The Sporting House Killing

by G. Reading Powell

  A noise at the rear of the courtroom caught her attention. A pigeon had flown onto the windowsill of one of the north windows, where it perched to view the proceedings. Probably bored with what he saw, the plump visitor entertained himself by throatily cooing, a charming distraction from the heat. She drew the bird’s silhouette at the top of her notepad, then another and another until there was a flock.

  Captain Blair called as his second witness Dr. Hardy C. Black, a medical man with the bearing of intelligence.

  “Do you have any official positions?”

  “I’m the city physician.”

  “Where’s your office?”

  “In the Provident Building, room 93.”

  Captain Blair rocked back in his chair, and it squeaked loudly. The pigeon launched into flight down the central aisle of the spectator gallery, flapping loudly over the defense table. Miss Peach flinched until it glided to a noisy landing in a window to the judge’s left. The bailiff shooed him off, but not before it stained the windowsill in protest. A feather floated toward the bench and finally settled on the floor.

  Captain Blair seemed unbothered. “Do you have any official duties regarding bawdy houses?”

  “I do. By city ordinance, bawdy houses are licensed, and one of the licensing requirements is that all the girls must have a physical examination by the city physician twice a month. I perform those examinations. My job is to make sure the girls are healthy. That also protects their customers, of course. It’s a salutary by-product of legalized prostitution.”

  Blair rose from his chair and stood beside the prosecution table near the jury. “Did you ever have occasion to go to Miss Jessie Rose’s bawdy house?”

  “Many times.”

  “Did you know a working girl there by the name of Georgia Virginia Gamble?”

  “I did. I performed many physical examinations on her. The last one was April fourth of this year.”

  Blair took a document to the court reporter for marking and then handed it to the witness. “Is State’s Exhibit Two your certificate concerning that examination?”

  “Yes, sir. As you can see, I signed it.”

  “Is it part of your office records?”

  “It is.”

  “I offer State’s Two.”

  “No objection,” Catfish said, half rising to his feet.

  “Admitted,” the judge said.

  “Read it for the benefit of the jury, please,” Blair said.

  Dr. Black adjusted his spectacles. “‘Waco, Texas, April 4, 1894. City physician’s certificate of examination. This is to certify that I have carefully examined Miss Georgia Virginia Gamble and find her in a sound and healthy condition, and not infected with any contagious or infectious diseases. This certificate expires June 4, 1894. Fee paid, two dollars. H. C. Black, M. D., City Health Physician of Waco.’”

  “Do your records show who paid that fee?”

  “The madam of the house, Miss Jessie Rose.”

  Blair returned to his table, glancing at the jury. Miss Peach looked too. They still seemed awake and alert, but that might not last if the good doctor’s testimony took a tedious turn through medical school on such a hot summer afternoon following lunch. The judge was already nodding off.

  “I’d like to take a minute or two and have you talk about Miss Georgia, since the jury won’t see her in court today.”

  “All right.”

  “How old was she on the date of her death?”

  “I believe she was twenty-three.”

  “Do you remember her?”

  He smiled. “I do. She was a delightful girl for one in her line of work. She had a sweet disposition. I enjoyed our visits immensely. I asked her once about her name, and she laughed. She said her mother was from Georgia and her father, whom she’d never known, was from Virginia. I believe she grew up in Georgia or Mississippi, maybe. I got the impression that Gamble was not her real surname.”

  “To your knowledge, did she have any family here?”

  “I don’t know of any. I think she came from elsewhere not long ago.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “Fort Worth, maybe, but I’m not sure.” Dr. Black turned toward the jury to explain. “These working girls move frequently from one town’s bawdy district to another. It’s illegal everywhere in Texas but Waco, of course, so they change names frequently.”

  “Do you know how long she’d been in the horizontal trade?”

  “No, sir.”

  Judge Goodrich’s eyes had shut and his head dipped. Miss Peach hid a smile.

  Captain Blair eased next to the jury and lowered his voice while the witness narrated Miss Georgia’s medical history. Then he glanced at the judge and said loudly, “All right, then.”

  “Overruled!” the judge erupted, even though no objection had been made.

  The jurors smiled discreetly.

  “Let’s move along, Captain Blair,” the judge said.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Blair said without breaking stride. “Dr. Black, let’s turn now to Monday, April sixteenth of this year. Did you have occasion to go to Miss Jessie’s bawdy house?”

  The witness first examined his notes. “I did. I received a telephone call from the house. Detective Palmer was there investigating a murder. He asked me to come examine the body.”

  “Describe what you found when you arrived.”

  Dr. Black recited facts now familiar to everyone in court, though he went into pathological detail concerning the body, the blood, the bullet wound, and the cause of death. Miss Peach stifled a yawn. How could murder become so dry?

  Mr. Calloway scooted his swivel chair away from the table, turned his back on the witness and the prosecutor, and propped his booted feet up on his leather satchel not three feet in front of her, facing the jury. He lit a cigar. A cloud of smoke wafted up until it was captured by the swirling currents of the nearest fan, which dispersed it. She knew exactly what he was thinking—Miss Georgia was dead, and no cross-examination, no matter how lively, might revive her.

