Quiet Dell: A Novel (39 page)

“Swing by for me,” Emily said.

“Half an hour.”

She put down the phone. “Don’t look that way, William. You know I must go.”

“Of course you must. Phone me, and stay with Eric at all times. You must stay in adjoining rooms, at the Gore. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll be gone two days at most. Come and help me pack. I must hurry. You’ll finish breakfast then, after I leave? I love to think of you here, even if I must go.”

“Then think of me here. Reynolds will take the dog?”

“Yes. I’ll call to inform him. You need only lock up, and go down by the stairs.”

“The secret passage. Go now. Get dressed.” He heard her in the bath, in the bedroom, drawers pulled open and shut.

He’d never seen this place that took her from him, but he would attend the trial. His presence was expected, given his part in the drama. He would go to Quiet Dell, and stand with her on that dirt road, and view the spectacle at the opera house. He must witness all, then bring her back with him, forever.

September 19–20, 1931

Eric hired a car at the Clarksburg airport and they went directly to the jail. It was heavily guarded. Perhaps three thousand had gathered, filling Third Street for blocks. The instigators were a group of a hundred or so. A great steel bin held boulders and rocks taken from the ground, for the foundation of the new building was dug and roped off, and earth piled to one side. Men climbed
upon the mound now, to stand above the crowd and shout epithets. Others lined the borders of the bin itself, taking stones out and stacking them, arming themselves for the expected assault on the police station. “Lynch him!” rang out repeatedly. “Don’t waste a rope,” someone answered. “Here, rocks and fists!” a female voice responded. Laughter rippled like ricochet. “Swift justice,” a man called, setting a more serious tone.

The mob was waiting for dark, and the surging crowd waited for the mob to act. Tense expectation reigned. It was 6:00
P.M
., but the sheriff’s office had switched on the lights at the construction site.

Eric steered Emily through the crowd. “Excuse me,” he repeated, “we have business with the sheriff’s office . . . excuse me, please excuse us, we have business—”

They made their way. Two fire trucks were drawn up before the station door; firemen had unrolled the hoses and held them ready, aimed at the crowd. State police stood posted at hundred-yard intervals, formally outfitted in broad-brimmed hats, double-breasted jackets, blouson trousers, and high black boots. They remained at attention, shoulders back, surveying the ragged front edge of the crowd.

Emily addressed an officer. “Excuse me, sir. Might you please get a message to Sheriff W. B. Grimm, that Miss Thornhill and Mr. Lindstrom, of the
Chicago Tribune,
are here to speak with him.”

“Get back, both of you.” The man didn’t look at them, but stood with his hand on his holstered pistol, glancing at his fellows, stationed to his right and left. “No press interviews now. No one is allowed in the jail, and no one in the crowd can advance from this point.”

Emily pretended affront. “Officer, we have information for Sheriff Grimm, pursuant to this demonstration, information he has asked us to convey. You must give us leave to go inside.”

Eric showed his press credential. “The sheriff personally alerted us to events. We have come directly from Chicago. Please allow us entrance.”

The trooper gave him a withering look and jerked his head. They walked quickly toward a line of city police, who parted almost surreptitiously to allow passage and stood back in formation. Emily heard movement in the crowd, and isolated catcalls, but they were inside.

Numerous uniformed officers stood in groups. Some inspected tables on which rifles and tear gas canisters lay arranged end to end.

Grimm was in the outer office and stood as they entered. “Who let you in here? I was informing you of events, Lindstrom, not inviting you to the jail. And I did not expect you to bring a woman into a lynch mob.”

“You remember Miss Thornhill, Sheriff Grimm. It is our job to cover every aspect of the case—”

“That’s not my concern.” Grimm turned to Emily. “They are a disorganized mob, inflamed by rumor over the last two days. We are prepared, but they will rush the jail. My men will show you to an upstairs room and you are to stay there. Do you understand?” He pointed at Eric. “She is your responsibility.”

“Yes,” Eric said.

