Fair Play

by Deeanne Gist

  “So did he.”

  Kruse wobbled his eyebrows. “Looks like somebody’s lying.”

  “It most certainly does.” Crossing his arms, he tapped his elbow. “You’ve admitted, Mr. Kruse, that you took a life because you wanted the playground to yourself. I’m having trouble comprehending why. Just what was so important about that playground?”

  “It was my place first.” He straightened in his seat. His tone became fierce. “In order to build that playground, those do-gooders had to knock down our apartment. The apartment I lived in with my family and played in with the girls upstairs.” He pointed toward Billy. “When Dr. Tate there had it razed, my whole family had to sleep on the street. By the time my father found a new place, he said there wasn’t enough room for me and Ewald. That we’d have to find us our own place to sleep.” Kruse gave Billy a look of loathing.

  A shudder went down her spine. Hunter slipped his hand into hers. She squeezed him back, drawing comfort and reassurance.

  “And did you find some lodging?” Mr. Seacoat asked.

  “No, we didn’t. So, me and Ewald decided we’d sleep on the playground, eat on the playground, drink on the playground, smoke on the playground, and have our fun on the playground. And if Dr. Tate didn’t like that, then she could take the playground and—”

  “Mind your tongue, Mr. Kruse,” the attorney warned.

  Fredrick pulled back, then lurched to the edge of his chair and squared his shoulders. “Look, mister. Me and the boys killed Miss Weibel. I’m not at all sorry I did my part. I’m only sorry I did it before I had time to enjoy her.”

  Billy’s stomach turned. Murmurs of shock and revulsion could be heard throughout the gallery. Hunter covered their hands with his other one.

  Mr. Seacoat turned his back to Kruse. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  CHAPTER

  47

  The clerk put two legal tomes in Derry’s chair so he could see over the witness box. He was the last of the accused to be called and the sun had passed into the western side of the sky, sending long stretches of light onto the courthouse floor. Bits of dust floated in its rays.

  “How old are you, Mr. Molinari?” the prosecutor asked.

  “Nine and three-quarters.”

  Billy glanced at the jury, but the men looked tired and frazzled, not at all touched by Derry’s obvious youth.

  “What happened in the early evening of September twenty-fourth?”

  “I don’t know. When was that?”

  “What happened the night Miss Weibel was murdered?”

  “Rody told it best. Him and the others charged into the playground after everybody had left but the babies.”

  “Why were you still there, then?”

  “Doc Tate had a ’mergency, but she didn’t want to leave Miss Weibel by herself. So I told her I’d stay with Miss Weibel.”

  “Why?”

  Derry shrugged. “Kruse and them were acrost the street and they’re always bullying the girls. Miss Weibel was my teacher.” He puffed out his chest. “I’m in the Young Heroes Club and she was reading to us about King Arthur. So, her and me were friends. I didn’t want Fred to make her play a game with them. My sister said the games they make the girls play aren’t nice ones. She said none of the girls like ’em.”

  “And what happened when Misters Kruse, Lonborg, and Shiblawski arrived?”

  “They started pushing Miss Weibel and she pushed ’em right back. I wanted to be like King Arthur, but I don’t have a sword. All I have is a pocketknife. So I held that out instead.”

  Mr. Hood nodded. “What happened then?”

  “Miss Weibel told me not to wave my knife like that. Told me to put it away. I was just about to close it when Fred grabbed it and Rody grabbed me. The rest is just like Rody said it was.”

  “Did you stab or cut Miss Weibel with your knife?”

  “No, sir. I’d never do that. Her and me were friends.”

  “Mr. Shiblawski and the Kruse brothers said you did.”

  “They aren’t telling the truth, mister. I know they swore on the Bible, but they’re telling stories.” He leaned forward. “You ought not to go out in a thunderstorm with them. One of the fellows in the jail with me said you get hit by lightning if you swear on a Bible, then tell a story.”

