Destiny of Eagles (16 page)

“What's going on in here?”

Looking toward the door, Falcon saw the hotel clerk and two of the guests, drawn to his room by the sound of the shots.

“I just come into my room and found this fella here,” Creed said. “When I asked what he was doing in my room, he shot me.”

“Your room is twenty-three, Mr. Howard,” the clerk said. “This is room twenty-five.”

Creed snorted. “Ain't that a hell of a note now?” he said. “I get myself kilt just for making a mistake on my room.”

“What?” Falcon said. “What the hell are you talking about, Howard? You know that's . . .” Falcon stopped in mid-sentence. Creed Howard was dead, though Falcon was sure he could almost see a smug smile on his face.

By now the deputy sheriff, who had been making his night rounds, arrived on the scene.

“Somebody want to tell me what just happened here?” he asked.

“It looks like Mr. Howard came into this fella's room by mistake,” the clerk said. “And this fella shot him.”

“Mister, that's a hell of a thing to do just because a man made a mistake,” the deputy sheriff said. “Couldn't you have just told him it was the wrong room?”

“He was lying,” Falcon said. “He came in here to kill me.”

“Now, why would a dying man lie?” the deputy asked. The deputy pulled his pistol. “You know what I think? I think maybe I should take you in until we get this all figured out.”

The courtroom was so full that the sheriff posted deputies at the door to prevent anyone else from coming in. Word had gotten out that Falcon MacCallister was being tried, and because he was so well known, news reporters came from as far away as MacCallister and San Francisco to cover the trial.

One of the reporters even brought a sketch artist with him, and Anna was sitting behind the illustrator, watching with fascination as he developed the drawing. On the artist's sketch pad, Falcon MacCallister sat at the defendant's table with his arms folded across his chest and an almost arrogant expression on his face as he glared at the judge, Anna's father.

The artist was exceptionally skilled in that he had captured Falcon's features so perfectly that someone seeing it would be able to recognize him immediately. But there, the similarity ended, for while the artist depicted Falcon as arrogantly defiant, Falcon was, in fact, the picture of respect. He sat at the table with an attentive expression on his face, and every time he was spoken to, he responded politely.

Teddy Roosevelt was handling Falcon's case, and Anna had teased him about doing unpaid work for one of their local indigents.

* * *

“My dear Anna,” Roosevelt had replied. “By no means is Mr. MacCallister is a man without means. In fact, he is far wealthier than anyone you knew in New York's social set. And that includes me.”

“MacCallister?” Anna asked.

“Yes, Falcon MacCallister.”

“Would he have a brother and sister in the theater?” Anna asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, he does,” Roosevelt replied.

“Andrew and Rosanna,” both Anna and Roosevelt said at the same time.

“I met him in New York. In fact, he very graciously shared his theater box with me and a couple of my friends. And now here he is, with you as his lawyer. What a surprising turn of events.”

“Yes, especially when you consider that I'm not really a lawyer,” Roosevelt replied. “But when he requested my services . . . even though I told him I am not a practicing lawyer . . . he secured his request by the offer of a rather substantial advance.”

“A substantial advance? What did he do, borrow money from his brother and sister in New York?”

“Hardly, since they often borrow money from Falcon.”

“How is it that he has so much money?” Anna asked.

“It turns out that his father, Jamie MacCallister, was a man of considerable fame and fortune. He left Falcon several large caches of gold.”

* * *

That conversation had taken place nearly a week ago. In the intervening week Falcon MacCallister had spent the entire time in jail. Roosevelt tried, without success, to get Judge Heckemeyer to set bail, but Anna's father refused, citing his belief that Falcon MacCallister would flee at the first opportunity in order to avoid the trial.

“What makes you think he would flee?”

“Think about it, Teddy,” Judge Heckemeyer replied. “He has no business or family ties to keep him here. He has, by your own account, an almost unlimited supply of money. What would keep him here?”

“Honor,” Roosevelt replied.

“You are convinced he is a man of honor?”

“I am.”

Judge Heckemeyer stroked his chin for a moment, as if considering Roosevelt's request. Then he shook his head.

“I'm sorry, Teddy. I wish I could believe you. But the man has just killed too often, and I'm not convinced that anyone would find himself in so many situations where he must kill to survive. Your request for bail is denied.”

