Worthy Brown's Daughter

by Phillip Margolin

  “Untie him, Harry,” Matthew ordered.

  “The judge said—”

  “He didn’t say anything about tying and gagging him, did he?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “You were just supposed to make sure he didn’t escape. How can he talk to me with a gag in his mouth?”

  “I really don’t—”

  Before Harry could finish his sentence, Matthew pulled a bowie knife from under his frock coat and cut through the prisoner’s bindings.

  “Hey, I was gonna—”

  “You were gonna stand there jawing. This man is presumed innocent. I want him treated innocent. Now, if you’ll excuse us, a client’s statements to his lawyer are confidential. You can’t stay here.”

  When the storeroom door closed, Matthew turned to the prisoner, who was rubbing circulation back into his wrists. The man looked truly pathetic. He was bathed in sweat, and his sparse brown hair was in disarray. His gaunt face was scratched and bruised from the beating he’d received, his nose looked as if it had been broken, and his thin lips were split and caked with dried blood.

  “I’m Matthew Penny of Portland. Justice Tyler has asked me to be your attorney.”

  “Thank God, thank God,” the prisoner whimpered. “She’s just doing this to get even.”

  “Who is? What are you talking about?”

  “Her! The Jezebel, the Jezebel!”

  CHAPTER 2

  As soon as Matthew finished with Clyde Lukens, he got his horse from the livery stable and rode to the home of Glen Farber, his client in the case of Farber v. Gillette. Farber lived a few miles out of town in a log cabin with his wife, Millie, and their thirteen children, and he farmed from dawn to dusk just to get by. Farber’s corded muscles were the product of a life of hard labor. Since there was no fat on his whip-thin body, his bones were visible as jutting elbows, conspicuous shoulder blades, high cheekbones, and a pointed chin. If Farber had been an implement, he would have been a knife, and his temper was as sharp and fierce as a fighting blade.

  Farber had paid little attention to the rumors that the railroad was headed for Phoenix until Benjamin Gillette, a wealthy businessman, offered to buy some of his land. Farber jumped at the chance to make some easy money. If the deal had gone through, it would have been the first time in his life that anything had come his way without backbreaking labor. Then Gillette had second thoughts about the deal and Gillette’s lawyer, Caleb Barbour, and pointed out a loophole through which he thought his client could slip. When Gillette decided not to honor his contract, Farber’s first thought was to shoot Gillette and his lawyer, but Millie Farber beseeched her irate husband to seek legal counsel, and he eventually gave in.

  It was late afternoon when Matthew arrived at the Farber cabin. After sharing a meal with the family, Matthew conferred with his client about the case. Mrs. Farber did her best to keep the children quiet, but the din in the cabin gave the lawyer a splitting headache that was still throbbing when he left his horse at the livery stable in Phoenix. Matthew decided that a glass or two of beer might ease his pain. He was walking toward the inn when a giant Negro materialized out of the shadows.

  Matthew would not have been more surprised if he had encountered a creature from another planet. Black men were rare and unwelcome in Oregon. The new state constitution prohibited free Negroes from entering the state, making contracts, holding real estate, or maintaining lawsuits unless they were already residing in Oregon on the date that the constitution was adopted.

  “Sir?” Matthew barked, startled by the sudden apparition.

  “Are you Mr. Penny?” the Negro asked in a rich baritone that would have worked well in a church choir.

  “I am.”

  “My name is Worthy Brown, and I work for Caleb Barbour.”

  “Yes, certainly,” Matthew answered with relief, believing that the mystery of the massive black man had been solved. “Do you have a message for me?”

  “No, suh, I wish to speak to you myself on a private matter.”

  Matthew took a harder look at Brown, whose purple-black skin was so dark it took sharp eyes to make out the man at night. The Negro was well over six feet tall and deep chested with broad shoulders that were stooped from years of fieldwork. Clearly, the man was nervous, but his hands were steady, and, though deferential, there was an air of dignity about him.

