Frontier Lawyer

by Lawrence L. Blaine

  “Oh, stop pussyfooting, Jake Kilgore! You know damn well—”

  “Let’s remember we’re in a courtroom,” Kilgore said. “Answer the question.”

  “I serve drinks and food there, and offer entertainment for men!”

  “Would it be unfair to describe your establishment as a brothel, Miss Morgan?”

  “This man is impossible, Your Honor!” Pete Beaudoin said. “He’s out to demean every witness!”

  “How can anyone demean the owner of a brothel?” Kilgore asked wearily. “We all know Miss Morgan. It’s an ancient maxim of law that owners of brothels are notoriously unreliable as witnesses. Res ipsa loquitur,” he quoted learnedly. “Says so in Magna Carta.”

  He was allowed to continue. Forcing Laurie to admit that her house was indeed a brothel, he went on to ask, “And while your daughter lived with you, did she live on the premises of your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she ever employed by you as a prostitute?”

  Laurie flamed. “No. Never in my house!”

  “What about outside? Were you aware that she had affairs with other men from an unusually early age?”

  “I never pried into her private life. She was a good girl, Jake Kilgore!” she said bleakly.

  Kilgore’s bushy eyebrows rose in tolerant indulgence of a mother’s heart. “Do you seriously ask this jury of twelve intelligent men to believe that the son of one of the wealthiest men in the Territory would marry the illegitimate daughter of the keeper of a bawdy house?”

  The look in Laurie’s eyes was deadly. Kilgore faced her complacently, benignly, compassionately, sweetness gleaming from his scalp—and wishing he were called upon for any job but this. He felt like apologizing to the woman. But there was no turning back.

  Laurie finally said in a low voice, “I don’t believe he ever meant to marry the child. I don’t know what kind of a game he was playing. But he made her a promise and she believed that promise. He gave her a diamond ring and then he killed her and robbed her when he got scared of what Dan McCandless would say.”

  Kilgore glanced at the bench. “I ask that the last remark be stricken.”

  The judge agreed. Kilgore returned slowly to his chair. Beaudoin had produced all his witnesses now, and not one had emerged unscathed, he reflected. He should be pleased with the state of the record. Only the bothersome matter of the ring flawed Kilgore’s defense. Otherwise, he had scored off each of the items of evidence as proving nothing, and he had thoroughly pegged Honey Morgan for the worthless trollop she was.

  “I have no further questions,” Kilgore declared.

  Beaudoin arose. “The Territory rests, Your Honor.”

  The judge said, “Is the defense ready to go ahead? Or shall I declare a recess?”

  Kilgore replied, “Your Honor, I respectfully move to dismiss the indictment on the ground that the Territory has failed completely to show that Honey Morgan was not attacked after Harry McCandless had left her on the outskirts of town. They have failed to make out a case.”

  Beaudoin’s face was ugly. “No one can prove that Honey was not killed before Harry McCandless got rid of the body, Mr. Kilgore.”

  Kilgore said grimly, “In this Territory, Mr. Beaudoin, we have an old-fashioned belief that the burden is on the prosecution to prove guilt, not on the defense to prove innocence.” He turned to the court. “Your Honor, I move the indictment be dismissed.”

  For a moment Hazledine’s eyes were veiled in thought. Then he said, “Motion denied. Call your first witness.”

  “In that case, Your Honor, I request a recess of fifteen minutes.”

  “Granted.”

  Kilgore and Clem drew Harry McCandless aside. He would be the first witness in his own defense. In a low, threatening voice, Kilgore said, “I want the truth about that diamond ring, Harry.”

  Harry had remained impassive, smiling enigmatically, throughout the entire trial. He had said nothing. His smile vanished now. “What truth?”

  “The truth,” Kilgore glowered. “We’re in a bad spot. You might have been freed five minutes ago if it weren’t for this business of the ring. When Carlotta comes back from Denver, she’ll testify. She’s already told Clem she received a letter from you concerning the gift of the ring. She’ll testify that way, if I know her at all.”