  “Did you spy on Mr. Kruse and his friends?”

  “Sometimes. I’m going to be a Texas Ranger when I grow up. So I’ve been eating a lot of beans and shootin’ things with my slingshot. Mr. Scott is always watching out for Doc Tate. I got to practicing doin’ that, too, since I got lots of sisters and lots of lady friends at Hull House.”

  “And what did you see when you spied on them?”

  “Objection.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  Derry scratched his ear. “Well, I work ever’day but Sunday, so I don’t see ’em all that much. But mostly they drink. A lot. And smoke. They like to smoke.”

  “And have you ever seen them detain other women?”

  “Objection. Speculation.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  Hood repeated the question.

  “What’s de-dain?”

  “Did you ever see them keep a woman from walking away if she wanted to?”

  “No, sir. I saw ’em bullying Doc Tate once.”

  “Objection. Speculation.”

  The judge nodded. “Move along, counselor.”

  Hood slipped a hand in his pocket. “What about saloons, Mr. Molinari? Do you frequent those?”

  “Do I go to ’em, you mean? I used to. But Mr. Scott saw me once and he got really mad. He told me to get out of there, but Mr. Abertelli grabbed my collar right here and told me to stay. See, Mr. Abertelli only lets Italians drink in his saloon. And Mr. Scott’s Texan.”

  Eyes widening, Derry wriggled upright in his seat. “You should have seen what happened then. It was all those fellows in the saloon and only one of Mr. Scott. Usually when that happens the fellow by himself runs out or gets a beating. But Mr. Scott, he walks right up in the middle of the place and wham-wham-wham.”

  Derry punched the air. “Then this other fella smashes a whiskey bottle on the counter. He was thinking to cut up Mr. Scott good. But Mr. Scott picked up a chair, tore it apart and used one of the legs for a sword and the rest of the chair for a shield.”

  Again, Derry demonstrated with invisible props. “By the time it was all over, there were only three fellows left. Mr. Scott let them stay standing, though, ’cause I’d gotten out the door by then. I haven’t been drinking or smoking or salooning since. Mr. Scott made me promise.” He turned to Hunter. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Scott?”

  “It certainly is, Derry.” Hunter’s voice startled the judge and everyone else in the courtroom who’d been absorbed in Derry’s tale.

  She glanced up at Hunter. When in the world had all that happened?

  The judge gave Hunter a stern look.

  He held up both palms in a gesture of acquiescence, then put them back down.

  Mr. Hood blew out a puff of air. “I’ve no more questions, Your Honor.”

  Seacoat rose, but didn’t even bother coming around from behind the table.

  “Did you stab Miss Weibel, Mr. Molinari?”

  He gave the man an exasperated look. “Like I jus’ told that fellow, I was King Arthur and she was Gwen-Veer.” He glanced down at his hands. “ ’Cept I didn’t save her. I tried, but Rody held me something fierce.”

  Billy’s heart squeezed.

  “I’ve no further questions.”

  Her lips parted. That was it? That was all he was going to ask the boy? Eyes wide, she turned to Hunter. He impaled the man with his gaze, but Seacoat had his back to them and resumed his seat, oblivious to her distress and Hunter’s fury.

  The clerk lifted Derry from the witness box. He ran back to his chair and jumped into it, making it rock precariously before settling.

  CHAPTER

  48

  Prosecution calls Mr. Hun
ter Scott.”

  After taking his oath, Hunter settled into the witness box.

  Smiling with his mouth but not his eyes, Attorney Hood stood in front of Hunter. “I understand, Mr. Scott, that Colonel Rice discharged you from duty as a Columbian Guard at the World’s Columbian Exposition. Can you tell the court why you were given the sack?”

  Billy sucked in her breath.

