DELIBERATE JUSTICE: The American Way

by Thomas Holladay

  Nobody at the Presidio would speak of it, but it could only mean one thing. Jim's condition had worsened—perhaps an infection from the much-debated sponge.

  That night, after the men had been fed and had retired to the barracks, Mikhail and Warner took a taxi up to Jim's apartment. Coleman had arrived ahead of them (no surprise) and was standing at Jim's bedside with Dr. Richard Beverly Cole and Jim's wife, Charlotte.

  Several oil lamps yielded ample light.

  Jim's children tried their best to smile, saying, Hello.

  Billy Cahill stood near the bay window, wearing a grim expression.

  Mikhail took a deep breath and neared the bed.

  Jim's skin had stretched tight across the skeleton of Jim's face from loss of weight. The purple swelling at his neck and shoulder looked ready to burst. The contrast seemed unreal.

  Jim's yellow eyes lit slightly, upon seeing Mikhail and Warner. His cork-like tongue licked across purple lips as he tried to smile.

  Warner took Jim's hand. "Jim."

  No words could express their communication. Too much was being shared.

  "Count Mike." A hoarse whisper from Jim.

  "Yes, Jim."

  "That investment we discussed over in Utah Territory. You see Charlotte about it, later. You take care of her. You take care of my kids." His eyes lost focus, darting back and forth.

  "Yes, Jim. I will."

  MIKHAIL TOSSED AND turned all night, wishing his mind could see Molly instead of Jim's haunting stare. He rolled out of bed a second time and strolled out onto the parade grounds, breathing deeply of the crisp air, and silently calling out to God, not knowing what to say. He'd never learned how to pray. Words came from outside himself. He barely recognized his voice. "God, he is such a good man. How can this be?"

  Shortly after dawn, after the men had eaten what were called flapjacks, he assembled his cannon crew for three final shots at their door-size target. A black-painted piece of sail cloth had been spiked to a sand dune.

  All three shots struck center, and the loud cannon fire cleared his mind.

  James King of William was dying.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Colonel William Tell Coleman ordered the Committee of Vigilance to fall in on the parade grounds of the Presidio at 6:00 a.m., Tuesday, May 20, 1856; a clear and crisp morning. Coleman climbed onto his box, a dark silhouette against the steep slant of sunrise. "Early this morning, sometime after midnight, at the young age of thirty-four and surrounded by his loving family, James King of William passed into another life."

  Sad murmurs spread across the parade grounds. Nobody broke ranks.

  Mikhail had thought himself prepared, but he was not. He locked his knees, straining to stay on his feet against his suffocating sense of loss.

  Coleman said, "First, every man will gather his weapons and ammunition and fall back into formation. We will then march over to the plaza in formation, stand at parade rest, and give our cannon time to move into position. Then, Chief Curtis and Mayor Teschemacher will enter the jail and demand the delivery of the prisoner James Casey, to be held in custody by the committee until after a coroner's inquest.

  "We will also take into custody Charles Cora. He will be retried for the murder of U.S. Marshal William Richardson, as there is widespread knowledge that Belle, the notorious madam and Cora's mistress, bribed certain members of the jury to win his acquittal." Coleman climbed down from the box.

  John Drury shouted, "Fall out."

  It took only a few minutes for the men to arm themselves and fall back into formation.

  John Drury shouted, "Attention!"

  The formation snapped to attention and dressed right.

  "Left turn."

  Sixteen companies of two hundred men turned left with unified precision, the slap of more than 3,000 feet.

  "Forward, march."

  Company by company, the long formation marched toward the front gates in four columns. "Left, right, left."

  Mikhail's cannon crew had been up early, lashing two Howitzers to the backs of mules and harnessing the mules to cannon carriages, part of their daily drills. When their opening in the long line of volunteers approached, Mikhail and his second in command, a California guardsman named George McAdams, mounted horses and motioned their cannon crews to follow the third company of two hundred men out through the gates.

  Thirteen additional companies followed behind Mikhail's cannons.

