The nurse shook her head at Kit, indicating it was hopeless. Kit knew it was. In this physical state, Mrs. Fox would not even be considered competent to testify in court. Any information helpful to the defense, if indeed there were any, would have to remain unavailable. Only if there were a recovery of some sort, which looked unlikely, was there any chance.
Kit stood up. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Fox."
She looked at her, eyes wide. "My boy! Where is my boy?"
"He's being taken care of," Kit said, thinking of the three meals and a cot in the jail cell provided to her son.
"Will he come to see me?"
That was not something Kit could promise. "We will do our best, Mrs. Fox."
"Thank you," said the old woman, smiling feebly. "You are an angel."
The nurse showed Kit out of the house where Jory and the buggy waited. "Anything?" Jory said as they headed back to the city.
"I'm afraid not," Kit said.
"You look troubled."
"Not troubled, but curious."
"About?"
"Mrs. Fox," Kit said, seeing the picture in her mind. "She kept making the sign of the cross."
"Maybe she's scared of dying."
"Maybe, but that's not the curious part."
"What is?" Jory asked, looking at Kit.
"She's not Catholic."
———
Back at the office, Kit went directly to see Rogers.
"Come in, Kit Shannon," he said theatrically, reminding her somewhat of John Barrymore. He was alone in his office, his desk messy with papers, his normally careful attire disheveled. The tie he almost always kept carefully knotted at his high collar was undone completely.
"What news have you for your employer?" he said.
"I've been to see Ted's mother," she said. Something was wrong. Kit sat apprehensively in a chair.
Rogers said, "And did dear old mom have anything to say?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid. She's mentally unstable right now."
"Aren't we all?" Rogers leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He had removed his shoes.
This was so unlike him! What was the matter? And then it hit her. He had been at the bottle. Kit felt her face begin to heat up. And nearly on the eve of trial!
"You look tired," Rogers said. "Why don't you go on down and—"
"I'm not tired in the least," Kit said.
"Then what's with the furrowed brow?"
"I thought we would be discussing the trial."
"What's to discuss? Our case is a dog, and tomorrow I'll put on a dog and pony show."
Show? A man's life was at stake, and here was his lawyer, getting drunk!
"Surely you want to talk about the order of evidence," Kit said. She had been cataloging and organizing her interviews and the testimony.
"Hang the evidence," Rogers said. "I've got it all up here." He tapped his temple.
Yes, he probably did. His mind was amazing, as she had come to appreciate. But how much more liquor could that mind take before it began an inevitable decline? The man sitting before her was not just an employer. It was a man who desperately needed to be saved from himself.
"Earl," she said.
Rogers said, "You want to discuss drink, don't you?"
Of course he knew. He could read people like a book. That was part of his genius.
He went on. "You, my wife, my little daughter. You all seem to have my best interests at heart."
"We do."
"Leave my heart to me, will you? I get tired of the attention."
"No one wants to see you get sick."
"Do I look sick to you?"
Not outwardly, Kit thought. But that was not the problem. "I have heard," she said, "of a cure that is effective."
"You mean a sanitarium? You want to plug me in one of those stables?"
"I do not know the record of the medical places. That is not the cure I have in mind."
"Out with it, then," Rogers said.
"My father used to tell me that he only saw one cure for demon rum, and that was the Gospel."
Rogers glared at her.
Kit pressed on. "And he saw his share of men enslaved to drink. The only thing that worked, as far as he knew, was having a man's life changed through the power of God."
"You are taking your father's place now? You want to save my soul?"
"That's God's desire."
His voice became low. "Don't mention God."
"Then Adela . . ."
At the sound of his daughter's name, Rogers' face grew darker. "Enough!" he shouted.
Kit's heart jumped. "I'm sorry if I—"
"Get out!"
Backing toward the door, Kit said, "Please, I didn't mean—"
"Go on! I'm sorry I ever laid eyes on you! Get out, do you hear me? Get out!"