“I think you are wrong about Mr. MacCallister, Judge, and I intend to prove it,” Roosevelt said.

* * *

The courtroom was full, and both counselors were at their respective tables. The jury, which had already undergone the
voir dire
process, was in place, and the proceedings now awaited only the appearance of the judge.

“All rise!” the baliff called.

Everyone stood as Judge Heckemeyer came in and took his seat at the bench. He shuffled a few papers around, then looked up, cleared his throat, and hit a little wooden pad with his gavel.

“Baliff, are all parties in place?” he asked.

“They are, Your Honor.”

“Let the record show that Mr. Ken Woodward is acting as prosecutor. Do you concur, Mr. Woodward?”

A tall, gaunt man with long-flowing white hair and equally white chin whiskers stood up. He was wearing a light brown tweed suit with a dark brown silk vest.

“I do so concur, Your Honor.”

“Are you ready to present your case?”

“I am, Your Honor,” Woodward replied.

“Very good. Mr. Roosevelt, it is my understanding that you will be acting as counsel for the defendant?”

“I will be, with the court's permission.”

“How say you? Are you ready to present your case?”

“I am, Your Honor, but with the following caveat. Although I attended Columbia Law School, I did not take a law degree. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a practicing lawyer.”

“So noted,” Judge Heckemeyer said. “Mr. MacCallister, you have chosen Mr. Roosevelt as your attorney. Are you aware that he lacks the qualifications to serve you?”

“I am aware, Your Honor, but he is the one I want,” Falcon replied.

“You do understand, don't you, that he serves at the pleasure of the court? It is my prerogative to allow or disallow his participation.”

“Yes, sir. But it is also my understanding that if I waive all rights to appeal on the basis of incompetent representation, I may have Mr. Roosevelt as my attorney.”

“That is correct. Do you now waive those rights?”

“Yes,” Falcon said.

“Very well, your right to appeal is waived. Mr. Roosevelt is now your attorney of record. Mr. Woodward, you may proceed.”

Woodward nodded, then walked over to face the jury. “Gentlemen of the jury, the time of the Wild West is gone now, gone with the lost Atlantis, gone tone and tint to the isle of ghosts and ancient dead memories. Men and women of culture and refinement are working hard to make gentle this wonderful land, to create a beautiful paradise where our children, and our children's children, can prosper and live in peace.”

He turned away from the jury and pointed toward Falcon.

“But . . . into this wonderful time and place of enterprise and civilization comes the person of Falcon MacCallister.”

He said the words with a derisive slur.

“Falcon MacCallister,” he repeated. “I am sure that most if not all of you have heard of him, for he is a man whose reputation precedes him. Some . . . perhaps the writers of the dime novels . . . might find this reputation appealing. Others, with a misguided sense of hero worship, may even find him bigger than life, the stuff of legend. He is called a gunfighter, a gambler, and a bad man to crowd. He has been called a desperado, a highwayman, and a mercenary assassin.

“He is a deadly shot, a skilled fighter, and a man who, it is said, can track a buzzard's shadow.

“Who knows which of these stories are true, and which are fabricated from whole cloth?

“One thing that we do know . . . one thing that we have witnessed here, in our own town, is that he is a killer. Within the space of the past few days, four men have faced Falcon MacCallister, and four men have died.

“Mr. MacCallister has made the claim, not only for these deaths of which we have personal knowledge, but for his many other killings, that, in every case, the homicides were justifiable. Every man that he has killed, or so claims Mr. MacCallister, was killed in self-defense.

“Now, think about that for a moment. How many of you have ever encountered someone who was so intent upon killing you that your only hope for survival was to kill them?

“None of you?

“Well, don't worry, you aren't alone. Fortunately for us all, it is an extremely rare situation when one man sets out to kill another.

“And yet, if we are to believe Falcon MacCallister, he has killed at least fifteen men who were trying to kill him. And the number may be far greater than that, we just don't know.

“All right, let's give him the benefit of the doubt. Let us say that for many, perhaps even for all of these previous killings, he is telling the truth. Even if that is true, we are not trying him for any of his previous killings. We are trying him for the aggravated manslaughter of one Creed Howard.