“Stay clear of the windows,” Grimm told Emily, “and shut them if we are forced to gas the crowd. Officers will shutter all windows from the inside if the crowd lobs rocks or explosives.”

A machine gun lay on the desk between them.

“Are you prepared to use that gun to defend Powers?” Eric took a camera from his bag.

“I must defend Powers and the rule of law, and everyone in this police station, including the two of you. Put the camera away. Do not, I repeat, do not, take photographs inside the station, or of the prisoner.”

“Eric—” Emily cautioned.

“Understood.” Eric held up open palms, as though in surrender.

“That way.” Grimm pointed to a staircase. “It is called the medical room and adjoins the police chief’s residence, to which the door is locked. If I see you down here, Lindstrom, I will lock you up. See how you cover events from a cell.”

“Thank you, Sheriff Grimm.” Emily pushed Eric toward the stairs and followed him quickly up. The stairs let out into a hallway with two small offices on one side, and a large room on the other. This was obviously the “medical room,” bare but for a steel exam table, a sink, and a large, wall-mounted first aid cabinet. A desk in one corner held a typewriter. Two generous windows provided an excellent view of the crowd.

“This is perfect.” Eric gazed down. “We couldn’t have a better vantage point.” The mob pressed against a construction bin of rocks, just beyond the ring of state police. It was twilight. Floodlights, hung high on poles, beamed down. Isolated small groups lit torches.

“Turn him loose, turn him loose,” they began to chant.

“It’s an ugly crowd,” Emily said. “Grimm was not happy to see us.”

“I’ve had far worse greetings.” Eric smiled. “Do stay back from the window. There is even a typewriter, Emily. You need only sit at the desk to write your copy.”

“You seem so pleased. This could get quite ugly, if they rush the station.”

“I predict Grimm will retain control. He is kingpin of this domain, and the ultimate professional.” Eric opened the window, standing to the side, out of view, and began photographing the crowd. “I’m close enough to focus on faces, and I can see the entire front of the station.”

“You will provide Grimm with photographs of the ringleaders, if he needs them, and prove your worth.”

“I don’t think you need prove yours. He’s as smitten as Grimm gets.” Eric looked over at her.

“That’s really enough.”

He moved to the other side of the window, shooting the vast throng of spectators that filled Pike and Third Streets. Then he turned and photographed Emily, who stood with the desk chair before her. “I have disobeyed Grimm, but only for posterity.” He put down the camera. “I know you are happy. Malone seems completely
devoted to you, and I’m not one to believe happy couples are married couples.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“Only to me. And I will protect you, always, just as you protect me. In fact, we protect one another, at gatherings like the
Tribune
affair, but my feelings for you run far deeper than appearances. As counsel or help, no matter the need, I am sworn to you.”

“And I to you.” A roar went up at the window. “Take care. They may notice the flash of your camera, and not want record of themselves.” She walked closer behind him to see the crowd sway and begin to push forward.

“Give us the fiend!” a woman screamed. Glass shattered and police poured out of the station, standing two and three deep behind the state troopers. Grimm, at the front, pistol drawn, fired a warning shot. The mob, inflamed, threw a barrage of rocks and bottles, pressing the police, who surged forward against them. Officers lobbed tear gas into the crowd. Two hundred or so men, wielding clubs, rushed the jail from Third Street. The mob had dragged the hose from one fire truck and now strained to overturn it; firemen maintained a constant burst of flaring water from the other. The gas was everywhere, hissing and popping, and the crowd fell back choking. State troopers surrounded a few men and pulled them quickly into the station. The crowd jeered, but the police drew weapons and held them overhead in a show of force.

Grimm addressed the crowd through a bullhorn, standing at the door of the station. “The prisoner inside is charged with a terrible crime, but you have entrusted these officers to uphold the rule of law. They will fight to the last to defend the dignity of the county. Do not endanger their lives or your own.” He waited. “If any of you are ever charged with a crime, know that we will go to equal lengths to protect you. We are under oath and sacred obligation.”

Eric shut the window; the wind had shifted and the smell of the pungent gas burned. Emily saw, from the darkened room, those
not immediately dispersed by the gas begin to move. They faded back like dark patches, out of the light.

