Clint Adams, Detective Read online

  “Sorry.”

  “Let me ask you a question,” John Taylor said, “and look you in your eyes when I ask it.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you did look me in the eyes when you said it,” Clint said. “You didn’t blink, and you didn’t look away.”

  John Taylor hesitated, then said, “Thank you for that, sir.”

  “Clint,” Clint said, “you can call me Clint.”

  “J.T.,” John Taylor said, “you can call me J.T.”

  “All right, J.T.,” Clint said. “First thing I’m going to do is have Mr. Wainwright here get you some decent clothes.”

  “I been askin’.”

  “Have you?” Clint looked at Wainwright.

  “What’s the difference what he looks like in court?” the lawyer asked.

  “Not much,” Clint said, “except that he looks like a slave the way he’s dressed now, and not the educated man he obviously is.”

  Clint looked at J.T.

  “Went to college in the East, and came back here to take care of my father,” he said.

  “You got a degree?”

  “Yes, I do. Engineering.”

  “Jesus,” Clint said. He looked at Wainwright again. “Does he look like an engineer to you?”

  Wainwright smirked. “He’s probably lying.”

  “There’s a diploma in my room,” J.T. said, “if I still got a room at Mrs. Hawksley’s rooming house.”

  “I’ll check on it,” Clint said,. “Meanwhile, Wainwright, I believe I can speak for Sam Clemens in this matter.”

  “And?” Wainwright asked.

  “You’re fired.”

  “You can’t do that—”

  “Ask Sam Clemens if I can do it,” Clint said.

  “We’ll just see about this.” Wainwright stalked off up the stairs and banged on the door for the guard to let him out.

  “Mr.— Clint?”

  “Yes?”

  “I know you want to help and all,” the black man said, “but what am I supposed to do without a lawyer?”

  “Well,” Clint said, “have you ever considered defending yourself?”

  TEN

  “What the hell did you do?”

  Clint had gone from the jail straight to the home of Sam Clemens’s mother, hoping to find the author there.

  “I fired the lawy—”

  “I know what you did!” Clemens said. He turned, looked inside, then pulled the door closed and stepped out onto the porch with Clint. “Wainwright called on me, asked me if he was, indeed, fired.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What could I say? I asked you to go down and talk to John Taylor, not fire his lawyer.”

  “So you told him he wasn’t fired?”

  “No, I told him he was,” Clemens said. “I figured you’d have a good reason for firin’ him.” Clemens frowned. “You do have a good reason for firin’ him, don’t you?”

  “I have a very good reason.”

  Clemens waited a few beats, then asked, “Well? What is it?”

  “The man’s an idiot.”

  “That’s it?”

  Briefly, Clint explained about his meeting with J.T., and about his lawyer’s apparent disregard for appearances.

  “If you drag a black man into court looking like a slave, people are going to treat him like a slave,” he finished.

  Clemens frowned again.

  “You’re right, the man is an idiot. I knew that when I hired him, but I needed someone fast. Now we’ll have to find someone else.”

  “We have someone else.”

  “We do? Who?”

  “Taylor.”

  Clemens’s eyes widened.

  “You want John Taylor to defend himself?”

  “Why not?” Clint asked. “He’s an educated man, with a degree from a college back East.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “He speaks well, and dressed in the right clothes he’d put forth a good appearance.”

  “I didn’t know that, either.”

  “Haven’t you been down to see him?”

  “Well . . . no. I haven’t been to the police station.”

  “You depended on Wainwright for reports?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Sam,” Clint said, “you’ve got to buy J.T. some decent clothes for court, and someone has to sit with him and work out a defense strategy.”

  “I don’t know anything about defending a man against a murder charge,” Clemens said.

  “Well, I’m not a lawyer. I could probably work something out, but I can’t be in court. I need to be free to snoop around.”

  “So you’re gonna help?”

  “I think firing his lawyer was a pretty good start, don’t you?”

  Clint and Samuel Clemens sat on the porch to figure out their strategy. After fifteen minutes, Clemens’s mother appeared with a pitcher of lemonade and two large glasses.

  “I thought you boys might be thirsty.”

  “Thank you, Ma.”

  She went back inside as Clemens poured the two glasses full. Clint sipped, and was not surprised to find that it was the best lemonade he’d ever tasted.

  “So you think we need another lawyer?” Clemens asked. “You’re already abandoning your plan to have him defend himself?”

  “We need a young lawyer who will work with him,” Clint said. “He’ll be . . . what do they call it . . . second chair. He’ll advise J.T. and keep him knowledgeable on points of law.”

  “I see . . . but why not just have the lawyer defend him?”

  “Sam, we have to change the jury’s opinion of J.T. I think this is the way to do it, don’t you?”

  “Seems the smart thing to do.”

  “There’s something else you can do, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come out for him,” Clint said. “Do it in public.”

  Clemens sat back in his chair.

  “That’s very risky to a man in my position, Clint.”

