Frail Blood (3 page)

Malachi moved around the desk and leaned in, his mouth
inches from her brow. "You're right. The prize in this trial is far too
serious for games."

He lowered his voice further and felt his breath brush the
curls at her temple. "But you, Miss Knight – so much better educated and
wiser than Alma – you comprehended her precarious situation even if she did not.
Shame on you."

He felt the quick panting of her breath against his chin and
it further inflamed him. "You took advantage of my client."

She stepped back, flint steeled her eyes, and she quickly
rallied. "Time for that later," she snapped with a wave of her gloved
hand.

The next moment she changed the subject in a surprise tactic
he hadn't expected. "Now, how do you intend to defend Miss Bentley?"

He raised his brows. "Beg your pardon?"

"Miss Bentley," she reiterated with the mock
patience of one speaking to a child. "How will you defend her in the face
of such overwhelming evidence of premeditated murder? Coupled with her
admission of guilt."

Now it was she who took a step closer, her chin jutting
toward his necktie. "How will you handle Alma Bentley's defense? How will
you appeal to a jury of men when no women are on the panel?"

He flashed an icy look that had quelled many an opposing
attorney. "I have no intention of discussing trial tactics with you, Miss
Knight."

She ignored his freezing tone and pushed obstinately forward.
"Perhaps Miss Bentley would be better served by a female attorney to
defend her."

Malachi clenched his jaw. A woman lawyer? What kind of nonsense
was the woman spouting? Alma Bentley could not afford
his
services, let
alone make demands about who should represent her – man
or
woman.

"Perhaps
you
would care to represent her?"
he ground out.

"Posh, don't be ridiculous."

Posh? 

Miss Knight frowned. "I'm not an attorney."

"And yet you have so many opinions about the law and
lawyering," he scoffed.

He was certain, then, that she intended to stomp off, and he
was glad to be rid of her. He wasn't sure why this wealthy, pampered heiress
bothered him so much when another reporter might have done the same as she. Perhaps
because she was rich and spoiled, and couldn't possibly understand Alma's
plight, while his client's dilemma tugged at the strings of his own heart – a
heart he'd been sure he no longer possessed.

Malachi opened his mouth to lambaste her further when he
heard someone enter the reception area behind her. A gentleman stood in the
foyer and Malachi recognized him immediately from his years of practice in San
Francisco – Stephen Knight, artist and entrepreneur. And surely a relative of
Emma Knight.

"Mr. Rivers, I believe," Knight exclaimed,
extending his hand in greeting. "I've heard a great deal about you."

Malachi nodded briefly, feeling quite outnumbered and
outmaneuvered. He wondered exactly what Stephen Knight thought he knew. The
entire tawdry situation with Constance had happened nearly ten years ago in San
Francisco.

"I see you've met the new editor of
The Placer Gazette!"
The older man's face beamed with pride as he added, "My niece and partner,
Emma Knight."

Knight's grip was crushing, and although broader and shorter
by several inches, he carried his stockiness like the banner of the self-made
man Malachi knew him to be.

"Yes, sir, I've just had the pleasure," he
answered, glancing at the startled look on Miss Knight's face.

"How long have you been practicing law in Placer Hills,
Mr. Rivers?" Knight asked.

"Five years or so, since I left San Francisco."

"Ah, I see." Knight's eagle eyes seemed to convey
more than he expressed.

Malachi checked his pocket watch and gathered up his satchel.
"I'm sorry, but I must return to court."

Knight scrutinized him in a thoughtful manner before turning
to his niece. "Emma, dear, you must invite Mr. Rivers to supper on Friday."

"Uncle Stephen," she protested, "I'm sure Mr.
Rivers is unavailable on such short notice."

Malachi's first inclination was to decline the invitation. Supping
with an irritating reporter and her discerning uncle held no appeal to him. But
something about the self-satisfaction on Miss Knight's face – the confidence
with which she assumed he wouldn't accept – changed his mind.

"On the contrary. I'm completely at your disposal."
Malachi grinned and again enjoyed the flush seeping up Miss Knight's neck and
cheeks, this time clearly in annoyance.

