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

“What about Peter? What if he was there that night?”

Harley shook his head. “We don’t have any evidence connecting him to Miss Georgia. Nobody saw him with her. There may have been other men there too with other whores. We can’t prove a murder connection to anybody else.”

Miss Peach glanced at Papa. “He honestly thinks Orman’s the killer.”

“Orman has even less to do with it than Peter. He doesn’t own the red buggy, doesn’t own the bawdy house, wasn’t there, has no motive. We can’t prove anything.”

Her eyes narrowed with concern. “Why’s he so insistent?”

He’d been hoping she would have an explanation—other than that Catfish Calloway had lost his touch. “I don’t know, I really don’t. I’ve thought in the back of my mind that maybe he had some secret strategy he just wasn’t sharing with me, but he doesn’t. That’s obvious now.”

“Do you think it has something to do with his loyalty to Mr. Sweet? He’s worried for his friend?”

Harley shook his head. “I’m more worried about Papa than Mr. Sweet or even about Cicero. He’ll get what he deserves. Papa doesn’t deserve this.”

“And if the jury convicts Cicero, Mr. Calloway will be devastated. There must be something we can do.”

The bailiff opened the side door. “All rise.”

***

“I call Peter DeGroote in rebuttal,” Blair announced.

The boy’s clothing was much less colorful than Harley had described before. Catfish glanced back to Sterling DeGroote, watching from the gallery as his son was sworn in. Catfish had no idea where this testimony would lead. Fatigue washed over him.

Blair nodded at the judge and began. “Peter, are you acquainted with the defendant who’s sitting over there at that table?” He pointed. “Cicero Sweet?”

Peter didn’t look at Cicero. “I am, though not well.”

“How do you know him?”

“We were both in the literary society at Baylor.”

“Did you have an encounter with him last fall after a debate?”

“Excuse me,” Catfish said, rising, “may I reserve my exception to this testimony, judge?”

“Your exception is noted.”

“To repeat,” Blair said, “did you have an encounter with the defendant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell us about that.”

“Well, I debated against him back in November. I won. Afterward, I was having a picnic on Waco Creek with a young lady named Chloe Malone. We spread a blanket on the bank and were having sandwiches and ginger ale.”

“Tell the jury what happened.”

“Yes, sir.” He addressed the twelve men in the jury box. “While we were there, Cicero came up. He was drinking beer, acting like he was mad at me over losing. He was bothering Chloe, so I asked him to leave.”

“Did he?”

“No, sir. He sat down and was rude to both of us. I asked him again to leave. He finished the beer and threw the bottle in the creek. Then he started another one. I got up and told him to leave.”

“What’d he do?”

“He got up in my face and cursed me. I told Chloe we should leave, but Cicero pushed me down.” For the first time, he glanced over at Cicero, who was shaking his head. “When I got back up, he punched me and knocked me into the creek. Then he tried to hold Chloe’s hand.”

“What happened?”

“We started fighting. Chloe told us to stop but we kept on. Then all the sudden, Cicero just got up and walked off.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“Not seriously. I had bruises and a bloody nose.”

“Did you tell anybody about that fight?”

“I didn’t think there was any point.”

“Pass the witness.”

Catfish took a deep breath. He had to pull himself together, block out all distractions, concentrate on the issue: Could Peter be the murderer? If the red gig was his—but he’d been so sure it belonged to Orman. He would have to see where that led.

“Peter, did you come to the courthouse today in a buggy?”

“Yes, sir. It’s my father’s. He lets me use it until I can afford my own.”

Catfish removed his pince-nez, rubbed his eyes, and stood. “Is it a one-horse rig?”

“Yes.”

“Your horse about sixteen hands?”

“I’m not sure. He’s a big horse.”

“Buggy got a spindle-back seat?”

“It does.”

“Is it a red Stanhope gig?”

“Yes, it is.”

“You don’t see many of those in this part of the country, do you?”

“We brought it from New York when we moved here.”

“Folks use them up there to show heavy harness horses, don’t they?”

“Yes, sir. Father did that some when we lived in New York.”

Catfish eased out from behind the table to a spot near the corner of the jury box. “Peter, did you visit Miss Jessie’s sporting house in that gig on the evening of April fifteenth?”

Peter’s eyes darted to the gallery. “Ah, no. I didn’t. I’ve never been in the Reservation.”

Catfish’s breathing quickened. The boy was lying. What was he hiding? “Didn’t you park that gig on the street across from the sporting house some time before eleven o’clock?”

“No, I told you, I didn’t.”

A rush of energy swept over him. “Didn’t you go first into the Red Front Saloon?”

“I’ve never been to the Red Front.”

“Then you left the saloon and went back to your buggy?”

“No! How many times do I have to say it?”

“Then”—Catfish made a pitching motion—“you tossed something into it and went into Miss Jessie’s place, didn’t you?”

“I did not.”

Catfish glanced at the window in the courtroom door to see if Lowe was looking in. He wasn’t. “Don’t you remember passing a bald man who was coming out at the same time?”

“I wasn’t there, Mr. Calloway.”

“So if the bald man says you were, he’s lying?”

“Yes, sir. I wasn’t there, I swear it.”

“Didn’t you see that man in the courtroom today?”

“No.”

He paused. “So you’re saying you didn’t have anything to do with Miss Georgia’s killing?”

“No, of course not, I wasn’t even there.”

“Right after this killing happened, you told your father about that fight you claim you had with Cicero, didn’t you?”

“I mentioned it. Father asked me if I knew him after we heard what happened at the whorehouse.”

Catfish leaned forward. “Your father mentioned it to me, and so a few days later, my son, Harley