Pete’s admiration for Jackson grew by leaps and bounds as the day progressed. Even though the man had gotten little sleep Sunday night, having dozed on the train in lieu of a good rest in his bed, he appeared alert and intelligent Monday as he asked questions, filed papers, and somehow managed to secure a meeting in private chambers with the judge who’d handed down Oscar’s sentence. As much as Pete had wanted to speak on his brother’s behalf, he clamped his lips tight and allowed Jackson to do all the talking.
Jackson scooted his chair closer to the judge’s desk and placed a stack of papers in front of the man. “After reading the report covering the investigation and the trial transcript, there are two questions that were not—in my opinion—adequately addressed by Mr. Leidig’s representing attorney.” He pointed to something on the top page. “The clerk died of a gunshot wound, yet no weapon was recovered at the scene. No one seemed to inquire about the absence of a gun.”
The judge shuffled through the stack of papers as if seeking something. “That does seem unusual. . . .”
“Secondly, although Mr. Leidig repeatedly indicated another man was responsible for the clerk’s death, his claims were never pursued. It appears, from reading these reports, they found a boy sitting beside the clerk’s body. When he admitted to being in the store for the purpose of stealing money, they simply held him accountable for the murder, as well.”
Pete fidgeted as the judge and Jackson discussed the trial transcript at length, line by line, and by the end of the forty-minute session, Jackson had secured permission to talk to Oscar on the guarantee that he would hand any new evidence to the police for investigation.
The judge leaned back in his chair. “Even though I’m granting your request, I find it highly unlikely the boy will offer any information of value. What this transcript doesn’t indicate is the boy’s attitude during the trial. He was very close-mouthed and uncooperative. But never let it be said retribution took precedence over justice in my courtroom.”
Jackson nodded. “Thank you, your honor. I appreciate your willingness to allow a second look at the evidence.”
The judge gestured toward a sober-faced man in navy trousers and a matching belted jacket, indicating he should step forward. “The officer will escort you to the jail, where you can visit with Mr. Leidig.”
Jackson thanked the judge again and then quirked his fingers at Pete. Pete hop-skipped to catch up to Jackson, and side-by-side they followed the officer down a long hallway to a heavy door. The man opened the door and stepped through without glancing back, and Jackson had to catch it to keep it from slamming shut.
A steep, narrow staircase waited, the steps formed of cement. Moisture clung to the cinder-block walls and concrete floor, leaving the surfaces slick, and Pete held tight to the iron handrail to keep his peg from slipping. Not until they reached the barred door to a cell did the officer turn around. His eyebrows rose when he spotted Pete.
“Judge said the lawyer could go in. He didn’t say nothin’ about nobody else.”
A second officer, portly and with heavy jowls, pried himself out of a straight-backed chair and hustled over with his right hand hovering inches above his sidearm. Pete instinctively drew back.
Jackson put his hand on Pete’s back and urged him forward. “This young man is Peter Leidig. He’s Oscar’s brother. I assume family members are allowed?”
The heavier man nodded. “Well . . . they’re allowed. But none of ’em ’ve bothered. Only person been down here is a little reporter from the newspaper.” He puffed up importantly. “She took down my name, too.”
The officer who’d escorted Jackson and Pete downstairs made a face of disgust. “You aren’t guarding Billy the Kid, Holloway.”
The portly man deflated.
“Holloway’ll let you in,” the officer said, turning back to Jackson. “Judge didn’t give a time limit, so just let Holloway know when you’re done and he’ll let you back out.” He strode off without another glance.
Pete’s heart doubled its tempo while he waited for Holloway to unlock the door to Oscar’s cell. No one besides Libby had come to see Oscar? How frightened and alone the boy must feel. And probably resentful. Lord, let him be willing to accept our help.
As he followed Jackson into the cell and the officer clanked the heavy door shut behind them, a chill crept down Pete’s spine. The cell was dim, lit by a single bulb hanging from twisted wires in the middle of the ceiling. A narrow cot—the only piece of furniture in the small square space—pressed into the far corner, and a slender blond-haired boy lay curled on the bare mattress. His eyes were open, seeming to look directly at Jackson, but he made no effort to sit up or to speak. Had it not been for his blinking eyes, Pete might have thought he was a mannequin laid out to fool people into believing a person inhabited the cell.
Jackson cleared his throat. “Oscar?”
Oscar sniffed in response.
“My name’s Jackson Harders. I’m a lawyer from Shay’s Ford, and I’m a friend of your brother, Pete. He brought me to see you.” For the second time, Jackson gestured Pete forward. But Pete hesitated. A part of him wanted to rush over and embrace his brother, to assure him he wasn’t alone, that someone cared. That he cared. But after all their years apart, they were strangers.