“Creed Howard's dying testimony, heard by no less than four witnesses, was that he had wandered into Falcon MacCallister's room by mistake. Mr. Howard's room number at the hotel was twenty-three, right next door to room twenty-five. It is easy to see how such a mistake could be made, especially in the dark of night.”

He pointed to the jury. “Any one of you may have made the same mistake. Indeed, perhaps you have made such a mistake in the past . . . or perhaps you have occupied a room when someone entered it by mistake.”

He turned back to glare at Falcon. “For the average man, a man of civilized society, a man of decency, such a mistake would be met by embarrassment, confusion, and I will grant you, perhaps even a degree of irritation.

“But Falcon MacCallister has killed so many times that he has become inured to the concept of killing.” Woodward paused for a moment, then boomed out the next sentence. “With no more thought than the average man would have in stepping on a cockroach, Falcon MacCallister shot to death the stranger who made an innocent mistake.”

With his words still ringing in the crowded courtroom, Woodward resumed his seat.

The artist in front of Anna had just completed his drawing of Woodward, casting the prosecutor in an almost heroic image.

Roosevelt got up to address the jury.

“Gentlemen of the jury, I agree with Mr. Woodward that the average man would not shoot to death a stranger who made the innocent mistake of entering the wrong room. Neither would Falcon MacCallister. We intend to prove that Creed Howard was neither innocent, nor did he make a mistake. He entered Falcon MacCallister's room knowing full well that it was MacCallister's room, and he did so with the intention of murdering Mr. MacCallister.”

Roosevelt sat down then, catching the judge, the jury, and the gallery by surprise, for they had thought that his opening statement would at least equal in length, and more than likely even surpass, Woodward's remarks.

The sketch artist was the one who was most surprised, however, for he had barely begun his drawing.

Woodward began calling his witnesses. The first witness was Jason Fillmore.

“Mr. Fillmore, for the record, would you please state your full name and your occupation?”

“My name is Jason LeRoy Fillmore, and I am the night clerk of the Morning Star Hotel.”

“And how long have you held that position?”

“For six years,” Fillmore replied.

“Very good. Now, if you would, please give us your account of the events of the night of the twelfth,” Woodward said.

Fillmore was a small man with a red face, hooked nose, and thin hair.

“Well, sir, I was at my front desk when I heard the gunshots,” he said.

“How many shots did you hear?”

“I don't rightly know,” Fillmore said.

“More than one?”

“Yes, sir. Three, maybe four of 'em. Like this. Bang, bang. Then, right on top of the first two shots, I heard two more. Bang, bang.”

“What did you do then?”

“First thing I done is, I got down behind my desk.”

The gallery laughed and, with a scowl, Judge Heckemeyer brought his gavel down once sharply.

“Then what did you do?”

“Well, when I didn't hear no more shootin', I run upstairs to see if I could find out what was goin' on.”

“And what did you see?”

“I seen the door open to room twenty-five, and I seen a light shinin' out into the hall. So I went down there to look in and that's when I seen the one fella kneelin' over the other'n.”

“Who, specifically, did you see kneeling?”

“Him,” Fillmore said, pointing to the defendant's table. “Falcon MacCallister.”

“Let the record show that the witness identified Falcon MacCallister as the man kneeling. Is that when you saw the gun in MacCallister's hand?”

“Objection, Your Honor, leading the witness,” Roosevelt said.

“Sustained. Reword your question, Counselor.”

“Did you see anything in the defendant's hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you see?”

“I seen a gun.”

Woodward walked over to the exhibit table and held up a Colt .44.

“Is this the gun you saw?”

“Yes, sir, that's it.”

“Let the record reflect that the witness has identified Prosecution Exhibit One as the pistol he saw in Falcon MacCallister's hand.”

Woodward turned back to the witness. “Did you recognize the man on the floor?”

“Yes, sir. It was Creed Howard.”

“Was Creed Howard personally known to you?”

“I didn't know him personal-like, or nothing like that. But he was a guest of the hotel.”

“What was Mr. Howard's room?”

“Room twenty-three.”

“Where was his room in relation to the room where you found him?”

“His room was right next door.”

“Was he still alive when you found him?”

“Yes, sir, he was.”

“Did Mr. Howard say anything?”

“Yes.” Fillmore looked accusingly toward Falcon MacCallister. “He said he thought he had gone into his own room and discovered MacCallister there.”