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

He closed his eyes. So many images. Her joyous laugh. Her merry eyes. Her gentle heart—his, captured. A kiss. Their vow. Two babies. Two men. Her illness . . . The day she passed. Their bed upstairs. Her pale face. Her cold hand. Her brave, sweet smile. Her voice, so weak: When we were first acquent . . . your locks, like the raven . . . now like snow. She couldn’t finish the verse.

“And hand in hand we’ll go.”

Colonel Terry nudged his dangling arm, and he opened his eyes and wiped away a tear. “We both miss her, don’t we, old boy? You were just a pup.” He reached down and stroked the colonel’s head. “We miss them both.”

He closed his eyes again. So tired. Ten years ago, trying cases had been exhilarating. Now it was exhausting.

I’m worn out, Martha.

He sank his head back and drifted from that chair, that room. A gentle wind through giant oaks. One grave. Too soon, another. Why?

A different place. A dark shape hanging from a pitiless scaffold, swinging in the breeze. Turning. A face coming around, not yet distinct.

The shape changes somehow. Nearby, another face—watching. A bowler hat, a horseshoe mustache, a blackthorn cane. The face contorts in laughter. Old man, you just don’t have what it takes anymore. Isn’t one failure enough to convince you? Save yourself. Quit now.

The face vanishes, but Catfish bolts upright, flooded with doubt. Could he be right?

I told Harley he had to be fearless. But Martha . . . I’m so scared it’s happening again.

Chapter 25

Miss Peach got up from the bench and went to the open window overlooking Second Street. She fanned herself with her notepad. It was dreadfully hot and still. She leaned out the window. Below, Colonel Terry slumbered on the top step of the courthouse. That sweet old dog wasn’t about to abandon his master.

She turned back toward the doorway into the Nineteenth District Court. Next to it on the right, Jasper fidgeted on the bench.

To the left, Miss Jessie and Big Joe waited. Memories of his intrusion into Sadie’s bedroom flooded over her—his foul odor, his drooping eye. He watched her right now as she crossed the waiting area and peered through the window in the courtroom door. She pushed him out of her mind.

Courtrooms always took her breath away. Mr. Calloway said a courtroom was a sacred place in a secular sense. This one was imposing—about sixty feet square and two stories high, with over a dozen tall compass-head windows beneath a ceiling beautifully tinned in elaborate patterns. Judge Goodrich administered justice from a decorated oak bench against the wall. Behind the bench stood a large docket cabinet. The court reporter, Mr. Lord, was at his desk. Waiting empty nearby were the witness stand and the jury box against the far wall.

Mr. Calloway, Harley, and Cicero sat around the defense table. Her chair was just behind them next to the bar rail. At the far table, Captain Blair sat alone. Two naked electric lightbulbs dangled on long wires from the high ceiling, and three ceiling fans rotated over the bar. Outside the bar rail under three more ceiling fans, a throng of faces packed the spectator gallery—men in every row of the cast iron, wooden-backed seats. Those to the front were the veniremen.

Mrs. Sweet sat next to her husband, and a handful of other women dotted the back rows. When Miss Peach took her place in court, she would be the only woman inside the bar.

Judge Goodrich finished speaking to the venire. Though Miss Peach couldn’t hear a word, she knew that jury selection was almost over. The three lawyers crowded the bench, and Harley motioned for her to come in.

She turned to Jasper. Sweat streamed down his face.

“Wait here,” she told the poor boy. “It won’t be long.”

She hurried in and took her chair behind the defense table, where she would take down the testimony so that Mr. Calloway could quote it exactly in his closing argument. Her actual job was more than that, though. Mr. Calloway had given her his usual trial instructions: Sit behind us so you can see everything. Be my eyes and ears. Don’t let me miss a thing, no matter how small. If a juror blinks, I want to know how many times.

It was thrilling.

A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead. Even inside the building, the July swelter was oppressive. The tall courtroom windows had been thrown open to admit air, but the ceiling fans kicked it around in a torrid breeze that seemed worse than no breeze at all. Spectators fanned themselves with whatever they had available; her notepad, in fact, was saving her from heat expiration.

The lawyers returned to their seats, and the judge addressed the veniremen. “I want the following men to come forward, right there through that gate, and find you a place in the jury box: Mr. Eugene Cammack, Mr. Albert Durie, Mr. Edgar Russell, Mr. Frank Mitchell, Mr. William Plunkett, Mr. Fauntley Johnson, Mr. Wade Morrison, Mr. Samuel Powell, Mr. Philip Owens, Mr. Morton Smith, Mr. Joseph Wickham, and Mr. William Neale. Gentlemen, step up quickly now, please.”

She’d researched all twelve. She marked a check beside each juror on her venire list. How interesting: Captain Blair hadn’t struck Mr. Morrison as they’d anticipated. Mr. Calloway would be pleased. The twelve rose from all around the gallery and made their way to the front. The bailiff held open the swinging gate in the bar rail as one by one, they found their places in the jury box. It was nice to finally associate faces with the names.

The judge addressed those whose names he hadn’t called. “The rest of you men may go about your business now. You’re excused. Thank you for your service.”

The room filled with the bustle of people leaving.

She took that opportunity to observe the gentlemen of the jury. Some were young but most were older, dressed in business suits of black, gray, or brown. They seemed somber and attentive. They could as easily have been in their