The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller

by G. Reading Powell

  Papa shot straight up from his chair and stabbed his finger at Harley. “We’re not pleading that boy guilty to anything. Henry Sweet is counting on me, and I won’t let him down. I’m not as willing as you to give up so easily.”

  That stung. Papa hadn’t rebuked him like that since he was a boy.

  Papa paced around the office, blowing cigar smoke like a chimney. Finally he announced their next move. They’d try to link the red buggy to Orman. He told Harley to watch Orman’s office during prime business hours before and after noon. How did Orman get lunch? How did he go to business meetings outside his office?

  At midmorning, Harley parked the surrey on the next block of Fourth Street, where he had a good view of Orman’s place. He watched Orman come and go. It was such a waste of time. Yes, he had a carriage, but it was a dark-green coal box buggy with a vermilion stripe and dark-green cloth trim—nothing like the one Jasper had described.

  Papa still wasn’t satisfied. If Harley had been that stubborn about something, Papa would have said Son, don’t be pigheaded.

  Mid-June came, and they still had no proof Bud Orman was involved with the killing. Trial was imminent, yet Papa became more insistent. He rented a second-floor room in a boarding house across the street from Orman’s office, which was also his home. His instructions to Harley were simple: Sit by that window in the late afternoon and early evening and watch whoever came and went at the close of business. Just in case, Harley was to do the same in the morning hours when business opened for the day, and he should watch for Miss Jessie in particular. She must bring their earnings to Orman somehow—or maybe she’d just send Big Joe. And watch for that red gig.

  Papa entrusted Harley with his old LeMaire binoculars from the war. “They’ve a good eye for the enemy.” Then he said he wanted a photograph if Miss Jessie or the red gig showed up. Papa told him to see Miss Peach about using her new camera.

  Harley was shocked his old-fashioned father would suggest the use of a modern contraption. Miss Peach’s parents had given her an Eastman Kodak Number 2 pull-string camera, and she had been taking photographs of the colonel outside the office. She told Harley that Papa had laughed at the small black box and expressed grave doubts it could generate photographic images without glass plates, but when she gave him a snapshot of Colonel Terry, he’d been impressed.

  So Harley spent one late afternoon at the window and again the next morning. He peered between the drapes at Orman’s place, the lights out behind him, binoculars in his lap and Kodak by his side.

  It was ridiculous.

  The first two efforts were uneventful. The second afternoon of spying was particularly hot. There was no fan in the room, so he opened the window to let the warm summer breeze blow directly into his room. He rested the binoculars on the windowsill, folded his arms, and sat back to watch. At some point, despite his best efforts, he fell asleep in his chair.

  He snapped awake to cackling laughter on the street below. The breeze had blown the drapes back, exposing both spy and spyglass to the street below, where Orman stood gawking.

  “Your daddy still looking for a whore, sonny?” He bent over double, laughing. “I’d be happy to give him those Ozmanlis pills.”

  That was it. He’d had enough. He rushed back to the office.

  Even after all this, Papa wasn’t bending. Harley braced himself over the work table with both hands, glaring at his father.

  “It doesn’t make sense, Papa,” he railed. “It’s a waste of time. Orman just doesn’t have anything to do with this case.”

  “Hold on there, young man—”

  Harley shoved the binoculars across the table toward him. “I’m done spying on Orman.”

  “You’ve just got to trust my judgment on this,” Papa replied. “Look, sometimes things don’t make sense. They just happen. Bud Orman’s the very kind of fella who’d get mad at a sporting girl and shoot her because it suited him.”

  Papa stood up and pointed a shaking finger at Harley. “If Henry Sweet had given up on me, you wouldn’t be here today.”

  He stormed out.

  Harley felt pinned in place, unable to move. I’m not a quitter. Please don’t think that.

  Miss Peach appeared in the doorway and leaned against the door jamb. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure.” He wasn’t.

  “Why’s he so stuck on Orman?”

