Scandal on Rincon Hill (27 page)

“I am honored to meet you, Mr. Sun,” I said with equal courtesy. “I am pleased that you have offered to assist me in speaking to the prisoners.”

“Li Ying say give you much assistance,” he replied, once again executing a deep bow. “We go inside, missy?” Nodding his head, Sun Kin Lu indicated that I should lead the way into the jail.

Unfortunately, I was not familiar with the uniformed police officer stationed inside the jail's anteroom. This meant, of course, that I would have to undergo the usual battery of questions before I would be allowed to visit my new clients. On this occasion, the procedure was further complicated by the fact that the men I wished to visit were Chinese and, moreover, could not speak a word of English.
Because of this, there was no way the jailer could verify that I had, indeed, been hired to represent them. Furthermore, he refused to believe that I was an attorney, and declared that under no circumstances would he allow a well-bred lady in to visit such godless and sadistic criminals.

It was not until I insisted that the officer call upon his superior for guidance, that Sun Kin Lu—whom the jailers regarded with anxious contempt—and I were finally allowed inside the block of cells.

The guard who led us in was a man I had seen once or twice on previous visits to the jail, but to whom I had never spoken. It was a relief to see that he at least recognized me, and that he restrained himself from making any caustic comments about my companion, or my validity as an attorney, as he led us down the row of barred doors.

Halfway down the corridor, we stopped in front of a cell inhabited by two wretched-looking Chinese men, each stiffly perched upon the edge of a cot. They were very young, no more than eighteen or nineteen, I guessed, and their tunics and trousers were torn and disheveled, indicating that they had been roughly treated by the police. As the jailer opened the door and allowed us to step inside, the two young Chinese regarded us with dark, fearful eyes.

As we passed into the cell, I was instantly overcome by a foul stench. Placing my handkerchief over my mouth and nose, I searched the small space for the cause of this odor. It did not take me long to locate the source; in one corner of the room, covered by a ragged and very dirty cloth, was a rusty bucket which appeared to be full of waste matter. The presence of the bucket itself was not unusual, but customarily these were emptied and rinsed out twice a day. Obviously, this pail had not been attended to since the men were incarcerated two days ago!

Attempting to breathe as much from my mouth as possible, I studied the inhabitants of the cell. They were very pale, and had shrunk back from me as far as possible on their cots. They were regarding me in such obvious terror that Sun Kin Lu stepped around
me and addressed them in rapid Chinese. While he spoke, the prisoners stared at me in confusion, as if they had never before set eyes upon a Western woman, much less one who claimed to be a lawyer!

Then Sun mentioned Li Ying's name, and the men instantly became very still, their attention now riveted on the interpreter. I would have thought it impossible, but their frightened, already white faces grew even more drawn. I thought it said a great deal about the tong lord, that even men who had so recently arrived in Chinatown already recognized his name and respected his formidable reputation.

In response to Sun's questions, the taller of the two men spoke briefly. As he did, I noticed that his hands were trembling rather badly. In his turn, the smaller man mumbled something to the interpreter, then dropped his face and stared at his mud-caked slippers.

Sun nodded toward the first man, explaining, “This one Lee Yup.” Pointing to the other man he continued, “Him say name Fan Gow. They come
Gum San
three, maybe four week ago.”

Loosely translated,
Gum San
meant “The land of the Golden Mountain,” and was a name the Chinese frequently employed when referring to San Francisco. If it was true that Fan Gow and Lee Yup had so recently arrived in our city, then they must indeed find their present situation terrifying.

I was considering how best to commence the interview, when Sun Kin Lu again spoke to the men in rapid Chinese. From his tone and body language, I guessed that he was rebuking the men for not offering me a seat. That I was correct in this assumption, was borne out when the two young Chinese sprang to their feet and bowed low, pointing meaningfully at their vacated beds.

Warily, I eyed the grimy condition of the cots. The threadbare bedding was torn and a filthy gray color. I doubted that it had seen soap and water for months, if ever. Heaven alone knew how many bugs infested its grubby folds. If given a choice, I would happily have remained standing. Realizing, however, that by doing so I would embarrass Mr. Sun and cause him to lose face, I politely
inclined my head in thanks, and went to sit gingerly on the bed which had formerly been occupied by Lee Yup.

