by Delynn Royer
“It looks like Amie Gibson will get away with it.” The look of defensiveness faded, and Lionell shrugged. “Maybe. This time, anyway, and maybe again and again, too. At least until he slaps around the wrong daddy’s little girl.”
Ross read over the police log again. Stacy’s injuries might have been minor, but her dress had been torn. He wondered if she’d been assaulted in a sexual manner as well. Just because she hadn’t reported it didn’t mean a thing.
“This ain’t the chief’s fault, you know.” Ross looked up to see Lionell mopping his forehead dry again.
“I didn’t say it was.”
But Lionell continued as if Ross hadn’t spoken. “If he decides to take it to a hearing, it probably won’t even be bound over for trial, and even if it is, chances are no jury is going to give Amie more than a fine or a couple days in the lockup.”
“Maybe that’s better than nothing. Maybe it’ll get his attention.”
“I doubt it,” Lionell said.
“But it’s worth a try. What if the lady in question were your sister or your aunt?”
“Look, if you ask me, it wouldn’t be no big loss to this community if Arnie was to be locked up for a long while. Like I said, he has a rafter or two missing. But Stacy ain’t nobody’s sister or aunt. Not anymore. These girls ask for trouble, and when it finds them, there ain’t many folks ready to offer sympathy. Now, them’s the facts of life.”
“It shouldn’t matter who the victim is. Justice is supposed to be blind.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t change the world, Ross.”
If that were true, Ross thought, then they’d just fought one of the bloodiest wars in history for nothing. “I don’t agree, Lionell. Maybe if we make an effort, we can change a small part of it.”
“You do what you have to. If the chief feels he’s got popular support on this, then maybe something will come of it. Otherwise, don’t expect to hear anymore about it.”
Tucking his notebook back into his coat pocket, Ross prepared to leave. “Oh, I intend to hear plenty more about it. I’m going to be out of town tomorrow on a story, but I’ll be back to see you early next week.”
“See you then, Ross.”
Ross raised a hand as he left. His original intention had been to drop his police log notes on another reporter’s desk to do the write-up for tomorrow’s edition, but he’d just changed his mind. This particular item he would compose himself. Right now, the identity of the victim wouldn’t be an issue. Because of newspaper policy and his belief that Stacy needed to be protected from public scrutiny, her name wouldn’t be published. But Arnold Gibson’s would. If public pressure would help move this case into the court system, then that’s what Ross intended to deliver.
Chapter Nineteen
Malcolm was out of the office until Saturday, which gave Ross editorial control. He took advantage of this authority by writing the local intelligence column himself. Late Friday afternoon, he sent his copy to the composing room to be set for the following day’s first edition.
The next morning, Ross took a train to Gettysburg, where ceremonies were planned to accompany the laying of a cornerstone of a national monument. He intended to cover the story for the paper, but he also had personal reasons for wanting this assignment. His old regiment had been ordered to represent the infantry of the army. Many of the soldiers in the Fiftieth were veteran volunteers, his old comrades, and he looked forward to seeing them again before they were mustered out of service.
When the ceremony was done, Ross took a hotel room to stay the night. He hoped that spending time with his old friends might help distract him from his present troubles.
It did. For a while. They reminisced over camp life, squad drills, guard duty, and hardtack. They recalled the battles they’d fought, the acts of gallantry they’d witnessed, and afterward, as one of the men accompanied them on the harmonica, they sang a few verses of “When This Cruel War is Over.”
In the quiet that followed, they remembered their slain friends, and Ross was pressed to describe his experiences after being wounded and captured at Wilderness. He did his best to oblige, even though he didn’t normally talk about it.
His stay at Libby Prison in Richmond had been brief, and he’d been in such pain and delirium from his wounds that he remembered little of it. By then, Libby was being used as a temporary holding facility for new prisoners, thus, its notoriously poor conditions had improved. Ross was lucky to end up in the care of a surgeon who seemed concerned about the patients’ welfare.
After he was judged fit to travel, Ross and some other prisoners were transported south by boxcar to one of the new prison pens in Georgia—Camp Sumter, Andersonville. If there was a hell on earth, Ross knew the moment he stepped inside that stockade gate that he’d have to travel not one step further to find it.
It was fifteen acres of fenced-in ground with a swampy, diseased stream running through it and twenty thousand ragged, starving Yank prisoners. Only some of them were lucky enough to be sheltered by makeshift shebangs fashioned out of scraps of wood and blankets. When Ross arrived, men were already going about the gruesome business of dying at a rate of eighty a day.
No, his stay at Andersonville wasn’t something he liked to talk about, but he could write about it. At the time of his imprisonment, the chances of a letter reaching home were almost nonexistent, so Ross kept a diary. By the time he was moved to the prison at Florence and later released, he had two journals from which to draw the series of exposé articles he would later write, as well as the novel he was at work on now.
Sunday morning, Ross boarded a train to return to Lancaster. He used the travel time to compose his article on the monument ceremony, so that, once home, he was free to pull out the unfinished manuscript of his novel. It was still early afternoon when he sat down to work in the parlor, and it wasn’t long before the words began to flow.
