“Good,” Papa said. “Ask the bailiff to get him back in here.”
Harley glanced back at the windows in the courtroom doors. A man was looking in.
Harley pointed at him. “Is that the man you talked to?”
She looked. “Yes, and—”
“That’s Sterling DeGroote,” Papa said.
A younger man appeared beside him.
“And Peter,” Harley added. “Captain Blair must be calling him in rebuttal as soon as we finish.”
Miss Peach took a step forward and discharged a big breath. “Mr. Calloway, please listen—I need to tell you something else important. The red buggy. It’s parked on the street.”
“What?” Papa asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Near the front door.”
“That decides it,” Papa said. “I told you it’s Orman’s buggy.”
Harley held up a hand. “Wait—Papa, we don’t know whose buggy it is. It might be Orman’s, but it might be DeGroote’s. Peter told me his father let him use their buggy. It could belong to somebody else.”
Papa chewed on that silently.
“Let’s rest our case and let Blair call Peter,” Harley said, trying to keep the pleading tone from his voice. “You’ll have an easier time prying it out of him with leading questions on cross than if we call him ourselves.”
Papa scratched his head. “I don’t want to call him, son. I’m gonna call Orman.”
“Then will you wait so we can see if Peter drives the red buggy? If he doesn’t, you can still call Orman.”
“I agree,” Miss Peach said.
Papa chewed on that too. “All right.”
The judge returned to the courtroom and reconvened.
“The defense rests,” Papa said.
Finally, a positive development.
The judge then announced he was not feeling well and adjourned for the day—another helpful thing, at least for now.
Papa leaned over and issued his next orders before waving for Henry Sweet and heading out of the courtroom with him.
Harley sat down again next to Miss Peach. He was to get another instanter subpoena issued; Papa wanted Winky-Blinky in court the next morning to identify the owner of the red gig. Miss Peach filled out the subpoena form as he dictated the content.
She was writing the final details when a disturbance outside the courtroom drew their attention.
Through the door windows, two men squared up, face to face, one with his back to them. Papa shouted at that man before Mr. Sweet stepped in and dragged him away. They disappeared down the stairs.
The other man turned around, facing them. His horseshoe mustache framed a curling lip. He tipped a cane to his bowler hat and departed.
Chapter 36
Harley was in court early the next day. He couldn’t get Papa’s clash with Schoolcraft out of his head. He’d stopped by the house after leaving the courthouse but learned nothing. Papa said he was tired and going to bed. He’d looked awful.
When Papa arrived at the courtroom, Harley asked him about Schoolcraft.
“Not now, son.”
Harley just stood there. He could help—if only Papa would let him. He looked to Miss Peach for reassurance.
She seemed worried.
Spectators dribbled in early to claim the best seats, Jasper among them. Was he worried too?
Buford Lowe bumbled up to Papa, winking and blinking uncontrollably. “You promised you wouldn’t involve me in this.”
Papa stood. “We think we might’ve found the fella with the red buggy, but we aren’t sure. We have to see if you can identify him.”
“That’s all? You don’t need me there?” He nodded toward the witness stand, visibly shaken by his surroundings. “And then I can leave?”
“I’ll need you to wait outside the courtroom after you identify him. You likely won’t have to testify, but it’s a possibility.”
Lowe trembled, then winked and blinked. “I can’t. I’ll be ruined. My wife will leave me, and I’ll lose my job.”
“It probably won’t be necessary.” Papa touched his arm. “I’ll do my best to get what I need without calling you. Just sit in the gallery with Harley. When the man comes in, let him know whether he’s the one you saw toss something in the red buggy and go into the sporting house. Then Harley’ll take you outside.” He paused, pressing closer. “I know this is hard on you, but an innocent boy’s life depends on this.”
Harley led Lowe to a seat on the west side where they’d be able to see Peter when he came in. And then they waited. Lowe fidgeted constantly.
Fifteen minutes later, Peter DeGroote arrived with his father. The bailiff led Peter to the jury box and placed him there to wait until court reconvened.
Harley leaned close to Lowe. “Is that him?”
“I’m not sure. I didn’t see him very well, and it was quick.”
“Let’s get closer.”
He led the reluctant Lowe to the bar rail, not fifteen feet from Peter DeGroote. Lowe took a long, hard look and nodded once. Harley signaled to Papa and took Lowe outside.
As they stepped into the hallway, they ran into Bud Orman, arriving under subpoena. He stank of hair oil. Neither he nor Lowe appeared to recognize one another. Another broken connection—what a relief. Harley instructed Lowe to wait there and went back inside.
“Orman’s here too,” he told Papa. “They don’t know each other.”
“All right.” His expression was blank.
Harley waited, but Papa said nothing. “So we can release Orman now, right?”
Papa sagged back into his chair and stared off into space. “I expect we’ll still call him.”
Harley opened his mouth to reply, closed it again, and then just stared at him. Why, Papa? Why can’t you hear what Cicero Sweet doesn’t have the guts to say? Damn that boy for putting Papa through this.
Harley froze in place as his father penciled words into his notes for Orman’s examination. He was going through with it. How could Harley stop him now?
Harley twisted away from his father. His eyes caught Miss Peach’s, and he crouched beside her, pleading with hushed desperation. “Something’s wrong with Papa. He’s going to call Orman. He’s just blindly charging on. Cicero