Addressing Sun Kin Lu, I said, “Would you please ask Mr. Lee and Mr. Fan how they came to be arrested for Deacon Hume's murder?”

Mr. Sun did as I requested, then listened as Lee Yup—who seemed to be the older, or at least the more outspoken, of the two Celestials—answered. Turning to me, he translated, “They say not know why they here. Say they mind own business when police grab them, throw onto ground, hit with clubs, drag here. They not understand why.”

“I see,” I replied, feeling profound sympathy for the two young men. “Would you please ask them where they were when they were arrested by the police?”

Dutifully, Sun spoke to the men, then said, “They not sure, say they lost. Only know somewhere outside Tangrenbu.” He clucked disapprovingly. “Big mistake, leave Chinatown. Many troubles outside.”

That was true enough. As long as the Chinese stayed within the ten-block radius of Chinatown, they remained relatively free of interference from the white man. Even the police were leery of entering this area, especially at night. It was mainly left to the Chinese, usually in the form of the Six Companies—organizations representing the six districts of China—to take care of crimes committed within their boundaries. It had been foolish indeed for two young men, who spoke not one word of English between them, to venture beyond the security afforded them by their own people.

“Have they been questioned since arriving here in jail?” I asked.

“When first come here,” Sun translated, “man in uniform talk to them, but they not understand what he say. Food come—awful white man cooking—but no see anyone since.”

“Would you please ask them what they were doing in the Harrison Street Bridge area the night Deacon Hume was murdered?” I asked.

Again, there was a rapid exchange of Chinese, then the interpreter
turned to me. “They say not know where bridge is, never heard name. They smoke pipes, maybe gamble, not remember much that night.”

“By pipes, I assume you mean they were smoking opium?” I asked. Some months ago I had witnessed firsthand the devastating effects of the addictive opium poppy.

“Yes, yes, opium,” Sun confirmed, bobbing his head up and down like a yo-yo, all the while grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Cloud mind, so not remember.”

“I see.” I attempted several more questions, but it was clear that the young men had no idea why they had been set upon by the police, or why they were currently languishing in city jail. I had no difficulty believing that they were telling the truth when they claimed they had been wandering lost in the city, undoubtedly under the influence of opium, the night they'd been arrested. There seemed no logical reason why they would deliberately seek out the Rincon Hill district, especially at that hour of the night. Moreover, I consider myself a reasonably shrewd judge of character, and I could not for one minute imagine these frightened, bewildered boys to be cold-blooded killers.

There were a good deal more inquiries I wished to make concerning their case, but clearly these unfortunate young Celestials were incapable of supplying the answers.

“All right, Mr. Sun,” I said, rising from my unhappy perch upon the cot. “Please tell Mr. Lee and Mr. Fan that I will do everything possible to secure their release from this place. At the very least, I intend to ensure that their treatment is more humane.”

Wrinkling my nose, I glanced at the disgusting bucket. Having that emptied, I determined, would be the first order of business. After that had been taken care of, I would see what I could do about the filthy cots, and then make certain that they were fed decent food. I fervently wished that Mr. Sun could explain to them some of the legal hurdles we would have to overcome, as well as the reasons why bail would very likely be refused.

Unfortunately, I could think of no way to communicate this to
the interpreter, much less expect him to successfully pass the information on to the prisoners. For now, it seemed more important that Lee and Fan understand that they were not alone, that someone from the white community was on their side, and would be there to help guide them through this nightmare.

After we left the cell, I made arrangements to meet with Sun Kin Lu at my office the following afternoon, after which I sent him back to Chinatown with my thanks. Before I left the jail to visit the courthouse, I confronted various guards, along with as many of their superiors as I could lay my hands on, concerning the deplorable sanitary conditions present in Lee Yup and Fan Gow's jail cell. Despite an initial display of resistance, I was finally able to bully two of the younger jailers into cleaning the cell, changing the linen, and emptying the revolting waste bucket.

