Girl Waits with Gun (16 page)

Sheriff Heath saw them just after I did. He took my arm and steered me away from them.

“John,” he said to the curly-haired man as we passed.

“Sheriff,” the man said.

Those two words were enough to catch Henry Kaufman's attention. “Is she under arrest, Sheriff?” he called after us. “Because she's been harassing me at my place of business. Let the record show . . .”

Sheriff Heath pushed me through the courthouse door amid the laughter and back-slapping of Mr. Kaufman and his friends. I was relieved to feel the door close behind me. Inside, the courthouse lobby was cool and quiet.

“I thought he wouldn't be here,” I said.

“I didn't think he would. He's up to something. I don't know how he roped a lawyer into this.”

“That was his lawyer?” I asked.

The sheriff nodded and led me down a corridor lined on both sides with men in shabby worsted suits or overalls. There was hardly enough room for us to get past.

Someone bumped into me and I nearly fell against the sheriff. “What is this?”

“It's the last of the charges against the silk strikers.”

“A year later?”

“They were charged with unlawful assemblage and sentenced to hard labor, but never served their sentences,” he said in a low voice. “Now there are rumors of another strike, and the police chief issued new warrants for all of them, just to discourage them from striking again. Today they had to appear or be arrested. Fortunately for them, they're going before one of the only judges who is at all sympathetic to their cause.”

“You mean that he's not a friend of the silk men. Which is why we're going to see him.”

He smiled. “That's the general idea.” He took me down a side corridor away from the crowd. At an unmarked door he stopped and said, “Remember, this isn't a trial. Just swear to your statement and sign when the judge asks you to. That's all we're here to do.”

I nodded and he held the door open. Just inside was a row of men, their backs to us. The sheriff cleared his throat and they turned and parted. The courtroom was as noisy as a carnival, with a clerk barking orders and spectators shouting and grumbling. Every seat in the gallery was taken, and there was hardly a spot around the edge of the room that wasn't occupied by a mill worker leaning against a wall and waiting his turn.

“I didn't know I'd have to do this in front of anyone,” I whispered to the sheriff.

“It's a full docket,” he said. “You'll be next.” He gave a salute to the clerk, who nodded and whispered to the judge. The judge—a jowly, watery-eyed old man with white whiskers sprouting from his cheeks and ears—called out, “All right, Bob, bring her here.”

The sheriff took my arm and led me to the front of the room. He handed the paper to the judge, who fumbled with his spectacles and read it to himself in a low mumble. Then he looked up at me.

“Is this all true?”

I looked at Sheriff Heath, who just nodded. “Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

“And this man—Henry Kaufman—he's been given ample opportunity to pay the charges?”

“He has,” said the sheriff.

“And is he here today?” The judge looked around the courtroom.

There was a shuffling sound from across the room and the curly-headed man stepped out of the crowd. He pulled a pipe out of his mouth to speak.

“Your Honor.”

The judge looked around and found him. “John? You're not involved in this mess, are you?”

“I'm afraid I am.” He seemed sad to admit it. “I have represented the Kaufman family's business interests for many years, and recently Mr. Henry Kaufman has engaged me to handle his personal affairs as well.”

Sheriff Heath sighed and shook his head. The attorney stepped forward and the two of them exchanged polite nods.

“If Your Honor will permit it, my client begs the court to hear his statement.”

“Where is your client?” the judge said.

The attorney cleared his throat. “My client prefers to wait outside due to the—ah—due to the interests of the parties—ah—other proceedings taking place today in Your Honor's court that might—”

“Never mind,” said the judge. “Quickly. I was promised this was a simple matter.”

“May it please the court,” the lawyer said, pulling a piece of paper from his coat pocket and unfolding it. “The statement”—and here he glanced meaningfully at Sheriff Heath—“which I am obligated to read on my client's behalf in spite of counsel to the contrary offered as a matter of—”

The judge groaned. “Read it.”