  “What position is that, Sam?” Clint asked. “The famous author? Or the man who apparently has known this young man since he was a little boy.”

  “I never said that,” Clemens corrected. “I said I knew his father.”

  “Okay, then you knew his father,” Clint said. “And you hired a lawyer, and asked me to help, because of it. About the only thing left for you to do is come out publicly . . . and then stay in town for the trial.”

  “That’s all? Nothin’ else?”

  “Well, yeah, now that you mention it,” Clint said. “You could attend the trial. Let folks see that you believe in his innocence. That would go a long way toward changing the jury’s opinion of him.”

  Clemens mulled that over for a while, sipping his lemonade. For a minute Clint thought he might have gone too far, pushed too hard, but then the other man lowered his glass and said, “By God, you’re right, Clint!”

  “Then you’ll do it?”

  “Least I can do, since you’ve agreed to stay on as a favor. By the way, exactly why have you agreed to do that?”

  “That’s easy,” Clint said. “I believe he’s innocent, too.”

  ELEVEN

  Clemens decided to enlist the help of his friend Tom Nash. He explained to Clint that Nash was a boyhood friend he could always trust. He also told him that Nash was losing his hearing, so he asked Clint to be patient if he had to say things two or three times before the man heard them.

  Clemens used young Gus Honeywell to fetch Nash and bring him over. It was then decided that, since Honeywell dressed so well, he would accompany Nash to some clothing stores to buy John Taylor some new clothes for court. Luckily, this was Saturday and court was not in session, but businesses were open.

  “What kind of clothes should we buy?” Honeywell asked.

  “Whatever you think an educated man would wear into court,” Sam Clemens told
him.

  “To defend himself in,” Clint added.

  “And why do I need Mr. Nash?”

  “Because,” Clemens said, “he’ll be carrying the money.”

  “What?” Nash shouted.

  Calmly, Clemens repeated in a louder voice, “You’re gonna carry the money, Tom.”

  “Fine,” Nash said.

  When Nash and Honeywell had left, Clemens said, “I’ve got just the young man in mind to hire.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Orwell,” Clemens said. “He’s just out of law school, has opened his own office, and he’s struggling.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I knew his father.”

  “Why did I even ask?”

  “I’ve written his address down.” Clemens handed Clint a slip of paper.

  “You’re not coming with me?” Clint asked.

  “No,” Clemens said, “just tell him I sent you and be honest. You’ll convince him. I know you will.”

  “All I’ll have to tell him is that we’ll pay him.”

  “Maybe not,” Clemens said. “If he’s anything like his father was, he’s an idealist. Money won’t matter.”

  “Okay, I’ll appeal to his better nature,” Clint said. “What are you going to do today?”

  “I’m gonna make arrangements to stay for the duration of the trial,” Clemens said. “You’ve managed to shame me, Clint. I should have thought of this before.”

  “I didn’t mean to shame you, Sam, I just—”

  “No, it’s fine,” Clemens said, cutting him off. “Just use the same powers of persuasion on young Orwell as you used on me and you shouldn’t have any trouble enlisting him to our cause.”

  TWELVE

  The lawyer Orwell’s first name was Clark. His office was not in an affluent part of town, but rather a run-down area near the river.

  “It’s all I can afford right now,” the young man said apologetically as he showed Clint into his office. “Once my practice gets going, I’ll be able to move to better accommodations.”

  “You don’t need to apologize to me,” Clint said.

  “Well,” Orwell said, seating himself behind a scarred oak desk, “I’m not really apologizing, I’m just sort of . . . explaining.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “So, what is it I can do for you Mr. . . .”

  “Adams,” Clint said, “my name is Clint Adams, and I’m here on the advice of Samuel Clemens.”

  “Wait,” Orwell said, sitting forward in his chair. He was extremely tall, and seemed to be made up of angles, all elbows and knees and Adam’s apple. “Your name is Clint Adams?”

  “That’s right.”

  “The Gunsmith?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re here because . . . Mark Twain sent you?”

  “Right again.”

  Orwell sat back.

  “Just give me a minute to digest this,” he said. “It’s not every day two famous men combine to hire me.”

  “Mr. Clemens told me he knew your father.”

  “Well . . . I guess that’s right,” Orwell said. “My father used to talk about knowing him, but . . .”

  “You didn’t believe him?”

  “You have to understand,” Orwell explained, “my father had only a nodding acquaintance with the truth. So telling me he knew Mark Twain . . . well, that sounded like a whopper.”

  “Well, they knew each other, all right,” Clint said, “and that’s apparently the reason Sam thought of you when we decided we needed a young lawyer.”

  “A young lawyer? Specifically?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the case?”

  “John Taylor.”

  Orwell looked stunned again.

  “Okay, now you’re just trying to play with my head,” he said. “If this is not— This is cruel if you’re not— John Taylor?”

  “That’s right.”

  “On trial for killing a white woman?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I thought Wainwright—”

  “He’s been fired.”

  Orwell hesitated, then asked, “Was Wainwright being paid by Mr. Clemens?”