  “I need to know about slavery, suh. Can a man be a slave in Oregon?”

  “Our new constitution prohibits slavery, Mr. Brown.”

  “What if a man was a slave before he come to Oregon?”

  “He would be a free man when he arrived here.”

  Matthew waited quietly while Worthy Brown mulled over Matthew’s answer.

  “Mr. Penny, I need a lawyer, but I don’t have money to pay you. What I plan to do is tell you something, and I want you to promise me you’ll be my lawyer if it’s valuable.”

  “Certainly Caleb Barbour can help you with any legal problem you might have. He’s an excellent lawyer.”

  “No, suh. Mr. Barbour can’t help me on this.”

  “What’s your problem?”

  “I’d rather not say until you decide if my information will pay for your help.”

  “Mr. Brown, this is very confusing. How can I promise to be your lawyer if I don’t know what you want me to do? What you ask may be illegal, or I may have a conflict that prevents me from representing you. Surely you see that I can’t commit myself without more information.”

  “What I’m asking ain’t illegal. I wouldn’t ask no man to break the law. All I ask is that they keep their word,” Brown concluded bitterly.

  “Does this matter involve a conflict between yourself and Mr. Barbour?” Matthew asked. He was reluctant to involve himself in a dispute between a servant and a man with Barbour’s connections.

  “I don’t want to say no more about it now. When you hear what else I got to say, you’ll see why I can’t go to Mr. Barbour.”

  “And that is?”

  “He’s gonna bribe some of the jurors in your case.”

  “What!”

  “He’s got a plan for getting someone on that jury who will fix the verdict for him.”

  “Who?”

  “That I don’t know, but they’re meetin’ behind the inn, tomorrow night. You see if I ain’t telling the truth. Then you say if you’ll help me.”

  “How did you come by this information, Mr. Brown?”

  The Negro laughed, but there was no humor in it. “A slave ain’t nothing but a piece of furniture, Mr. Penny. Mr. Barbour talks around me same as he would around a chair or a table, ’specially when he’s drinking.”

  “Does Mr. Barbour keep you as a slave?” Matthew asked incredulously.

  “I don’t wish to discuss that now, suh.”

  “Very well. Tell me, did Mr. Barbour say whether Benjamin Gillette is a party to this bribery?”

  “That I can’t say, but I ’spect not. Mr. Barbour wants to win this case terrible bad. From the way he’s been drinking lately, I think he and Mr. Gillette ain’t getting on too well. Mr. Barbour is afraid he’s gonna lose Mr. Gillette’s business, and he can’t afford that.”

  Brown looked around nervously. “I’ve been here too long, Mr. Penny. If someone sees us talking, it could go bad for me.” He started to walk away.

  “Wait. If I decide to help you how can I get in touch?”

  “Don’t worry ’bout that. If you gonna help me, I’ll find you.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Oregon’s four supreme court justices spent part of their time as appellate judges and the rest riding circuit as trial judges in the counties of the state. A justice had to be not only wise but also rugged enough to endure long horseback rides, foul weather, poor food, and primitive accommodations. Jed Tyler was such a man. He was ruthless in business and brutal in court,
a hard drinker and a fearless gambler who was well known to the whores who worked in Portland’s brothels.

  As he washed off the dust of travel and changed for dinner, Tyler thought about the woman on the edge of the crowd. She had vanished by the time order was restored in the field. Harry Chambers could have told the judge who she was, but Chambers was occupied with the prisoner. The mystery was solved soon after the judge entered Harry Chambers’s back room. Seated between Benjamin Gillette and his attorney, Caleb Barbour, at a table for four beneath Harry’s famous chandelier was the woman who had occupied the judge’s thoughts.

  Benjamin Gillette always looked as if he’d just gotten off the boat. This was an image he cultivated because it helped him succeed in business. Gillette was tall and heavyset. He sported a mane of white hair and a constant smile and he ate what pleased him. Though he wore shirt collars and ties when appropriate, he never felt comfortable in them and tugged constantly to keep the stiff fabric away from his fleshy neck.

