The Sporting House Killing by G. Powell (best non fiction books to read .TXT) 📕

“Catfish, I need to tell you something,” DeGroote said when they got out on the sidewalk.

“About what?”

He waited for two people to pass, then lowered his voice. “Your client.”

“You mean Cicero Sweet?”

DeGroote had a pained expression. “I hesitate to mention it, but I feel as though there’s something you should know. You best speak about it with my son, Peter. He’s on a trip now but will return soon.”

“Tell us,” Catfish said. “What is it?”

“Wait to hear the whole story from Peter.” He hurried down the sidewalk.

“What could it be?” Harley asked.

Catfish stared at the departing DeGroote, then took a breath and expelled it. “More to Cicero than meets the eye.”

Chapter 7

It was the following Monday, April twenty-third, a week after the killing. Catfish had been in his office drawing up a will for Old Man Calhoun when Miss Peach came in and told him that Mr. Simon Shaughnessy, known by his friends and associates as Cooter, had called and wanted Catfish to come to his office—immediately. Catfish obligingly put away his papers and headed down the street.

Shaughnessy was a cotton factor and one of the wealthiest men in town. An elected city alderman and one of the Democratic Party leaders in the county, he was a big man not only in politics but also in physical size—weighed about two hundred and fifty pounds, although he stood no more than five and a half feet in boots. He had pendulous jowls and sagging tow sacks under his black eyes. Not the kind of fella you’d go fishing with.

Shaughnessy’s office was on the top floor of the Provident Building. Dark oak paneling covered the walls, and fancy crystal light fixtures dangled from the ceiling in the reception area as well as his private office. The man’s desk was as big as he was. Catfish felt like David sitting across from Goliath. The old boy’d doubtless given that effect a great deal of forethought, because the desk was perfectly clear except for a miniature cotton bale.

After an exchange of pleasantries, Shaughnessy quickly got to business. His jowls jiggled as he spoke in a forceful, throaty voice. “Mr. Calloway, I want to visit with you about one of your clients.”

“Which one?”

“It’s come to my attention you’ve been employed to represent a murderer. Mr. DeGroote tells me you’re a family friend of the murderer, I believe.”

“No, sir,” Catfish answered, making a show of surprise. “I haven’t been hired to represent any murderers lately.”

Shaughnessy pushed on, undeterred. “Your client is a hot-blooded young man by the name of Sweet. Misnamed and misbred, it appears.”

The man knew nothing of the Sweets. “I do know a young man named Sweet, but that boy is in fact well named. May I ask how you’re interested?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll tell you.” Shaughnessy shifted forward in his swivel chair, which squeaked and groaned under the pressure, and cocked his head to one side. His black eyes stared all the way through Catfish. “I’ll tell you plain and simple. He murdered a whore. Your client has broken the law, and we can’t tolerate lawlessness in our city.”

Catfish shrugged. “Well, sir, truth is he didn’t murder her. You must be mistaken.”

Shaughnessy charged on. “They caught him virtually in the act. I’ve spoken with several gentlemen of substance, and it’s our desire that this unfortunate matter be resolved swiftly and surely, for the good of the city.” He pulled a box from his drawer. “Cigar?”

“Kind of you, but no thanks.”

Shaughnessy took one for himself, sliced off the end, and flicked it into a spittoon at his feet. He lit up and blew a cloud of smoke. “What we require of you is simple: Plead your client guilty to first-degree murder, and I’ll see to it he gets out of prison long before he’s an old man.”

For the first time he flashed a smile, but it disappeared like the smoke.

This fella was used to getting his way.

“Mr. Shaughnessy, that’s mighty thoughtful of you, but I don’t believe we can do that.”

“And why not, sir?”

“Because as I’ve said already, he’s not guilty.”

Shaughnessy, now hunched over slightly, stared at him and took another draw on his black-as-night cigar. He rocked back, the chair creaking again under his weight, and blew smoke at the ceiling. He stabbed the earthy Figurado directly at Catfish. “I’m not sure you quite understand what I am saying to you, sir. If you plead him guilty, he will get prison time.” He flicked ash into the spittoon. “I could only put it plainer if I said he would not be sentenced to death.”

“Oh, I understood exactly what you’re saying.” Catfish stared straight back at the black eyes. “My answer’s the same.”

Shaughnessy considered the answer without expression. “Perhaps you know the grand jury meets tomorrow afternoon. You say you understand my position, but I’m not sure it’s really quite clear to you, so I’ll be blunt. If you don’t agree to my terms, young Sweet will be prosecuted to the fullest and made an example of. We won’t tolerate lawlessness in the Reservation. There’ll be no mercy, and he’ll hang—hang, sir. Hang by the neck until he’s dead.”

What itch was he scratching? Or whose back? Catfish glared back. “Appears to me it’s you who’s having trouble understanding. Cicero Sweet has no interest at all in pleading guilty to anything, much less first-degree murder. He’s innocent. Didn’t shoot her.”

“Your reputation is not that of a fool, Mr. Calloway.”

Catfish grinned. “Well, sir, that’s awful nice to hear. My momma’d be proud. Thank you very much. Is there anything else you want?”

“You, sir, are impertinent. I might add that your own prospects for future legal work in this town are now in serious jeopardy. I have many friends. So I advise you to think again about my proposal.”

“Good day.”

***

The next afternoon, the courtroom doors were shut with a deputy posted outside to prevent any eavesdropping. That meant one thing: The grand jury was indeed in session. Others had gathered in the waiting area outside the district