Two unexplained recesses had raised the atmosphere in the courtroom to a fever pitch of anticipation, which was quickly extinguished as Crandall resumed his interrogation of Ben Thompson by going back over ground already covered to refresh the jury’s memory.
“One more question, Mr. Thompson,” he said, once the details of the deceased’s relationship with Phil Coe were fixed. “As you know, my client is on trial for the slaying of James Butler Hickok. Based upon your dealings with the man you knew as Wild Bill, how do you feel about that?”
Thompson stared at McCall, who jerked his head up to return his gaze. There was nothing mild about the witness’ eyes now.
“If my leg weren’t broken when Phil was killed,” he said, bringing his attention back to the attorney, “that’d be me sitting there in irons.”
Scout took advantage of the excited murmuring
prompted by Thompson’s comment to confer with Bartholomew. “There’s a mine of material to choose from,” he said, arranging the clippings he needed from the dusty pile on the table. “Where shall I start?”
“Jessie Hazell was nothing more than a prostitute. You can chip away at that statue Thompson’s erected to Coe by asking him if he knew she moved in with his partner after dumping Hickok.”
“No good. That reduces their shoot-out to an argument over the affections of a whore, and where does that leave our heroic lawman? I think I’ll go directly to the source.”
He rose. “Your final comment interested me very much, Mr. Thompson,” he began, striking a casual pose with hands in pockets. “You weren’t indulging in idle bombast, were you?”
“I never have.” The witness appeared wary.
“Just how many men have you killed, Mr. Thompson?”
“Objection.” Crandall kept his seat. “The witness is not on trial.”
“Your Honor, I am merely exploring Mr. Thompson’s answer to defense counsel’s last question,” said Scout.
“Objection overruled. The witness is instructed to answer.”
“I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it.”
“Ah, yes, the killer’s credo.” The prosecutor strolled around in front of the table. “However, that is not the issue.”
“In the war—”
“Let’s not count the war. How many men have you killed in civilian life, Mr. Thompson? That should help keep the number within the bounds of credibility.” When the witness hesitated, “Would you say five, for example?”
“I would say I’ve killed five, yes.”
“Would you say six? Eight? How about ten? Or would twenty be closer to the truth? Answer me, Mr. Thompson. Have you killed twenty men?” His voice had risen steadily until he was shouting.
“Yes!” bellowed the man in the box, and when he realized that the other had stopped shouting he sank in upon himself, embarrassed for having lost control.
“You seem proud of it, Mr. Thompson.” Scout’s tone was oily.
“Objection!” barked Crandall.
“Sustained. My warning stands, counselor.”
The prosecutor inclined his head in an apologetic bow. But his eyes remained on Thompson. “In 1856, when you were thirteen years old, did you stand trial in Austin, Texas, for shooting another boy in the backside with a shotgun?”
The question caught Thompson offguard. “Loaded with mustard seed!” he retorted, after an instant.
“Was a conviction obtained?”
“Yes, but the jury recommended clemency and the governor issued a pardon. It was a schoolboy prank.”
“A painful one, I would imagine.” Scout went on. “Years later, were you the subject of a manhunt in New Orleans for having killed a Frenchman in a duel?”
“You can’t prove that.” The witness’ eyes were dangerous.
“Do you deny that you were sought for the slaying?”
“It was said that I had killed the man in a fair fight after I had observed him forcing unwelcome attentions upon a young lady aboard a coach. I was forced to hide out in the Sicilian quarter until friends helped me out of town.”
“Do you deny that you killed the Frenchman?”
Crandall popped up. “He doesn’t have to answer that.”
The judge leaned down toward Thompson. “Do you plead the Fifth Amendment?”
Thompson glanced toward Crandall, who nodded almost imperceptibly. Scout regretted not having placed himself between them. The witness nodded.
“Answer yes or no, Mr. Thompson,” Blair directed. “The recorder takes no note of gestures.”
“Yes.”
“Let the record show that the witness declines to answer on the grounds of self-incrimination.”
“I have no objections,” said Scout blandly. “There is much more here, as Mr. Thompson well knows.” He glanced at his notes. “Shortly after the outbreak of hostilities between North and South, while serving the Confederacy under Colonel John R. Taylor at Fort Clark, New Mexico Territory, were you arrested for shooting and killing a mess sergeant during a quarrel and attacking a lieutenant who tried to stop you?”
“Your Honor, the witness has admitted to having slain a certain number of men.” Crandall’s tone belonged to a disappointed headmaster. “I see no reason for his having to do so again in this tedious fashion. For that matter, I see no reason for this entire line of questioning. What bearing does it have upon his testimony?”
Countered Scout, “Your Honor, defense counsel has asked Thompson to render a sullied picture of the deceased’s character. I question the witness’ ability to make such a moral judgment based upon his own dubious past.”
Blair considered for a moment before responding. “I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue this line, counselor. A man who has killed is not necessarily a perjurer. Besides, we seem to be straying rather far from the issue at hand, which is the guilt or innocence of the accused. Recorder, strike everything after the witness’ response to the question, ‘Have you killed twenty men?’”
The paper in the prosecutor’s hands tore loudly. Enraged by the impertinence, Blair snatched up his gavel. Before he could strike it:
“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Scout said hastily. “It was a nervous reaction.” The judge nodded abruptly and sat back.
As Scout turned from the bench to deposit his notes atop the prosecution table, Bartholomew was alarmed at his partner’s expression. Tension had drawn his features into a caricature. His hands shook as he absentmindedly straightened up the rent pages. But the face he presented the court a moment later was serenely confident.
“Phil Coe was the greatest man who ever lived, is that right, Mr. Thompson?”
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.” The witness was condescending. His contentment had returned with the locking away of his past.