  Harry said, “Suppose Carlotta disappears? From what the judge said, that means that all of Laurie’s raving about the ring will be stricken?”

  Kilgore groaned. “Harry, Harry! That’s not the point,” he said desperately. “You’re too intelligent not to understand the trap that Beaudoin dug for us. Sure it’s hearsay—and he’ll get the judge to strike it from the record. Point is, the whole damn courtroom heard that woman screaming like a catamount. The point is indelible in the public mind. Even if we got a mistrial, that ring will always stick in our craw.

  “No,” he went on gloomily, “we’re out on a limb. I’m putting you up now to testify, and you can bet that Beaudoin will ask you about the ring. I don’t mind a little perjury when a man is desperate and about to be hung. But if you deny giving that ring to the girl, Beaudoin will call Carlotta to ask her about your letters. Will Carlotta lie for you?”

  The thin, intelligent face was a study in distress. “I—I don’t know, Mr. Kilgore,” Harry McCandless admitted. “I think she’d do anything for me, but I don’t know if she has the capacity.”

  “That means you did give her the ring?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “Why did you lie to me the other time we discussed this?”

  “My father was in the cell. I was afraid of him.”

  “Will you lie on the stand?”

  “No. I’ll answer truthfully.”

  “You’d better,” Kilgore said. “Or else I won’t give the Territory a chance to hang you. I’ll pull your head off myself.”

  The recess was at its end. Kilgore conferred with Clem for a few moments, trying out on Clem the various points he wanted to raise in his introductory words to the jury. Then, as Hazledine reconvened the court, Kilgore took his position before the jurors, thrust his fingers through his galluses, and looked at each man individually before beginning.

  He said, “Gentlemen of this jury, you have just heard our esteemed attorney general present the case for the Territory. I submit to you the fact that his case was insufficient to prove an act of murder committed by the defendant, and I propose to show this through questioning of witnesses.

  “Now, none of you here are philosophers, so I won’t go into any learned babble of causality and necessary relationships. I’ll use simple language in stating a simple fact: that we can’t always be sure that A, B, and C prove D. We can only make assumptions.

  “For instance. I rub a match along the floor, and it bursts into flame. You can thus conclude that cause and effect is at work. Given a match and given a floor, the friction of one against the other necessarily produces flame. And—if the match isn’t wet or badly made—it will produce flame. Cause and effect. We can be pretty sure of the relationship, can’t we, between the striking of the match and the appearance of the flame. To get one, you have to have the other. And in a specific order. You can’t have the flame first and strike the match afterward. So we say that the striking—the friction—is the cause of the effect, flame.

  “How about here? Mr. Beaudoin has presented certain factors. A fraternity pin, a Navajo rug, a rumor of a romantic relationship, an identifying mark on a buckboard. Out of these factors, he expects you to conclude that this man here murdered a girl.

  “I submit to you that the chain of evidence is incomplete. It does not prove anything. A girl is dead; this is undeniable. A man is accused of the crime. But the Territory has not shown with any clarity that this man is guilty.

  “One further point, please. You will remember my words to you yesterday, at the opening of this trial. I cautioned you not to let emotional feelings enter into your framing of judgment. You are not here to pass judgment on the cha
racter of Harry McCandless. You are not here to express your resentment for real or fancied injustices committed by his father. You are not here to punish a person you may have come to dislike. I know that the defendant is not a well-loved person in San Carlos. He makes no apologies for his past behavior, and neither do I.

  “You are here for one purpose, and one only. You are here to weigh the evidence presented, and to conclude, solely on the basis of that evidence, whether the prisoner before you did or did not commit the crime for which he has been indicted. I say to you that the Territory has not shown any chain of guilt. I call upon you to clear your minds of anything but the matter at hand—to narrow the focus of your perceptions—to examine critically what the Territory has shown you in the past two days.

  “But this is not the summation of the defense, merely its opening speech. I won’t belabor my point any further, but will proceed to show you just how flimsy the case against Harry McCandless really is.

