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

“Yes, sir.” Maybe Harley was wrong. They’d see.

***

After Harley had gone, Catfish remained in his old seat at the defense table. So many times he’d risen to announce Catfish Calloway for the defense. He rocked back in the creaking swivel chair.

The saddle-leather satchel resting on the table in front of him was old and worn now. How many times had he heaved that bag onto the bar table? It was big enough to tote Judge Clark’s Criminal Laws of Texas and still have room for a case reporter and the White Owl cigar box he used as his trial box. His sons had given him that satchel for Christmas some years back. With their mother’s help, they’d arranged for Tom Padgett to make it using his old cavalry tack. The gold lettering on the outside of the flap, Catfish Calloway, was chipped and faded. Tom had sewn a brass Texas star button onto the flap beneath his name.

Catfish loved the feel and smell of that old bag, and it always made him think of his sons. And his pals from the war. Martha, you always accused me of being sentimental. Guess you were right.

He wiped away the dampness in his eyes and unbuckled the bag.

He opened the trial box and dug through the things he used in court, pens and pencils and such, until he found the spent minié ball. It was mostly misshapen but still cylindrical at the base. He rolled the old bullet in his hand. It was tarnished with the passage of so many years, but his memory of that day in Kentucky was not.

I won’t let you down, Henry.

Pasted on the underside of the cigar box lid was a sheet of paper with the Latin inscription Audi Alteram Partem. He put it there to remind him of his calling: Hear the other side. Did he still have it in him to make a murder jury hear the other side? He hadn’t the last time, when it had mattered most. That had been eight years ago now, but that memory was untarnished too.

He propped his elbows on the bar table—the same table—and cradled his head in his hands. Before him, the witness stand—the same witness stand—was fifteen feet away, now vacant. To his left, twelve empty chairs. The judge’s bench loomed silently to his right. He stared at the witness stand, letting the memories wash over him. He drew a deep breath of polished wood and saddle-leather from his satchel. His eyes lost focus. The familiar witness stand blurred before him. He blinked, but it got blurrier. A man appeared there, his face indistinct, staring back. Catfish shut his eyes, but the man remained. His mind formed a question for the man, but no words came out of his mouth—no answer from this witness. Another question formed but failed, and still no answer.

Why wouldn’t the words come? Why couldn’t he make him admit the lie?

Catfish lowered his head like a bull, glaring at the witness. The man raised his blackthorn cane to nudge up the brim of his bowler hat, revealing a hideous grin framed by a horseshoe mustache. The man laughed, and the laughter spread to twelve new faces, all indistinct, in the jury box.

Gentlemen of the jury, why can’t you hear the other side?

To Catfish’s right, on the bench, a black-robed figure joined in.

Why were they all laughing? Why did his words fail him?

He felt a presence beside him and swung around to see. In the client’s chair sat another man, his face indistinct yet so familiar, younger than the others. He wasn’t laughing: I don’t want to die.

Then all went quiet. His client vanished. The laughing stopped too.

Catfish turned back. The man with the mustache and bowler had gone, as had the twelve jurors and the judge. He closed his damp eyes but couldn’t shut out what he knew was there—the scaffold. A body swung there, turning in a gentle breeze.

Before the face could turn toward him, he forced his eyes open and jumped from his chair. He dropped the minié ball into the cigar box, stuffed it into the satchel, and escaped the courtroom.

On the front steps of the courthouse, he drew in deep drafts of fresh air. His faithful companion was waiting there patiently.

“Let’s go, Colonel. Time to save a boy’s life.”

And a father’s broken heart.

Chapter 9

Harley lashed the carriage horse toward the DeGroote home. What was it that Peter DeGroote knew about Cicero Sweet? Mr. DeGroote left the impression it was something bad. Maybe it would knock some sense into Papa. It was already so clear from the circumstances—they should persuade Captain Blair to accept a guilty plea in exchange for prison time.

Harley was no longer fresh out of the new law school at the University of Texas. There was still much to learn from Papa, but he could do more than carry his father’s brief case to court. He hadn’t pressed before now because the time never seemed right. They’d been through hard times together, Mama dying while he was in Baylor and then losing his big brother during the law school years. Harley had come home still unmarried, and he and Papa had found healing in hard work.

Papa was a rock. He’d endured the same losses, but he never let it get him down. On the other hand, Papa still wouldn’t turn over the reins on important cases. Didn’t he trust his own son? Harley was ready to be beyond the struggles of the past and get on with his career.

Meanwhile, Waco was boldly flexing its muscle as a commercial center nestled along the river. There were twenty-one thermal artesian wells as well as four colleges and universities. The Chisholm Trail might no longer cross the Brazos on the Roebling-built suspension bridge, but five railroads now ran through Waco. Talk was that three more would extend their lines through town by the next year. There was still money to be