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

“Papa, do you still intend to call Professor Perkins as a character witness?”

Catfish shrugged. “Depends on how things go. We’ll make that decision after we see their case. He’ll be expecting to hear from Miss Peach if we need him.”

Colonel Terry ambled in, belched, and plopped down in front of Catfish. He was rewarded by an ear rub and promptly went back to sleep.

A tall man walked down the sidewalk past the front window.

“There’s Wade Morrison,” Catfish said. “Harley, he’s on the jury list.”

“I didn’t realize he lived around here.”

“Across the street two blocks up. He walks Washington on weekends, though I’m surprised to see him out in this heat.”

Miss Peach put her soda on the table. “He’s Mr. Lazenby’s partner in the bottling company, right?”

“And he owns the Old Corner Drug,” Harley added. “Do you think he’ll be friendly to us if he gets on the jury?”

Catfish nodded. “Probably. Tom’ll probably strike him.”

Miss Peach examined the city directory that lay open on the table. “That reminds me, Mr. Calloway, I found something on that other venireman we were discussing earlier.”

“Which one?”

“Thomas C. Tibbs. He’s the manager of a clothing manufacturer on Fourth Street, Blake Manufacturing Company. The directory shows he’s also got a real estate company and is a first vice-president at Provident Bank.”

“Think I’ve met him. Blake is Slayden’s company. Tibbs should be fine. Pretty far down the jury list, anyway.”

Harley spoke as if he’d been preoccupied with something else. “Papa, will I be taking some witnesses?”

Catfish shook his head. “I promised Henry I’d handle it myself.”

“Yes, sir.” His head sagged.

“What about the red buggy?” Catfish continued. “Find out anything new?”

“Mr. Moon hasn’t seen it,” Harley replied. “I’ve checked every livery stable in town, but I found only one that stabled a horse for a Stanhope gig. It belonged to a fellow who moved here from St. Louis, but his rig has been down with a broken spring since before the murder. It’s over at Hopkins Brothers. They’re still waiting on a new spring to come in from back east.” He shrugged. “And it wasn’t red, anyway.”

He started to say something else, then stopped and stared dolefully at Catfish. He’d picked up that look from Martha. Something was still on his mind.

Spit it out, son.

Finally, Harley continued. “I know you believe in Cicero, but we can’t prove anybody else shot her, and they have a circumstantial evidence case we can’t explain away. We should reconsider that plea offer.” He had that please, Papa look. “He’s going to get convicted if we go to trial.”

Well, Harley was young. His spirit was still brittle. Catfish had been that way once—he’d just started trying cases and lost three in a row. He was rattled with self-doubt. Judge Clark pulled him aside and counseled him that a trial lawyer had to be fearless. If he was afraid of losing, he was finished. Harley just needed reassurance.

“Cicero’s not getting convicted,” he said with his jury voice. “I don’t try cases to lose. You can count on that.”

Harley got quiet. His eyes retreated downward before rising to meet his. “He’s not Houston, Papa. He’s just not. This is different.”

Catfish tensed. So it was weighing on him too.

He studied Harley’s face. Houston’s hair had been a little lighter, but the eyes were the same. Except eight years ago, there’d been terror in Houston’s eyes.

“You’re right,” he said. “Houston’s case was different, and I see the difference. Trust me, son.”

“I do, but I feel as if I must speak up on this because I disagree with you. It’s your call, though.”

Catfish didn’t respond.

“I better go on over to Judge Clark’s now,” Harley concluded.

“I’ll help you if you like,” Miss Peach said. She’d been watching.

“Thanks, that’d be helpful.”

They got up to leave. Catfish stood too and wrapped his arms around Harley.

“I know how you feel, and I hear you,” he said softly. “There’s no bringing Houston back, but we can win this case.” He pressed Harley’s head tightly against his shoulder. “I love you, son.”

“I love you too, Papa. No matter what.”

Catfish stepped back, still holding his son by the shoulders. “No matter what.”

***

Harley drove the carriage with Miss Peach to Judge Clark’s house over at Ninth and Columbus. The judge was an old friend of Papa’s. He’d served in various posts in government, been a judge on the court of appeals, and was now practicing law again in Waco. He’d written a wonderful treatise on Texas criminal law that Papa always carried with him to court. He had a large private law library at his office in the Provident Building. At his home, they got the key and some well wishes from the judge, then rode on to the judge’s office.

Harley wasn’t in the mood to talk.

Miss Peach broke the silence. “Your father’s really good at cross-examination.”

“Maybe he’s got something planned I just don’t know about. He sure is confident about something. I just don’t understand why he’s accepted Cicero’s story without really questioning it. He only sees Cicero’s side.”

“Do you honestly think Cicero has a chance?”

He wished he were as strong as Papa. He was a rock. To Harley, it felt like Houston’s case all over again. And even rocks would shatter from a hard blow.

He swiped at the sweat beading on his forehead. “I’m worried.”

“It’s probably none of my business,” she asked, “but what did you mean when you said Cicero wasn’t Houston?”

She was right about the first part, anyway. It just wasn’t something he could talk about. He glanced over and then back at the road ahead.

“Looks as though we’re about there.”

***

Catfish shuffled into the Growlery, the name he used for his library based on a similar room in Bleak House. He used to retreat there to save the family from the bad humors evoked by his cases. Now it was a place of gathered memories. He collapsed into his favorite chair next to the lamp table with Martha’s photograph, the only