  It took more than two hours to march down to the plaza and form ranks around all four sides of the city hall and jail. They stood at parade rest.

  Mikhail's cannon crew took twelve minutes to mount both cannon on carriages and take aim at the jailhouse door, a very large target, from 200 meters, slightly downhill.

  Mayor Teschemacher and Chief Curtis approached Mikhail, sidestepping and looking around. Both wanted to be elsewhere. The mayor said, "Where's Coleman and Warner?"

  Mikhail said, "They stayed at the Presidio for the Coroner's Inquest."

  The mayor and police chief looked at each other, unsure of what to do or who to ask.

  John Drury stepped in. "You boys going in there or not?"

  "Oh, yes." The mayor hadn't a clue.

  Neither did Chief Curtis.

  Mikhail said, "If there is any trouble bringing James Casey and Charles Cora out, we are prepared to remove the door from the jail and go in after them. If this becomes necessary, innocent people might be hurt." Mikhail nodded toward the jail. "You should go inside, now."

  Curtis said, "We're supposed to go in alone?"

  John said, "That was the plan you two agreed on."

  Mikhail said, "You want an armed squad to accompany you?"

  Teschemacher shook his head, laughed nervously, and dragged Chief Curtis across the plaza toward the jailhouse door. They climbed the front steps together and Chief Curtis knocked on the door.

  The door opened and a uniformed city policeman stepped out. He listened to Chief Curtis, nodded, and went back inside, leaving the steel door open.

  Less than a minute later, another uniformed policeman and Patrick, Mikhail's bartender friend from the Empire, escorted Charlie Cora out.

  It seemed a lifetime since Patrick had promised the longshoreman's job to Mikhail.

  A minute later, James Casey marched out alone and was taken into custody with Cora.

  As planned, an armed squad of eight men surrounded each prisoner.

  Patrick smiled and tipped his head, surprised to see Mikhail.

  Mikhail smiled and nodded. He needed to visit the Empire for lunch and wine. He owed his friend an explanation of all that had happened.

  Word spread quickly through the ranks, still marching into the Presidio parade grounds. The Coroner's Jury had found no evidence of medical malpractice in the death of James King of William, ruling that the severity of his wound had been the ultimate cause of death, with or without the much-debated sponge. Several doctors had testified. Without the sponge, Jim would have bled to death in a matter of minutes.

  The trial of James Casey would commence that afternoon, following the re-trial of Charles Cora.

  Both prisoners were promptly escorted into the Assembly Hall while the long train of volunteers continued marching into position, halting company by company and turning to stand at parade rest.

  After ordering his second in command to properly store the cannon and see to the livestock, Mikhail joined John Drury near Coleman's wooden box, waiting for the last companies to march through the gates into position, halt, turn, and stand at parade rest.

  John needed no box to stand on. "Attention!"

  Sixteen companies snapped to attention.

  "Those who were called as witnesses, fall out and go into the Assembly Hall. The rest of you can take a short break for food and refreshment and report back here. We will then march down to the Barbary Coast to arrest known felons and other lawbreakers. Dismissed!"

  Mikhail and a handful of others strode into the Assembly Hall. He spotted Abe War
ner's tall plug hat in a crowd near the back of the room and joined him.

  Colonel William Tell Coleman, State Assemblyman John Downey, and Alderman John Myerson sat at a table up on the stage. Another man sat just behind, speaking privately to Coleman.

  Abe said, "Where you been?"

  Mikhail smiled his response. Abe knew very well where he'd been. Mikhail said, "What did I miss?"

  "Parsons and Felton are defending Charlie Cora. We've already heard from three witnesses who saw the shooting. Two said that Marshal Richardson was armed, but that Cora rushed him and kept him from pulling his weapon, then shot him in the chest at close range. The other said he was close enough to hear Richardson say, 'Don't shoot. I'm unarmed.' That's Cora's Belle taking the stand now."

  "Why is he being retried? Wasn't he acquitted?"

  "At his first trial, five witnesses testified he wasn't anywhere near Clay Street; that he was playing cards at the Blue Wing Saloon. Everybody knows Belle paid those five to testify. They won't dare show up here."