  “Describe for the jury the appearance of the entrance wound.”

  “It was slightly irregular . . .”

  Mr. Calloway dispatched a perfect smoke ring across the courtroom floor at the spittoon squatting in polished brass readiness just inside the bar. Despite the fan whopping continuously above, it maintained itself perfectly and landed upon the spittoon, as if that was where it properly resided when in court.

  “. . . no wound on the posterior of the body . . .”

  Captain Blair remained intent on the testimony. The judge’s eyes batted, then popped open again, then shut. Mr. Calloway hurled his rings with the precision of a cowhand lassoing a steer. Three more rings stacked perfectly onto the spittoon.

  “. . . cause of death was by gunshot wound to the heart . . .”

  From inside the front corner chair of the jury box, there came an explosion of throat-huffing. Miss Peach flinched as if the pigeon were threatening to land again. A wad of spent tobacco arced over the jury rail and landed squarely in the brass receptacle.

  Ding!

  Neither judge nor prosecutor nor any other court official altered the faithful execution of their duties. Spittoons resided at the end of every spectator bench, and spitting and dinging were normal courtroom sounds. Normal, but certainly not couth.

  “. . . death was instantaneous . . .”

  She glanced at the judge, still sleeping, and Captain Blair, still oblivious. But the gentlemen of the jury were more intent upon the spittoon than the witness. Might more marksmen be planning to join in a precision feat?

  “. . . no pain . . .”

  The next of Mr. Calloway’s rings took flight, the juror huffed in preparation, the ring floated, the brown stream arced. Bull’s-eye.

  Ding!

  Mr. Calloway winked, and the juror nodded.

  “Pass the witness,” Blair concluded.

  The sudden quiet awakened the judge. “Move along!”

  Mr. Calloway
whirled his chair around, rose, and extinguished his cigar in an ashtray.

  “Dr. Black, that gunshot wound was”—Mr. Calloway stabbed the air with his forefinger—“right in the heart, true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Best place to shoot folks if you intend to kill ’em?”

  “Probably, although the head would also do it.”

  “When you examined the wound, you didn’t see any signs of powder burns, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t find any unburned gunpowder lodged in the wound itself?”

  “No.”

  “That tells you the shooter didn’t hold the gun up against the lady’s chest?” He touched his forefinger to his heart.

  “Probably.”

  “So Doc, if I’m hearing you right, this shooter hit her dead center in the heart without pressing the gun up against her?”

  “Maybe, but that’s a little beyond my expertise.”

  Mr. Calloway walked over to the court reporter’s desk near the witness stand. “Dr. Black, did Detective Palmer tell you the weapon they found was a derringer?”

  “Yes.”

  He wrinkled his face. “Ever shot a derringer?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Seen one?”

  “Probably.”

  “Well, let me show you the very one they found in Miss Georgia’s room.” He retrieved the pistol and handed it to the witness. “Take a gander at State’s Exhibit One. Look like a derringer to you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What would you say, that barrel’s about what, three inches?” He indicated with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Probably.”

  “Not very long to burn up all the gunpowder in the cartridge?”

  “That’s beyond my expertise.”

  “Fair enough.” He took the pistol back and placed it on the desk. “Don’t know much about guns?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Fair enough,” he said with a warm smile. He went back to the bar rail. The jurors turned toward him, listening. He liked to cross-examine witnesses from there so that all eyes were on him rather than the witness. He hooked both thumbs in his vest pockets. “Let me ask you something you do know about.”

  “Medicine, I hope.”

  “Yes, sir. The human body. That’s your bailiwick, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “All right, then.” Mr. Calloway scratched his head. “You a drinking man, Doc?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  He nodded. “But when you studied medicine, didn’t you learn about what alcohol does to a person’s body?”

  The doctor dipped his head in agreement and grinned at the jury. “Yes, sir. That’s why I don’t drink.”

  Mr. Calloway smiled back. “Well, sir, you’re wiser than most folks—me included, I’m afraid.”

  A few jurors chuckled.

  “Let me ask you this, though. Doesn’t alcohol get in the way of a man’s vision?” He squinted. “Make it blurry?”

  “It can.”

  “Sometimes he just can’t see straight?” He squinted more.

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes he gets shaky or wobbly?” He wobbled.

  “It can.”

  “Hard to shoot straight if you can’t see straight and you’re shaky?” He squinted and wobbled.

  “Unless you’re so close you can’t miss.”

  “Ah!” Mr. Calloway transformed his right hand into a gun, thumb for a hammer and index finger for a barrel, and pointed it at his own heart. “Like with the muzzle of the gun pressed up against the body?”

  “Yes.”

  He dropped his finger gun and took a few steps along the jury rail. “But no powder burns on her body”—he glanced back to the witness—“right?”

  “Right.”

  “Thank you, sir. That’s all, judge.”

  Blair rose again and took the derringer over to the witness. “Dr. Black, did you see the blood on the barrel of the derringer?”