  Harley’s stomach tightened. “I have no idea. It just doesn’t make sense to me. We’re just over two weeks away from trial, and we have no proof whatsoever that Bud Orman was involved in any way, much less that he was the killer.”

  “Yet he believes it more than ever,” she said. “It’s as though the weaker our defense gets, the more he digs in.” She came closer and leaned against the edge of the table. Her voice was softer. “Mr. Harley, is there something else going on with him? Maybe something the two of you don’t talk about?”

  Harley dropped his head into his hands. There’d been talk at the courthouse that Papa had lost his touch—but that had been eight years ago. And Papa had tried the Lawson assault case just last year, and he’d been brilliant. He’d won the case.

  “I don’t know what to do,” he finally answered, still staring down at the floor between his feet, “except pray that things don’t get any worse before he comes around.”

  Chapter 21

  It was June eighteenth. Two weeks from trial and, in Harley’s view, they had no defense. Yet, Papa didn’t seem worried. They were reviewing the week’s upcoming appointments together when William Brann dropped by their office unexpectedly that Monday afternoon.

  Other than their brief introduction at the McLelland Bar, Harley hadn’t had much of a chance to get to know Brann, although Papa enjoyed his company. Brann wasn’t yet forty, about ten years older than Harley. Even a few minutes of conversation revealed a man who was intolerant of intolerance, stalked hypocrites like prey, relished the persona of provocateur, and searched continuously for provocation. The San Antonio Express had sent him to Waco to cover the Sweet case, which was now scheduled to begin in a fortnight.

  Brann candidly admitted this case made a better story than the usual whorehouse killing because upstanding citizens sanctioned the sin. On the other hand, he was uncomfortable at appearing to join forces with the likes of Preacher Jones. While the wages of sin might be death—spiritual death, according to Jones—Brann found worldly death a more compelling subject for his storytelling talents. It was clear that his narrative required a victim, not necessarily innocent, and a villain, not necessarily profligate, though a story embarrassing to public officials also suited him just fine.

  It was no coincidence that a rival newspaper was interested in the case too. Today, apparently, they’d beaten Brann to the story.

  Brann sat on the corner of the worktable. “Have you read the Daily Times-Herald today?”

  Harley rocked back in his chair. “That’s the new Dallas paper, isn’t it?”

  Brann nodded.

  Papa looked disinterested. “I only read Dallas papers right before I get the dyspepsia.”

  “Well,” Brann said, “you might go next door and stock up on Pleasant Pellets. You’ll need them after you read this.”

  Papa sighed. “What is it?”

  Brann produced a copy of the offending paper and read the headline aloud: “‘The Sporting House Killing.’”

  “Sounds more like the title of a potboiler,” Harley said.

  Brann continued reading. “‘College Boy Slays Waco Whore in Legal Bordello.’”

  Papa chuckled. “The mayor won’t care much for that.”

  Nor his imps, Harley thought.

  “Neither will Baylor,” Brann replied.

  “Who’s the reporter?”

  “Babcock Brown.”

  “Let me see.” Papa reached for the paper. “Coffee’s on the stove, Brann. Help yourself.”

  Brann poured a cup and settled at the head of the table. Papa adjusted his pince-nez and read the article alo
ud: “‘Waco’s legalized prostitution district, one of only two in the country, known by locals and indulgent city leaders as The Reservation, was recently the scene of a skin trade murder. The McLennan County grand jury issued an indictment of a college boy for gunning down a whore who made the fatal mistake of laughing at his manhood, or lack of same. Eighteen-year-old Cicero Sweet, a freshman student at Baylor University, now cools his heels in the county calaboose, the district judge having denied bail. Locals report he is remorseless.’”

  “What locals?” Papa peered up at Brann over his specs.

  Brann shrugged.

  Papa read on. “‘A twenty-two-year-old soiled dove, known as Georgia Virginia Gamble, was found dead in her own bed, covered in her own blood, while her assailant lay prostrate on her boudoir floor, too drunk to flee. The smoking derringer was still in his hand.’”

  Papa huffed and shook his head.

  “Hyperbole, perhaps?” Brann said.

