Frail Blood (2 page)

An hour after finishing a modest dinner prepared on the open
flame of the fireplace, Malachi pumped water to soak the dishes. He poured
coffee and moved to the front porch where his mother's rocking chair – the only
piece of decent furniture his father hadn't smashed in a drunken rage years ago
– sat like a huge, over-sized gargoyle, its long runners jutting dangerously.

The rocker was his favorite spot to meditate.

As sunset gradually darkened the clearing around his home,
he stared into the dense forest and spied a smoky trail in the sky above the
tree line. A new owner taken up residence at the old Chester homestead, he
figured. Malachi cherished his privacy and the small estate lying a scant four
miles to the east of his shack was too close for his satisfaction.

When the night turned inky, he went inside and sat at the
oak-hewn table he had fashioned from the trees surrounding the property. Opening
a portfolio, he perused his hand-written notes on the Alma Bentley trial.

Opening remarks were scheduled for tomorrow, first the
prosecution's and then his own. Alma's case would require all his skill as an
attorney. He hoped he could extricate her from the Gordian knot of treachery
and murder she'd woven for herself.

Premeditated murder, with malice aforethought.

Chapter 2

"It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock
the meat it feeds on." –
Othello

Noise in the small courtroom rose to a distracting buzz as
latecomers straggled down the aisle one by one. Men garbed in work clothes and
those dressed in fashionable morning coats jockeyed for seats in the limited
space. Soon they packed the gallery, some hatless, others jauntily angling the
latest Homburgs or bowler hats on their heads.

No more than four or five women were scattered among the men
– the mother of the victim, of course, dark and heavy in her mourning clothes. The
sister of the victim languished beside her mother, her eyes red-rimmed and
puffy. Few other females beyond the defendant were in attendance. After all,
this trial would address delicate issues of fornication, betrayal, and murder,
not proper fodder for a lady's mind or conversation.

Unlike the other attorneys, Malachi refused to scrutinize
the gallery. The various inhabitants of the courtroom weren't his primary
concern. Rather, he focused on the two rows of gentlemen who lined the jury
seats to the right.

Twelve pairs of eyes stared down at his client from the
raised dais. Glittering eyes that seemed to rake over the poor quality of Alma's
gray gabardine suit and the plain straw of her bonnet. They were taking in the
whole of her, assessing her value much as they'd judge a heifer on the auction
block.

They alone were Malachi's concern because they alone would
decide his client's fate.

A moment later the bailiff called the session to order and
the audience settled into an excited hum of expectation. After the magistrate's
charge to the jury and a strict admonition to the audience about proper conduct
in the courtroom, the district attorney presented his opening statement to the
jury.

Fulton rose leisurely to his feet, hands gripping the lapels
of his coat. Malachi braced himself. He fully expected the prosecution to
titillate and inflame the jury by wrenching every sordid detail out of the tale
of Joseph Machado's murder at the hands of his erstwhile lover, Alma Bentley.

Malachi's eyes wandered to the pews directly behind the
wooden railing that separated the attorneys' table from the area assigned to
reporters. Two men occupied the first bench. He looked behind them to the
second row.

A newcomer sat in the center of that pew, her auburn hair a
flaming messy affair scarcely contained beneath a wide-brimmed hat. No doubt,
Emma Knight, the newspaper woman. Wedged between James Spencer from
The
Sacramento Union
and Harold Belcher from
The San Francisco Chronicle,
she held a pad and pencil as her fingers poised to take notes.

At that moment she lifted her head and met his scrutiny. He
blinked back at eyes that were a deep chocolate, as dark as the fine
Ghirardelli confections he'd once tasted in San Francisco. Dusty pink spots
flushed her cheeks even as she tilted her chin in an unmistakable challenge and
returned his stare without faltering.

The sound of Fulton's voice drew Malachi's attention and he
turned toward the front where the district attorney began his opening remarks.

"Gentlemen of the jury," Fulton began, facing them
and eyeing each juror in turn, "the state thanks you for the service you
render this court today, which service is one of the highest performances a
true patriot can give."

Malachi shook his head, but refrained from shooting a glance
heavenward, as he contemplated the pomposity that was the state, embodied in
the compact figure of Charlie Fulton. He steadied himself for a long-winded
speech.