There was commotion downstairs, and shouting. Police were strong-arming the mob leaders into cells, slamming cell doors, calling to one another, “Secured.” “Secured.” “That’s the last, eight secured.” They must have moved the new prisoners directly past Powers’ cell. One called out in a sonorous baritone, “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” “Shut your trap,” said a voice.

Emily heard quiet weeping. She went to the landing at the top of the stairs.

Grimm appeared at the bottom, glaring at her, his suit spotless, his hat pushed back on his head. “All right?” He barely acknowledged her quick nod. “Shutter the windows.” He waited, listening as Eric slammed the wooden shutters closed and slid the iron bars across to bolt them. “No cameras,” Grimm said. “We are bringing him up.”

She stepped back and felt Eric’s hand at her waist, drawing her into the far corner of the room. She stood against him as footsteps began to mount the stairs. Chains clanked, step by step. Eric drew her behind him. A group was upon the stairs, moving slowly as though in concert. Grimm was in the room with four officers; two more held Powers between them, a red blanket over his head and shoulders like a cloak, his hands and feet manacled. He hunched in the blanket, sniveling, holding up his chained hands. She saw his wet blue eyes peering out and wished the mob might have him.

“Gentlemen,” he was saying. “I surely thank you for your protection tonight, and for guarding my home. My poor wife. I know you will leave your officers in place. I’m most grateful. That mob would have torn me limb from limb—” He minced forward, encumbered by the short chain fastening his ankles.

No officer addressed him; they only acted in formation, unlocking the door to the police chief’s quarters, moving Powers out while the crowd was distracted.

“Where are you taking him?” Eric asked.

“I am going to Moundsville,” Powers said, as though pleased. “Gentlemen, I—”

An officer behind him slipped a gag over the blanket, into his mouth, stopping the words. Emily counted fourteen police. One remained to lock the door behind them, and turned to face her.

“May we stay?” she asked the officer.

“You’ll stay right where you are until I give you leave.”

“May I use the typewriter?”

He shrugged, eyeing Eric.

They could not hear the vehicles moving off, but knew there would be three: one to precede the prisoner, Grimm in the police van, with his guards and the manacled Powers, and a third to guard the caravan from behind. Moundsville was an hour’s drive. They were taking him to the state penitentiary, to death row, most likely, which featured the most secure cells in the state. Grimm had gained some sort of special permission, without accepting a change of venue for the trial.

Emily rolled the desk chair into place and began to type, utilizing the paper in the desk drawer. The carriage stuck, but she almost enjoyed slamming it back at certain punctuating moments.

Eric sat down to wait. “May I open the shutters?”

“No.” The officer removed his billy club from his belt and stood tapping it lightly against his leg.

Emily began to write her copy:

Saturday Night Melee Surrounds Murderer Powers in West Virginia Town. Clarksburg, West Virginia, September 20, 1931: Special to the Chicago Tribune, by Emily Thornhill. An angry mob of 3000 townsmen surrounded the county jail at dark on Saturday, September 19th, nearly a month after Powers’ arrest for the murder of five persons. The crowd demanded Powers’ release to “swift justice . . .”

She and Eric were allowed to leave within the hour. Groups still clustered on every corner. The police station was shuttered
and guarded, the fire trucks in place. Eric walked her to the Gore and went back to photograph what was left of the crowd. She filed at the telegraph office, rousing the dispatcher, and left a message with William’s service, not to wake him.

She did not know the desk clerk on duty, but William had asked for the same rooms as before. Eric, when he came in at 2:00
A.M
., insisted on leaving the door through unlocked, as though she might be carried away in the night. Later they would do a feature to accompany his photographs. The actual riot, in the dark, translated as blurs and streaks, but the pre-assault images, taken at twilight, seemed carefully composed. Legions of male faces turned to the camera like bland, inquiring flowers; all were white men in pale shirts or coat and tie, their hats at rakish angles. Some actually stood within the construction bin as though posing among the rocks, and the lights above them glowed out like planets.