"If you'll excuse me, it's nearly time for the
afternoon session." He nodded to each in turn and then made his way to the
front where he locked his office behind them.

It wasn't until he'd ascended the stairs to the second floor
courtroom that he wondered if he hadn't made a serious miscalculation.

Chapter 3

"... function is smother'd in surmise, and
nothing is but what is not." –
Macbeth

Dratted man, Emma groused silently, as she and Stephen
walked back up Main Street to the courthouse. Her beloved uncle actually seemed
to like Mr. Rivers. She pasted a wide smile on her face.

"Now, you must let me be about my work," she
admonished when they reached the courthouse steps.

"I rather like that young man," Stephen said by
way of answer, patting her arm for emphasis.

Emma batted at a few stray hairs that had thrown themselves across
her forehead. "But you hardly know him."

He smiled and touched her cheek. "A man in my position
hears things, Emma. Rivers is an upright citizen with a fine future. He boasts
an impeccable reputation in his profession."

He frowned, the movement creasing the crinkles on his
weathered face. "There's something else about him, but I can't seem to
remember what." He shook his head. "Some notoriety, I think."

"A scandal?"

"Hmmm, don't recollect right now." His face
cleared and he smiled at his niece. "Whatever it is mustn't be very
nefarious. It doesn't seem to have done him much harm."

Emma banished Mr. Knight's mysterious past from her mind,
patted her uncle's arm, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "I'll see you
on Friday, darling. Dinner at eight."

Knight called after her. "Don't forget the invitation
includes Mr. Rivers."

But Emma had begun to climb the steps with the rest of the
crowd and merely waved in a noncommittal gesture. Forcing a social situation
between Mr. Rivers and her was ridiculous. It was one thing for Stephen to
admire the attorney, but to invite him to dinner? What was her uncle thinking?

#

The afternoon court session moved forward in agonizing
tedium and Emma entertained herself by observing Mr. Rivers. He had even
features, just skewed enough to prevent a pretty look. Already in this late
afternoon his beard had begun to shadow his jaw, casting him in a disreputable
light. By contrast Mr. Fulton remained impeccably groomed.

Rivers was a large man – raw and commanding – but moved with
athletic grace. Emma watched in fascination as his large hands, sprinkled with
dark hair, pressed down on his notepad and fiddled with a pencil.

Early in the afternoon's proceedings the prosecutor called
his first witness to the stand. A domestic in the Machado household, Anne
Gulley came weekly to do what she called the "tough work." The four
of them – father, mother, sister, and Joseph, Jr., – had lived at the same
residence where Joe was killed.

"Mrs. Gulley, on what day did you regularly visit the
Machado home to engage in your services?" asked Mr. Fulton.

"Usually I come on Fridays, so's to get the house
readied for the weekend company," the round-bodied woman answered.

"And what time do you generally arrive there?"

"Likely 'round sebben in the morning."

"So early?" Fulton asked, a look of surprise on
his face. "Aren't the household members still abed at that hour?"

"Upstairs. But I work first in the kitchen downstairs."

"I see." Fulton stepped closer to the woman and
leaned conspiratorially against the witness box. "Does Alma Bentley also
work on Fridays?"

Anne Gulley smiled, revealing several gaps in her front
teeth. "Mayhap you could call it that." She snorted, flashing a sly
glance toward the defendant.

Fulton's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? What do you mean?"

"Lemme jest say, Alma's there ... but she ain't working."
Her small eyes glinting, the woman added maliciously, "Unless it's on her
back."

An uproar began in the courtroom as Mr. Rivers jumped to his
feet. "Your honor, I object!"

Finally an objection, Emma thought through the shock of the
woman's insinuation.

Judge Underwood banged his gavel rigorously on the wooden
podium through the buzz of noise. "Silence!" he thundered. "Silence
or I'll clear the goddamn courtroom!"

A hush descended on the gallery. Emma's cheeks warmed. She
glanced around the room to observe the other women whose flushed faces showed
their reaction to Mrs. Gulley's claim and the judge's profane outburst.

Some of the men looked appalled, but others suppressed
knowing grins.