  Oregon’s wealthiest businessman had moved to Portland from California in the early 1850s, starting in the mercantile trade, branching into private banking and real estate, and using his California connections to gain control of most of the shipping on the Columbia and Willamette Rivers. It was railroading that captured his fancy now, and a lawsuit involving land in Phoenix had brought Benjamin to Harry Chambers’s inn.

  If Benjamin Gillette looked as if he had just gotten off the boat, Caleb Barbour looked as if he owned the vessel. He was six feet three inches tall and well proportioned. His wavy black hair and groomed mustache gave him the look of a music hall hero. Barbour had his stylish clothes hand-tailored, he gambled flamboyantly and whored discreetly, and he lived beyond his means. He had acquired this last vice in Georgia, a state from which he had fled just ahead of his creditors. Barbour had arrived in Oregon in 1856 and had quickly established his professional reputation. He had done well enough handling Benjamin Gillette’s legal affairs for Gillette to ignore the rumors that his attorney’s methods were often questionable.

  “Jed,” Gillette called out when the judge entered the room.

  “Won’t you join us, Judge?” Barbour asked.

  There were only two tables in the room, and one was unoccupied. It would have been impossible for Tyler to turn down the invitation, even if he had wanted to.

  “Thank you,” the judge said.

  “Have you met Miss Hill?” Gillette asked. “We’ve only just had the pleasure.”

  Tyler nodded to the lady. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the honor of an introduction.”

  “I’m Sharon Hill, Justice Tyler, and I’m most pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  There was a throaty quality to Hill’s voice, and the hand she extended was as smooth and delicate.

  “Miss Hill has been regaling us with the story of your exploits with the lynch mob,” Barbour said.

  “Yes, tell us about the lynching,” Gillette said.

  “I hope that Miss Hill hasn’t made too much of it,” Tyler answered. “This fellow Lukens is accused of stealing. I simply made certain that his fate would be decided in a court of law.”

  “You’re far too modest, sir.” Sharon Hill said. “The man would be dead now were it not for you.”

  Tyler shrugged. Then he turned to Barbour. “That reminds me. I’ve asked Matthew Penny to defend Lukens, but I have no one to prosecute. What about you, Caleb?”

  “If you think I can be of some help,” Barbour answered.

  “I’ve seen no one else,” Tyler answered gruffly.

  Barbour reddened briefly before regaining his composure.

  “If I’m to prosecute, I’ll need to know the names of the witnesses,” he said stiffly.

  “Talk to Harry Chambers,” the judge answered. “I know nothing about the case.”

  “You might also talk to me,” said Miss Hill, “since I am the victim of that despicable man.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A session of court was great entertainment in Phoenix, where nothing much happened most of the year. There were no courthouses in any Oregon county in 1860, so court was held in the interior of Harry Chambers’s inn in winter and in the field adjoining it in summer. On the morning of Clyde Lukens’s trial, court convened under a bright sun and clear blue sky. A welcome breeze had chased away the sticky heat of the past few days, leaving the spectators, who were sprawled on their blankets in the grass, in a festive mood. Justice Tyler sat in the shade provided by the oak tree at a table that had been carried over from the inn. On Tyler’s left was a chair for witnesses. The jurors had been picked from the spectators gathered in the field, and they sat perpendicular to the chair from which the witnesses testified in an improvised jury box composed of two rows of chairs.

  Two more tables had been set up in front of the judge. At one of them sat Clyde Lukens and Matthew Penny. At the prosecution table sat the dapper Caleb Barbour, who was continuing his examination of Harry Chambers.

  “When did you first learn that Miss Hill had been robbed?” Barbour asked the nervous witness.

  “After she ate breakfast. She went up to her room. A few minutes later, she came down all upset and told me that someone had stolen her money.”

  “Did she suggest who the culprit might be?”