  “He was.”

  “And why was he fired?”

  “Let’s just say his strategy wasn’t working.”

  “So you—he—wants a new lawyer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well . . . I guess the obvious question is . . . why?”

  “I’ll explain,” Clint said, and he went on to outline the new strategy that he and Clemens had devised.

  “So you don’t really want me to defend him, you want me to coach him?” Orwell asked.

  “Let’s say we want you to . . . assist him.”

  “Second chair?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  Orwell hesitated again, then asked, “At my usual fee?”

  Clint looked at him and asked, “Mr. Orwell, by your own admission you’re very new at this. Do you even have a usual fee yet?”

  “No,” the young man said, “but I have a twice-my-usual fee.”

  “We’ll pay your fee,” Clint said. He kept saying “we” even though the money was Clemens’s, not his.

  “Will you take this case under those conditions?” Clint asked.

  “Do I look stupid, Mr. Adams?”

  They both stood up and shook hands.

  “One more thing,” Clint said.

  “Is this the condition?”

  “There’s no condition,” Clint said. “I just wanted to tell you that Mr. Clemens will be in court from now until the trial ends.”

  “Well, the first thing we’ll have to do tomorrow is get a continuance.”

  “The first thing you’ll have to do is meet your client.”

  “And what will you be doing,” Orwell said, “if I may ask?”

  “I’m going to be trying to find evidence that John Taylor did not kill Eliza Johnson.”

  “From what I understand that won’t be very easy.”

  “That’s not for you to worry about,” Clint said. “All you’ve got to do is keep J.T.—”

  “J.T.?”

  “That’s what he’s asked me to call him,” Clint said. “You, too, probably. All you’ve got to do is keep him from sounding foolish in court.”

  “What am I working with?”

  “A man with a college education,” Clint assured him, “who speaks English better than you do.”

  “Well then,” Orwell said, “maybe that won’t be so hard.”

  THIRTEEN

  Clint was about to leave Orwell’s office when they heard someone enter, cross the outer room, and then come into the office.

  It was a woman—a stunning redhead, tall, slender, but wearing a dress with a bodice that did nothing to hide the proud thrust of her breasts. It was only then that Clint noticed the slight reddish cast to Orwell’s own hair.

  “I’m sorry, Clark,” she said, stopping short. “I didn’t know you had company. I brought your lunch.” She was carrying a paper bag in one hand and held it up to show him.

  “Thanks, sis,” Orwell said, “but this isn’t really company. It’s a client.”

  “A client?” The girl looked Clint up and down. “Well, things are looking up for little brother.”

  “Mr. Adams, this is my sister, Melanie. Melanie, meet Clint Adams.”

  Clark Orwell stood there, waiting for his sister to react to Clint’s name.

  “Mr. Adams, it’s a pleasure.” She stuck out her hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Orwell.”

  “Clark says your name as if I should know it,” she said. “Should I?”

  “No particular reason you should,” Clint said.

  “No reason?” Orwell said. “Sis, this is only one of the most famous men of the American West.”

  “Are you?” she asked, looking at Clint with interest. “Famous, I mean?”


  “Infamous is more like it.”

  “And he’s not hiring me alone,” Orwell said. “Mark Twain is also hiring me. It’s amazing.”

  “Mark Twain?” She frowned.

  “Surely you’ve heard of him,” Clint said.

  She pouted and said, “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “I’m not,” he said, then admitted, “all right, maybe a little.”

  “What do two famous men want with my brother?”

  “They want me to help defend John Taylor.”

  “John Taylor? The black man who is on trial for killing a white woman?” she asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, this sounds like a very interesting day for you, Clark,” she said. She then turned to Clint. “Were you just leaving, Mr. Adams?” she asked.

  “Actually, I was,” Clint said. He looked at Orwell. “I’ll be here tomorrow morning at nine to take you to court. We’re having special clothes sent over to the jail for J.T. so he’ll look more presentable.”

  “I’ll be ready when you arrive.”

  “Why don’t I walk out with you?” Melanie Orwell suggested. “I have some errands to run.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Clint said.

  She quickly handed her brother his bagged lunch and kissed him on the cheek. Then she linked her arm in Clint’s and they walked out together.

  Across the street, Police Officer Eddie Sims had watched Clint enter the office, and then some time later watched with pleasure as the lovely red-haired gal also entered the office. Now, as he continued to watch, Clint Adams came out with the girl hanging on his arm. As they walked off down the street that way, Sims left his hiding place in an alley and began to follow them. He wasn’t sure just what was important and what wasn’t, but he’d wait until later to tell his sergeant that Clint Adams had gone to see a lawyer this morning. He wanted to see what Adams and the girl were going to do.

  “What is this all about, Mr. Adams?” Melanie asked as they were walking down the street.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you are who you say you are,” she said, “and you really are working with Mark Twain, what would the two of you want with my brother?”

  “He’s a lawyer,” Clint said, “and we need one.”

  “For John Taylor.”

  “That’s right.”