Worthy Brown's Daughter (17 page)
Read Worthy Brown's Daughter Online
Authors: Phillip Margolin
I
n the weeks preceding Christmas, Roxanne’s duties kept her from town. On the first day she was able to break away from Gillette House, she was stunned to find a crowd surrounding a wooden scaffold that had been erected in the field behind the jail. Roxanne listened to the excited chatter of the crowd and soon learned that the noose had been prepared for Kevin O’Toole, the jail’s other inmate.
O’Toole had shot a man named Flynn through the meat of his arm, wounding him. Flynn had gone to his room to lie down and recover while O’Toole brooded in the saloon where the shooting had occurred. That evening, as Flynn lay sleeping, O’Toole had crept into Flynn’s room and cut his throat.
Roxanne stood on the edge of the crowd as O’Toole walked from the jail to meet his fate, reading scripture the whole way. The crowd grew silent as he was led up the wooden steps to the plank platform. Roxanne’s imagination substituted her father for the condemned man, and her heart beat rapidly.
“You got anything to say to these people?” Marshal Lappeus asked O’Toole.
“I do,” O’Toole answered, his voice catching.
“Then say your piece.”
O’Toole looked out at the crowd. He was tall, and his time in the lockup had given him a skeletal appearance that made him look far older than his twenty-two years. He’d combed his long brown hair to look his best on his last day. There were shadows under his muddy brown eyes. When he spoke, his voice shook.
“I did kill Jake Flynn, and I’m sorry I done it. But I had my reasons, and I want you to know it wasn’t from pure cussedness. I knew Jake, and he knew me. Some three months before I killed him we had a quarrel over cards where Jake stabbed me with a knife and would have killed me if my friends didn’t stop him. Ever since, I wanted revenge because that quarrel wasn’t my fault. Also, Jake was threatening me whenever he could and said he would kill me, first chance he got.
“When I shot Flynn, he drew first, as God is my witness, but I was lucky and didn’t get hit, whereas he got hit. I should have left it there, but I took to thinking on it and drinking. I knew if he didn’t die, there’d be no end to it, as Flynn was a man who held a grudge.
“I see many young men in this crowd, and I want you to take a warning from this not to drink or gamble, neither, because we wouldn’t have quarreled if we wasn’t playing cards, and I wouldn’t have killed him if liquor hadn’t got the best of my judgment.
“I got to pay now, but I hope this will be a lesson, as I said. And I hope I go to heaven, as I’ve been a good churchgoer my whole life, when I had the chance, and I am truly sorry for what I done.”
O’Toole stopped talking, and the marshal asked him if he was through.
“I guess,” O’Toole answered in a subdued tone. “Except I see my friends below, and I want to wish them good-bye.”
The marshal took the Bible from O’Toole’s shaking hands, tied his hands behind his back, and covered the young man’s face with a hood. The crowd had turned somber while listening to the condemned man’s last words, and they were quiet when the marshal put the rope around his neck. Roxanne saw a few women dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.
Marshal Lappeus positioned O’Toole over the trapdoor and stepped back. Then he pulled a lever, and the trap opened. O’Toole dropped through, his body jerked, the rope snapped, and he dropped to the ground. The crowd gasped. O’Toole, blinded by the hood, his hands bound, writhed on the ground shouting, “Jesus, save me. Jesus, save me.”
O’Toole’s friends rushed under the scaffold and pulled him out as the marshal and his deputies scrambled down from the gallows. The crowd began chanting, “Let him live,” and surged forward to surround the cowboy, who sagged in the arms of his companions, weeping and praying.
Marshal Lappeus, a deeply religious man, had been moved by O’Toole’s words. It was only a few weeks before Christmas, and he could not discount the possibility that a higher power than the state of Oregon had overturned O’Toole’s death sentence. Justice Tyler had imposed that sentence. Since he’d never encountered something like this, the marshal wished he could consult with Tyler, but the judge was riding the circuit, so Lappeus conferred with his deputies while gauging the mood of the crowd. After a short discussion, he decided to let O’Toole ride off with his companions on the condition that he promise never to set foot in Oregon again.
Roxanne had been stunned by O’Toole’s miraculous escape from the grim reaper. Until the rope broke, Roxanne had accepted her father’s fate. Now she wondered if the aborted hanging was a sign, and if there had been others as well.
One came immediately to mind. It had lain on the end table in Mr. Gillette’s library. In
A Tale of Two Cities
, an act of heroism saves a condemned man. Why, she asked herself, had that particular book been left for her to find? And there was something else, another discovery she’d made in the library: a shiny, fully loaded Colt revolver in the lower drawer of Gillette’s escritoire.
F
ather,” Heather Gillette said. “There’s someone you must meet and some things you must listen to, even though I know you won’t want to hear them.”