  Coleman sat in the center of the three-judge panel, still in charge.

  Belle took the oath and sat. She wore a dark blue dress with large, light blue flowers, an attractive combination of colors. Everybody could see through the sheer white blouse underneath, billowing sleeves drawn tight at her wrists, collar open to the low neckline of her dark blue dress to display of her ample bosom (as much as might still be considered appropriate in such a place as this).

  Most men were said to find her beautiful. Mikhail found her desirable. "Who's that behind Coleman?"

  "That's Judge Solomon Heydenfeldt, the first Jew ever to be elected to the California Supreme Court. He conducted the coroner's inquest. He lives at the top of Russian Hill. He doesn't want to be directly connected with the vigilantes, but he's agreed to render his legal advice during these proceedings."

  Coleman looked into the crowd near the front of the stage.

  Mikhail couldn't see who he was looking at.

  Coleman said, "You boys have some questions for this witness?"

  Warner nudged Mikhail. "That's Cora's lawyers."

  One of Charlie Cora's lawyers said, "We do, Colonel William Tell Coleman." A sarcastic tone. "First, however, let me state once more for the record that you, sir, are not a sworn officer of any court in this state."

  Coleman nodded, confident. "You've already made this complaint a number of times. Have you questions for this witness or not?"

  "Very well. Let the record show that our very legal objections have been ignored. So, miss, tell us your name and your relationship with the accused." The assembly hall fell quiet. Everybody wanted to hear her response.

  "Annabella DelGato. I am an independent woman."

  Hushed snickers rushed across the hall and stopped.

  Belle was the most notorious and successful independent woman in San Francisco, a madam with a reportedly sumptuous house and several hard-working female tenants. She was also Charlie Cora's woman. Everybody knew this.

  Cora's lawyer said, "What can you tell us about the afternoon of November 17 of last year, at around five o'clock?"

  "I was with Charlie over on North Beach, taking a stroll."

  "By this, you mean Charles Cora?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You're certain of the date and time?"

  "Yes sir, Mr. Felton. I keep a regular schedule and I have a watch." She yanked a gold chain around her neck, dragged a small gold watch from between her breasts, looked at it, and showed it to Mr. Felton. "We were together all afternoon and into the night."

  "You're certain of the time?"

  "Yes sir, Mr. Felton." She stood and showed her watch to Coleman, pushing her bosom close to Coleman's nose. "It keeps good time, sir."

  Coleman leaned back and blinked, embarrassed. "Yes, Miss DelGato. I'm certain that it does. For your appointments, no doubt?"

  The outburst of laughter forced Belle back into her chair.

  Coleman gaveled the hall back to silence.

  Felton said, "This whole procedure is a laughable travesty, as this courtroom has just demonstrated. This man, Charles Cora, was acquitted by a jury of his peers in a legally recognized court of law. Due to the arousal of an angry mob, an arousal brought about by events for which this man is not even being named as a coconspirator or accomplice, this man must stand before this unlawful tribunal and once again defend his good name.

  “He was under the protective custody of County Sheriff David Scannell and was removed from said protective custody by an organized and well-armed gang of outlaws."

  Angry shouts ripped across the hall. "Outlaws?" "Liar!" "Shut up!" "Hang him, too!"

  Coleman stood to pound his gavel, angrily looking around the room from shouting man to shouting man until order was restored. Still standing, Coleman said, "Mr. Felton, your objections were placed in the record with the opening statement of your partner, Mr. Parsons." He sat. "Your objections have already been overruled by this court. Now, have you any more questions for this witness?"

  "We have no more questions for this witness. This is obviously a case of mistaken identity."

  Coleman said, "Very well, Mr. Felton. We have a few questions of our own." He turned to the witness. "How is it you can remember that afternoon so clearly, Miss DelGato? It was a full six months ago."

  "I have a very fine memory, sir."

  "Have you?"

  "Yes, sir. That's what Mr. Parsons told me to . . ." She glanced at Charlie Cora's lawyers.

