“Cicero’s happy to escape hanging. He’s young. He can make a new life somewhere else after prison.”
“Just so you know,” Blair said, “I had two other people tell me Cicero drank too much and attacked them. He beat one pretty bad. Neither would testify, though.”
“Where’d you find them?”
“Schoolcraft came to see me.”
Harley huffed. “Why does he care?”
Catfish shook his head. His son was too defensive sometimes. “Leave it be. We’re done with Schoolcraft for good.”
“I hope you’re right about Cicero making a new life,” Blair said, “but I’m not so sure.”
Catfish nodded and blew smoke at the air. “I’m sorry for his folks.”
“How are they?”
“Henry’s bitter.” He ran his fingers through his hair, causing it to flop over his forehead. “Still says Cicero didn’t do it, and he’s not very happy with me.”
“He should be grateful you saved the boy’s life,” Blair said.
“He’ll figure that out some day.” He exchanged glances with Harley. “Things like that take time.”
Blair finished his drink, and after a warm goodbye he left.
Catfish loosened his tie.
Harley took a sip of the new Scotch whisky the proprietor had brought. “Papa, he was right about Mr. Sweet. You saved Cicero’s life.”
Catfish’s cigar left a haze over the table. “The jury did that.”
“But your speech moved them to it. I watched them, especially the veterans. It was when you said ‘no more killing.’” His eyes gleamed in the lamplight.
A fleeting whiff of kerosene from the lamp pierced the smoke.
The war. Catfish shut out the smell of death. That war did not measure his life.
The law. It was peaceful and civilized. In war or peace, killers sorted out their differences by violence. If lawful folks were going to be better than killers, nobody should die as the result of a trial.
He poured himself some of the new Scotch. “Like I told the jury, it’s more about who we are.”
“Maybe the legislature will figure that out someday.”
He snorted. “Maybe even in your lifetime.”
Harley tilted his head. “By the way, I happened to pick up your trial box today. It seemed lighter.”
“Lighter?”
“Like maybe you’d taken something out.”
“Oh?”
“Your new pistol.”
Catfish scoffed. “I don’t stow that in my trial box.”
He took off his coat, revealing the pistol snug in his shoulder holster.
Harley’s eyes dropped. “Wasn’t it in the box during the trial?”
“Of course not. Why on earth would you think such a thing?”
Harley reddened. “No reason—I mean, I must’ve thought you did. Maybe something Miss Peach said. But I also noticed you holding that minié ball during the trial. Wasn’t that in your trial box?”
“Sure, although it had no business there. Took it and my saber home to the Growlery, where they should’ve been all along.”
They both sipped their whiskys.
Catfish pulled off the shoulder holster and placed it under the table.
“Speaking of Miss Peach,” he said, “did you get her off to Eulogy?”
Harley nodded. “She was grateful for the time off you gave her.”
“She deserves it.”
“I told her that. We couldn’t have done it without her.”
Catfish settled back in his chair, then lofted smiling eyes at his son. “Awful sweet girl.”
Harley flushed again.
Catfish persisted. Sometimes a young man needed a nudge. “Apparently doesn’t have a beau.”
Harley shifted in his chair. “She’s our employee.”
“She’s more than that.”
“Regardless, she and I,” he said, gulping the whisky, “we were talking about that bullet you took to trial. Will you tell me about it?”
Catfish raised an eyebrow. He didn’t already know?
He leaned out to catch the proprietor’s attention as he passed by. “Mr. Kophal, I like that new Scotch whisky.”
He squinted to read the label.
“Strathisla, 1888,” Kophal said. It didn’t come easily to his Germanic tongue.
Catfish winked. “Another, please.”
Harley leaned forward. “You were going to tell me about the bullet?”
“We were on a raid behind enemy lines in Kentucky, and I was in a dire situation. My horse got shot out from under me. The regiment retreated, and I was all alone in the middle of a crossroads, hunkered down behind my horse. That bullet hit my carbine, not six inches from my head. I dug it out of the carbine stock later and kept it as a reminder of what Henry did next.”
Harley’s face was tight. “What?”
“He galloped back and rescued me. Took one in the leg himself when he did.”
“I didn’t know.”
Henry, too, must have thought of that day whenever he limped while others walked. Because of their friendship. “My loyalty to Henry blinded me, just like you said. Just couldn’t accept that any boy of Henry’s might be guilty.” He rocked back in his chair and smiled. “You’re a fine lawyer. I’m proud of the way you took over for me when I was out of my mind.”
Harley smiled back. “Proud of you, too.”
“I should have trusted your judgment more. You saw through Cicero right away and knew exactly how we should represent him, long before I did.” Had he only listened.
Harley tilted his head. “I may have jumped to the right conclusion, but it was without any tangible basis. I didn’t even know the truth about Peter or his father at that point. I believed them. I should have had the patience to make sure of my theories before I pushed them.”
“Calloway & Calloway,” Catfish said. “There’s a reason it’s a partnership.”
Harley nodded. Then his expression changed. “Papa, you didn’t cause Houston’s death. You know that, don’t you?”
Catfish looked down at his drink.
“I’ve wanted to talk about this before,” Harley continued, “but the time never seemed right.”
“I expect we couldn’t do it till now. I was wrong about Cicero … Maybe I was wrong about Houston, too.”
“So you think he was guilty?”
For so long, Catfish had fretted over what happened to Houston, bouncing from anger to guilt to hopelessness and back again. Never doubted Houston’s story, though. Maybe should have. A lawyer who wasn’t so close to him probably would have. Probably should have. He’d simply accepted Houston’s story because he loved him.
Harley looked so much like Houston. He couldn’t protect either of them from life’s perils.
