The Sporting House Killing: A Gilded Age Legal Thriller

by G. Reading Powell

  “No.”

  “Did you see a knot on his head that night?”

  “No.”

  “Either before or after the shooting?”

  “Not at any time.”

  This cross-examination couldn’t be going better. The jurors all seemed less enchanted with the madam—she was beginning to show her true colors. Reasonable doubt was raising its head. One more point to cap it off.

  “Final thing. You mentioned on direct that after the shooting, while Cicero was lying on the floor, he woke up briefly?”

  “He did.”

  He picked up yet another document. “Now, if I remember right, that’s something you didn’t mention in your testimony at the inquest before Judge Gallagher, was it?”

  “He didn’t ask me.”

  “Oh, I see.” He wrinkled his face. “You didn’t think that was important enough to tell the justice of the peace at the inquest?”

  “I would have told him if he’d asked. I didn’t know I was permitted to volunteer information I wasn’t asked about.”

  “Well, of course you are, ma’am. Didn’t you realize you should have told him what you knew?”

  “I suppose not. It’s good to know now, though, because I know something else I haven’t been asked about yet.” A slight smile flashed across her face, then vanished. “Would you like me to tell you what your client said to me that night in Miss Georgia’s room after he came to?”

  Catfish curled his mustache. “He said something?”

  She nodded, chin high.

  “You didn’t mention that on the direct examination by Mr. Blair.”

  “I wasn’t asked.”

  He glanced at Blair, who studied the floor as if in deep thought. Was this a trap? Harley shook his head discreetly, but the jurors all stared at Catfish. Too late to turn back.

  “All right, what did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I’m sorry I shot her.’ And then he passed out again.”

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  Catfish reeled at Miss Jessie’s answer. Should’ve seen that coming. How’d he let that vixen lure him into it? This was the mysterious confession Blair had mentioned months back. But now all eyes were on him. He fought to control any outward reactions that would betray his uncertainty about whether to ignore it or try to discredit her.

  Cicero handed him a note: “I didn’t say that!”

  Maybe there was another way, but it was a long shot. He had to stay calm, concentrate, and carefully set it up.

  “Any more questions?” the judge asked, impatiently.

  Catfish glanced at Harley. “May I have a moment to consult with my son, judge?”

  “Be quick.”

  He leaned down. “I need you to do some things.”

  “Of course.”

  Catfish took his seat and started writing frantically. The pencil lead broke, and he pulled from his waistcoat pocket the silver magic pencil on the end of his watch chain. He tugged one end until the lead point popped out the other, also exposing the inner barrel. He didn’t use it often and had forgotten what Martha had engraved on that inner cylinder: Houston & Harley.

  His chest tightened. Unable to control his thoughts, his mind rushed to another trial, the fear in Houston’s eyes, then to Schoolcraft’s recent taunts: Old man, you just don’t have what it takes anymore. Was the scoundrel right?

  He glanced at Harley and furiously scribbled names on a piece of paper and said in a low voice, “Get instanter subpoenas issued for these people. For one o’clock tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Are you all right?”

  Catfish hissed. “Just do it.”

  He hurriedly scratched more instructions on the paper and pushed it into his son’s hands. “Get to the sporting house before Jessie and Joe get back there. I’ll stall them here as long as I can.”

  ***

  The door of the bawdy house closed behind him as Harley stepped into the entrance hall.

  “Are you Miss Sadie?” he asked.

  “No, sugar, I’m Miss Nora, but I’m just as pleasurable. Want to spend some time with me instead?”

  “No, ma’am. Thank you kindly, but I’d like see Miss Sadie.”

  “In there,” Nora said indifferently. She nodded toward the parlor and disappeared down the hall.

  Harley went into the parlor. Maybe this would be easier than it was at Miss Josie’s. A girl lounging on a love seat broke into a smile and tilted her head alluringly at him.

  “Miss Sadie?” he asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “Could I speak with you?”

  “Do you really want to talk?”