  “The defense calls its first witness: Harry McCandless.”

  17.

  THE COURTROOM was terribly quiet. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for, the moment when the mercurial, unpredictable McCandless boy would take the stand. Harry looked very pale, and he crossed and uncrossed his legs uncomfortably. But his eyes were steady, unfrightened. They looked out at the assembled onlookers with calm, contemptuous appraisal—the eyes of a self-appointed Nietzschean Übermensch.

  Kilgore, his back to the spectators, looked almost pleadingly at the boy, appealing to his instincts of self-defense. Silently, Kilgore begged him to cooperate. Harry did not seem to feel fear at this trial. Perhaps he was sublimely confident of his own ultimate vindication. Perhaps he did not fear hanging. Or, perhaps, he was mad.

  Kilgore thrust one hand into his pocket, fondling the knife he always carried. He warmed Harry up with a few preliminary questions: his age, his full name, his educational background. Harry answered with no trace of sullenness or contempt. The jury seemed to drowse.

  Suddenly Kilgore changed tack. “Where were you at dinnertime on the night of November thirtieth, Mr. McCandless?”

  “At home. The Wa-po-nah ranch.”

  “Did you have a guest there?”

  “Yes. Eli Weingarten.”

  “But your parents and sister were not present?”

  “No. They were in New York.”

  “What did you say to Mr. Weingarten after dinner?”

  Harry rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “I said something like ‘Let’s get the Morgan girl and have some fun.’”

  “And what reply did Mr. Weingarten make?”

  “He said it was a good idea. He agreed to take one of our buggies and go to town to fetch her from Dade Rawlins’ place, where she lived.”

  “How long was he gone?”

  “About an hour and a half.”

  “Is that exceptionally slow time to make the round trip from Wa-po-nah to Dade Rawlins’ place?”

  Harry shook his head. “No, it’s pretty good time. Eli drives fast. It usually takes fifty minutes or so each way.”

  “What time did he return?”

  “Around nine.”

  “With the girl?”

  “Yes.”

  Kilgore paused. “Now, we have all heard Mr. Weingarten’s testimony concerning the events of the two hours that followed. Are you in agreement with his account of these events?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s what happened.”

  “Mr. Weingarten went on to state that it became necessary to subdue the girl violently and remove her from the premises. He said furthermore that he went to bed before you subdued the girl. Would you relate the events that took place after Mr. Weingarten went to bed?”

  Harry stroked his smooth cheeks thoughtfully. “Well, I got the girl’s clothes on her. She was kicking and fighting, and it was pretty rough going. While we were thrashing around, Julian, our steward, came to the room. He helped me take the girl down to the wagon. This was around eleven. I started to drive back to San Carlos. On the way, Honey began acting up. She grabbed the reins and started mistreating the mare. I realized that if I kept her aboard we’d have a runaway or a wreck, so I halted the wagon and ejected her from it.”

  “How did you accomplish that?”

  “I put my arm about her waist and set her down on her feet. She was drunk, but able to stand. She yelled at me, and she was very angry. I turned around and drove back to Wa-po-nah.”

  “She was alive and well when you last set eyes on her?” Kilgore asked.

  “Definitely. I left her on the outskirts of town, a short distance from her home. I figured she’d walk the rest of the way herself.”

  “When did you return to Wa-po-nah?”

  “It was around one in the morning.”

  “So the round trip took you two hours. This would be about average time, figuring in the difficulties you had with Honey en route.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was anyone awake when you returned?”

  “Julian was. He helped me stable the horse, and I went to bed.”

  “In the morning what happened?”

  “Eli—Mr. Weingarten—awoke and asked about Honey. I told him I had taken her home and had returned at one.”

  Kilgore nodded. “You would say, then, that someone else might have attacked and murdered the girl on the road after you left her at approximately midnight?”

  He had expected response from Beaudoin, and he got it. “I object to that question, Your Honor! Witness’s conjectures are hardly admissible as testimony!”