Benjamin Gillette was not expecting Heather or Orville Mason, and he had no idea of the identity of the nervous young man Mason had ushered into his office. The boy was dressed in a clean blue suit, a pressed white shirt, and a bow tie. His chubby face bore traces of acne, and Gillette guessed that he was still in his teens. On entering, the young man doffed his hat and stood at attention in front of Gillette’s desk.
“What’s this about, Heather?” Gillette asked, confused by the sudden intrusion.
“Orville will explain why we’re here.”
“Mr. Gillette, this is Emmett Bradford, a clerk at the Evergreen Hotel,” Orville said. “Emmett, tell Mr. Gillette what you told me about Miss Hill’s activities.”
Gillette turned to Heather. He looked furious. “I told you Miss Hill was not your concern.”
“I believe you will be glad that your daughter asked me to look into this matter, sir,” Orville said. “Please hear us out.”
Gillette looked as if he wanted to throw the intruders out of his office, but he loved Heather dearly and knew she had his best interests at heart.
“Very well,” he said, making no effort to hide his displeasure. “But make this fast. I’m pressed for time.”
“Go ahead,” Orville told the boy. “You have nothing to fear.”
Bradford shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Well, sir,” he said, his voice shaking, “it’s like I told Mr. Mason. Miss Hill has entertained Justice Tyler in our dining room.”
Gillette looked past Bradford to his attorney. “I see nothing untoward about an occasional dinner, Orville.”
“Tell him the rest,” Orville told the clerk.
Bradford blushed, and his fingers worried the brim of his hat. Gillette looked puzzled.
“Go ahead,” Orville urged gently.
“Well, sir,” Bradford said, his eyes fixed on the pattern of the Persian rug that covered the office floor, “she . . . Miss Hill . . . she entertained Mr. Caleb Barbour in her room.”
“Caleb?” Gillette repeated dully.
“Tell Mr. Gillette about the champagne.”
Bradford swallowed. There were beads of sweat on his brow.
“Well, sir, one time I was asked to take a bottle of champagne to Miss Hill’s suite, and Mr. Barbour was there.”
“How were Mr. Barbour and Miss Hill dressed?” Orville asked.
“Mr. Barbour was in his shirtsleeves with his shirt open at the neck, and he was lounging on the couch in the sitting room.”
“And Miss Hill?” Orville asked.
“I only saw her for a second. She was in another room. But I believe she was in a dressing gown.”
Gillette’s gaze dropped to his desktop, but Orville was certain that he was not seeing any item set upon it.
“Do you wish to ask Mr. Bradford any questions?” Orville asked.
“How many times did Mr. Barbour spend the night?” Gillette asked.
“I can’t say for certain, sir. There were two times I know for sure he visited. When I brought up the champagne, he left close to dawn.”
“And Justice Tyler, has he ever gone up to Miss Hill’s room?”
“No, sir, not that I saw,” Bradford answered quickly.
Gillette asked a few more questions, but his heart was not in the interrogation. Orville thanked Bradford and saw him out. Then he sat across from his client.
“There’s more, Ben,” Orville said softly. “I sent a telegram to Clyde Lukens’s firm. They confirmed his version of the origins of the money found in his room in Phoenix. The firm gave him fifty dollars for expenses. A week before he arrived in Phoenix, he wired them that he had orders totaling approximately two hundred and fifty dollars.”
Gillette exhaled sharply.
“And I’ve uncovered something that’s more disturbing than everything I’ve just told you,” Orville continued. “I had a sketch of Miss Hill made surreptitiously. I sent the sketch to a Harvard classmate who is practicing in San Francisco. He employed a gentleman who is comfortable circulating in the city’s less reputable precincts to seek information about the woman in the drawing.
“I realize that a sketch is not an exact representation of a person’s features, but I can attest that my artist created an excellent likeness. According to my friend, the woman in the sketch bears a striking resemblance to a prostitute who disappeared from the city shortly after her pimp—Warren Quimby—died under mysterious circumstances.”
“Surely you don’t think . . . ?” Gillette began, finding it impossible to complete the sentence.
“Absent an identification made by someone who knew the woman, I cannot form an opinion with any certainty,” Orville said, “but I wanted you to know what I’d discovered. I suggest most strongly that you make further inquiries about Miss Hill’s background, given what I’ve uncovered.”
J
ames Lappeus owed his position as marshal to saloon power. In 1858, the electorate showed its opposition to ordinances regulating the sale of liquor by choosing Addison Starr, co-owner of Portland’s first distillery, as mayor. In 1859, Lappeus, co-owner of the popular Oro Fino Saloon, was elected city marshal. Lappeus had been so big as a child that there was no one to bully him, so he grew up affable and secure. “Peace officer” was a perfect title for him because he would not tolerate anyone brash enough to disturb the serenity of his surroundings. Rowdy customers of the Oro Fino and obstreperous lawbreakers melted into docility when this smiling giant curled his thick fingers to form a ham-size fist.