“Oh, but you did,” chided the prosecutor. “Asked by General Crandall your opinion of Coe’s character, you called him ‘the best and truest friend a man has ever known.’ It’s in the record if you don’t remember.”
“Perhaps I said something of the sort.” Thompson shifted in his seat. “I would amend it to say that he was the best friend I ever had. Anything more would be an exaggeration.”
“Are you given to exaggerate?”
“Objection!”
“I withdraw the question,” Scout said, before the judge could sustain. “What would you say if I told you that Phil Coe was incarcerated at Galveston, Texas, during the late war for impersonating an officer?”
“I would say that you are a damned liar!” thundered the witness.
“You would then be guilty of perjury, Mr. Thompson, for records show that you shared Coe’s cell after
you were arrested for desertion.” The prosecutor was moving forward, boxing him in.
“I’d forgotten. It’s been twelve years.”
“You seem to have no trouble remembering how long it’s been. Unlike you, Coe was a civilian. Did he flee to Mexico until the end of the war to avoid conscription?”
“You tell me.”
“No, Mr. Thompson, you tell me. That is what you are here to do.”
“I don’t know where Phil was. Right after I was released I helped capture the Harriet Lane at Galveston and assisted in the destruction of other Union vessels in the harbor. Then my regiment was ordered to Louisiana, where we routed Pyron at La Fourche and my brother Billy and I became separated from the company. We kept stumbling over dead men and horses. My leg had been injured when my horse fell on it and after we located the rest of the command I was laid up for weeks while it healed. After that we transferred to Colonel Ford’s outfit and were assigned patrol duty east of the Rio Grande. I didn’t hear from Phil all that time and had no idea if he was even alive.”
“I agree that it was a hectic period for you. The record shows that you were placed in the guardhouse for attacking yet another sergeant, this time with your crutch. Had it not broken, your toll thus far would be twenty-one.”
“Objection!” Crandall spoke up harshly. Actually, he wasn’t as angry with the prosecutor for the derogatory comment as he was with his witness for parading his record as a Confederate soldier before a northern court.
“Sustained. I’ve ruled against this line, counselor.”
Scout adjusted his tack. “In Abilene, did Marshal Hickok ever threaten you or Coe in so many words that failure to turn over a portion of the Bull’s Head’s
winnings would result in its being burned or closed down?”
“He was clear enough about it,” was the sullen reply.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“He didn’t say so in those words. Hickok was too cagey for that.”
“As the reigning lawman in Abilene, wasn’t it Hickok’s duty to protect the businesses as well as the citizens within his jurisdiction from harm?”
“Yes, but he was paid to do that from the taxes.”
“Did you and Coe pay taxes?”
“We bought a license to operate, which amounts to the same thing.”
“Not precisely, Mr. Thompson. Licensing requires a set fee to be paid on a regular basis. The amount doesn’t vary unless the city charter is amended to allow for the increased or decreased cost of living. Taxes, which in most parts of the world are levied against income, are based on percentages and rise or fall with the principal. Couldn’t it be said that the percentage of winnings that yours and the other gambling establishments in Abilene were required to surrender to the marshal constituted an income tax, in return for which you received the protection to which you were entitled?”
“It could not! It was extortion, pure and simple!”
“So you say. But then your opinion could hardly be termed impartial, could it, Mr. Thompson?” The prosecutor had his hands on the railing and was leaning over the witness, his face closer to Thompson’s than that of any other the killer had allowed to live.
“Your Honor, the prosecutor is being argumentative. This is not a Harvard debate.”
“Sustained. But leave my alma mater out of this, General.” The judge smiled thinly.
“You intimated earlier that your refusal to share your profits with the marshal’s office resulted in a
threat to close the Bull’s Head,” resumed Scout, uncowed by Blair’s ruling. “What evidence do you have to substantiate this claim?”
“Ask anyone who was there. They’ll tell you.” Thompson’s serenity was once again a thing of the past. His forehead was dark.
“No one else was there, Mr. Thompson.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Cold death lurked behind the gunman’s retort.
“Yes, Mr. Thompson,” said Scout. “A liar is exactly what I’m calling you.” His voice rose. “An hour ago, in that very chair, you told General Crandall and this court that the Bull’s Head was closed when Phil Coe refused Hickok his daily stipend. You said that you and Coe and the marshal were alone in the room. Now you claim that others were present. Somewhere you are lying, Mr. Thompson. I have a roomful of people and the court record to bear witness to that. What proof have you?”
“I meant afterward, when Hickok came around with the order to close. There were a dozen witnesses at least.”
“Was anything said at that time about funds refused Hickok?”
“Well, no, but everyone knew—”
“Do you deny that the sign before your establishment violated the ordinance against public indecency?”
“Technically—”
“Technicalities are all that concerns this court. Would you agree that as city marshal, empowered to uphold the laws of Abilene and the State of Kansas, James Butler Hickok was acting within his rights when he ordered you and Phil Coe to change your sign or be closed?”
Thompson was trapped. He kept silent as long as possible, obviously hoping that Crandall would object. When it was evident that no such reprieve was
forthcoming, he fixed the prosecutor with a look of raw hatred.
“Yes,” he snarled. “I suppose I’d have to.”
Scout thanked him abruptly and said that there were no more questions. When the prosecutor was back in his seat, Bartholomew leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I don’t remember him saying anything about he and Coe being alone with Hickok when they refused to pay.”
“Fortunately, neither did he.”
Crandall waived redirect, upon which Thompson, excused, tramped briskly toward the gate separating the principals from the spectators. On his way through it he paused.
“Do yourself a favor and stay away from Texas.” The whisper was so low that only the prosecutor heard it. Then he was gone.
“Call your next witness, counselor,” Blair told the General.
“Your Honor, we call the defendant, Jack McCall.”