  “Him,” Chambers said. “Clyde Lukens.”

  An angry murmur passed through the crowd. Tyler was tempted to rap the butt of his pistol on the table to restore order, but he stayed his hand because of the tiny smile of satisfaction that played on the corners of Sharon Hill’s lips. The state’s star witness was sitting on a chair that the judge had ordered for her. Even in the plain dress she had chosen for her court appearance, she radiated sexuality, and the judge had to fight to keep from looking her way while Chambers was testifying.

  “What did you do after speaking to Miss Hill?” Barbour asked.

  “I brought her and a few men to Lukens’s room and told him what Miss Hill had said.”

  “How did he react?”

  “Well, his eyes got real big. Then he turned red and started yelling.”

  “What did he yell?”

  Chambers looked embarrassed, and he turned to the judge. “Do I have to say the words, Judge? They’re sort of rough.”

  “We’re in court, and we must have the truth, no matter how rough it may be,” Tyler told him.

  Chambers took a breath and turned back to Barbour. “He was screaming at Miss Hill. He called her a Jezebel, and, well, he said she was a whore.”

  Angry conversations could be heard in the field. Tyler rapped his pistol and ordered the crowd to pipe down.

  “Did you have to restrain Mr. Lukens?” Barbour asked.

  “Yes, sir, or he would have done Miss Hill harm. He was wild.”

  “How did Miss Hill react to this assault?”

  “She was as calm as can be.”

  “Like someone with a clear conscience?” Barbour asked.

  “Objection,” Matthew said.

  “Sustained,” Tyler ruled.

  “What did you do after subduing Mr. Lukens?” Barbour continued.

  “We searched his room.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “The two hundred dollars Miss Hill said was missing. It was rolled up in his socks with seventy-five more dollars.”

  “What did Mr. Lukens say to that?”

  “He said all the money was his.”

  “Really? Did he explain how Miss Hill would know that he had this money concealed in his room?”

  Harry looked at Sharon Hill apologetically. She beamed a comforting smile at him.

  “Well, Mr. Chambers?” Barbour said.

  “He, uh, well, he said he told her about the money the evening before.”

  “Nothing further, Your Honor,” Barbour said.

  “Your witness, Mr.
Penny,” the judge said.

  “Where did Mr. Lukens say he told Miss Hill about the money?” Matthew asked.

  “In . . . In her room.”

  “Did Mr. Lukens give an explanation for his presence in the room of an unmarried woman?”

  “Uh, yes, sir, he did.”

  “Enlighten us, please.”

  Chambers cast an anguished look at Sharon Hill. “He . . . he said, uh, that he’d spent part of the evening there.”

  There was angry whispering in the crowd, and Miss Hill’s eyes blazed with indignation.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Caleb Barbour shouted.

  “Mr. Barbour opened the door to this line of questioning,” Matthew replied.

  “Tread softly, Mr. Penny,” the judge warned in a low and threatening voice. “The objection is overruled, but if you sully the reputation of this young woman without cause, I will deal with you and the defendant.”

  “I assure the court that there is a valid reason for my inquiry,” Matthew said.

  “Mr. Chambers, why did Mr. Lukens claim he was in Miss Hill’s room?” Matthew asked the witness.

  “He said that she agreed to . . . to, er, be with him for money.”

  “To prostitute herself?”

  Chambers nodded.

  “No further questions,” Matthew said as he reclaimed his seat.

  Barbour jumped to his feet with a theatrical flourish. “We will clear up these scandalous allegations quickly. I call Miss Hill.”

  Sharon Hill walked to the stand with her head high and her back straight.

  “Do you swear by Almighty God that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?” Justice Tyler asked when she placed her hand on the Bible.

  “I do,” she answered forcefully.

  “Please take the witness stand, Miss Hill. Mr. Barbour, you may proceed.”

  “What is your full name?” Barbour asked.

  “Sharon May Hill.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “Please tell the jury where you’re headed.”