  “Sustained,” Judge Hazledine said wearily. “Mr. Kilgore, I have asked you before to spare us these little tricks. Examination of the witness does not mean making rhetorical statements to the jury.”

  Kilgore smiled. “I beg the court’s pardon.”

  Kilgore said, “You see this fraternity pin that the prosecution has introduced as evidence. Do you recognize it?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s mine. Or was.”

  “What do you mean, was?”

  “I gave it to Honey Morgan last August. She wanted some sort of souvenir. And since I was no longer going to college, I didn’t have any value for the pin, so I gave it to her.”

  “Did she wear it often?”

  “Quite often.”

  “Was she wearing it the night you last saw her?”

  “Yes, sir. It was pinned to her dress. I noticed it when she came in.”

  Kilgore nodded. “She wore the pin often. So its presence near her body would not imply your presence, because you had not had possession of the pin for some months.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Kilgore looked at Beaudoin. “Cross-examine.”

  Beaudoin came forward with a vengeful smile on his sharp-featured face. Harry stared at him without interest.

  Beaudoin said, “May I ask, Mr. McCandless, why you sent your guest to town to pick up the deceased on the fatal night, and not one of your servants or yourself?”

  “I don’t believe in sending our servants on two-hour drives for my pleasure,” Harry said. “It was after dinner and they were supposedly free for the evening. Besides, Eli had eaten too much at dinner and said he wanted the fresh air of a drive.”

  “This expression of concern for your servants’ welfare is very touching, Mr. McCandless. But is it not true that several years ago you showed so little regard for one of your servants as to beat him senseless—a man some three times your age? A man named Diego Barca? And was there not a maid in your household named Maria Vasquez who charged you with fathering her illegitimate child and—”

  “Your Honor, I object strongly!” Kilgore said. “Defendant is on trial for murder, not for past offenses.”

  Beaudoin retorted, “I’m trying to demonstrate the wholly amoral character of the defendant. This is cross-examination as to character. I didn’t ask the man to take the witness stand. That was strictly Kilgore’s idea.”

  Kilgore said, “I object to that, too!”


  Judge Hazledine tapped the bench. “Now, Mr. Kilgore,” he said wearily, “you know the rules too well to take any objection. When the defendant elected to take the witness stand, he opened the door to cross-examination as to his credibility as a witness. It’s got nothing to do with his rights as a defendant. Objection overruled!”

  Beaudoin went exhaustively into the story of Harry McCandless, in which fact and legend were blended. The youth sat at ease, discussing in detail each alleged misdemeanor with an air of deprecation, as though the peccadilloes of youth were absurdly blown up out of all proportion to their value. He was a bit wild as a boy, he conceded readily enough. The privileged life of wealth had perhaps given him a touch of conceit and arrogance. It was true that the resources of a brilliant mind had given him an evaluation of his own worth beyond that of ordinary men. But this was merely the ordinary reaction of a boy to a set of circumstances not of his own creation. The shocking events of the past few months, he suggested, had sobered him up. Kilgore sat with folded arms, glancing occasionally about the courtroom, marking the pallor of Dan McCandless’ cheeks, the deep anxiety in his eyes, sensing a tension between father and son that he could not fathom. Harry McCandless was doing well—surprisingly well—parrying the hammer blows of the prosecutor with deft and modest disclaimers and wearing an air of candor and humility for which the lawyer was not prepared.

  I’m damned! thought Kilgore. I think he’s going to make it! I really do!

  Beaudoin finally gave up an unprofitable line of interrogation and walked back to the rail, where he turned and put his next question with folded arms. The windows were shut tight against the cold, and the blazing stove was heating up a fetid atmosphere.

  “McCandless! I’d like to ask a few questions about your past relationship with the deceased. How long did you know her?”

  “About six or eight months.”

  “Was she living in San Carlos when you met her?”

  “No. She came down on a visit. She didn’t move here for a month or two after that.”

  “I see. And you first became intimate with her—ah—when?”