Marshal Lappeus was on his way to the jail when he spotted Roxanne standing behind the jail in the rain. This wasn’t the first time he had seen Worthy’s daughter talking to her father. Duty demanded that he keep father and daughter apart, but each time he saw the slender girl speaking to the log wall of the lockup, another fragment was chipped from the stone wall that duty had erected around his heart.
The wide brim of Marshal Lappeus’s hat kept the rain off him, but Roxanne had no head covering. It only took a few moments of watching rivulets of rain run down Roxanne’s face to send the lawman trudging through the mud toward the young girl. Roxanne saw the marshal and froze in midsentence, certain that something bad was about to happen.
“Miss Brown,” Lappeus said, “you shouldn’t be out here in this rain. The cold and wet can make you sick. Would you like to visit with your father inside?”
Roxanne was too startled to speak and merely nodded.
“Then come with me, and I’ll see you in,” Lappeus said.
The
rat-a-tat-tat
of rain on the jail roof made it impossible for Worthy to hear what Lappeus had said to Roxanne, so he feared the worst. His heart began to pound when the marshal led her away. Several minutes later, Lappeus spoke through the opening in the cell door.
“Mr. Brown, I’ve brought your daughter to see you.”
Roxanne had heard her father’s voice many times since his incarceration, but she had not seen what the beating and languishing in the damp and cold of the jail had done to him. Her heart contracted with pity as soon as she entered the gloomy cell. Worthy had been iron and oak. The man who stood before her was stooped, gaunt, and old.
“Roxanne,” Worthy said, his voice filled with wonder.
Roxanne crossed the space between them and was enfolded. The marshal locked the door and motioned Amos Strayer to follow him to the front of the jail to afford father and daughter privacy.
Worthy held Roxanne at arm’s length. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“You’re so thin, Daddy.”
Worthy saw concern etched into his daughter’s features. “I’ve been sick, child, but that ain’t anything for you to worry about. Now that you’re here, I feel a whole lot better.”
“The next time I visit, I’ll bring you food.”
“I’d like that,” Worthy said. “It looks like you been eating well.”
“Miss Heather treats me like a sister.”
“Knowing she’s taking good care of you has eased my mind.”
Roxanne leaned forward until her lips were almost touching his ear.
“I don’t know how long the marshal is going to let me stay here, so I have to talk fast,” she whispered. “You’re not going to hang.”
Worthy responded with a fatalistic laugh. “You know something I don’t, child?”
“I know where a gun is,” Roxanne replied evenly.
Worthy drew back, alarmed.
“If they convict you, I’m going to bring that gun with me, and we’re going to leave this place.”
“We’re not doing any such thing. You come to this jail with a gun and a harebrained scheme to break me out, and you’ll end up dead or in jail with me. Or, worse, you’ll kill somebody and live your life with that on your conscience. It ain’t happening.”
“I know you’re not hanging.”
“Roxanne—”
“Hear me out.”
Worthy decided to let Roxanne talk. When she was through, he’d explain why her plan wouldn’t work.
“I’ve seen signs, Daddy. I can read them just like I read the white people’s books. The signs all point to you being free. When I bring the revolver, I’ll make Mr. Strayer unlock your cell and we’ll go.”
“Where?” Worthy asked.
“Wherever we want. We’re free people.”
“If your plan works, we’ll be fugitives. The law everywhere will be after us. Be reasonable, Roxanne. Who’s going to hide two colored fugitives in these parts? How we going to blend in? I love you for wanting to risk everything to free me, but your plan won’t work.”
“Face facts, Daddy. If you’re sentenced to hang, there’s no way you could end up any worse.”
“That’s not true. If you were killed or ended up in jail trying to save me, it would be the end of me. I would rather spend eternity in hell than know you destroyed your life for me. The only thing that makes what’s happening to me bearable is knowing you’re safe and that good things are happening to you.”
“I can’t let you hang.”
“I haven’t been convicted yet.”
“But you will be in a white man’s court. I can free you. The signs I’ve seen are so clear.”
“Roxanne, there ain’t no such things as signs. That’s juju mumbo jumbo.”
“That’s African religion, like you told me about.”
“Those were children’s stories. All that about the wood spirits and the river spirits, it’s what I used to entertain you when you were little. Ain’t none of it real.”
“It’s what you believed in Africa.”
“And some good it done me. If the old gods are so powerful, how come so many Africans are slaves to white people?”
Roxanne sat up straight. “I read a book, Daddy. The one I told you about, the beautiful book all bound in leather.”
“With the gold writing?”
Roxanne nodded. “It’s called
A Tale of Two Cities
. There’s a man in it. He dies in the end, but he dies in place of another man who’s been sentenced to death. The man who is sentenced to death is saved. I’ve asked myself over and over why that book was left for me to find, and I believe God put it in my way to let me know you don’t have to die.”
