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

Calloway, went out to your house in Provident Heights to talk to you about that, didn’t he?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you told him the same story you told the jury?”

“I did.”

It was so clear now—it was Peter, not Orman. “Did you also talk to a newspaper reporter from the Dallas Daily Times-Herald by the name of Babcock Brown?”

“I’m not sure.”

Catfish turned around to scan the gallery for Brown. He spotted him on the right side of the room taking notes. “That man back there in the striped vest?”

Brown awkwardly waved at Peter.

“No, sir. I don’t believe I ever talked to him.”

“I’m wondering then how that reporter got his story about Cicero and you?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Did you contact him, Peter?”

“I didn’t even know him.”

“Didn’t you know he was in town writing a story about the killing?”

“No.”

More lies.

He went back to counsel table and pulled a newspaper from his satchel. “Well, did you read a story in the paper in which Brown wrote this? ‘Locals who know him contacted this reporter to inform him that Sweet has a short temper and a taste for a long drink. Just months before this murder, he beat another Baylor student after drinking beer on campus.’ Did you see that story?”

“I don’t read the Dallas paper.”

“So you’re not the local who contacted Brown about that fight after the debate?”

“No, I’m not. I don’t know how he heard about the fight.”

Catfish crossed his arms. “You said on direct examination you didn’t tell anybody about it?”

“Nobody except my father. I didn’t want to get Cicero in trouble, and I wasn’t hurt that badly anyway.”

“So other than your father, the only people who knew about it were Cicero and Chloe?”

“That’s right.”

Catfish nodded toward his client. “Now, Cicero testified before the jury yesterday, and he swore he didn’t punch you.”

“He’s lying.”

“I see.” He smirked. “So you think Cicero—for some reason—while he was in jail, talked to the reporter and told him—for some reason—about a fight he had with you months earlier?”

“I don’t know what Cicero did.”

Catfish held his hands up. “Well, if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t Cicero, then the other person must’ve been Chloe?”

Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Why don’t you go talk to her?”

Catfish lowered his voice. “She’s not really local though, is she? Doesn’t she live in Carolina?”

“I think so.”

“You think she wrote to reporter Brown?”

“Maybe.” His fingers drummed the rail. “Ask him.”

“I wonder how that could have happened? How would the reporter know to contact her? Or how would she know to contact the reporter?”

“You’ll have to ask her.”

Catfish leaned forward, hands braced on the defense table. “Isn’t the truth, Peter, you spread a false story about Cicero to shift the attention away from somebody else?”

Peter breathed heavily. “No, that’s not true.”

Killers lie. “Didn’t you want the case against Cicero to be so clear he’d just plead guilty and folks would stop looking into the killing?”

“No, that’s not true.”

“Didn’t your father ask me if we were going to plead him guilty?”

Peter shifted in his chair. “I don’t know.”

“Who are you trying to cover for?”

“No one,” Peter shouted.

“Is it Bud Orman?”

Peter’s eyes popped wide. “I barely know him.”

He knew Orman? Maybe they were together in this. “Oh, so you know Bud Orman?”

“I’ve met him, but he doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Well, sir, if it’s not Bud Orman you’re protecting, it must be yourself?”

“No, I—”

“Weren’t you at Miss Jessie’s that night?”

“No!”

“Did you shoot Miss Georgia?”

“Of course not. I wasn’t there, I tell you.”

Killers lie.

Catfish went to the court reporter’s desk, picked up the derringer, and turned it in his hand until the bloodstain was visible. Whether finger smudge science was valid or not, the killer wouldn’t be willing to give his finger mark in evidence, just in case it was.

Harley was scowling at him, brow furrowed, shaking his head.

Yes, son, it’s time to drive the charge home and finish this.

“Peter, are you willing to give the court a mark of your trigger finger to see if it matches the bloody finger mark on this derringer?”

“Of course I will.”

What?

Catfish peered into the young man’s face. He was bluffing. He looked worried.

Call the bluff.

He got a sheet of paper. With his magic pencil, he traced the outline of the derringer and placed it on the rail in front of Peter. He pulled a handkerchief and got his pen knife from the trial box, then sliced across his left thumb, drawing gasps from the gallery. Two thick globs of blood dripped onto the paper where he’d drawn the barrel of the gun. He pressed his thumb into the handkerchief, folded the knife, and put it back in the trial box.

Peter’s eyes were wide.

Exhilaration surged through Catfish. “Peter, touch the blood with your right trigger finger.”

Admit it—you killed her.

The jury leaned forward as one.

Judge Goodrich craned his neck.

Blair looked uncertain but rose anyway. “I object.”

Catfish wiped his forehead with the bloody handkerchief. “Judge, is the learned prosecutor objecting to his own finger smudge science?”

“Overruled.”

Every eye in the courtroom turned toward Peter. He looked at the judge, glanced back to Catfish, and shot a last questioning look at his father.

Just as he reached for the paper, a commotion erupted in the gallery. Sterling DeGroote was on his feet, swatting with one hand at the woman next to him who was trying to tug him back into his seat.

“Stop this slander,” he yelled as he pulled his sleeve free of her grasp. “It’s me he’s protecting. Leave him alone!”

Chapter 37

“Hold on just one minute, sir,” Judge Goodrich called to Sterling DeGroote. “You need to take your seat.”

Catfish’s head was spinning.

“Question me, not my son,” DeGroote yelled back.

“Well, sir, maybe they’ll want to get to that in minute—but right now, you sit down and keep quiet or I’ll have the bailiff take you outside.”

DeGroote settled back into his chair.

The judge addressed the witness. “Peter, please touch the paper.”

“Yes, sir.” Peter sat forward and pressed the paper. “There.”

Some jurors eyed the paper, but most