Read Ms. Etta's Fast House Online
Authors: Victor McGlothin
Ms. Etta's Fast House (31 page)
“Naw, I came by it second-hand, but you can set your pocket watch by it. The news is supposed to be real hush-hush but can't nobody keep a secret in this town,” Delbert told him, with the utmost confidence.
“Hell, don't I know it,” Baltimore asserted, most assuredly.
Delbert neglected to tell him how he had promised to keep it under his hat when getting the scoop from Ollie, who'd been told by Chozelle, after she read an arrangement signed by her father and Jinx from the locked desk drawer. Mr. Watkins agreed to travel out to see about Jinx's mother once a week and keep her pantry filled with necessities. Penny left him one thousand dollars on deposit. She assured him there would be more when the situation called for it.
“Folks need to mind their own business,” Delbert huffed ferociously. “That's what I always say.”
Baltimore tossed him a crooked smile. “
Always
?”
Always
?”
33
B
UCKING
THE
O
DDS
UCKING
THE
O
DDS
I
n less than two hours, the second biggest trial gripping the city of St. Louis would be bearing down on them. The first landmark proceeding culminated in the Dred Scott Decision, that disallowed slaves their freedom after previously living in free states. While Dred Scott initially won his liberation in the St. Louis Circuit Court in 1850, he later lost it to his master's widow by a Supreme Court reversal seven years later; ruling that Scott's time spent in a free society didn't override the fact that he was born a slave and didn't have the right to challenge it.
n less than two hours, the second biggest trial gripping the city of St. Louis would be bearing down on them. The first landmark proceeding culminated in the Dred Scott Decision, that disallowed slaves their freedom after previously living in free states. While Dred Scott initially won his liberation in the St. Louis Circuit Court in 1850, he later lost it to his master's widow by a Supreme Court reversal seven years later; ruling that Scott's time spent in a free society didn't override the fact that he was born a slave and didn't have the right to challenge it.
Baltimore's case was different in many ways. He was born into freedom experiencing life throughout the United States and he didn't have seven years to burn while litigators decided his fate. However, their cases shared notably similar characteristics. Baltimore's liberty hung on the testimony of a white woman who was out to get him, most of the white population in the town wanted him dead for brazen disrespect to the establishment and the selected jury was not comprised of his peers. Putting it bluntly, like Dred Scott, Baltimore was also in big trouble and betting against the house.
When the cell door opened, Baltimore stood from his bunk, straightened his flashy silk necktie and eased on the tailored jacket. It was the ritziest suit he owned. Fashionably designed with wide lapels, the light-brown fabric decorated with soft hounds-tooth checks, the suit was a show stopper. He was immediately reminded of that as he exited his current dwelling in the colored wing, escorted by two guards down the long catwalk. The men on his cellblock stared, hooted, and hollered as he strolled toward the transporting area on the first floor. “Give 'em hell, Baltimo',” one convict asserted solemnly. Others howled and applauded loudly as he glided past them.
The charges he faced weren't the driving force behind their overwhelming support. Baltimore embodied the kind of man they'd like to be, fearless, confident and polished. He had received so many love letters from local women praying for his release, the jailhouse postal office began returning the sweetly scented packages to the senders. Those they allowed him to keep amounted to three full boxes beneath his bunk. There was a secret inmate lottery to be held on the day of Baltimore's verdict reading. Lust-filled letters detailing hundreds of young lady's explicit carnal desires were worth more than gold on the inside. Those with photographs included, priceless.
Baltimore anticipated being found guilty and then transferred to the state penitentiary's Lifer's Row or their famed Death House by nightfall. With that in mind, he stopped at the massive iron door and tipped his hat to the boys, believing he'd never see them again. Despite their motives, they cheered him heartily then. Some of them held high hopes for Baltimore's release. Others couldn't wait to get the lottery underway. Together, they all cheered.
The State of Missouri vs. Obadiah “Baltimore” Floyd was scheduled to run for one full day because the police were said to have caught him in the act. It was an open and shut case, the kind that D.A.s built political careers on the backs of. At ten o'clock sharp, D.A. Dudley Winston, a brash forty-four-year-old Republican, entered the courtroom ready to lay his foundation. The county's biggest courtroom was packed to the gills, evenly divided down the middle with white citizens jammed shoulder to shoulder on the left and the colored citizens stacked deep on the right. And, much like Helen's funeral guest list, the colored section was laced with famous notables seated near the frontâalthough for this spectacle, Etta, Penny and the dearest of Baltimore's friends were awarded ringside seats. Delbert, with no wiggle room to spare, leaned over to Dr. Stanton. “I hear this judge is the no-nonsense kind. You think Baltimore can get a fair shake?”
