A sob burst from his throat. “I didn’t mean to shoot her. I’m so sorry.”
Catfish eased closer to the jury box. Some of the jurors were still eying Cicero; most didn’t. He faced Cicero and crossed his arms. “Did you lie to these men earlier?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“I was scared. I don’t want to die.”
“Did you intend to kill her?”
“No, sir. I had no reason.”
“Do you regret what you did?”
“I do.”
“Anything else you want to say?”
“No, sir. Just, I’m so sorry.”
Catfish nodded. “Pass the witness.”
“All right.” The judge rubbed the back of his neck. “Captain Blair?”
Blair rose stiffly. He wasn’t likely to let Cicero off easily.
“So, Mr. Sweet, your new story is you do remember what happened?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That you shot her but didn’t mean to?”
“That’s the truth.”
Blair scowled at the boy. “So when you told us before you didn’t remember anything that happened after the two of you danced, that was a lie?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You were lying then, but you aren’t lying now?”
“That right.”
Blair shook his head. “You want us to believe your new story, but not your old story?”
“Yes, sir.” He cast an imploring look at Catfish.
Catfish rolled the minié ball in his hand. He’d done all he could do; justice would take its course.
“I think I understand.” Blair shot a knowing look at the jury. “Nothing further, Judge.”
Chapter 41
The clock tower struck four. Catfish scanned the spectator gallery as the judge concluded his charge to the jury. Almost every seat in the courtroom was occupied. Watchers fanned themselves against the sultry heat left behind by the afternoon thunderstorm. They were all there—Schoolcraft, Orman, Shaughnessy. Three other aldermen, the mayor’s imps, sat in different spots. Brann, Brown, and the other reporters were scattered through the gallery, hunched over their notes. Even Miss Jessie had made a public appearance, tastefully attired at the end of the last row, fanning herself with her oriental fan. The seat next to her remained empty—the last empty seat in the whole courtroom. The Sweets clutched hands tightly in their front row seats. Jasper watched from two rows behind President Burleson. Miss Peach smiled encouragement.
Harley nodded toward Catfish’s right hand. He hadn’t noticed he was drumming his fingers. They both knew this was the biggest risk he’d ever taken in any case, but they agreed it was Cicero’s only chance.
Prison or death.
Captain Blair opened calmly. “Reverend Sam Jones preached here back in April, and everybody went. He said one thing that caused folks to think him a prophet: ‘If you can block off a place, call it a Reservation, and license licentiousness, why don’t you reserve a few blocks where a man can commit murder and go unpunished?’ Well, gentlemen, not six hours later, Miss Georgia Virginia Gamble fell victim to a murderer’s hand—in the Reservation. There’s no way to change it, but is the rest of what he said prophesy? That a man can murder in the Reservation and go unpunished?”
He moved closer to them. “I say to you, gentlemen, that’s where prophesy fails. Because that’s in your hands, and I’m confident you won’t tolerate murder, whether it’s in the Reservation or in the Baptist church, whether it’s a poor working girl in a bawdy house on the wrong side of town or a banker’s wife in the finest house in the best neighborhood.”
The jury was hanging on his every word. Tom Blair was good. He knew how to connect with folks.
“I say that’s what will happen because I agree with something else Reverend Jones said in that sermon: ‘You can hang a few anarchists in Chicago every few years and think you’ve killed out anarchy, but if you have a law on the books that you don’t enforce, you’ve got anarchy right here in Waco, Texas.’ You remember the striking coal miners in Indiana and what they did last month? The authorities had to call out the militia, didn’t they? Even closer to home, in the Indian Territory, they called out federal troops to protect folks from the miners. When laws aren’t enforced, innocent people get hurt.”
Trying to scare them into a death sentence.
Blair paced in front of the jury box, eyeing each juror as he passed. “If you let murderers go free this time just because the victim’s a bawdy woman, next time it’ll be a decent woman. Or her child. No, gentlemen, Reverend Jones got that one right. ‘The juror who does not bring such offenders to justice is a particeps criminis to their damnable rascality.’”
He stopped at the end of the jury box and turned back to face them. “Do you remember what I asked the defendant?” He sauntered back along the bar and stared at Cicero. “I said, ‘Mr. Sweet, did you consider the Reservation a lawless place where murder might go unpunished?’ He said, ‘I never thought about it.’”
Blair snorted. “Well, gentlemen, he sure did a lot of thinking about that sermon, didn’t he? The preacher preached against drinking, and Mr. Sweet decided he wanted beer. The preacher preached against laying with a bawdy woman, and Mr. Sweet put that sin on his list too. The preacher preached against lawless places like the Reservation where sins go unpunished, and Cicero Sweet felt free to sin as he pleased there. That poor working girl made the mistake of insulting his manhood, and he killed her for it—with malice aforethought. He didn’t think he’d be punished for killing a whore.”
He stood with his hands on his hips. “For most of the trial, the defense claimed some other man somehow shot her while the defendant was passed out on the floor.” He pointed left and spoke in a mocking voice: “It was Bud Orman!”