  He pulled out his wallet. “Could we go to your room for some privacy?”

  “Of course, honey, right this way.”

  She led him down the hallway to a bedroom in the back and closed the door behind them. It was still daylight, though. He had that part going for him.

  “Three bucks.”

  Several coins clinked to the floor as he tugged his money clip from his pocket. “I have ten for you, and another ten for later.”

  “What you got in mind, mister?” she asked cautiously.

  “Oh, not what you’re thinking, ma’am. I have a friend who wants to buy you a beer at the Red Front. If you meet him there at eight o’clock tonight, you’ll get a beer and the other ten bucks.”

  “Yeah?” She crossed her arms. “Well, why don’t your friend come speak for hisself?”

  “He’s busy right now but can get there by eight.” He flashed a ten-dollar bill. “Is that all right with you?”

  She thought for a moment, eying the cash in his hand, then snatched it. “Sure thing, mister. I’ll be there.”

  The sweaty scent of intimacy rose from her in waves. He averted his eyes, as if he would no longer smell it if he looked away.

  “One more thing. Don’t tell Miss Jessie or Big Joe.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a secret, all right?”

  “Look, mister, I don’t work for no other houses.”

  Harley shook his head. “It’s not that. He just doesn’t want other people to know you’re meeting him. He’s a prominent man in town.”

  “But he’s willing to go to the Red Front?” She snickered. “That don’t stack up. But you promise he’ll give me fifteen bucks, and I won’t even tell my own self.”

  “Deal.”

  ***

  The saloon was thick with smoke and the smell of dirty men and cheap beer. The colonel curled up to sleep at Catfish’s feet anyway. Girls from Mary Doud’s sporting house next door were working the customers, and he’d declined two by the time Sadie arrived a little after eight o’clock. He recognized her from Harley’s description and waved her over.

  She slinked up to his table. “You the gent wants to pay me twenty-five bucks?”

  “Have a seat.” After she settled, he added, “I thought it was fifteen bucks?”

  “Nope, he promised twenty-five.”

  “That’s fine.” He got her a beer at the bar.

  “You have my money?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stack of bills, peeled off two tens and a five, and slid them across the table.

  She stuffed them down her private place and took a swig of beer. “What do you want me to do for you, mister?”

  He leaned back and puffed on his White Owl. “Just talk.”

  She smirked. “What talk’s worth twenty-five bucks?”

  “Information.” He blew a smoke ring. “About the night Miss Georgia got shot.”

  She slammed her beer on the table. “Oh, you a copper?”

  “Lawyer. I represent the boy accused of killing her.”

  She scraped back her chair and got up. “Well, Mr. Lawyer, thanks for the twenty-five bucks.”

  “Wait.” He touched her arm gently. “I need your help, ma’am. Actually, my client needs it. His life may depend on it. Please listen to what I have to say, and if you want to leave after that, you just get up and go.”<
br />
  She settled back into the chair and took another drink. “Talk.”

  “Thanks.” He leaned closer. “Look, I believe my client didn’t do it, and I think you know that.”

  She huffed. “Every killer I ever seen says that.”

  “Yes, ma’am—well, this time it happens to be true. I know you know it is. I’d just like you to know something about the boy your employer is setting up. He’s eighteen and foolish. He wanted some fun and it went bad, as fun sometimes does. Miss Sadie, if he gets convicted of murder, they’re gonna hang him. He’s got a family that loves him.”

  “Yeah? Well ain’t that sweet?” She gulped her beer. “What’s it to me?”

  “Maybe nothing. But I think maybe you got hard talk and a soft heart. I think maybe you had bad luck yourself. Maybe things happened to you that you didn’t have any say over.”

  “You don’t know nothing about me, mister.”

  “No, but I know girls like you. I know why you do what you do. I understand that. Folks do what they gotta do to get by. You probably been in danger for your own life before, I expect, maybe more than once. You know what it’s like to be afraid. Well, ma’am, Cicero’s afraid. He’s scared to death. All I ask is for you to answer one question.”