  “I didn’t really examine the gun. That’s your field, not mine.”

  “If there was blood, you’d think the gun had to be close to the victim’s body, wouldn’t you?”

  “Objection,” Mr. Calloway called. “Leading and speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Pass the witness.”

  “That’s all, judge,” Mr. Calloway said.

  Mr. Calloway took his seat and winked at Harley, who nodded back.

  Miss Peach wiped her pen. Just as he’d planned, Mr. Calloway had planted the idea that another man had been there that night. He’d even put a name to him: Bud Orman. With Dr. Black, he’d then cast doubt on Cicero’s ability to fire the fatal shot. Mr. Calloway seemed quite pleased with how it had gone.

  Harley gazed over his shoulder at her. She blinked encouragement. His face betrayed the worries he’d expressed to her outright, that Mr. Calloway was building expectations among the jurors that he’d prove who the killer was. Harley didn’t think they could do it.

  They’d never disagreed so bitterly before.

  She forced herself to draw a daisy.

  Unless Mr. Calloway had something up his sleeve she didn’t know about, Harley was right.

  Chapter 28

  Blair announced his next witness, Jasper Cantrell.

  Catfish wiped his palms with a handkerchief while the boy made his way to the witness stand. Jasper had neatly parted and slicked down his hair and he wore a winged collar and necktie, but the sleeves on his coat were too short, as were his trousers. Jasper was a smart boy, and Catfish hadn’t needed to explain to him that in a sense he was on trial today too. He wasn’t facing prison or the scaffold like his friend, but the possibility of going home under the shame of expulsion from college for misconduct visibly weighed on him. Catfish, too.

  Jasper straightened his tie three times as he followed the bailiff toward the witness stand. They passed President Burleson, who was on the front row of the spectator gallery. Jasper appeared startled to see him and nodded respectfully before settling into the witness chair. His eyes cut to Cicero, who nodded back. Jasper rubbed his hands down his trousers repeatedly.

  Catfish tried to make eye contact with him—Remember, Jasper, I’m your lawyer too—but the boy’s eyes flitted around the room.

  “Jasper,” Blair said, “were you and the defendant together on Sunday evening, April fifteenth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Professor Charlton took all the boys from the dorm to the revival at the Tabernacle.”

  “Did Brother Sam Jones preach about bawdy houses?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And drinking?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you and the defendant then go to a bawdy house and drink beer after that revival?”

  “We went to a house, yes, sir, and there was some drinking going on. I never opened mine.”

  “Whose idea was it to go to the bawdy house?”

  Jasper hesitated, eyeing Cicero, and finally spoke. “I reckon it must have been Cicero’s.”

  Catfish caught his eye. It’s all right, son. Just tell the truth.

  Blair continued. “Did you or the defendant tell anyone you were going there?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “We was supposed to be in our room. We was sneaking out, and ain’t . . . wasn’t . . . nobody at Baylor knew nothing about that.” Jasper glanced toward Burleson. “I got some powerful regrets about breaking them rules. It was all our own doing and nobody else’s.”

  “What time did you leave your room to go to the bawdy house?”

  “Probably around ten thirty or so.”

  “Did you smuggle yourselves out?”

  “Well, sir, we tried not to make no noise, if that’s what you mean.”

  “After you got to the bawdy house, did the defendant drink beer?”


  Jasper eyed Cicero. “Yes, sir.”

  “Did you see Miss Georgia Gamble at some point?”

  “Yes, sir. Another lady introduced her by that name.”

  “Was the other lady Miss Jessie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were they whores?”

  Jasper gulped. “I reckon they was, sir.”

  “Did you see the defendant take an interest in Miss Georgia?”

  “He danced with her, if that’s what you mean.”

  “At some point that night, did Miss Georgia and the defendant go upstairs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Blair glanced at his notes. “What’d you do at that point?”

  “I left.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Outside. I sat against a telephone pole to wait for Cicero.”

  “Did you fall asleep?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What woke you up?”

  “A loud noise.”

  “A gunshot?”

  “A scream.”

  “Where’d it come from?”

  “Sounded like from Miss Jessie’s house.”

  “What’d you do then?”

  “I ran.”

  “Why?”

  “I was scaryfied.”

  Blair smiled at him. “That’s all. Thank you, Jasper.”

  “Catfish?” the judge asked. “You got questions?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Catfish rose, peering at Jasper. First thing they needed to deal with was President Burleson.

  You can do this, son.

  “Jasper, you a little nervous?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ever testified in a court before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, let’s visit about you first.” He sat again and rocked back, then flashed Jasper a big smile. “Where you from?”

  “Fayette County.”

  “Live on a cotton farm?”

  “Yes, sir. Outside of Flatonia.”

  “Tell us about your family.”

  “Well, sir, there’s my momma and my daddy. Daddy’s a farmer. I got some brothers and sisters, and they’s younger than me.”

  “You the first one in your family to go to college?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell the gentlemen of the jury how you felt about going off to college.”

  Blair started to rise and object, but then settled back in his chair.