  Hisses, laughter, and catcalls brought Coleman's gavel down, quickly restoring order. They couldn't get enough of Belle's testimony.

  "Okay. Let's see." Coleman thumbed through a desk calendar. "Can you tell the court where you were on December 7th of last year?"

  "What day of the week was that, sir?"

  Coleman took his time looking at his notes. "That was a Sunday, Miss DelGato."

  "I was in my house on Montgomery Street, visiting with a friend. I can get him in here if you want."

  "No need, Miss DelGato." Coleman flipped through pages on his calendar. "Can you tell us where you were on the afternoon of April 13th of this year, at about that same time?"

  "What day of the week was that, sir?"

  Coleman glanced at his calendar. "That would be a Sunday afternoon, Miss DelGato."

  "Yes sir. I was in my house on Montgomery Street, visiting with Sheriff David Scannell."

  The hall burst into loud laughter, maybe at the way she'd said ". . . visiting." Or maybe at the mention of the county sheriff.

  Coleman gaveled the hall back to silence and looked again at his calendar. "I see. And, what about the afternoon of April 20th of this year? Where were you then?"

  "What day is that, sir?"

  "Another Sunday, Miss DelGato."

  "Then I was visiting with the county sheriff."

  "Sheriff David Scannell?"

  Felton said, "We object. The county sheriff is not here to defend himself."

  Coleman had grown impatient with Cora's legal team. "Defend himself against what? He's not been charged with anything."

  "Quite so, sir," said Felton. "Quite so."

  Coleman returned to the witness. "What about May 11th of this year, another Sunday?"

  "I was with the sheriff at my house, sir. He's always with me on Sunday afternoons. Says it's his day of rest."

  A few chuckles crossed the room. Most now understood Coleman's line of questioning.

  "I see. And, Miss DelGato, during what hours on Sundays are you in the company of our county sheriff?"

  "He comes directly after church at around 1:30 and stays until early Monday morning." She glanced nervously around the room. "He's a real good sleeper, sir."

  The hall exploded with foot-stomping laughter. Coleman needed two or three minutes to gavel the hall back to silence.

  Having restored order, Coleman said, "I see." He studied the witness. "Does the sheriff ever miss his Sunday rest, Miss DelGato?"

  "Oh, no, sir. He
's regular as this watch." She held up her time piece and showed it around the room, sure of herself.

  "How long has he been visiting on Sunday afternoons, Miss DelGato?"

  "He's been my regular guest for nearly three years."

  Coleman blinked in disbelief, maybe an act. "In all that time, has he never missed his Sunday afternoon rest?"

  "No, sir. Like I said, he's regular as this watch."

  "I see. So tell us, Miss DelGato, how is it you were with Charles Cora on the afternoon of November 17th of last year, a Sunday?"

  The assembly hall fell completely silent, watching her struggle with the question. She had no answers.

  Abe said, "It's her lies and tampering that will convict her man, not the evidence."

  Poor woman.

  "Her foolishness should neither condemn nor acquit."

  Warner thought about this one. He had no argument.

  Coleman looked from Downey to Myerson then back at Judge Heydenfeldt. None of them had questions.

  He looked toward Parsons and Felton.

  Nothing there.

  Coleman said, "Thank you, Miss DelGato. You may step down."

  She dabbed her eyes and left the stage, probably standing near Charlie Cora. It was impossible to see past a room filled with men standing.

  Coleman said, "Findings and sentencing will follow a closed door session between this panel and Mr. Cora's lawyers." He gaveled once. "Take the prisoner out and bring in James Casey."

  Mikhail could see movement, glimpses of men bringing him in. He could not see their faces.

  Coleman gaveled once and looked down at the defense table. "We're ready to hear your opening statement, Mr. Parsons."

  Parsons stood a head above most of the men in the room, easy to see. "Although we do not recognize this tribunal as a duly authorized court of law, we are obligated to do our best for our clients. However, under these circumstances, being held and tried by an angry mob, we must protest in the most vigorous manner." He spread his hands toward Judge Heydenfeldt.