  “Just dead wrong,” Papa answered. “‘The madam, Miss Jessie Rose, described Sweet as a fellow who couldn’t hold his liquor and couldn’t control his temper. According to witnesses, minutes before the blast resounded through the Reservation, the whore laughed at him, and that set him off.’” He lowered the paper, scowling. “Who are the witnesses to this nonsense that she laughed at him? Miss Jessie have a peanut gallery in that room?”

  “Have you spoken with the madam herself?” Brann asked.

  Papa snickered. “When I questioned her, she shut tighter than a virgin at a camp meeting, which I believe is generally contrary to her nature.”

  Brann pulled a White Owl from the box on the table.

  “This public attention probably interrupts her otherwise lucrative trade,” he said between puffs, “and she doesn’t appreciate that. Washington Avenue, as far as I’ve been able to discern, is your city line between Gomorrah and Waco proper. You have the sin sirens on one side and the sinners itching to backslide on the other. Miss Jessie straddles the best whoring real estate in the whole Reservation, and that makes it the best in the state.”

  Papa nodded.

  “It must be one of the whores who’ll say the girl laughed at him,” Brann suggested.

  Harley made a note of it. They’d need to be ready for whoever it is. “The madam didn’t say anything about that at the inquest. They were all downstairs when it happened.”

  Papa continued reading. “‘Reaction among Waco residents is indifferent. No one cares that this unfortunate child of legal licentiousness fell at the altar of public profit. The mayor refused to speak with this reporter. Baylor President Rufus Burleson was quick to disclaim the murderer and denounce the whore. Also refusing to discuss the case was Sweet’s lawyer, the prominent Waco defense attorney William “Catfish” Calloway, whose courtroom skill as a cross-examiner is legendary. His sleight of hand has secured the acquittals of a notorious bank robber, a wealthy wife beater, and an impecunious pilferer of the public treasury.’”

  Papa curled his mustache. “Has it occurred to him that just maybe they weren’t guilty?”

  “The reporter himself is guilty of awkwardly artless alliteration,” Brann said.

  “‘Locals who know him contacted this reporter to inform him Sweet has a short temper and a taste for a long drink. Just months before this murder, he beat another Baylor student after drinking beer on campus’—that’s a lie—‘and he and his consort in debauchery, fellow college freshman Jasper Can—’ God damn it!”

  The colonel’s head shot up.

  Papa flung the paper into the trash bin. “That’s the last straw.”

  Brann and Harley exchanged glances.

  “Jasper’s just an East Texas farm boy,” Papa growled. “He didn’t even know it was a sporting house. It’s all goddamned lies. Sorry goddamned bastard’s out to make six bits off two decent youngsters’ bad luck. Even purgatory won’t take reporters like him.” Papa vented steam like a locomotive in a railyard. “And I’d like to know who’s telling the goddamned reporter those goddamned lies. And why.”

  Harley hadn’t seen him this worked up in years—since Houston’s case. But he acted more concerned about the mention of Jasper than the fight with Peter DeGroote. If Captain Blair didn’t know about the fight before the article, he sure did now. It would be harder than ever to get him to agree to a plea deal.

  Papa pulled out his pocket watch, inserted the key, and began winding.

  No one spoke.

  After the clicking stopped, he tucked the watch back in his vest pocket.

  “Gonna be a fight, boys.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, strode away from them, then turned. “I’ll not let those boys pay the price for other men’s sins.”

  He spoke in a voice Harley knew well. It must be the same voice Papa’s cavalry troopers had heard back during the war.

  His steel-blue eyes met Harley’s. “Come two weeks from today, Calloway & Calloway go to trial.”

  Papa had just issued the order to mount for the charge.

  It was folly, but Harley didn’t challenge him. Papa wasn’t in the listening mood.

  Harley’s place was not to make reply. Not to reason why. Lord Tennyson had it right.

  Forward, into the Valley of Death.

