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

him today is what upset Papa so. Schoolcraft took on Houston’s case almost as a crusade and saw to it he was prosecuted aggressively. Schoolcraft and Papa hate each other.”

Dampness appeared around his eyes. This must be so hard on Harley—and on top of that, to watch his father fall apart. Poor dear.

She touched his sleeve lightly. “Were you and Houston close?”

“We were the only children in the family to survive into adulthood. He was born before Papa went off to war, and I was born after he got back. He was my big brother, and … Yes. We were very close.”

She leaned out into the mist as if searching down the cross street, trying to give him a moment of privacy. “I’m so sorry.”

“The jury convicted him. They gave him the death penalty.”

She snuck a glance at his face. “So he was hanged?”

Harley reined the horse left onto Eighth Street and nodded. “Papa blamed Schoolcraft.”

Miss Peach frowned. Maybe not just Schoolcraft. Houston’s trial had obviously been very personal to Mr. Calloway. He’d gotten too emotionally involved in the defense—just as he had now with his war buddy’s son.

That was it.

She clutched Harley’s sleeve again. “Don’t you see what’s happening now, Harley? He blamed himself for Houston’s death because he couldn’t save him in the trial. His emotions got in the way. He thinks Houston died because of his failure as a lawyer—and now it’s happening all over again with Henry Sweet’s son. He must be terrified.”

Harley’s eyes grew large. “Not Papa.”

“Yes, don’t you see? Cicero’s case is very personal too—Mr. Sweet saved Mr. Calloway’s life in the war. Did you see the way your father was fingering that bullet?”

Harley was silent. He lashed the horse.

Miss Peach twisted to look every direction as the buggy rattled up Mary Street and crossed the Cotton Belt tracks. Where was Mr. Calloway? When they reached the Jackson Street crossing near the Katy Hotel, Bootblack Ben waved and beckoned them over.

“Haw!” Harley barked, pulling the surrey around the parked locomotive and toward the hotel.

“Mr. Harley,” Ben called, “I done seen your father out running in this rain. Something was awful wrong.”

Miss Peach’s stomach clenched.

“Where was he headed?” Harley asked.

“That away.” He thumbed south over his shoulder. “Had Colonel Terry with him.”

Harley raised a hand. “Thanks, Mr. Moon.”

She gripped the side of the surrey as he lashed the horse into a trot and they surged into the downpour.

“Hold on,” he said. “I know where he’s headed.”

***

Catfish slumped back against a live oak tree, his legs splayed before him. Rain fell from the overhanging limbs in steady drips, as it did from every oak and pecan in Oakwood Cemetery. The colonel’s head nestled on his thigh. Both of them were soaked to the bone.

“It doesn’t matter, Colonel.” He rubbed the hound’s ear until his eyes closed.

Eight feet away was a tombstone: Martha Calloway. Beloved Wife & Mother. 1836–1885. Rest in Peace.

Numbness washed over him. “Martha, I need your guidance. I feel so helpless. No matter what I do, it turns out wrong. Henry Sweet’s boy is going to hang unless I find a way. Henry’s counting on me, as I counted on him in Kentucky.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I acted the fool in court today, honey. I embarrassed Harley. I failed Cicero. I let Henry down, and Jasper too. What do I do now?”

A gust of wind blew a small branch loose from the tree to his right. It fell in front the other marker, the one that was harder to look at. Houston Calloway. Audi Alteram Partem.

The other side.

He never could make them hear Houston’s side.

“I’m so sorry, son. It’s my fault.”

Now it was happening again. Why couldn’t he make people see the truth anymore? Was he the only one who saw it clearly, or was he the one who could no longer see?

He was bone-weary—hadn’t slept during the trial. He turned back to his wife’s headstone and closed his eyes. So tired.

Miss Jessie’s garishly painted face taunted him from behind his eyelids: Would you like me to tell you what your client said? She couldn’t be telling the truth. He turned his head. I’m sorry I shot her—Cicero couldn’t have said that. On the barrel of that gun stands the assassin’s natal autograph, written in the blood of the helpless whore. There is only one man in the whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign, the defendant, Cicero Sweet.

“Martha, there’s nothing to this finger smudge science,” he murmured.

I’m gonna put Cicero in the witness chair and let you judge him for yourself.

When I called Cicero, he did tell them the truth as he remembered it—I danced with her, and then we must have gone upstairs, but I don’t remember anything after that. Because of the beer, or a blow to the head? You’re not saying Miss Georgia undressed you, are you? No, sir. She didn’t do that for sure. Cicero was just confused. She just tended to her own clothes.

He flung an arm over his closed eyes as a shield against the rain. “He was confused.”

I took my own clothes off. Confused, right? Wasn’t he? He said he didn’t remember. I don’t recall anything. That had to be the truth. And she got scared and pulled her derringer? I sure didn’t see anything like that. He meant he didn’t remember, didn’t he? I’m not the kind to hurt anybody . . . I haven’t been in any fights . . . You’re just not the kind of young man who’d hurt anybody? No, sir, I’m not.

“He’s not, Martha. Is he? Henry’s boy couldn’t be.”

Cicero pushed me down. When I got back up, he punched me and knocked me into the creek. That didn’t have anything to do with Georgia’s death. She laughed at his manhood, and that made him madder. Peter was lying? Just about the time I got to the downstairs hall, I heard the gunshot . . . We found Georgia dead and Cicero lying unconscious on the floor.

His arm fell away from