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

Blair rubbed his chin. “What did you say?”

Orman. Orman did it.

Harley leaped up. “Objection, hearsay.”

What?

Blair shook his head. “Spontaneous utterance, Your Honor.”

“Overruled. You may answer.”

“I said Cicero Sweet killed a whore.”

Blair had Mr. Lord mark the paper with the bloody fingerprint as an exhibit, and the court admitted it into evidence. “Peter, is that your finger mark on the derringer?”

It was Orman’s.

“No, sir, it’s not.”

Blair took the derringer and the paper to the jury rail and laid them out side by side for the jurors to see. They all crowded around. Couldn’t they see that it was Orman’s print?

Catfish grabbed the minié ball from his trial box and clutched it tightly, looking back at Henry. I won’t let this happen. I couldn’t save my own son, but I won’t let this happen to yours.

“Pass the witness,” Blair said.

Everyone looked at Catfish.

Didn’t they understand?

Harley touched his sleeve. “Papa?”

He gaped at his son.

Schoolcraft glared at him.

His head throbbed. Orman and … Schoolcraft. They were mixed up together. Schoolcraft had caused all this, just like he had in Houston’s case. He’d call Schoolcraft next, after Orman.

“Catfish?” Judge Goodrich asked.

“Papa, do something.”

Catfish stared at the minié ball in his hand, a shot from another time.

Harley rose again. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

Chapter 38

Harley spent the recess begging his father not to call Orman, but he wouldn’t budge. Papa said Orman was involved somehow—Peter proved that. If Peter hadn’t touched that gun, he said, it must have been Orman.

It made no sense to Harley, but Papa was convinced.

Harley asked Miss Peach to sit with them at the defense table rather than behind. Maybe her presence would calm him. Calm them both.

“We call Bud Orman.” Papa stared into the spectator gallery, his jaw pulsing.

Harley twisted around and followed his gaze to Thaddeus Schoolcraft. Why was he here, and why was he having such an effect on Papa?

Papa opened his clenched right hand and placed the spent minié ball on the table. “Your name is Bud Orman, isn’t it?”

“William Orman, to be exact.”

Papa leaned forward on his hands. “Mr. Orman, did you murder Georgia Gamble?”

“Of course not. Your client did, counselor.”

Papa rose slowly. “You’re not the sort who’d kill somebody?”

“No, I’m not.”

“So you don’t you find occasion to kill people from time to time?”

“Objection!” Blair jumped up. “He’s impeaching his own witness.”

“Catfish,” the judge said sternly, “if you put him on the stand, you vouch for his credibility.”

“Judge, respectfully, if I might?”

“Come up here, gentlemen,” the judge said testily.

All three lawyers hurried to the bench.

Harley strained to hear as Papa spoke in a suppressed voice. “I don’t believe that’s the law anymore. I’m entitled to impeach any lying witness, including one I put on the stand. He’s not free to lie just because I called him.”

“Your Honor,” Captain Blair said, “it’s right here in the Code of Criminal Procedure, article six hundred sixty-eight: ‘The rule that a party introducing a witness shall not attack his testimony is so far modified as that any party, when facts stated by the witness are injurious to his cause, may attack his testimony in any manner”—he looked up at the others—“except by proving the bad character of the witness.’ That’s what he’s trying to do, Judge, prove bad character.”

“If you have a prior inconsistent statement to impeach him with, Catfish, I’ll consider it,” the judge said, frowning at Papa, “but you can’t just attack his character like that.”

“Judge, I beg you, it’s the heart of our defense. If I can’t show he’s a murderer, I can’t prove he killed Miss Georgia.”

“He just told the jury the killer was Peter DeGroote,” Blair said. “Which is it?”

“I’ll sustain the objection.”

The lawyers returned to their places. Papa clutched his minié ball in his left hand. His right began to tremble.

“Papa,” Harley whispered.

Papa didn’t respond. His eyes remained fixed on Orman. His hand still shook.

He finally erupted, voice cracking and eyes blazing. “Did you shoot W. F. Houghston?”

Papa!

Blair leaped from his chair and pounded his fist on the table. “Judge!”

Papa turned on Blair.

“You defended him,” he shouted.

Blair made a move toward Papa, but Judge Goodrich intervened. “Stop! Both of you. Mr. Calloway, I sustain the objection. You will move on to something else. Now!”

Harley sagged in horror.

Papa nodded and ran trembling fingers through his hair, causing it to straggle over his forehead. He took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “You’re a bartender and sporting house tycoon, aren’t you?”

“Objection, leading.”

“Sustained.” The judge’s face was still red.

Papa braced himself again on the table and took another deep breath. The intensity in his voice was so unlike him. “What—do—you—do for a—living?”

“I sell real estate.”

“Do you—own—Miss Jessie’s—sporting house?”

“I used to, but I sold it long before your boy there paid a call on her whores.”

Papa shifted the minié ball to his right hand, then stared at it in the palm of his hand. Slowly, his eyes rose to meet Orman’s. “Isn’t the truth that you did own it on April fifteenth, that you shot Georgia Gamble because she wasn’t working hard enough to suit you, and Miss Jessie and Peter DeGroote are lying to protect you?”

Harley looked away. Sterling DeGroote owned Miss Jessie’s. It was clear on the record.

Orman smiled and replied calmly. “As I already told you, I didn’t shoot her, and I don’t even know Jessie Rose.”

Papa’s jaw clinched, and he thrust a shaking finger at Orman. “You went there—in a—red—buggy?”

“No.”

“The same red buggy—you came to court in today—with Peter DeGroote?”

Papa, stop.

“I came here on the trolley. One of the jurors sat near me.” Orman pointed. “Mr. Morrison. Ask him.”

Morrison seemed startled, glanced toward Papa, and quickly looked down.

“You rode here in DeGroote’s red buggy, didn’t you? You goddamned—liar …”

Papa.

Blair shifted in his seat but didn’t object.

Judge Goodrich intervened anyway. “Mr. Calloway—”

“. . . you goddamned—murdering liar. Tell the truth.”

Orman cackled. “Counselor, you’re coming unhinged. Afraid you’re losing this case too?”

A snicker sounded from the gallery. It was Schoolcraft.

Papa jerked toward him, then twisted back to the grinning Orman. Papa’s eyes turned feral, and he lunged