  She frowned. “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “After Miss Georgia got shot, when you and Miss Jessie were in her room, did Cicero ever say anything?”

  “Are you joshing? That boy was cold, dead drunk. He didn’t say nothing.”

  It was time. Catfish nodded to a man at a nearby table, who got up and approached.

  “Miss Sadie Wiggins?”

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?”

  “I’m a deputy sheriff, and this is a subpoena for you to appear in court tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock.” He dropped the folded paper on the table in front of her.

  Catfish gave a brief nod. “Thanks, deputy, you can leave.”

  Sadie guzzled her beer and slammed it down. “You son of a bitch.”

  “Please, ma’am. I only did it so you won’t get in trouble with Miss Jessie. You can tell her you have to go to court or you’ll get arrested.”

  “You going to pay me another twenty-five bucks to do that?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. I’m not allowed to pay witnesses.”

  “I ain’t no witness, and I ain’t doing nothing for the likes of you.” She shot out of her chair and hurried for the door.

  He had to change her mind. If she told Miss Jessie, then lying in court would be just another of her job duties. He and the colonel followed her outside and down the street toward the sporting house.

  “Wait, Sadie, please,” he called after her. “A boy’s life depends on it.”

  “I don’t give a damn about that boy,” she yelled over her shoulder.

  A man appeared on the street ahead, walking toward them. A big man. Catfish recognized him as they drew closer.

  “Miss Sadie,” Big Joe called, “you all right?”

  “This man’s bothering me, Joe.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Joe pulled something dark from his belt. “I’ll take care of that.”

  Colonel Terry uttered a low growl as the man advanced through the dark.

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  Big Joe slapped the blackjack in his empty palm. The smack provoked another growl from Colonel Terry.

  “Colonel, hush up!” Catfish said. “How do, Joe, nice to see you again.”

  “I don’t like the idea of you bothering Miss Sadie,” Joe said, still advancing. She watched from behind him, hands on her hips.

  Catfish didn’t budge. “Just talking to her.”

  “Well, mister, she don’t wanna do no more talking.” He stopped about five feet from Catfish and crossed his arms, the blackjack hanging from his right hand. “My advice to you is just to back way off Miss Sadie—and Miss Jessie too, if you knows what’s good for you.”

  Catfish stiffened. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “Do it now?” The blackjack struck his left palm with a crack. “Well, just maybe it is.”

  “Stand down, Joe,” Catfish said, widening his stance. “Just let me finish my conversation with Sadie.”

  “You or that mangy cur gonna make me stand down, old man?” He kicked at the colonel but missed.

  Colonel Terry growled back.

  “Hush up!” Catfish stepped in front of the dog. “Don’t make me call my twin hoot owls.”

  “Hoot owls?” Joe snorted and glanced back at Sadie.

  Catfish pulled the small black-handled pistol from under his coat and pointed it straight at Joe’s head. “One’s Iver, other’s Johnson, and they don’t much care for blackjacks.”

  Joe broke into an ugly grin. “Ain’t you a little old to be drawing down on a man?”

  Catfish cocked the hammer with a metallic double-click. “As for myself, I’ve got no tolerance at all for threats.”

  “It’s fine, Joe. Let’s get,” Sadie said, turning her back and walking away.

  Joe lowered the blackjack. “You best let it be, grandpa.”

  Catfish eased down the hammer and holstered his pistol. “I’ll see you in court, Miss Sadie.”

  ***

  “Papa, I don’t think Miss Sadie will even show up.”

  Harley and Henry Sweet had met Papa back in the office after his meeting at the Red Front.

  Papa took off his coat and draped it over a chair. “We’ll see. She’s been around courthouses enough to know a judge can haul her down there whether she’s willing to go or not.”

  “Even if she does come,” Mr. Sweet said, “why would she be willing to testify Cicero didn’t make the statement? Jessie would tell her what to say, wouldn’t she?”