The lawyer rattled the paper, adjusted his stance, and began. “Mr. Henry Kaufman, of Kaufman Silk Dyeing Company of Paterson, New Jersey—”

The chatter in the room got louder as the mill workers realized that the man in question was a factory owner. No wonder Henry Kaufman didn't want to show his face.

“That's enough!” shouted the judge. The room quieted. “Go on, John.”

The lawyer looked nervously around and repeated the opening line to himself before continuing in a monotone. “Hereby refutes all charges leveled against him pertaining to an incident on the fourteenth day of July, in the year 1914, in which a buggy under the control of the three Kopp sisters did willfully collide with Mr. Kaufman's automobile, inflicting substantial damage on said automobile, and, further, Mr. Kaufman alleges that Miss Constance Kopp is a unionist and anarchist sympathizer who has harassed him at his place of business and spoken to his workers with the intention of inciting strikes and riots among a peaceable workforce, and that said harassment has disrupted production at his factory and inflicted—”

At the mention of strikes and disruption of peaceable workplaces, another rumble went through the crowd, with several men standing to get a better look at me.

The judge rapped his gavel and a bailiff walked among the rows of benches, urging the men back to their seats.

“That's enough, John,” the judge said. “Bring it here.”

The lawyer handed it over and leapt quickly back as if he were afraid of getting hit with the gavel himself. After reading it, the judge looked up at me. “Miss Kopp. Are you a unionist?”

I was too surprised to say anything. He leaned closer and squinted at me.

“Are you one of those Wobblies? An anarchist sympathizer? A Bolshevik? That's what it says here.”

This brought a round of laughter from the crowd. When it died down, I said, “No, sir. I only went to see Mr. Kaufman to collect on the amount owed. And we did not willfully collide—”

“That's fine, thank you,” the judge said. He turned to the lawyer. “She doesn't look like much of an anarchist sympathizer to me, John.”

“No, Your Honor.”

“Is the statement made up entirely of fabricated nonsense, or just that bit?”

The lawyer opened his mouth to answer but then seemed to think better of it and closed it again.

“I thought as much. Now, Miss Kopp. Come here and sign your statement.” He passed the paper across to me. I climbed the steps into the witness stand. He handed me his pen and I signed my name. His hand trembled and his fingers had a bluish cast to them. I wondered how a man his age withstood the chaos and tumult of the courtroom every day.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, sliding the paper back across his desk.

“Don't thank me for any of this,” the judge said. “Looks like a whole lot of trouble to me.” Then he leaned over again to address the sheriff.

“I'm ordering a fifty-dollar fine. It's up to you to collect it, Bob. And keep Miss Kopp and Mr. Kaufman away from each other. It appears they don't get along.”

Sheriff Heath nodded grimly. “Yes, Your Honor.”

“And next time, take your routine matters to another courtroom.”

The mill workers laughed and some of them applauded. The judge pounded his gavel until they stopped.

WE STEPPED OUT
into the bright noonday light and confronted the usual lunchtime rush on Main Street. “I'm sorry about that nonsense,” the sheriff shouted above the rumble of traffic. “Mr. Kaufman might not know better, but his attorney should have. He's probably wishing he'd never heard of the Kaufman family.”

“It's all right,” I said. “I'm just glad it's over.”

An automobile had stalled at the corner and its driver was standing over it, using his hat to fan the smoke billowing from the engine. No one could get around him, and the other drivers were honking and yelling. A large wagon pulled by two draft horses was trapped in the middle of the street, and the horses were trying without success to back away from the noise.

“What a mess,” the sheriff said. “Wait here, Miss Kopp. I'll just go find a constable.”