“He's a good man, tough as nails though,” the white doctor answered. “And he's a hunting buddy of mine.”
Remembering how the doctor had bluffed the racist sergeant at the county lockup, Delbert wasn't sold this go-around. “I mean, do you know him well enough to trust him?”
“You bet we can, Delbert. He's a Democrat too.”
Three minutes past the hour, the defendant's chair was still vacant. Judge Atticus Sumner banged his gavel to hush the courtroom. With poorly groomed white hair, he appeared several years older then he actually was. He'd presided over cases for two decades and wasn't about to let this divisive mob turn unruly under his charge. “The trial beginning today is very serious and so is the sanctity of my courtroom,” the judge announced sternly, his eyes bulging from their sockets. “I will not tolerate insolence or over-exuberance in any way. Keep your comments to yourselves and I'll let you keep your seats.” Judge Sumner pointed his finger at both sides of the aisles, then he motioned to the thick-framed bailiff guarding the prisoner's entrance.
After taking his cue, the bailiff unlocked the door and opened it. Albert Hummel walked into the room carrying a brown leather lawyer's briefcase. Baltimore entered three paces behind him with his head held high. He strutted in like a millionaire playboy, controlled and confident. Thick coal-black wavy hair covered the wounds previously inflicted upon his head. His classy attire masked what they had done to his body. The even smile he aimed at the front row concealed his apprehension of facing twelve angry white men sitting in the jury box. The atmosphere was overwrought with disharmony. Almost half of the viewers to his left scowled and sneered while Baltimore's friendly faction eagerly welcomed him among their fold.
Etta couldn't stop thinking how tired and thin he appeared. Baltimore was well-rested but tired of living with a great degree of uncertainty. There was no way to conceal that from himself. Penny was altogether giddy because he was seated close enough to reach out and touch, but she dared not attempt it. Being near Baltimore, despite what he was involved in or with, that was its own reward.
After shuffling papers in front of him, the D.A. rose from his chair and tucked his snazzy burnt-orange silk tie inside of his expensive tweed jacket which he then fastened. Dudley Winston had the distinction of being overly handsome and cocky to a fault. His thick mousy-brown hair was worn slicked back and tapered. The athletic build he was once so proud of had softened considerably. He was refined, from a powerful family with old money, but that didn't stifle his aspirations or impede his bulldog-gish assault on the defendant's character. “We all know why we're here, so I won't waste your valuable time with slick lawyering because it isn't necessary. There stands a man accused of a heinous crime against humanity. Mr. Floyd lured a married woman up to his apartment under false pretenses and subsequently tried to force the act of fornication on her, against her will. In this beloved state of Missouri, we called that attempted rape.” He glanced at the defendant to see if it shook him up. Staring back at him was a man who didn't seem fazed by the harsh depiction of the crime. Baltimore was cool as ice.
“Dixie Sinclair is not present because we feel it is too arduous a task for her to relive an assault on her person any more than she should have to. Her testimony will be provided later this afternoon. Moreover, don't let the victim's absence in any way keep you from listening carefully to the testimonies and finding that man, known as Obadiah âBaltimore' Floyd guilty, guilty, guilty!” The judge squelched the murmurs circulating from the audience with two expeditious raps of his trusty gavel. And as easy as that, quiet was restored.
D.A. Winston found his seat as Albert Hummel greeted the jury box with both hands stuffed in his pockets. He stared at them, panning over their faces one by one. It was an old lawyer's trick which forced jurors to search deep within themselves, knowing the defense attorney would be doing so at every turn. “Gentlemen, yes, this is an extremely serious case. And yes, you will be asked by me to free my client once I've proven what the police walked in on was not a man taking advantage of a woman, but was nothing more than a lover's quarrel that got out of hand.” Venomous shouts rang throughout the courtroom. Albert's opening statement had successfully tagged him as Public Enemy Number One, steering the focus away from his client as planned.