  Though Hunter sat tall in his chair, his posture remained relaxed. “I found out that nine-year-old Derry Molinari, who I’d come to know quite well, was crowded into a jail with the most depraved and vicious criminals. Those cells were meant for two men, Mr. Hood, yet as many as eight were crammed into them. On Saturday nights it became so crowded the prisoners couldn’t even sit down and had to stand all night. When there was room to sit, Derry was forced to do so on a floor smeared with human waste that had come from an open trough that substituted as a chamber pot. When night approached, Derry could either sleep on that rank floor with nothing underneath him, or he could take turns sleeping on a plank twenty inches wide with no covering and no pillow. His choices for companions were rats or inmates with syphilis.”

  Hunter took a quick breath, then plowed ahead. “I decided that doing everything in my power to rescue little Derry from that putrid mire was more important than the assignment I had at the Exposition—which was to escort some duke and duchess through the fair. When I told Colonel Rice I needed a day off, he denied my request. I chose to give up my position rather than my integrity. And that, Mr. Hood, is why I left the Columbian Guards.”

  Not a sound issued forth. Admiration for him filled her.

  Mr. Hood stood flat-footed for a few seconds, then walked to his table, and checked his notes. “What is the nature of your relationship with the accused Derry Molinari?”

  “He sells catalogs outside the Woman’s Building where I was once stationed and he lives in the Nineteenth Ward, where I helped build a playground.”

  “Have you ever seen a pocketknife in Mr. Molinari’s possession?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hood held up the knife in question. “This one?”

  “I never handled his knife. I couldn’t testify for certain one way or the other.”

  “Did you see what color it was?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What color?”

  “Brown.”

  “Like this one?”

  “It was brown, sir.”

  “You mentioned a few minutes ago that you’ve come to know Mr. Molinari quite well. Is that statement true?”

  “All my statements are true.”

  Billy bit her cheek.

  Hood gave him a quelling look. “How would you describe Mr. Molinari’s moral rectitude?”

  “Of the highest caliber.”

  “The highest caliber.” Hood looked down at his shoes. A gesture Billy had come to recognize as trouble. “Have you ever seen Mr. Molinari in a saloon?”

  Hunter took a deep breath. “Once, but ever since—”

  “Have you ever seen him with any alcohol?”

  “I’ve never seen him drink.”

  “But have you seen him with a drink in front him, say, in a bar?”

  His jaw began to tick. “I have.”

  “Have you ever seen him with a cigarette?”

  “I’ve never seen him smoke.”

  “But have you seen him with a cigarette?”

  He clenched his teeth. “Once, but not ever—”

  “Have you ever visited Mr. Molinari’s home?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you describe it to us?”

  Billy bit her lip.

  “I only saw the living area. I didn’t go into any bedrooms.”

  “Then tell us what the living area looked like.”

  He glanced at her. She didn’t know what to do, how to help him. So she let loose the feelings she had for him, the love she’d been holding deep inside, praying it would shine through. Praying he would see it.

  His shoulders relaxed. “It had a table, a cabinet, and a bed in the corner.”

  “Was the room clean or dirty?”

  He looked at the prosecutor. “I’ve seen cleaner.”

  “Then it was dirty.”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained. Refrain from putting words in the witness’s mouth, counselor.”

  “Did you meet his parents?” Hood asked.

  “I did.”

  “Do his parents work?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A stirring in the gallery. She tried to suppress her irritation. It was people like Derry’s parents and siblings who toiled for hours on end to provide so much of what this crowd took for granted every day. Not to mention Derry’s family would most likely starve if the mother and all the children didn’t work.

  “What’s the father’s occupation?” Hood asked.

  “He’s a ragpicker.”

  Another murmur, for the son of a ragpicker received just about as much respect as the son of the town drunk. Again, Billy’s ire began to grow.

  “Does the father drink spirits?”

  “I never saw him drink.”

  “Do you happen to know how many siblings Derry has?”

  “Eight.”