  Chapter 22

  Catfish ruminated over the newspaper article and underlined things to follow up on. Bud Orman must be feeding false information to that reporter, who didn’t have the good sense to see it for what it was. Henry’s son deserved a trial in court, where Catfish could cross-examine his accusers, not a trial by newspaper. It just galled him. He reached for the White Owl box he kept his trial gear in and removed the minié ball, fingering it so intently he didn’t even notice Miss Peach come in.

  “Mr. Calloway, here’s the mail.” Miss Peach placed a rectangular package on the table behind him. “Did you order something from Montgomery Ward & Company?”

  He dropped the bullet back into his trial box and swung his chair around with delight. “Oh, that’s the new Iver Johnson. Been waiting for that.”

  He tore into the package.

  “What’s an Iver Johnson?”

  “Pistol. Brand new model, not even in the catalog yet.”

  “Oh,” she said, betraying some disappointment. “It must be small.”

  “That’s why I ordered it.” He chuckled at the advertising slogan on the inside of the pasteboard box lid: Hammer the Hammer! Then he stood up and pulled off his shoulder holster. “This Smith & Wesson’s getting too heavy for an old man to tote.”

  She shook her head. “Well, you shouldn’t be toting anything. It’s 1894.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve reminded me of that lately.” He removed the pistol from its box and examined it from every angle. Nice lines.

  “And it’s still 1894. Modern gentlemen don’t carry pistols in town anymore.”

  “Thankful I’m not a modern man, then.” He broke the top of the pistol open to inspect the cylinder and whirled it around before snapping it shut again. He held the small gun underneath his left armpit where a new shoulder holster would go, then pointed at the black handle. “Looky here. You’ll like this.”

  She bent closer. The hard rubber grips had round medallions under the hammer on each side, and small owl faces peeked out from them. “Owls?”

  “Aren’t these little critters pretty? I’m naming this little beauty Iver”—he showed her the left owl, then flipped it over to show her the right—“and his twin’s Johnson. You ever seen such bright-eyed hoot owls?”

  She tapped the white owl on the top of his trial box. “Did you buy it because you like owls?”

  “Owls are wiser than men.”

  She shook her head disapprovingly.

  “Boys may grow up into men, but they’re still just boys.”

  He put the pistol inside the trial box and shut the lid. “Perfect.”

  “You’re not planning on taking that to court, are you?”

  “Why not?”
<
br />   “You really think you might need it there, of all places?”

  “Might.” He’d thought a lot about his cross-examination of Bud Orman, and Orman was just the kind of man not to take it well and do something foolish in court. “Remember Old Man Smiley’s trial?”

  “It must have been before my time.”

  “May be. Anyway, when Smiley’s son—he was an ornery cuss—when he jumped on the prosecutor and beat him right there in court, I realized there’s no place a man should go unarmed.”

  She looked unconvinced.

  He shrugged. “Next time you go to the hardware store, pick up a box of thirty-two-caliber bullets for me.”

  “Yes, sir.” She shot him her standard look of exasperation. Then her expression changed, and she pointed. “Mr. Calloway, I was just wondering, what’s that metal object in your trial box?”

  He picked up the minié ball. “Oh, that? Nothing. Just a jigger, a memento from the war.” He dropped it back in his box and stuffed the box into his satchel. “How long you been with me now, Miss Peach?”

  “This is my third year.” Ever since graduating from Baylor.

  She fussed around the room, straightening books and papers.

  “Have you heard from your mom and pop lately?”

  “Yes, sir. I got a letter from my mother yesterday.” She rolled up a big plat Harley had been examining that morning, evidence in a land dispute he was working on, and leaned it against the side of his desk. “They’re doing fine. She sends her regards.”

  They were awful nice folks. Her pop was a reformed newspaper editor who decided to take another direction in life after his daughters graduated from college. Opened a little country store in Eulogy, a little country town in the northern tip of Bosque County.

  “I know you haven’t been up there in a month of Sundays.” He smiled. “After the trial, why don’t you take a few days off and go see ’em?”

  She smiled back. “Thank you, Mr. Calloway, I’ll do that.”

  “Harley and I appreciate what you do for us, you know.”