With each word Kit felt like she was taking a fist to the chest. She turned quickly and ran out the door, down the hallway past a startled Bill Jory, and into her room. She burned with a combination of anger and hurt. If this was what her association with Rogers was to be like, how could she continue? If he was going to drink like this with a man's life on the line and defend himself by throwing hateful words at her, she could not see a way to stay on. She would not be a punching bag for a sodden drunk!
She felt her Irish temper rising. And she remembered Papa's words from long past. "Don't let the sun go down on your anger," he had said. "And don't let your anger blot out the sun."
"Okay, Papa," she whispered. She sat on her bed and closed her eyes. And then it struck that she had not done something she should have done all along. Not once had she prayed for Earl Rogers. Oh, she had been quick to point out his weakness to him. But had she ever taken him before God?
Ashamed at her oversight, Kit began to pray for her employer—for his deliverance from alcohol, for his ability to defend Ted Fox. She asked for wisdom concerning what to say to him when she saw him next.
And then she went to her desk and pulled out a blank piece of paper. She took up her pen and wrote, in bold strokes in the center, the following: I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me. Someday, she thought, when the time is right, she would hand him that simple but powerful verse, one that she had relied upon since she had been thirteen years old and alone.
There was a gentle knock at her door. Kit rose and answered it. Rogers, who had combed his hair and straightened his tie, stood sheepishly before her.
"I've never been one to be at a loss for words," he said, "but I find them hard to come by now. All I can say is, will you forgive me for what I said?"
Kit felt a warmth engulf her. "Of course."
"I wouldn't blame you if you walked out."
"What about the drinking?"
"It helps me keep the shadows away, Kit."
"I cannot stay if you continue." Her resolve surprised her, but down deep she knew this was exactly what she should say.
His face was stoic for a moment, then slowly a smile appeared. "When Adela grows up, I hope she is like you. All right. No more drink until the trial is over. Fair enough?"
It was only a first step, but at least it was a step in the right direction. "Fair enough," said Kit.
"Now," said Rogers, "don't we have some work to do?"
Chapter Twenty-eight
ON SUNDAY MORNING Kit attended church on Hill Street near Sixth. It was a grand, brick edifice Kit had admired from afar. Indeed, there were many church buildings in the city which, on the outside at least, solidified what the Los Angeles Daily Times claimed was a "City of Churches." In a recent editorial, the paper noted that several Protestant denominations had constructed houses of worship within the last decade.
That was good news, Kit thought. This city's moral direction would be influenced most by the religious influence of its churches. Her father had always believed that the preaching of the Word was the only thing that could save a soul or move a community.
So it was with some consternation t
hat Kit listened to the sermon by Dr. Edward N. Lazarus.
He was a man in his early forties, Kit guessed, and cut an impressive figure. He had a mellifluous voice and confident air. But his words were altogether another matter.
His sermon was a veiled attack on the Bible as the inspired Word of God. According to Dr. Lazarus, the Germans had shown that the Bible was a collection of merely human writings, full of errors and contradictions, and was to be viewed with a skeptical eye. What mattered was not the words so much as the spirit of the writings. And the spirit of it was "social justice," something that the ancient Jews "knew little of, considering the way they treated their neighbors."
Kit shifted uncomfortably on the hard, wooden pew. What on earth was he saying?
"God, you see, is a Force or Spirit," said Dr. Lazarus, "who is so much more than the mere written word. If we would only work in cooperation with that spirit, a new age of social cooperation would come into glorious flower! There would be no more war. Conflict of any kind would cease. President Roosevelt would no longer need to carry his big stick. And we would all speak softly to one another."
Kit looked around at the congregation. They seemed stiff and unmoving, though attentive.
"And so I say, let us cease to keep our noses stuck in an ancient book and raise our eyes to our fellow man. Let us roll up our sleeves and begin to work for a grand and glorious future."