  Mr. Hood raised his brows, though Billy was certain the attorney already knew how many brothers and sisters Derry had. “Sounds like his mother has quite a handful, yet you said both parents work. Do you know where she works?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “In a pickle factory.”

  “Have you ever seen her drink?”

  Billy slid her eyes closed.

  He swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you ever seen her intoxicated?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Whispers ricocheted through the room. A swishing of fans followed as women whisked them open and put them to work. Billy glanced at the jurors. Many looked at Derry. All of them frowned.

  She wanted to jump up and rail at them. It wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t responsible for the behavior of his mother, or anyone else, for that matter.

  “How old is the youngest Molinari?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Would it be younger or older than Derry?”

  “She’s younger.” To Hunter’s credit, he didn’t fidget or rub his legs or even flicker an eyelash. She marveled at his calm, for she feared what was coming and was certain he did, too.

  “Is she walking?”

  “I never saw her walk.”

  “So, she crawls.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When did you first meet her?”

  Hunter thought a moment. “The beginning of July.”

  “What was she doing when you met her?”

  “Waiting for her brother to bring her some lunch.”

  Hood nodded. “Her mother doesn’t bring her lunch?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She wished the attorney would ask about the deplorable working conditions in the pickle factory, the grueling hours, the lack of breaks. But perhaps it was better he didn’t, for it wouldn’t help Derry and might even harm him.

  Hood crossed to the jury, but addressed his question to Hunter. “So his sister, who is unable to walk yet, is left alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Isn’t there some danger she can wander out and get lost or crawl into the streets?”

  “Objection. Relevance.”

  Hood glanced at the judge. “I’m trying to establish Mr. Molinari’s moral rectitude and the type of family upbringing he has, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  Billy tucked her arms against her waist.

  Attorney Hood returned his attention to Hunter. “What keeps Mr. Molinari’s baby sister from leaving the premises while she’s home alone all day?”

  Billy held her breath. There was only one way to answer.

 
“She’s chained to a table.”

  Ripples of shock skittered through the crowd. The judge banged on his gavel. Billy’s breathing grew fractured.

  Mr. Hood slid his hands into his pockets. “So you are telling us, Mr. Scott, that young Molinari, who has frequented a saloon, who has been know to have both a beer and a smoke in his possession, who lives in an apartment with a ragpicking father and a drunk mother who are absent all day, and who chains his sister to the table until lunchtime is of ‘high moral rectitude?’ ” He curled his fingers, making quotation marks in the air.

  Hunter face grew stony. “In spite of his conditions at home, Derry Molinari is a hard worker, gives all his earnings to his parents, and holds women and his elders in great respect. He’s a very good boy and he’d never do anything to harm—”

  “No more questions, Your Honor.”

  She could see Hunter’s frustration. Feel his anger.

  Mr. Seacoat stood.

  Perhaps this had been his plan all along—to use Hunter to clear Derry’s name. She drew a hopeful breath.

  Tugging on the hem of his jacket, the attorney approached the witness box. “Can you state for the court what your occupation is, Mr. Scott?”

  “I’m a Texas Ranger.”

  “And as a Texas Ranger, you come into contact with a great many undesirables. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With as much exposure as you’ve had to the criminal class, would you say you’re a good judge of character?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  Seacoat moved on. “The prosecution has uncovered some rather appalling habits of Mr. Molinari’s, yet you insist the boy is of high moral rectitude. Why is that?”

  “The boy’s reliable, hardworking, and hadn’t missed a day of work until his arrest. He has never once lied to me. He’s been concerned about the bullying Kruse and his cohorts have been engaged in since before the playground was built. And he idolizes the ‘good guys,’ whether it is in the literature he’s exposed to—such as Idylls of the King—or in the people he meets, such as officers of the law. He simply needs a bit of direction. When I found him in that saloon, I let him know he wasn’t to ever set foot in one again and he was not to touch any alcohol or tobacco. He has heeded my instructions to the letter.”