"Mrs. Gulley, you will confine your remarks to facts,
not speculation. Objection sustained." Underwood glowered at Fulton. "Keep
your witness within the bounds of decorum, Mr. District Attorney," he
warned.

Mr. Fulton dismissed his witness, Mr. Rivers had no
questions of the woman – now why didn't that fact surprise Emma? – and Judge
Underwood adjourned the afternoon court session.

It wasn't until later that Emma realized again that she
should've taken prodigious notes during the entire session, but had, in fact,
not written a single line. She sighed heavily.

Being a
bona fide
newspaper woman was not going to be
an easy task.

#

Judge Underwood ordered Malachi and Fulton into his
chambers, an ignominious space behind the courtroom where he also conducted his
weekly poker game. The bailiff ushered them into the unoccupied room as if it
were the sacrosanct chambers of a Supreme Court justice.

Glaring at both attorneys, Underwood fell back into one of
the four wooden chairs surrounding a battered old table. He sized up Malachi,
then turned an eagle eye on Fulton.

"Charles, if you call any more witnesses like that
woman, you'd better plan on spending a night in my jail," he threatened,
poking a finger the district attorney's way.

Fulton spread his hands, palms upward like a supplicant. "I
had no idea, Phineas. When I prepared the woman, she gave no indication she
held such – "

"Malice toward my client?" Malachi provided,
lounging against the door.

Fulton was too clever a prosecutor to allow a witness full
rein on the stand. Likely he not only knew what the woman would say, but had
supplied the words with which to say it.

"Held such animosity in her opinions about the
defendant," Fulton continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "I
apologize, Your Honor. It will not happen again."

"See that it don't." The judge stuffed his unlit
cigar back in his mouth and angrily waved the two men off. Malachi glanced back
to see the magistrate pulling off his robe and stuffing his heavy arms into a
jacket.

At the stairs, Fulton veered right toward the prosecutor's
office while Malachi stared after him before walking one floor down the
circular marble stairs to the lower exit and then outside. The air was still
warm in the late afternoon, the clouds fluffy and white on the horizon, the
trees laden with leaves that hadn't begun to turn.

He walked beneath the long flight of the outdoor concrete
steps and stood in front of the small, windowless alcove tucked beneath the
back of the steps, a hole dug out especially for Alma. Iron bars covered the
opening from top to bottom.

Alma Bentley would soon occupy this tiny prison until her
fate was decided at the hands of twelve upstanding citizens of the community. All
men, because no woman could sit on a jury. On that one point, Miss Knight was
correct. Alma would not be judged by a jury of her peers.

Malachi shook his head and wandered off down the hill. The
thought of returning to his small cabin just yet seemed stifling. Too restless
to return to work, he ambled aimlessly down Main Street and past the meager
sign over his office.

The shingle read
Malachi
J. Rivers, Attorney at
Law,
in a simple wooden carving. He could afford to replace the crude sign,
but he liked the reminder of his lowly beginnings. It was a stark contrast to
the kind of life he'd lived with Constance and kept him rooted in simplicity
and honesty, qualities he hadn't always valued.

The town tavern loomed brightly to his left at the end of
Main Street. Malachi seldom indulged in spirits, but tonight the rowdy atmosphere
suited his mood. And perhaps the loose tongues often found in such places would
provide a barometer to gauge the town's mood concerning Alma Bentley.

He slid onto a stool at the bar, ordered soda water, and
sipped idly for a while. The boisterousness rose steadily as the crowd
increased after the supper hour and men drifted in for a respite from work or
home. An hour later Malachi had overheard the occasional comment about the
trial.

"Poor woman, to be used so poorly!"

"I heard tell she clamped the pistol to her thigh and
went a huntin' for the poor bastard."

"I say he got what he deserved."

"Joe, Jr., sure was a ladies' man."

"Letch more like it."

"He shouldn'a throwed her off after being so sweet on
her."

"Still, she kilt the man in cold blood."

"Murder will out, they say!"

"Shut the fuck up, Boyd. You ain't got no idea what
them words mean, nor even where they come from."

"Mebbe not who said 'em, but the meaning's clear as
day."