  “Probably. But I’ll give her a chance to tell the truth.”

  Harley drummed his fingers on the table. There’s no way she’d get on that witness stand and swear her employer had committed perjury. Papa was wrong about this. It hadn’t been that bad a day in court except for Miss Jessie’s surprise at the end, but calling another witness who’d back her up was foolish.

  “Why don’t we call Professor Perkins instead?” Harley asked.

  “I’ve decided not to call a character witness.” Papa opened the White Owl box and offered one to Sweet.

  “No, thanks,” Sweet said. “Why not call a character witness? I thought you planned to?”

  “I suspect Blair knows about that fight with Peter DeGroote,” Papa said. “He can read the Dallas paper too. He can ask Perkins about it on cross.”

  “But Cicero didn’t hit Peter,” Sweet said.

  “I know, but Peter says he did. That’s all Blair needs.” Papa blew smoke at the fan. “He can impeach a character witness like Perkins with Cicero’s prior bad acts.”

  He was right about that. Papa was finally taking Peter’s story seriously. They should just rest without calling any witnesses and argue to the jury there was reasonable doubt.

  “I don’t understand,” Sweet said.

  “If Perkins testifies Cicero’s got a good reputation in the community for being peaceful—that’s what a character witness does—then Tom can ask him on cross if he’s heard about any bad things Cicero’s done. Like punch Peter DeGroote.”

  “Even if they’re untrue?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Judge will let him ask.”

  “I didn’t realize that,” Sweet said.

  Harley remembered something Blair said at the end of his opening statement—something about another witness he might call. “Do you think Peter’s the unnamed witness Captain Blair told the jury about this morning?”

  Papa snickered. “The one who’ll supposedly remove all doubt about Cicero’s guilt? Probably. Tom said he didn’t know if he’d call that witness. Probably thinking if we call a character witness, he’d call Peter in rebuttal.”

  “That makes sense. I’ll tell Professor Perkins we’re not calling him,” Harley said.

  “Good,” Papa said. “After we call Sadie and Big Jo
e, it’ll be time for Orman.”

  No Papa—we can’t do that. It would just make a bad situation worse. They shouldn’t call any of them.

  “After Orman, we’ll put Cicero on.”

  What could Cicero possibly say? He didn’t remember anything that would help. They should rest without calling any witnesses.

  Papa tapped his ashes into a tray. “Jury’ll think he’s hiding something if he doesn’t testify.”

  Harley looked away. It would be worse if Captain Blair destroyed him on cross.

  But Papa was set on his plan. His remark outside the courtroom earlier—stay out of my way—was all the proof Harley needed that Papa wasn’t willing to hear disagreement.

  He nodded. “If he doesn’t call Peter, then all we’ll have ready to go in the morning is your opening statement, since our witnesses won’t arrive until after noon.”

  “But Blair told the judge he was going to finish his case in the morning,” Sweet said. “Maybe he does have another witness. Maybe the unnamed witness is somebody else.”

  Harley leaned forward. “Papa, he might be right. Captain Blair told the judge he had one more witness today—that’s Jessie—and then he’d finish in the morning. If Peter were to be a rebuttal witness, he’d have to testify after we call a character witness. Then who did he mean to call in the morning before he rests?”

  Papa pondered that. “Another fella stood up this morning when the judge asked witnesses to come forward.”

  “Who was that?” Sweet asked.

  “Another policeman, not in uniform but wearing a badge,” Papa answered. “Didn’t recognize him. Can’t imagine what he’d say that’d warrant such a build-up by Tom in his opening.”

  Harley’s eyes flitted from Papa to Mr. Sweet and back. “You’re right, Papa. I’d forgotten him. He must be the mystery witness. I thought he’d probably just testify about the scene of the murder, but Quinn did that.”

  No good would come of this. Harley ran his hands through his hair as the others looked at him blankly.

  “What could this man possibly have to say that would convince Captain Blair to make it the climax of his case?”

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