By the end of the service Kit could not wait to get out. She sought to slip by quickly but was detained at the front door by the minister as he greeted his flock. It almost seemed as if he had been waiting for her.
"I don't believe we have met," he said.
Kit nodded politely. "We have not. I am a visitor."
"So glad to have you, Miss . . ."
"Shannon."
"Shannon, yes. Did you enjoy the service?" Dr. Lazarus asked.
"I . . . the service offered food for thought."
"You enjoyed the sermon, then?"
These words popped into her mind: The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God!
To the minister she said, "I happen to believe the Bible is without error, sir."
Lazarus seemed slightly taken aback. Other parishioners waiting to speak with him turned their attentions toward Kit.
"That is, of course, a belief many of us held in childhood," Dr. Lazarus said, recovering. "But there comes a time to put away childish things."
Should she simply leave? Kit wondered. She was planning to meet Corazón in the park. But something in the clergyman's tone set her off.
"Is it childish to believe God Almighty?" Kit asked. "Or to insist that one knows better than his heavenly Father?"
Now a look of seriousness flashed into Lazarus' eyes. He quickly looked at the small crowd gathered around them. Kit got the sense that several listeners were intent on the discussion because they themselves doubted their pastor's sentiments.
"Miss Shannon, I have a doctorate from one of the finest seminaries in the country. I think I know whereof I speak."
"My seminary is the Word of God, and in it God speaks. And God does not mislead us."
Lazarus seemed aware that he was being put on the spot and was not at all pleased. "My dear Miss Shannon, the Bible is simply another book, a great book, but God does not speak through the errors of man."
A spark went off inside Kit's head. It grew into a small flame of remembrance. She saw her papa again, Bible in hand. How he loved the Word of God! And how its power was demonstrated in his ministry. "There are no errors in the Bible, sir," Kit said. "If there were, Christianity would be dead."
Something like a stunned silence hung in the air around them.
"That is simply not true," Dr. Lazarus said. "If you come visit me, I shall endeavor to show you that—"
"If the Bible is not trustworthy, then we shouldn't know what to believe."
"Well, I don't think—"
"And if we shouldn't know what to believe, we cannot be sure that Jesus died for the sins of all mankind."
Lazarus said nothing, but his eyes began to widen.
"And if Jesus did not die for our sins and rise again, then Christianity is of no more worth than yesterday's garbage."
Kit heard an older man to her side mutter "Amen."
"Well!" Lazarus said quickly. "As you can see, I have many people to greet." He cocked his head toward the small crowd.
Catching her breath, Kit nodded and turned toward the street. She heard a woman say, "Impertinent!" But the older man to her side said, "Come back and visit us again!"
That was a sentiment that Dr. Lazarus, at least by his facial expression, did not share.
As Kit walked away she wondered if she would indeed come back. What would she do or say? All she knew was that if such thoughts were going to be preached in the city, her optimism about its future would have to be revised. And she felt like somehow she must do something to buck that trend. But that would have to wait for another day. She had a murder trial to concentrate on.
The day was warm and beautiful, and Kit forgot about the sermon enough to enjoy the walk to the little park at Fifth and Hill where she and Corazón had agreed to meet.
Corazón was waiting for her with a picnic spread—ground cloth, plates, silverware—already prepared. Kit embraced her.
"We will have the English lesson?" Corazón said.
"Of course!" said Kit. "But after we eat. I'm famished."
"Famish?"
"Tengo mucha hambre," Kit said.
"Ah, que bueno! You are learning!"
"I have a good teacher. What have you brought today?"
Corazón opened a large basket and pulled out what looked like light brown leaves. On closer inspection Kit saw they were biscuit-sized items, but what they could possibly be she did not know.
"Tamales," Corazón said. "From my mother."
Kit smiled at her friend's generosity. Of all the people she had met in Los Angeles, none was kinder than Corazón. Kit took her hand and said, "I want to pray for this meal you have brought us."
