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

in loco parentis, and it would bring greater honor on Baylor if no one here condemned a boy before his day in court. Even Jesus had his trial.”

The defense rests.

Burleson eyed Jasper, then Henry. He pushed out from his desk and rose. “I hope your Sanhedrin is more open-minded. I will consider it, gentlemen, and you will know my decision soon.”

Chapter 24

Sunday, the first day of July, was hot as blazes. The house was muggy, and Catfish had all the windows up and the ceiling fans going. The colonel wouldn’t stay indoors at all and snoozed the hours away on the front porch, oblivious to passing traffic. Every now and then he’d wake up, slurp water from his bowl, and then go back to sleep.

Catfish was in his parlor in a wing chair by the open window, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his tie loose, and his sleeves rolled up. It was the day before Cicero’s trial. He’d been getting ready for days on end, but he still didn’t feel ready. Miss Peach had been there most of the day, helping him go over the list of veniremen and decide who to strike from the jury.

Harley joined them just after noon. “Papa, I ran into Captain Blair at church this morning. You didn’t tell me he’d offered a plea deal Friday.”

“Didn’t think it was important.”

“Really?” Harley said, as if he couldn’t believe it.

Why couldn’t he get over that? It was time for trial. “I turned it down, of course.”

“What did he offer?”

“Fifteen years hard time. Henry Sweet agreed with me.” Catfish went back to reading his notes.

“Did you make a counteroffer?”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Cicero didn’t do it.”

Harley got up from the sofa and went to the front door. He just stood in the open doorway, staring outside somewhere. “I think we should offer five years.”

Miss Peach was in the adjoining dining room going over her notes. She looked up through the open French doors at Harley and then at him.

“We’ve been over this before, son,” Catfish said. “We’re gonna try the case. No deals.”

There was silence. Miss Peach hunkered back over her papers.

“Yes, sir.” He returned to the sofa and slumped back. “I’ll do some legal research on the jury charge. We should get a manslaughter jury instruction that helps us if we can.”

“Why do we want a manslaughter instruction?” Miss Peach asked.

“If the jury believes Cicero killed her, they can still reach a verdict he didn’t do it with malice,” Harley said.

“How does that help?”

“The punishment for manslaughter is prison, not death. The maximum is two to five years. A manslaughter verdict would be a victory, in my opinion.”

Catfish took a breath. Only a not guilty verdict would be a victory. He pushed his chair back and lit the White Owl he’d been chewing on. “Well, that instruction will be in the jury charge because they indicted him on the lesser included offense of manslaughter, but I have no intention of arguing for the jury to find him guilty of manslaughter.”

“But—”

“No buts, Harley. Our defense is he didn’t kill her.”

Harley’s face was getting red. “Papa, I’ve researched similar cases, and I think we have manslaughter facts. I know Mr. Sweet is your friend, but that doesn’t change the facts.”

“I’ll just have to note your exception, son.”

Harley was slow to answer. “Yes, sir.”

Miss Peach fanned herself with her notepad.

Catfish flicked ashes impatiently. “Either of you need a cold drink?”

He’d put some bottles in his icebox the night before, and they’d be refreshingly chilled by then. Maybe cool Harley down so he could do his job.

“That would be lovely,” she said. “I’ll get them.”

“None for me,” said Harley.

“Icebox in the kitchen, darlin’. Bring me a Dr. Pepper, and a Circle-A for Colonel Terry.”

He cut a glance at Harley and put his cigar out. “Judge Clark offered us the use of his library. I’m sure he’d be happy for you to go there after we get finished here.”

“Right,” Harley said.

“Here’s my plan,” Catfish said, propping his feet on a stool and staring at the ceiling fan. “I’ve been holding off on a subpoena of Orman because I didn’t want Tom to know our defense. Let’s get one out first thing in the morning and get him there Tuesday afternoon, just in case they finish up early. I expect they got about two days of testimony.”

“Are you sure we can prove Orman did it?”

“Of course. He’ll break under cross-examination.”

Harley stiffened. “I’m not so sure of that, Papa. I don’t think he had anything to do with it.”

Catfish exhaled and shook his head. They’d been over that before too. He covered his annoyance by accepting his Dr. Pepper from Miss Peach, who headed to the front porch with a bowl of ginger ale for the colonel.

“You’ve just got to trust my judgment,” he said to Harley. “I’ve been at this a lot longer than you have.”

“Yes, sir.”

He took a long swig of soda and stared up at the ceiling fan. Neither of them spoke further on the subject, and the silence got louder.

“Well, gentlemen,” Miss Peach said, returning to the hush of the parlor, “we do have some good news, don’t we?”

“What’s that?” Catfish said.

“It’s no news—there’s nothing at all in the papers about Cicero.” She handed Catfish the two newspapers he hadn’t bothered to bring in.

The main headline in Saturday’s Evening News was about a man named Debs leading a railway strike in Chicago. The headline of the Artesia reported Josephine Jenkins’s wedding to George Truett. Whoops—he was supposed to have attended that. He’d have to make excuses to Judge Jenkins.

“The only court news of interest I saw was about Judge Goodrich getting hung in effigy in Gatesville for the case he just finished,” Harley said.

“That’ll put him in a sour disposition,” Catfish said. “But nothing about Baylor expelling Cicero, then—that’s good news. Professor Perkins told me we should expect to see Burleson in the courtroom watching some of the trial.”

“Maybe the jury will think he’s there to support Cicero,” Miss Peach said.

“Maybe. Can’t hurt, as