With Jackson applying pressure to his back, Pete had no choice but to shuffle forward a step. “H-hello, Oscar.” His brother didn’t move. “How are you?” Realizing how foolish the question sounded, he wished he could take back the ridiculous query. But, to his surprise, his brother slowly pushed himself into a seated position and examined the floor between his feet.
Head low, Oscar mumbled, “Not so good, if you wanna know the truth.”
Despite himself, Pete smiled. He slid his peg leg across the floor, inching closer. Oscar’s head shifted, and Pete knew he was looking at the wooden peg leg. Oscar’s eyebrows crunched, and his gaze bounced up to meet Pete’s.
“You ain’t my brother. My brother, he wasn’t a cripple. Don’t remember much about him, but I do know that.”
Jackson slipped in, “This is your brother, Oscar. Pete was in an accident. A trolley car rolled over his leg when he was a little boy. He’s used a peg leg ever since.”
Oscar peered at Pete, his expression dull. “A trolley run over ya? Prob’ly shoulda killed ya.”
Pete nodded. “Prob’ly shoulda.” He deliberately slurred his words to match Oscar’s speech. “But God saved me. And now He sent me here to try to save you.”
Oscar laughed, but the sound held no gaiety. “There’s no savin’ me. I’m a goner.” He scooted over, patting the mattress beside him and waiting until Pete sat. “But it’s good ya could come say goodbye. Always wondered what happened to ya.”
Pete wished they had endless hours to talk about the lost years. But time was limited. Their catching up would have to come later, after he’d managed to free his brother. Putting his hand on Oscar’s knee, he tipped forward to look directly into his face. “Listen, Oscar, last week you talked to a friend of mine—her name is Libby. She asked you lots of questions, remember?”
Oscar nodded. His hair flopped over his eyes, and he pushed it back with the heel of his hand. “I remember. She was real purty, an’ she wrote everything down on paper. Said she was gonna write a story about me.”
If Pete knew Libby, she’d write a dandy story. “That’s right. She told me what you said about there being someone else in the store that night.”
Oscar ducked his head.
“She said you told her you didn’t kill the clerk, but the other man did.”
Oscar’s shoulders rose, and he seemed to shrink inside himself. “Yeah . . . I told ’er that.”
Jackson stepped forward and crouched in front of Oscar. “Was that the truth, Oscar? Was there someone else there who shot the clerk?”
“What difference does it make?” He sounded confrontational. “Trial’s over. Sentencing’s done. There’s no hope for me now.”
“There is hope, Oscar.” Pete spoke with as much confidence as he could muster to make up for Oscar’s lack. “The judge is willing to look into your claim about another person doing the shooting. You just have to tell us what you know about him.” He lowered his voice, grasping his brother’s knee. “I know you told Libby you didn’t know who the man was, but that wasn’t the truth, was it? You wouldn’t partner up with a complete stranger to rob a store. That doesn’t make sense.”
Oscar sat in silence, staring straight ahead.
Pete squeezed his brother’s knee. “Go ahead. Tell the truth. Jackson can help you if you tell the truth.”
Oscar mumbled something Pete couldn’t understand. He leaned in closer. “What did you say?”
He covered his face with his hands. “I can’t tell you.” The words came out on a snarl.
“Sure you can.” Pete gave his brother’s knee another reassuring squeeze. “Jackson will find the man and make him tell the authorities that he’s the one who shot the clerk, but we need a description . . . a name.”
“I said I can’t!” Oscar lunged from the bed, pushing past Jackson and cowering in the opposite corner. He hid behind his upraised arms, his body heaving.
Jackson rose and took a step toward Oscar. “Oscar, did the man threaten you? Because I can protect you.”
A moan sounded from behind Oscar’s arms. He turned his back and hunched into the corner with his arms wrapped around himself. “Ain’t me needs protectin’. I can take care of myself. But if I tell, there’ll be no one to—” He sank against the cinder-block wall, and for a moment Pete thought he’d collapse into a heap on the floor. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he unfolded to his full height.
He turned slowly and looked at Pete. “It was good of you to come tell me good-bye, Petey. Glad to know you’re doin’ good, even if you are a cripple. I’ll always remember you came. But you . . . you better go now.”
Oscar crossed the floor, passing between Pete and Jackson without looking at them, and dropped onto the cot. Pete stared at the boy, uncertain what to do, until Jackson put his hand on Pete’s arm.
“Pete, would you step outside for a few minutes? I’d like to talk to Oscar alone.”