“Order in the court! I said order!” the seasoned judge bellowed insistently. “If I hear anymore outbursts like that from my
civilized
constituents, I will clear out every white man and woman that does not have a direct role in this case. And I mean it.” The colored spectators thought that sounded like a grand idea, one that probably occurred to them from the outset.
civilized
constituents, I will clear out every white man and woman that does not have a direct role in this case. And I mean it.” The colored spectators thought that sounded like a grand idea, one that probably occurred to them from the outset.
“As I was saying,” Albert continued, “I will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the district attorney's office should not have wasted your valuable time getting mixed up in a private, and completely consensual backdoor romance.” Albert cleverly evoked the worst sentiment from the heated horde while standing between them and the jury. They didn't have a clue he was pitting the angry masses against them. It was a magician's ruse to keep them looking at one hand while he hatched the trick with his other one. Before sitting down, Albert's agenda was so well implemented that D.A. Winston, who was absolutely positive he couldn't lose, overlooked it.
“Whadda you trying to do, start a riot?” he whispered to Albert, in passing. “Your honor, I'd like to call my first witness at this time. Mr. Bud Riddle, please step forward.”
The tow truck driver emerged from the fourth row wearing a snug-fitting outdated suit. He was of average height, with thinning reddish-brown hair. He had a soft chin, with a thin beak nose and poor posture. He was also cleaned up, freshly shaven and anxious to tell his story, the one he'd rehearsed a hundred times in his bathroom mirror. As far as he could tell, what he did saved that white woman's virtue.
After having been sworn in, he took a seat in the witness box. D.A. Winston approached him eagerly. “Mr. Riddle, please tell us what you recall happening that brought your attention to the opened window on the third floor of the Ambrose Arms apartments on the day in question.”
The witness gazed toward the same side of the room he'd vacated moments before. “Well, it's like this here. I went to hooking the drudging winch up to an abandoned car left in the alley behind Ms. Etta's Fast House, that's a colored night club, when I heard a man and a woman getting into it. You know, like an argument. Didn't think much of it 'cause it wasn't none of my business what went on in that colored-only apartment house.”
The prosecutor shook his head as if he agreed with the man's description of things thus far. “Yes, Mr. Riddle, then what happened?”
“Well, I heard a lady screaming.”
“What did the lady you heard screaming say?”
“âGoddammit, let me go. Let me go,'” he answered nonchalantly. Again, there was a slight murmuring until one disconcerting gaze from the judge hushed their voices.
“You stated that a lady screamed to be let go. Did you see her being accosted?”
“Objection, your honor!” Albert shouted. “He's leading the witness.”
“Sustained,” Judge Sumner answered. “Rephrase the question.”
“Yes, after she screamed, did you see her? And if so, what was she doing?”
“Yeah, sir, I seen her. She was grabbing at the window frame. I thought she was about to be pushed through it, but she wasn't. A man had his arms wrapped around her waist, trying to get her away from it.”
“Is that man here in the courtroom today?” asked the prosecutor.
“Yes, sir, he's that colored fella sitting over yonder.” He steadied his index finger at Baltimore like a child pointing out a schoolyard bully.
“Thank you, Mr. Riddle,” the D.A. said as he returned to his table.
The defense attorney sauntered toward Bud Riddle slowly, as if trying to set a counterattack. That worried the witness and he began to fiddle uncomfortably. “Mr. Riddle, we've heard you testify that you heard a man and a woman in the colored only apartment building getting into it. And since you were hooking upâwhat was it called, to the car?”
“A drudging winch,” Riddle answered proudly.
“That's right, how could I forget that? I'm guessing it's a quiet piece of machinery?”
“Naw, sir, it kinda makes a loud clacking noise,” he answered, much to the D.A.'s dismay.
“O.K., you were operating loud machinery, during which time you heard what sounded like people arguing? Try to think back now, because this is very important. Before you hooked up the loud machinery, did you hear what they were getting into it about?” Albert wisely stood directly in front of the witness to block his view of the D.A., who might have been inclined to coach him by using slight hand signals.
Mr. Riddle lowered his head and thought about it. “You know what, I did hear something. When I first climbed off my truck, I heard a woman say, âBlankity-blank, you black bastard.' That's another reason I assumed they were both colored.” Albert was almost sorry he started this line of questioning until the truck driver remembered a helpful piece of information. “Then a man's voice yelled back at her, âQuit fooling around or somebody's gonna get hurt.' Yeah, that's what he said. I'd forgotten about that, but I'm sure that's what he said.”
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