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

He raised both hands to the ceiling and shook his head. “Then they ran out of other men to blame. It was only at the very end of this trial, after failing to put the murder off on somebody else, desperate for a way to survive, that the defendant finally admitted he killed her. He came up with a brand new story, and now he wants you to believe he didn’t mean to kill her.”

Blair cocked his head in puzzlement. “Now how is it Sweet can shoot a girl dead in the heart and not intend to kill her? For the life of me, I don’t see it. No, gentlemen, the defendant acted with malice aforethought. Judge Goodrich instructed you that if he acted deliberately it was first-degree murder. Well, take the defendant’s own words on that. He said to Miss Jessie, ‘I’m sorry I shot her.’ Miss Sadie heard that too.”

He ambled back to his table, glancing toward Catfish. “Here’s something Catfish and I happen to agree on. In his opening statement to you, he said, ‘Killers lie, don’t they?’ They sure do, gentlemen, especially when their lives depend on it. This young man would do anything to save his own skin. Cicero Sweet lied when he swore he didn’t remember what happened. He thought you’d take him at his word. When he decided you didn’t, he tried something else. He admitted that he lied but told a new lie: He shot her, but he didn’t mean to. Can you trust his new story?”

A juror shook his head.

Blair went to the court reporter’s desk and lifted the gun. “He lied about some other things too. I handed him this derringer and asked him if he’d ever touched that gun before. At first he swore to you he didn’t, but I brought you scientific proof he did.” He showed them the bloody print. “So finally, he admitted he did touch it, but he came up with a new story: He tried to knock it away and it went off. His new story—it was an accident.”

He shook his head slowly. “The defendant lied under oath about something else. After he said he wasn’t the kind of man who’d hurt a working girl, I asked him if he’d ever been in any fights before, and he said no, he hadn’t—swore to it right there in that witness chair. I brought Peter DeGroote in here, and he sat in the same chair and told you all about the day the defendant got mad about a college debate and beat him for it, knocked him into the creek. Sweet had been drinking that day, too. The defendant didn’t want you to know he’s the kind of man who’d do that, so he lied about it.”

He looked from juror to juror. “Just as his own lawyer told you, killers lie. And just like his own lawyer told you, he did put the killer in the witness chair.”

And Cicero fessed up to it.

“Gentlemen, the evidence is overwhelming. Cicero Sweet is guilty of first-degree murder. Don’t let a murderer go unpunished just because the victim was a working girl in the Reservation. It’s still murder. Thank you.”

Catfish nodded at Blair as he returned to his seat: Very eloquent, my friend.

He shut his yes. Lord, may I find my voice. Words are my only weapons now. If they can’t save this boy’s life, what use are they? What use am I?

“Mr. Calloway,” the judge said, “you may proceed.”

He was the only man in the muggy courtroom who hadn’t shed his coat at the judge’s invitation. The buttermilk suit he’d changed into after the rain showed sweat stains already. A bead trickled down his forehead.

He approached the jury, nodding to the bench. “May it please the court.”

“Counsel,” the judge replied.

“Gentlemen of the jury.” He rolled the witness chair over in front of them. “One thing before I begin.”

He sat in the chair and leaned forward, arms resting on his knees, right in front of the jury. He stared down briefly, then looked up at each juror. Every eye was fixed upon him.

“I owe you fellas an apology and an explanation. This morning, I said some things I’m ashamed of now. I acted poorly. I used vulgar language. I was disrespectful of the judge and of Captain Blair and of you, and none of you deserved that. My old teacher, Professor Sayles, would be disappointed in me because I dishonored our profession, and I pray forgiveness. But whether you can forgive me or not, I hope you won’t hold my failing against my client. I don’t really have much of an explanation for my behavior. You see, Cicero’s father, Henry Sweet”—he nodded toward his pal—“he’s an old friend. We rode together in the war. I owe him my life, and so I’m afraid I let my emotions get the best of me. I’m truly sorry.”

Would they forgive him?

He stood.

“But this trial isn’t about Catfish Calloway or Henry Sweet. It’s about Henry’s boy, a young man perched precariously on the edge of life. He’s a young man who should be eagerly anticipating a happy future, but instead fears the hangman’s noose. We don’t ask you to set him free. Respectfully, Captain Blair, we don’t think the killing of any person should go unpunished. No, gentlemen, we ask you to punish him fairly and wisely. We ask you to render your verdict from the noblest impulse of the Christian heart.”

He glanced at President Burleson in the second row. “A very wise man reminded me recently how important that is. It’s what gives us humanity in a world of wicked impulses.”

He stood behind the chair, resting his hands atop its back. “Cicero takes responsibility for what he did and stands ready to pay the price, whatever you see fit. He was weak, and he knows it. He had a weakness for strong drink, and he gave in to it. He had a weakness