Although Pete had so much more he wanted to say to his brother, he didn’t argue. Maybe Jackson could use his lawyer skills to pry more information from the boy. He called to the guard to let him out, and Pete paced the small hallway while listening to the low, unintelligible voices behind the door.
Finally Jackson emerged, his face unreadable. He thanked the guard and ushered Pete toward the stairs. “I’m going to stay in Clayton at least another two days. I’d like to put you on a train back to Chambers—Isabelle will have many choice words for me if I don’t at least encourage you to return to school.”
Pete heaved himself up the final step and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not going anywhere until my brother is released.”
Jackson nodded. “Figured you’d say that. And to be honest, Pete, I could probably use your help.”
As they stepped out onto the wide portico that led to the street, Pete swung to face Jackson. His heart beat double time. “So Oscar told you the name of the killer?”
Jackson shook his head. “The judge was right. He’s the most tight-lipped boy I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t give me a name. But it doesn’t matter. I know who it is.”
As soon as her classes ended Monday afternoon, Libby walked to the office of the Boone County Daily Tribune to find out whether the editor had read her article. If he didn’t plan to print it, she’d take it to the next editor, and then the next, until she found someone who would make Oscar’s situation known to the public. She also intended to suggest changing the names to protect Petey’s reputation. Surely the editor would be willing to acquiesce to her request when he understood Petey’s position as a ministry student.
The receptionist sent her straight to Mr. Houghton’s office when she arrived, and Libby’s heart pattered hopefully as she slipped into the chair facing the man’s messy desk.
“Miss Conley . . .” He snatched up her pages from a stack at his right elbow and tamped them together. “I’ve read your article. Four times.” He peered at her over the top of the papers. His words indicated interest, but he sounded disgruntled.
“Oh?” She couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Yes. I never need to read anything more than once to form an opinion, so congratulate yourself. You’ve managed to stump me.”
She scratched her head. “You mean my writing has confused you?” Had she not been clear in presenting the facts? She reached for her pages, but he held them out of her grasp.
“Not so fast. I want to know what compelled you to make up this tale.”
Libby’s jaw dropped. “I did no such thing!”
He waved the pages, his lips forming a cynical smirk. “This isn’t the fanciful imaginings of a girl who aspires to be a world-renowned reporter?”
Her face flaming, Libby recalled the conversation she’d had with this man shortly after arriving in Chambers. She’d obviously made an impression.
“Because this is the kind of story that can cause an uproar. If printed on the front page, with a big bold headline reading something such as Wrongly Convicted Youth Faces Gallows, it would incite public outrage and no doubt inspire some politician to begin saying he wishes to change the laws about capital punishment.”
Libby stared at him in amazement. Her writing held that much power?
Mr. Houghton tossed the pages onto his desk. “So it’s too bad it’s all a bunch of fatuity.”
Libby came out of her seat. “Every word of that article is true!” She smacked her palms on his desktop, scattering papers. “Right now, in the jail in Clayton, sixteen-year-old Oscar Leidig is counting down the days until he’ll be hanged for a murder he didn’t commit. He told me himself he’s innocent. But no one is investigating it because the businessmen in town wanted revenge enacted quickly. So this young man must pay the ultimate price for someone else’s crime!”
Mr. Houghton stood and began scooping up the pages that had gone flying with Libby’s outburst. “I’m well aware that sixteen-year-old Oscar Leidig has been sentenced to hang. Do you think I don’t have access to a telephone?” He pushed aside the haphazard stack of collected papers and glared at Libby. “One call is all I needed to confirm you chose a real boy and a real situation to build upon. Clever . . .” He tapped his temple with one finger. “I’ll give you that—you’re clever. Had me thinking hard enough to check up on you. But the boy was found guilty by a jury in a courtroom. Your claim that he’s innocent is unfounded. And that’s the part that would incite a riot. Which is why this article won’t see publication.”
Libby rustled through the stack and withdrew her article. “We’ll just see about that, Mr. Houghton. There are two other newspapers in this town, and countless others in the state, so—”
“And every last one of them has been warned about you and your article.” The man settled back into his chair. “You want to be a reporter, young lady? Finish school. Pay your dues. Then stick to the facts. Don’t create drama where none exists. We have a word for that: sensationalism. And no journalist worth his salt resorts to it.” Rocking in his chair, he added, “You wanna make things up, go write fairy tales. After seeing that”—he jammed his finger at the article she clutched in both hands—“I’d say you’d be good at it.”
Libby stared at him in silent fury, biting on the end of her tongue so hard she was surprised she hadn’t drawn blood.