Corazón nodded and closed her eyes. Kit thanked God for the food and for the friendship she had come to cherish so much.
And then she took up a tamale. It was warm to the touch. She held it up to her nose and smelled. A scent of spices, peppery but not unpleasant, greeted her. She noticed Corazón watching her, smiling, as if waiting for her to take a bite.
She did. It was like biting into thick paper. The leaves were tasteless and rough.
Corazón laughed. "No, no," she said. "Mira." She gently took the tamale from Kit and unwrapped the leaves, revealing something made of what looked like corn meal.
Kit blushed and smiled. "Oops," she said.
Corazón handed Kit a fork and she took a bite of the strange food. A taste like no other burst into her mouth. Spicy hot but moist and flavorful, with something meaty inside, too. It was wonderful.
"You like?" said Corazón.
"Very much." She took another bite, a hearty one this time. And she ate three of the tamales Corazón provided. They also enjoyed sweet Mexican bread and oranges for dessert.
In the middle of the feast, Kit asked about Aunt Freddy. Corazón's face showed marked concern. "I do not like what Mr. Sloate do to her."
"What is it?" Kit asked, imagining the worst.
"Only how he treat her. Madam one time get mad at him when he talk of you. She say he is too hard upon you. Then Mr. Sloate, he get mad back."
Kit shook her head. "Poor Aunt Freddy."
"Madam say she will do as he say, but when he leave she cry. I think she want to see you."
"Oh, Corazón, I want to see her, too. But the time has to be right. Sloate has power over her, and I have to be careful. If I strike too soon things could backfire. If only Aunt Freddy would come and watch the trial."
"No, Mr. Sloate not let her."
"Let her? Is he a zookeeper or something?" Kit let out an exasperated breath. "We have to get her out!"
"How?"
Kit thought a moment, then took Corazón's hand. "How would you like to play carrier pigeon?"
"Like the bird?"
"Yes, a bird with a message."
Corazón's eyes lit up as if she were part of a grand, mischievous conspiracy. "Tell me, then, where do I fly?"
Chapter Twenty-nine
THE MURDER TRIAL of Ted Fox began on a dark Monday morning.
The skies above Los Angeles were thick with nimbus clouds, and an unseasonably cool wind filled the September air. As Kit walked with Earl Rogers toward the courthouse, she felt gooseflesh on her arms. She wondered at once if it was the temperature of the air or the popular climate of the city, which was decidedly against them.
For a week now, in newspapers and conversations, the Fox trial had dominated social discourse. A battle of titans, some called it. Heath Sloate against Earl Rogers. The seasoned master versus the flashy upstart. And a vicious murderer the city had seemingly already convicted.
Indeed, as Rogers and Kit approached the courthouse on Temple Street, the crowd on the sidewalk grew thicker and more verbal.
"This is the one you lose, Rogers!" a man shouted at him. Rogers flashed his eyes in the man's direction but kept walking onward.
"Take your tricks and go home!" shouted someone else. Again Rogers ignored it.
At the stone courthouse steps a small army of reporters rushed at them, surrounding Rogers and throwing overlapping questions at him.
"Gentlemen," Rogers said. "I have no comment for you now. The trial will speak for itself."
A man with a cigarette in his teeth turned to Kit. "How about you, Miss Shannon? Anything to say?"
"No comment," Kit said.
"Come on, lady," the reporter pleaded. "I'm on your side!"
A likely story, Kit thought. She followed Rogers up the steps, then felt an arm on hers. It was Tom Phelps.
"Miss Shannon."
"Unhand me, please."
"I have to talk to you."
"We have nothing to say." She yanked her arm away and hurried up the stairs.
The lobby was crowded, noisy, and full of smoke. It was almost as if they were entering a theater for a performance, with the audience trying to get a glance at the star players.
City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1) Page 21