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

“Thank you, son, you’ve been real helpful here today,” Mr. Calloway said. He turned to Miss Peach. “Now then. Didn’t you tell me you took a drama class at Baylor?”

“Well, actually, it was elocution. But I did perform several public recitals.” She looked puzzled. “Why?”

“Elocution, huh?” He grinned. “I expect that’s close enough.”

“For what?”

“A performance, Miss Peach. It’s time for a little performance.”

Chapter 12

After their jail visit, Miss Peach returned to the office with Mr. Harley to close up. It was dark when they finished, and he suggested it would be better if she didn’t ride her bicycle home. She boarded with Mr. and Mrs. Sparks at Tenth and Columbus, too far to walk. He offered her a ride.

She turned over her thoughts about her assignment for tomorrow as she sat in the carriage waiting for Harley to unhitch the horse from the post. Most of her job was clerical, but sometimes Mr. Calloway entrusted her with more important tasks—a “performance,” as he called it this time. It was more like spying, really, and actually quite thrilling. If Mother knew she was doing such things, she would’ve insisted that Father drag her back to Eulogy and lock her in her bedroom.

Mr. Calloway had asked her to find out everything she could about Miss Jessie’s operation and the bald man, in particular. He told her to go to Miss Jessie’s under a guise. He’d suggested a perfume peddler, but that was silly. Men had no idea at all. She’d already devised a ruse and played it out in her mind several times.

She examined the address Harley had written down on the back of his calling card: the corner of Washington and First Street. Not far at all. She would ride her new Victor Flyer there—perfect. No need for Harley to drive her. They’d seen him before, anyway, and he’d be recognized. This way, they’d think she’d ridden the department store delivery bicycle.

Harley climbed in and took the reins. “Walk on!”

The carriage lurched forward.

She flipped the calling card over before putting it away. “‘Audi alteram partem.’ He wants me to go hear what the other side has to say.”

“He’s all about hearing the other side of things.”

Mr. Calloway also kept that old Latin expression on top of his office desk. She’d never considered why. “He’s written it everywhere.”

“Literally carved it in stone.”

She waited for him to explain that, but he didn’t. “Why’s it so important to him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’d like to hear it. We’ve some distance to go.”

He glanced at her and nodded. “You’ve probably already noticed this, but most of our clients in criminal cases are guilty. They’re generally not the kind of people you’d be proud to know. It’s the nature of the criminal law practice. I think he likes to remind himself why he does it so he can keep going when it gets hard. Most people just don’t understand it.”

She’d felt funny herself about helping some of their clients. “What do you mean?”

“It goes back to when I was in college. A man named Roberto Nuñez killed an elderly man in broad daylight on the town square with twenty or so people watching. He got drunk on tequila and started shooting up town. An old gentleman was just coming out of a barber shop and took a bullet in the chest. It was a pretty clear case, and nobody would defend Nuñez. Townspeople were angry about such a senseless killing and threatened to just string him up.”

Harley lashed the horse. “The judge asked several lawyers, but none would touch it, so Papa sent the judge a note and said he’d do it. When I asked him why, he said no accused man in this country should go without a lawyer.”

They came to Washington Street, and he clucked at the horse. They turned onto Washington, and she expected him to put the horse into a trot since it would be a long, straight stretch of road. He didn’t. After a moment, he continued speaking.

“Word got out that Papa was representing Nuñez, and some of his friends turned on him. I was sitting with him on the front porch when a neighbor came over and yelled ‘How could you defend a murderer?’ Papa just looked at him calmly. ‘I’m defending you, Clarence,’ he said, and the man said he didn’t know what Papa was talking about.” Harley glanced at her and shrugged. “I didn’t either, frankly. Papa said, ‘I’m defending your wife and your grandchildren.’ Clarence looked at him as if he were crazy. ‘I ain’t got no grandchildren.’ Papa, calm as ever, just said, ‘But you will someday, and I’m doing this for them.’ The man said Papa was crazy and stormed off, angrier than before. Papa said that man never did understand, nor did most people in town, to be honest—me included, for a long time.”

She shifted on the seat to face him more directly. “What happened?”

“They tried him, and he got convicted. Everybody, including Papa, expected that. He was guilty. But Papa appealed the conviction.”

“Why? If the man was obviously guilty?”

“Papa said it was his job to defend Nuñez, not to judge him. He didn’t think the trial had been fair. I’ll never forget it—he said every man deserves a fair trial, especially a guilty man. When I asked him why, he said it was because if the state could get away with convicting a guilty man unfairly, they could do it to an innocent man too.”

He turned to her. “I finally understood then what he meant about representing Clarence’s unborn grandchildren.”

She squeezed his arm gently. She understood too. Her face warmed. It was as if they defended not the criminal but the entire community—no, the very principle of fairness itself.

Harley clucked and tugged the reins. “Haw!”

They turned right on Ninth Street. Night had settled all around this neighborhood. Only the clopping of their horse broke the peace.

“How did the appeal come out?”

“Papa won. The court ordered a