The Sporting House Killing G. Powell (best free novels .TXT) 📖

they found you naked. You’re not saying Miss Georgia undressed you, are you?”

“No, sir. She didn’t do that for sure,” he said, blushing. “She just tended to her own clothes. I took my own clothes off.”

Catfish’s fingers opened and closed around the minié ball. Cicero had claimed he didn’t remember anything. Careful, son.

Blair paused as if surprised. “So you do remember it?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” Cicero stammered, “but I don’t think she’d have to take my clothes off me.”

Blair pressed him. “Well, do you remember it or not?”

“I don’t, I—”

“So she could have undressed you?”

“I just don’t know.”

“You lay with her, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You do remember it after all?”

“No, sir.”

“Which is it—you do or you don’t?”

Cicero clenched the witness rail. “You have me confused, Mr. Blair.”

“Your Honor,” Catfish said, jumping up, “I object, he’s being unfair with the witness.”

“Cross-examination,” Blair replied, shaking his head.

“Overruled.”

Catfish shot Cicero a cautionary look: Listen carefully to the questions.

“How could you be confused?” Blair asked without letup. “You were there. Either you remember or you don’t, Mr. Sweet.”

“I don’t recall anything.”

“Oh, so now you don’t remember anything at all?”

“No, sir, I do remember some things.”

Catfish’s grasp of the minié ball tightened.

“You remember dancing?”

“Yes.”

“Going upstairs?”

“Yes.”

“Taking your clothes off?”

“Maybe.”

“Laying with Miss Georgia?”

“I don’t exactly recollect it.”

“Didn’t she make light of your manhoo—”

Cicero pounded the witness rail. “No!”

His response dissipated into the silence of the courtroom.

“You’re saying now you do remember what happened?”

Cicero blinked rapidly. “Ah . . . no, sir.”

“So she could have said that?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“And you got mad?”

“Like I say, I don’t rightly remember anything about that.”

“And she got scared and pulled her derringer?”

The boy’s voice dropped. “I sure didn’t see anything like that.”

“Are you saying you actually remember that she didn’t pull her gun?”

He shook his head, slowly at first and then faster and faster. “No, sir.”

“Then you took it away from her and shot her dead, didn’t you?”

Cicero slammed both hands down on the rail and shouted, “No, sir, no, sir. I didn’t shoot her.”

A juror looked away. Another shook his head. Others stared down. Catfish willed the boy to meet his gaze, gain some composure.

“So you remember it now?” Blair asked.

Cicero returned his gaze from Catfish to Blair and drew a long, shaky breath. “No, sir, I don’t. But I wouldn’t have shot her. It’s not my way.”

Damn it! He’d warned Cicero about that. Catfish squeezed the minié ball until it hurt.

Blair let silence overtake the room, then spoke deliberately. “It’s not your way.”

There it was—Blair was on it. Too late to stop him from smearing the boy with the tale about Peter DeGroote.

“So you’re not the kind of young man who’d murder somebody?”

Cicero folded his hands in his lap. “No, sir. I wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

“So you’ve never been in any fights before?”

Catfish sprang to his feet. “Objection! Character evidence, not admissible.”

“He opened the door to the defendant’s character when he said he wasn’t the kind of man to hurt somebody,” Blair replied mildly.

“Overruled.”

“Back to my question. Are you saying you haven’t been in any other fights?”

“No, sir. I haven’t, not that I recall.”

“If it’s contrary to your nature to fight, wouldn’t you remember whether you’d ever been in one?”

“Probably.”

“And you don’t remember any?”

“No, sir.”

“So you’re denying you’ve ever been in a fight?”

Catfish half rose again. “Judge, I object, this is getting repetitious.”

“I’m just trying to get a straight answer.”

“Overruled. Answer the question.”

“No, sir,” Cicero said. “I haven’t been in any fights.”

“Ever?”

“Never.” He clutched the witness rail.

Blair paused, still intent. Still motionless.

Cicero stared back, wide-eyed.

“You remember having a debate last fall on campus with another Baylor student named Peter DeGroote?”

The boy’s eyes cut rapidly from side to side, then settled again on the prosecutor. “Yes, sir. He whipped me good.”

“And you got mad, didn’t you?”

“No.”

“Drank beer to get your courage up?” Blair’s color was rising.

“No.”

“Hunted him down?”

“I did run into him at the creek.”

“You were angry?”

“No.”

“You whipped him good, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t.”

Blair was almost shouting.

“You punched him and knocked him to the ground, didn’t you?”

“No, that just didn’t happen.”

Cicero lifted his chin and sat back.

“So.” Blair spoke slowly and deliberately, surveying the jury. “You’re just not the kind of young man who’d hurt anybody?”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

“Well, we’ll have to see what Peter has to say about that.” Blair spun around and headed back to his table. “Nothing further, Judge.”

***

The judge darted out the side door, leaving everyone in place.

“He’s gotta answer the call of nature,” Papa said to Harley. He motioned for everyone to gather close around the defense table. “Miss Peach, go out to the waiting area and make sure Orman’s still there.”

She left. Henry Sweet joined them and put his hands on Cicero’s shoulders.

“Mr. Calloway, how’d I do?” Cicero asked.

“You did fine, son, just fine.”

Harley glanced away. Papa was just reassuring him; Blair had turned him every way but loose.

Papa grasped Harley’s elbow. “Let’s get the killer in here next.”

He blanched. “There’s reasonable doubt in the evidence already. Is that really nec—”

“We need him now for sure. We’ve got to prove he’s the killer before Blair can call Peter DeGroote in rebuttal to talk about that fight.”

It was now or never.

Harley cleared his throat. “I feel strongly about this. We don’t have anything at all on Bud Orman. He won’t help us. Let’s rest our case and just deal with Peter if they call him. They may not. All he can say is that he and Cicero got in a fight. He can’t say anything about the killing of Miss Georgia. It’s just a distraction.”

He glanced at the anxious faces gathered around the table. Papa was at least listening now.

“But if we put Orman up there and it goes wrong,” Harley continued, “the jury might decide Cicero’s guilty just because we can’t prove otherwise. It’s not our burden of proof.”

But Papa didn’t look at him. He looked at Mr. Sweet.

“It’s your call, Catfish,” Sweet said. Mrs. Sweet gripped his arm.

Papa rocked back in his chair. He was about to speak when Miss Peach returned.

“Orman wasn’t there,” she said, “so