Malachi estimated the sentiment against Alma was as strong
as for her. Good, on such a dichotomy would he build the case.

At nearly eight o'clock Stephen Knight entered the tavern
and approached him at the bar. To Malachi's surprise, Knight nodded toward an
empty table at the back of the room.

"Join me?" Knight suggested.

Malachi hesitated a mere moment. He might learn some
intriguing tidbit about the man's niece that would prove amusing, if not
helpful in keeping her in rein as she continued to report on the case.

After another hour Emma Knight's uncle had finished off his third
Busch Bavarian while Malachi still sipped at his second soda water. They'd
covered the topics of weather, the upcoming grape harvest, and the
reconstruction of San Francisco after the earthquake three years ago. They'd
both sustained considerable loss of property during the subsequent fire.

They carefully skirted the subject of the trial.

"Are you a temperance man?" Knight asked at last,
nodding toward the water.

"Not really."

Knight shrugged his bear-like shoulders. "Oh, I see."

"Really, sir, do you?"

"I know a bit about your family, Mr. Rivers." Knight
cleared his throat. "Your father, in particular."

Malachi merely raised an eyebrow. What the hell was the
older man getting at? Malachi had returned to reside in Placer Hills only after
the death of his mother and many years after his father had been killed.

"His drinking, I mean," Knight clarified, taking
another swig of his beer.

"Then you'll understand why I don't speak of my father."

"Of course."

Malachi shifted restlessly in his chair. Although he'd been
happy to join Knight for a drink, now was the time to leave. He had no
inclination to discuss his private life with someone he hardly knew.

He made a show of pulling out his pocket watch. "If you'll
excuse me, sir, I have notes to complete for the trial."

Knight placed a firm hand on Malachi's arm. "Speaking
of the case, I wonder if you might perform a small favor for me."

Ah, so this was why the elder man had sought him. What favor
did Knight think Malachi could do?

"My niece," Knight began on a sigh. "Emma is ...
head strong. And a little stubborn. She guards her independence fiercely."
His voice contained both pride and frustration.

Malachi smothered a snort. "Willful" was more like
what he'd witnessed. He pointed out the obvious. "She's hardly independent
if you purchased
The Gazette
for her."

"Aye," Knight smiled. "But her name's beside
mine on the legal document. It's all in the perception now, isn't it?"

"She does seem like a strong-minded woman,"
Malachi hedged.

"Obstinate's more like it. God, I love the girl dearly,
but she's got all these notions." He waved his fingers vaguely.

"Notions?"

"Not that her ideas are wrong, mind you. They're just
too far ahead of the times." Knight eyed the golden liquid in his glass. "Like
her grandmother, she is."

Curious in spite of himself, Malachi inspected the older man.
"Ideas about what?"

"About women – their rights, the vote, God knows what
else that fancy education at Wellesley put into her pretty mind."

He shook his head. "Jesus, her father spent thousands
of dollars to educate the girl, and all her parents see is a woman who's got no
idea how to please a man!"

"And you, sir?"

Knight smiled broadly. "Mind, you're talking about my
niece. I think she knows everything she needs to know about the world of men."

"A woman owning property, much less a business, is rare
around here," Malachi ventured. "Scandalous enough to rock our small
community. Many folks in Bigler County believe a woman has no business meddling
in a male arena."

He stood, reached into his pocket for coins, and tossed them
on the table. "But I hardly see how I can help you with your niece, Mr.
Knight."

"You were married once, as I recall," Knight said
in a
non sequitur.
His shrewd eyes raked over Malachi's face.

"That was a long time ago and an experience best
forgotten," Malachi snapped.

"Humph, seems like you've got a lot of off-limits
topics."

"Perhaps, sir, but a man's secrets are his to keep."

#

Malachi had reached the wooden porch and walkway outside the
tavern when Knight caught up with him. "Sorry if I offended you, Mr.
Rivers. I assure you it was not my intention."

Malachi paused on the landing and allowed a little
exasperation to creep into his voice. "What do you want from me, Mr.
Knight? I have a great deal of work to accomplish and very little time."

"Call me Stephen," Knight insisted.

Malachi nodded curtly. "Stephen."