When a sharp knock sounded at his front door, he was surprised to see that the hands of the tall case clock had crept past six o’clock. A second rap brought him to his feet. When he opened the door, he found Emily on his front porch.
Dressed in black, she held a folded Herald newspaper to her chest as if it were a shield. It was of no matter that she didn’t smile when he opened the door. This was the first time he’d seen her since their argument. An unexpected wave of relief washed through him, and he was surprised to realize that his anger toward her had all but vanished.
Although he still believed she should have told him about the baby, he knew she wasn’t the only one who’d made mistakes four years ago. The possibility that he could have gotten her pregnant had occurred to him, but he also knew that the odds were slim. What hadn’t occurred to him was the possibility that she wouldn’t tell him if she were in trouble. When she hadn’t answered his letters, he’d assumed the whole question was by then moot. Looking back now, of course, he’d behaved irresponsibly.
“Don’t worry,” she said, apparently misinterpreting his quizzical expression to mean that he was sorry she had come. “I know we have problems, but I’m not here about that. I’m here on business. May I come in?”
Business. Well, naturally, Ross thought. Why else would the mother of his illegitimate child come by? Business. It was absurd, but he knew better than anyone that Emily had a streak of pride a mile wide. She would get around to the real reason for her visit in her own time. He opened the door wider. “Of course you can come in.”
“Thank you.” She brushed by him, leaving a head-swimming scent of rosewater in her wake.
Ross led her into the parlor, indicating with a nod that she should take a seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”
She perused the small room, taking in the modest but cozy furnishings the Hockstetter family had left behind, including a writing desk, a patchwork haircloth sofa, and a colorful hooked rug that covered most of the hardwood floor. The only items missing to make this a real home were knitted tidies and family portraits.
“No, thank you,” she sa
id, facing him. “I won’t be long.”
Ross took this to mean that she was primed for battle. If so, she was to be disappointed. He wasn’t in the mood to fight with her. “What is it you want, Em?”
“I read your piece on Arnold Gibson.”
When she didn’t continue, he prompted, “And?”
“How could you?” It was an accusation, an accusation that left him at a loss to respond.
“How could I what?”
“How could you write such a thing when you know very well that a woman was injured?”
Ross couldn’t understand her indignation. All he’d done was write up the facts in the police log, then he’d called for a more thorough investigation of the incident. What could she find wrong with that?
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“This!” She shoved the folded newspaper at him. “I always thought I knew you, Ross, but after reading this and talking to Lionell Smith, I don’t know what to think anymore.”
When Ross unfolded the paper, he saw that it was a Sunday edition. The column he’d written should have appeared in Saturday’s paper. Then his eye fell on Gibson’s surname, and he read aloud:
Another Side to that Questionable Affair. In yesterday’s first edition, we gave what was furnished by police officials as a factual account of an assault committed upon a woman. Since then, City Councilman Floyd Gibson, the father of the man said to have perpetrated the assault, has requested that his son’s side of the story be told. He acknowledges that his son drove a young lady of questionable reputation two miles into the country but denies that he stabbed her. He states that his son put her out of the buggy and left her behind in punishment for insulting him. How are we to decide which statement is truthful? The woman was rescued near the woods with a flesh wound in her side and bruises on her person. Councilman Gibson admits that his son was intoxicated and might have scuffled with her, but it was the lady who became hostile and initiated the unruly proceedings. Any harm that may have been inflicted was done in the name of self-defense. We would not knowingly misrepresent any citizen of this city and thus cheerfully give the councilman and his son the benefit of their version of the matter.
Ross concluded the lengthy account and looked at Emily. “I didn’t write this.”
“What?”
“I did not write this.”
“But I spoke with Lionell Smith after church and he said—”
“I did speak with Lionell, but that was on Friday. My article was the original account in Saturday’s edition. I was out of town yesterday, Em. I only got back this afternoon.”
“Well, then, that means—”
“This is someone else’s doing.” Ross folded the paper and set it down on the lamp table. “I’ll find out what happened tomorrow, but I think it’s obvious.”
“What’s obvious?”
“Arnold Gibson’s father has pull in this town.”
Reading the flare of rebellion in her eyes, he held up a hand before she could voice it. “Those are Lionell’s words, not mine, and it only follows that Floyd Gibson is using his political and financial influence to get this thing buried.”
“That’s not fair! What about the woman’s family? You could go to them, and—”
“No. The woman doesn’t have any family. At least none that will acknowledge her.”
“What do you mean?”
“The woman who was attacked is Stacy Bliss.”
“Stacy... Bliss?” She appeared to search her memory for the name.
“Maybe you remember her from school,” Ross supplied. “Farm girl? Blond hair? She was in my class.”
Emily nodded then. “Oh, yes. I do remember her. She quit school in the eighth grade.”
“That’s her. Stacy is now a waitress at one of the south side taverns,” he said, wondering if Emily would grasp what that occupation entailed. “Her family disowned her a long time ago.”
Emily’s cheeks suddenly turned pink, which told Ross that she did understand his intimation, but her chin rose a notch out of pure stubbornness. “I see.”