He ran into the crowd and I backed under the awning of a shoe shop until he reappeared, his coat over his arm, his shirtsleeves rolled up. “Forgive me, Miss Kopp,” he said, panting a little. “We just had to push him out of the way. Now, listen.” He took my arm and led me down the street. “Don't pay any attention to those ridiculous claims. They weren't formal charges and they never will be. I saw this sort of thing during the strikes last year. These men call everyone they don't like a Bolshevik and an anarchist. They get their lawyers to write up all manner of absurd accusations in hopes of confusing the matter and tying up the courts. But it won't work. Not this time.”

We crossed at the corner of Grand and a swarm of schoolchildren, all running after an ice cart, separated us in the middle of the street. I reached the other side first and felt an arm at my elbow. Thinking it was the sheriff, I turned around and found myself staring into a milky glass eye.

“No more police.”

He gave my arm a sharp twist that threw me off my balance, and by the time I regained my footing, I was face-to-face with Sheriff Heath and the man was gone.

THE SENSATION
of that man's fingers digging into my elbow stayed with me all evening. I couldn't bring myself to tell Norma and Fleurette about it. I'd promised them that this day in court would put an end to our troubles with Mr. Kaufman, and I didn't know how to admit how wrong I'd been.

Sheriff Heath tried to tell me not to worry. He said that Henry Kaufman wouldn't be foolish enough to bother us again now that a judge had ordered him to stay away. I told him it would be a mistake to underestimate Mr. Kaufman's capacity for foolish and reckless behavior.

It didn't take long to find out which of us was right. I'd just settled down to sleep when a window shattered down the hall. I thought I heard a man laugh, but I might have dreamed it.

The three of us staggered out of bed toward one another. There was no moon and it was impossibly dark. I could barely see their faces in front of me.

“Whose window did they break?” Norma said. “It wasn't mine.”

It took a minute for each of us to understand that none of our bedroom windows had been broken. Once we realized that, we all ran for Mother's room, half forgetting that she didn't occupy it anymore.

Norma was the first to find a lamp and light it. She made Fleurette go back to her room and put on shoes before she walked in. I found it very irritating that Norma had taken charge of the situation. Bricks coming through windows were my responsibility.

By the time Fleurette returned, Norma had the letter in her hand. She looked at me with an expression that I cannot properly describe. It was as if she had never met me, as if I were a complete stranger, standing in her mother's bedroom in the middle of the night.

“Is this how Sheriff Heath protects us?”

I didn't say a word. Norma read the letter to herself and handed it to me.

Madam:

You are here given warning not to sue H. K. for if you do you will suffer for we his friends will get square with you, we watched you in court house, if you make him spend any more money we will trap you or burn you. Don't give letter to police if you do you be sorry.

H. K. friends

We each read it twice, passing it around in the small circle where we stood among the broken glass. The brick had landed on the bureau, shattered a mirror, and knocked off a lacquered box of straight pins. They were splayed around us on the floor like slivers of ice.

Before any of us could say a word, we heard a motor in the distance. The roar grew louder and I yelled, “Get down!” just before another window shattered and a second brick barreled to the floor, breaking in half when it hit. Fleurette screamed that she was cut and I ran to her, crouching low in case the men were still outside. But the tires skidded in the drive and the motor car rumbled away. Fleurette fell against me.

“Are you hurt?” I said.

“I . . . I don't know. I felt something hit my head.”

Norma moved the lamp closer, and I looked her over but found no cuts and only a few shards of glass in her hair. I reached for the brush on the dresser, but Fleurette said no.

“Not Mother's brush. Just leave it the way it was.”

I set the brush down and smoothed Fleurette's hair with my fingers. “I don't think you're hurt,” I said. “I think you're all right.”

Norma pulled the lamp away and it was only then that I saw the note tied to the second brick. She read it and held it out to me without a word.

Dear Miss Florette,

Have you ever been to Chicago? We believe a girl of your talents would find a nice place for herself with no trouble at all. Maybe we bring you with us next time we go. Are you ready for an adventure? Ha! Ha!

—H. K. & Co

Fleurette, still leaning on my shoulder, took hold of the letter and read it under her breath.

“Chicago? Why am I going to Chicago?”