"The prosecution will show," the district attorney
continued, "irrefutably and indisputably that Alma Bentley, a lowly maid
in the household of Joseph and Frances Machado, did willfully and with
premeditation, strap a pistol to her ankle, stride to the Machado home on Fort
Sutter Road, and deliberately shoot Joseph Machado, Junior."

He raised his right arm and pointed his finger in imitation
of taking the lethal shot. "As young Joe lay bleeding and dying on the
floor, Miss Bentley calmly shot him again. This time directly into his heart."

Malachi felt his client jerk beside him.

Fulton lowered his mock pistol and stared at the floor,
pausing dramatically as if the pathetic body lay at his feet. "I will show
that Alma did so out of revenge. Joe had spurned her attentions and
demonstrated interest in another woman. Motivated by jealousy and
uncontrollable rage, the accused decided if she could not have Joe, then no one
should."

Malachi glanced at Alma. Her face was a slab of stone. Her
hands gripped the table top.

"Alma Bentley committed cold-blooded murder in the grip
of the green-eyed monster," Fulton continued. "Yes, gentlemen, a
monster had her in its clutches, but it was a monster she welcomed into her
bosom."

Malachi touched Alma's shoulder, but she stared straight
ahead, her eyes unblinking, her mouth set. "Are you all right?" he
whispered. She said nothing, so he patted her hand and turned back to Fulton's
litany.

In elaborate detail the prosecution delineated the evidence
he intended to produce and the witnesses he would call to testify for the state.
In a rare gesture of patience and latitude, Judge Underwood allowed Fulton to
pontificate without interruption. Malachi glanced at the jury box where most of
the occupants' eyes had begun to glaze over.

Nearly sixty minutes later, the prosecutor began to end his
opening remarks. "Finally," he stated, "I will show without a
single doubt that Alma Bentley, and she alone, committed this heinous crime."

When Fulton sat down with a flourish, the judge allowed
several ponderous moments to lapse before he harrumphed and removed the sodden
cigar from between his teeth. "Mr. Rivers?"

Malachi stood. "Your Honor, the defense wishes to delay
its opening remarks to a later time."

A gentle sigh blew throughout the courtroom. As Malachi
suspected, he wasn't the only one made restless by the prosecution's lengthy
remarks. He thought he saw a glimmer of relief in the magistrate's eye as well.

Judge Underwood clapped his hands decisively. "Then we'll
take a luncheon break and reconvene at two o'clock this afternoon. Court
adjourned."

With a pounding of his gavel and another swishing of his
robes, the judge left through the same door he'd entered.

#

Emma remained on the hard wooden pew long after the other
reporters, attorneys, and onlookers had vacated the courtroom. She hadn't the
slightest intention of leaving until she felt composed. Scrupulously honest
with herself, she freely admitted that the single meeting of the eyes with Mr.
Rivers across the courtroom had thrown her off guard.

She ought to be furious with him. His response to her newspaper
article was insolent, and as Stephen had pointed out, she was merely performing
her job in reporting the news. Perhaps he also was merely doing his duty by his
client. Still, he needn't have been so acrimonious. And sanctimonious.

However, he was quite impressive in person, tall and
broad-shouldered with a longish crop of dark brown hair. But he puzzled her.
Although he appeared decisive and self-assured, his trial tactics seemed
unconventional. At times he showed kindness and consideration toward his
client, but at others displayed an almost cavalier attitude toward the
proceedings.

The district attorney had spoken at some length, but Mr.
Rivers asked only to delay his opening remarks. Was that the usual procedure? Emma
understood little about trial protocol, but shouldn't he have said something
about his client's innocence or circumstances? Ought he not to have presented a
brief summary in her defense?

Frustrated, Emma frowned and gazed down at the sparse notes
she'd scribbled in her notebook. She realized she had little notion of how to
go about covering the events of a trial and must be more diligent in her note
taking.

She had carefully perused the jurors and gallery during the
court proceedings. In the jury section the twelve men had sat upright and
powerful looking on the edge of the bench that ran the length of the southern wall
of the courtroom.

All men!

How could Alma Bentley receive the benefit of a fair trial
when her sex wasn't represented? When no woman could sit on a jury? Her civics
classes at Wellesley had ingrained the idea of one being judged by a jury of
his peers, but where were Alma Bentley's peers on the jury panel?

#

Moments after the court recessed, Malachi isolated himself
from the crowd. A few court attendees had brought picnic lunches now spread on
blankets arranged colorfully around the sloping hill. Some of the men strolled
toward the tavern on Main Street across from where Malachi maintained his law
office. Others wandered to Mary Belle's Teahouse, where the women in the
gallery were eager to share the morning's events with their friends whose
husbands had forbad their wives to observe the trial.