“Don’t waste any more of my time.” He waved his hand at her, shooing her away.
Libby spun and stomped out of the office. As she clomped down the hall, every worker in the place paused to stare after her. She held her head high and refused to give any of them so much as a glance. She burst out onto the sidewalk, blinking rapidly to hold back tears of indignant fury.
Her feet never slowed the entire way back to campus. By the time she reached her dormitory, her chest felt so tight she feared she might explode. Intending to run upstairs and hide under the covers until she regained control, she almost ignored Alice-Marie’s cheerful call. But she decided rather than hide, she’d tell Alice-Marie about Mr. Houghton’s ridiculous assertions. She needed someone to empathize with her.
Alice-Marie’s smile dimmed when she caught up to Libby and got a look at her face. “What’s wrong?”
“You wouldn’t believe what I just went through!” She opened her mouth to spout the aggravation of the past half hour, but Alice-Marie tittered.
“Oh dear, you are quite in a dither. And of course I want to hear all about it, but I told Bennett I would meet him in the library to do our assignments together before dinner.” She hunched her shoulders and giggled again. “Of course, you know I can’t keep Bennett waiting. . . . But I collected the mail from our box. Would you like yours?”
Libby held out her hand, and Alice-Marie dropped two envelopes onto her palm. The top letter was from Maelle. Another wave of hurt rolled over Libby. What would she give right now to be able to share all of this frustration with her long-time mentor? Maelle would know all the right things to say to ease away Libby’s ache and confusion. But Maelle was busy mothering Hannah and Hester.
With a vicious swipe, Libby flipped Maelle’s letter to the back. The return address on the second envelope read Fiction Editor, Modern Woman’s World. Had they sent her payment for her most recent romance story? She snorted. “At least fatuity has its benefits.”
Alice-Marie frowned. “Excuse me?”
Libby shook her head. “Never mind. Thanks for getting the mail. I’ll talk to you later.” But she knew she wouldn’t share this frustration with Alice-Marie. Did she truly expect to receive empathy from the daughter of a man who believed to his very soul that Oscar was guilty?
Alice-Marie turned and hurried across the yard toward the library, and Libby slowly trudged up the stairs to their room. Inside, she sat on the edge of her bed and halfheartedly released the flap on the envelope from the magazine. She removed a letter, but no check flitted out. Frowning, she stared into the empty envelope. The last thing she needed today was a rejection for her fairy tales! With a sigh, she braced herself and unfolded the letter.
Dear Miss Conley,
It is with great excitement I write concerning your most recent submission to Modern Woman’s World. Although we’ve yet to present your stories to our reading audience, our staff has eagerly read the stirring, passionate tales, and all agree your stories far outshine any other author currently writing for us.
Pride filled Libby as she read the words of praise. Miss Catherine Whitford had indicated she would discover a sense of satisfaction and receive acclaim by writing works of fiction. Perhaps this letter arriving right after Mr. Houghton dismissed her attempt at writing a serious editorial was prophetic. Maybe writing romance stories was what she was meant to do, after all. She bent over the letter and resumed reading.
Given the overwhelming response by the avid readers on our staff, I am delighted to offer you a position as romantic serial writer for Modern Woman’s World. We would ask that you sign a contract guaranteeing to sell your stories only to our publication for the period of one year. As you know, Modern Woman’s World is published semi-monthly, and beginning January of 1915, we would expect to print one story in each issue, making you accountable for two stories per month. In exchange for your exclusive commitment to our publication, we would offer you a monthly salary of twelve dollars.
Libby dropped the letter; her mind spun. Exclusive contract? Two stories a month? A twelve-dollar salary for less than a week’s work? Maybe she could give that money to Petey to help support his siblings. Heaven knew he’d need all the help he could get. As she sat, considering the blessing of this unexpected opportunity, a tap at the door intruded.
“Come in,” she called absently.
One of the girls pledging to Kappa Kappa Gamma with Alice-Marie peeked into the room. She held out a newspaper to Libby. “I saw Alice-Marie and Bennett in the library, and they asked me to bring this to you. There’s an editorial they thought you would find of interest. The bottom of page three.”
Libby took the paper and thanked the girl. Her heart began to pound. Had one of the other newspaper editors chosen to run her article even after Mr. Houghton’s warnings? She opened the paper and scanned the bylines on the page the girl had mentioned. But to her surprise, not her name but Petey’s leapt from the page.
Petey published? In delightful anticipation, she settled at her desk. But as she read Petey’s strongly worded essay, every vestige of gratification inspired by the magazine editor’s complimentary words was chiseled away from her heart.