My visit to the courthouse was not as successful. Just as I feared, there was nothing I could do about obtaining Fan's and Lee's release on bail. Not only were they considered major flight risks, but the authorities feared—not without reason—that an angry mob might overrun the courthouse if the two men were allowed to leave the jail. I was, however, able to move up their suspiciously vague arraignment date to Wednesday morning, the day after tomorrow. With that small victory, I was forced to be content.

A
s I made my way from the public horsecar to my office, I passed a newsboy hawking the morning editions of several San Francisco newspapers. I stopped in my tracks when I saw the bold, black headlines announcing the arrest of two Chinamen for the murder of Deacon Dieter Hume:
CHINAMEN CAUGHT RED-HANDED IN KILLING! CHINESE DEVILS ON A RAMPAGE! TWO JOHNNIES ACCUSED OF CHURCHMAN'S MURDER
!

Purchasing copies of each paper, I tucked them beneath my arm and, thoughts reeling, completed the short walk up Sutter Street. My plan was to read the articles in the privacy of my office, but I
was intercepted by Fanny as I started up the stairs. She was holding a copy of that morning's
Examiner
.

“So, you've already seen the story,” she said, indicating the newspapers under my arm. “I'll warrant you haven't eaten since breakfast, if then. Why don't you come inside for a bite of lunch? I'd like to hear what you think of the article.”

“I haven't had time to read any of them yet, Fanny,” I told her. “But I'd be happy to join you for a cup of coffee.”

Naturally, Fanny insisted that I partake of more than just coffee, and I must admit I put up little resistance. As I scanned the front-page stories—the worst of which carried the name of Samuel's nemesis, Ozzie Foldger—she placed a thickly sliced ham sandwich before me, the bread fresh from that morning. Laying out a similar plate of her own, she took a seat opposite me at the table.

“So, what do you think about those two Chinese fellows the police brought in over the weekend?” she asked. “Why do you suppose they suspect them of murdering that church deacon? Seems to me the police arrested them on precious little evidence.”

“I agree, Fanny. I think that's exactly what they did. The truth is that they're hardly more than frightened boys. They haven't the least idea between them about what's going on.”

I went on to relate my interview with the two young men at city jail that morning. As it was my habit not to discuss my association with Li Ying unless it became necessary, I left out my meeting with the tong lord, and neither did I tell her that he had requested me to represent Lee Yup and Fan Gow. Very little gets by my downstairs neighbor, however, and she quickly guessed the more pertinent facts that I had omitted from the story.

“So that tong leader friend of yours has asked you to take their case, has he? Well, somebody has to defend them, and I can't see any other lawyer in town caring two figs for what happens to those poor Johnnies.”

“I'm not sure how much I can do for them,” I admitted gloomily. “So far, all I've managed to accomplish is to get their cell
cleaned, and coerce the powers that be into setting their arraignment for the day after tomorrow, instead of some indeterminate date in the future.”

“Well, that's something, isn't it?” She smiled and patted my hand. “If anyone can help those poor boys, it's you, Sarah. Mr. Li knows that or he wouldn't have trusted you to do the job. Give it some time to percolate in your mind. I have faith that you'll come up with a way to save them.”

“I sincerely hope you're right,” I said, wishing I shared her confidence in my abilities.

She stood and went to the stove, returning with fresh coffee. “Now, tell me all about that Bouchard girl and her baby. Have you had any luck finding them?”

“Yes,” I answered, then paused, reluctant to tell my neighbor where Brielle was staying. Naturally, Fanny was having none of it.

“So, where is she?” she asked, regarding me with direct gray eyes. Her straightforward manner clearly indicated that she expected an equally straightforward reply.

I sighed. “She and little Emma are currently living at Madam Valentine's parlor house on Montgomery Street. Madam Valentine took her in when—”

“Matilda Abernathy!” interrupted Fanny with a much amused laugh. “My swan! Where did you meet her, Sarah? Don't tell me you actually went to the brothel?”

“Matilda Abernathy?” I asked in confusion.

“Madam Valentine, dear. Matilda Abernathy is the name she was born with, although she hasn't used it for so long I'm not sure she even remembers it. She told me she made her way west from a little town in upstate New York—Waterburgh or Waterville, I think it was.”