“So, that puts a different light on the subject.”
“It most certainly does not.”
“It does not?”
“That’s right. It doesn’t matter who the victim is. The point here is that a woman was attacked, and it appears that no one is willing to do anything about it.”
He raised a finger. “That’s not necessarily true. With some prodding, we might be able to—”
“That’s my point!” she interrupted, gesturing angrily. “It shouldn’t take any prodding! Women weren’t put on this earth to be well treated or shabbily treated at the discretion of whatever man she happens to be shackled to at the moment. How many women do you know in this community who have to face the backside of their husband’s hand if they dare speak against him? It’s high time judges and juries stopped winking and looking the other way. You can be sure things would be different if women had the vote. In fact—”
“Hold it,” Ross stopped her. “We just jumped from Arnold Gibson and Stacy Bliss to women’s suffrage. One issue at a time, would you, please?”
By now, she’d lost her breath as well as her composure. “It’s all connected, Ross, and you know it! Sometimes I get so mad, I could—”
“But you don’t,” he counseled. “Instead, as a clear-thinking, mature woman, you remain calm and address each case as it comes in as practical a fashion as possible.”
“Practical.” She picked up on his choice of words in a disparaging tone. “One of your favorite words, I’ll bet.”
“You’d win that bet. Now, let me check into this when I get to the office tomorrow. I’ll tell you what I find out. No matter what you might think of me, Em, I’m on your side in this case. I intend to do whatever I can to make sure it gets prosecuted.”
His statement seemed to mollify her. “All right. Uh, fine. That should do for now, but don’t think I won’t see this through. Stacy Bliss may not be a prominent citizen in this town, but that doesn’t mean she deserves to be manhandled by the likes of Arnold Gibson. He’s clearly a menace to women. He should be put behind bars as an example to others like him.”
“I agree.”
“Fine, then, we, um... agree.”
They stood for an awkward moment before Emily reached into a side pocket of her skirt. “I have something for you.”
Before he could ask what it was, he saw greenbacks and frowned. “What’s that?”
“Your money. Well, part of it, anyway. I’ve worked out a payment schedule that should—”
“I don’t want the money.”
“It was a loan.”
“Consider it a gift,” he said impatiently.
“But this is business.”
“Fine, then. If it’s business, then put on your business hat. You can’t afford it right now, can you?”
She hedged. “No, I suppose not, but as I was trying to say, I’ve worked out a payment schedule that I should be able to keep now that I’m working at Karl Becker’s office.”
Ross’s complaisant mood fled. “Karl?” His voice rose to accompany his temper. “You’re working for Karl?”
“Technically I'm working for Mr. Stauffer,” she corrected, not seeming to notice his discontent, “but only until the print shop gets up and going, then—”
“Ah, jeez, Emily!” Ross started pacing the room in frustration. “Karl! Of all people!”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Emily planted her hands on her hips. “Why are you still so angry with him? That stupid fight you two had was years ago. I just know that if you made the first move, Karl would swallow his overblown pride and follow suit.”
“I can’t stand him!”
“That’s ridiculous. You used to be the best of friends.”
“But he always annoyed the hell out of me!”
“Only some of the time,” Emily pointed out, “and, besides, he can’t help but be annoying. It’s part of his personality.
”
“Personality?” Ross echoed incredulously. He stopped and faced her. “He’s a conceited toad!”
“Yes,” Emily agreed again, “but he means well.”
“He’s self-centered.”
“Yes.”
“And wise-mouthed,” Ross added.
Emily nodded, but her eyes shined with amusement. “Yes.”
“And unconscionable when it comes to pursuing women.”
“Yes. And loyal and intelligent and ambitious and hardworking and charming and witty.”
Ross glared at her, wondering at what point he’d turned into the illogical, mule-headed party in this conversation. “I always hated that the most.”
“Of course you did.” Her lips curved in a knowing smile. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be friends again.”
Seeing Emily’s heartwarming expression nearly undid him. She looked so pretty when she smiled all for him, but he’d done very little lately to deserve that pleasure. It took a moment for him to tamp down his zigzagging emotions. He had to take a deep, logic-gathering breath before replying. “I’ll think about it.”
Her smile widened, lighting up her face. “I knew you would.”
“Maybe,” he added to keep hold of some remnants of his pride. Pretty? Had he thought pretty? She was beautiful when she smiled. His palms were sweating and his heart was pounding. One little smile and— what was wrong with him?
After a moment, though, her smile faded and she looked down at her hands, one of which still clutched a fistful of greenbacks. “Um, as I was saying . . .”
“I told you, I don’t want it.”
She looked up with a frown. “I don’t care if you don’t want it.” She thrust the money at him. “It’s yours.”
Ross raised his hands. “This is silly.”
“Why? Because you don’t think I can make a go of this business?”
“No,” Ross said, gritting his teeth at her single-mindedness. “This doesn’t have anything to do with business. This is about you and me. Money shouldn’t matter between friends.” He paused at seeing the uncertainty on her face. “Or lovers,” he finished and waited to see what would happen.