At that moment the flame-haired woman Malachi presumed was
Emma Knight strode toward him as if she'd take on Beelzebub himself if he got
in her way.

"Mr. Rivers?" The woman stopped abruptly and
glared up at him, no small feat, for she was an uncommonly tall woman. "Mr.
Malachi Rivers?"

He glanced at his pocket watch and ignored the impulse to
ask what the devil she wanted. Flies and honey, he reminded himself, as the
woman drew near.

"Please, call me Malachi," he said pleasantly.

His apparent friendliness seemed to throw her off guard, for
she sputtered to a stop.

Leaning against the cool brick wall of the three-story
building, he eyed her carefully. "May I help you?"

"I hope so." She planted her feet on the grassy
lawn and waved a letter under his nose. "You've soundly taken me to task
in this missive. I've come to challenge your ... complaint."

He should have done far more than send a letter of reprimand.
The woman could've ruined his defense of Alma Bentley by printing the admission
of guilt if he hadn't had a different strategy in mind.

"You've done more damage than you can possibly fathom,"
Malachi said, his voice the deadly calm that his opponents in the courtroom
knew preceded a raging storm. "Your article on Alma Bentley was very
harmful to my case."

The woman's mouth opened and closed and opened again as she
worked her lips like a fish floundering on a hook. Her shock of red hair
straggled from beneath some kind of god-awful bonnet with faux birds that threatened
to fly off their perch. Her eyes, the only interesting part of her face,
widened so that the whites were round orbits circling deep chocolate irises.

"I was doing my job, Mr. Rivers," she said at
last, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to an imbecile. "You can
hardly take umbrage with that. You cannot fault me for reporting the news."

"Precisely," he answered. "Report news, not
speculation and gossip designed to prejudice possible jurors."

With that parting remark, he lifted his satchel from the
ground where he'd leaned it against the wall, nodded abruptly, and strode off,
leaving her standing alone, her face flushed.

At the last moment he turned back to see the hard set of her
shoulders as she flounced away in that same mannish gambol.

Wishing to avoid anyone else, Malachi took a roundabout
route to his office where he sank into his desk chair, pressed his forefinger
and thumb against the bridge of his nose, and tried to plan for the afternoon
session.

Because Malachi would delay his opening remarks until he
began presenting his case, after the luncheon recess the prosecutor likely
would parade a steady stream of witnesses to testify against Alma's character. Another
boring and lengthy few hours loomed ahead of them, but Malachi didn't care. Let
Charlie Fulton lull the jury to sleep after a heavy lunch. Any irritation the
jurors aimed Charlie's way benefitted the defense.

Fifteen minutes later, Malachi was interrupted by a low
husky voice from the open office door. He recognized it at once and jerked his
head up.

Christ Jesus, she'd followed him to his office.

"Would you care to comment on the trial thus far, Mr.
Rivers?" she asked with calm persistence.

He chaffed under the dark eyes that pierced him like a
large, predatory feline, but he was also curious. Was she looking for fodder
for another damaging article?

Good manners too ingrained in him to remain seated, he
stood, but smiled like a shark. "It's far too early in the proceedings for
a comment."

Across the barrier of his desk she extended one slender,
gloved hand, rather large for a female, but fine-boned beneath the smooth
leather. Her grip was as firm as any man's.

"Perhaps we got off on the wrong foot," she said.

He believed it cost her something to say the words.

"May I formally introduce myself? I am Miss Emma Knight
from
The Placer Gazette."

"Malachi Rivers," he answered, returning the
pressure on those long, slim fingers through the thin, kid gloves. "I
accept your apology."

"Apolog – ?" She coughed and choked for several
long moments, but eventually recovered enough to respond. "I had every
right – in fact, obligation – to print that article," she said through
gritted teeth.

A becoming flush rose from the high-necked collar of her
frothy day-dress to diffuse through her cheeks. Not so bold as she pretended,
Malachi realized. Miss Knight was an infant in this hard business of a man's
world.

"You interviewed Miss Bentley without warning me,"
he argued. "That's not very sporting of you, is it?"

He watched in fascination as the tiny muscles of her jaw
tightened. "I hardly think Miss Bentley's trial is a sporting event, and
at any rate, she willingly granted the interview."