning to me.” How could it have been any clearer? They were alone in the room. The gun lay beside him. She was shot dead. Why would Blair say he’d confessed if he didn’t have a witness that he did? This was one to plead out, not try. Get the best deal they could. “You don’t still think he’s innocent, do you?”

“I do, for a fact.”

Harley tilted his head. There must be something he was missing. “Why are you so sure?”

“No son of Henry Sweet would do something like that. They’re not that kind. I’ll be damned if I’ll let Henry’s boy get punished just so the politicians can answer Sam Jones in the election.”

That was all? Harley’s head dipped to his chest. “All right. What do we do?”

“Since he can’t remember anything, the only way to defend Cicero is to find the real killer and prove it in court.”

Harley stood. Maybe he was wrong. Papa had defended murder cases as long as Harley had been alive. “Tell me what to do.”

“I want to know everybody who was at the sporting house that night—or might’ve been. Who had a motive to kill her? I want to find out everything I can about all of ’em. Mainly Miss Jessie. She’s the star witness, and she was hiding something at the inquest.”

“What?”

“Don’t know exactly. Just a feeling I got. Let’s make a call on her.”

Harley smiled. “During daylight hours, I hope.”

His father grinned back. “But first, you go talk to Jasper again and see if he remembers anything else. Press him for details.”

“Right. What about Peter DeGroote?”

“Yes, sir. Forgot about him. Go see Peter after you talk to Jasper, and then we’ll scout out the sporting house together.”

“Right.”

Papa steepled his hands on the table, lost in thought as Harley jotted some notes.

“I overheard you and Mr. Sweet talking in the back of the surrey the other day,” Harley observed mildly, without looking up from his notepad. “I got the feeling you weren’t sure you’d defend Cicero yourself.”

“That was before he got indicted.”

He snuck a peek at his father. “Did you know Thaddeus Schoolcraft was on the grand jury?”

“No.”

He waited for his father to say more about the railroad detective, but he didn’t. Why couldn’t they talk about this? He tucked the notepad into his jacket. “Are you sure you ought to try Cicero’s case?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“It’s just . . .” He struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “If Mr. Sweet is such a good friend, maybe you should get somebody else to handle it.”

“Why’s that, Harley?”

“I don’t know, maybe you’re too close to it. And besides, you haven’t tried a murder case since—”

“I know the last murder case I tried.” Papa’s eyes darted away. “And as far as referring the case to somebody else, there’s nobody else I’d trust to do it right.”

“Why? There’s other good law—”

“I promised Henry I’d give it my personal attention.”

“Mr. Sweet would understand. I think Mr. Sleeper would do a fine job.” Harley took a breath. He hadn’t tried a felony himself yet, but he knew he was ready. “Or me, Papa. I could try it.”

Papa leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and looked up with the wisp of a smile and a blue-eyed gleam that was now just for him. “I know you could, but it’s my responsibility and mine alone. You’ll ride shotgun for me.” He glanced at his satchel, and his voice cracked. “Henry saved my life once. I owe him.”

Harley had never heard this before. It must have been in the war. But if Papa felt that way, why had he seemed so reluctant to defend Cicero when Mr. Sweet first asked?

Papa sat up. “Why don’t you go on