Scandal on Rincon Hill (35 page)

“No matter how you look at it,” he said reasonably, “these murders have the city in an uproar.”

“That's one thing on which we can all agree,” said Samuel quietly. “Illogical as it seems, I actually heard rumors this evening that your clients killed Nigel Logan and Patrick O'Hara, as well as Hume, Sarah.”

“Good Lord!” This was becoming more bizarre by the moment. “This despite the fact that Fan and Lee were in jail when O'Hara was murdered,” I said, throwing George a censuring look.

“Again, Sarah, it's not George's fault,” pointed out my brother. “People are frightened. As they have every right to be. Three men have been killed in ten days—practically in our own backyard! As if the Second Street Cut weren't bad enough, San Franciscans are now declaring Rincon Hill to be the murder capital of the state.”

I could only nod unhappy agreement. “I realize people are in a panic. Have you noticed how empty the streets are after dark? And not just on Rincon Hill.”

“That's how it is where I live, as well,” commented Robert. “Oh, you can still see some men coming and going, but precious few women or families.”

I sighed. “Our mother is so afraid, she's begged Papa not to go out alone at night.”

“She's asked me to stay at home, too, as well as Charles,” put in Samuel. “Which, in Charles's case, is a waste of breath. Can you imagine our dedicated healer not responding to a sick call? The Rincon Hill murderer would have to be waiting outside our front stoop, to keep our noble brother from ministering to the ill, no matter the time of night.”

I felt a bit sick at the thought of our gentle and compassionate brother walking the streets of Rincon Hill at night, his only concern the welfare of his patients. Who was going to protect him? The police? I almost laughed aloud. Now that they had two Chinese scapegoats in jail, I feared they would no longer bother to search for the real killer.

Without pausing to consider the wisdom of my words, I blurted out, “Oh, for heaven's sake! It seems there is nothing for it but to find the killer myself. That is the only way to free my clients, and to render Rincon Hill once again safe for its residents.”

George looked startled, while Robert gave a rude snort. “And just how do you plan to do that?” my colleague asked sarcastically. “Especially if the police already have the killer, or should I say
killers
, in custody.”

“Robert, please,” I said in frustration. “Enough of these ridiculous assumptions. Let's examine the facts as we know them, logically and in order. Fact number one,” I began, using my fingers to count off each point. “Three men have been murdered. Fact number two: Nigel Logan and Dieter Hume were good friends. The third victim, Patrick O'Hara, probably never even met Logan and Hume. Fact number four: None of the three victims was robbed.”

I looked around, but none of the men seemed eager to interrupt this treatise. “All right,” I said, and went on, “fact number five: Although two different weapons were used to commit the murders—in Logan's and Hume's cases, a section of two-by-four, in O'Hara's case, an ice pick—they have one thing in common, they were to hand at the scene of all three crimes. In other words, they were chosen opportunistically, not brought to the scenes by the killer.”

The three men remained mute, apparently waiting for me to continue. “Although Patrick O'Hara most likely was not acquainted with Logan and Hume, I refuse to believe that more than one person committed these murders. As I pointed out in fact number four, none of the three men were robbed. So, what then was the motive? Are we to believe that two or more separate killers, acting independently and within ten days of each other, chose
three arbitrary victims to kill for no obvious reason? The likelihood of that happening defies the laws of probability.”

“Yes, but—” George began.

“I have done some research, George, a simple study I would have expected the police to perform, had they but taken the time. There have been exactly four murders committed in the Rincon Hill area over the past five years.
Five
years, gentlemen! Now we suddenly have three men killed in our neighborhood in ten days.”

Samuel appeared impressed. George's round face was screwed up in concentration, as if he were trying to come up with arguments to challenge my theory. Robert was regarding me with quiet speculation.

“Well?” I said, looking at each of them in turn. “Don't you have anything to say?”

“Your arguments are sound, Sarah,” Robert commented. “As far as they go. However, there is not one grain of proof in the lot of it. Even more important, it leaves no room for the unpredictable, and life is full of events we can't anticipate. Or always understand.”

My eyes flew to his face. Did those words hold another, more private, meaning? I wondered. Was it a veiled reference to what happened between us last night?

“Robert's right, Sarah,” Samuel put in, before I could respond. “You and I may discount those eyewitnesses, but unless you can break their story you know as well as I do who the jury is going to believe.”

I sighed. He was right. Logic would get me nowhere as long as two white men swore they had seen Fan and Lee by that bridge. It was so unfair. Even if they had seen my clients in the vicinity of the crime scene—which I didn't believe for one minute—they had said nothing about actually witnessing the attack. Guilty by being in the general area of a murder was what it boiled down to. No, it was worse than that: guilty by reason of being Chinese!

W
hen Robert and George left, Samuel and I sat in front of the dying fire, each of us lost in our own bleak thoughts. The reality of Patrick O'Hara's death was finally sinking in, and I found myself disconsolate. As was not the case with Nigel Logan and Dieter Hume, I had been personally acquainted with the cheerful young Irishman. In the five or six years I had known Patrick, who had gone to work in his cousin's ice cream parlor when he was fourteen, I had rarely observed him without a grin on his broad, jovial face. He called everyone by name, teased and flattered the girls, and played games of chuck-a-luck and checkers with the boys when business was slow. He was as much a fixture at the ice cream parlor as was the bright orange, yellow, and blue sign that hung above the door. Compared to the loss of poor Patrick, even my problems with Ozzie Foldger seemed to pale by comparison.

After I had endured several minutes of these sad remembrances, I looked up to find my brother watching me, his blue eyes sympathetic.

“You're thinking of Patrick, aren't you?”

I nodded, taken aback to find my eyes filling with tears. “It's such a loss. I simply cannot imagine why anyone would want to harm that boy.”

“Nor do I.” He gave a long sigh, then looked at me seriously. “Sarah, please tell me that you don't really mean to look for this madman yourself. I understand that you want to clear your clients, but it's not worth putting your own life in danger.”

“Don't worry. I promise not to do anything foolish.”

“I've heard that promise before, so you'll forgive me for not finding it much of a consolation.”

As he rose from his chair and went to the hearth to poke apart the final remains of the fire, I suddenly remembered his meeting that morning at Cunningham and Brill's law firm.

“Samuel, you promised to tell me how your appointment with Arthur Cunningham went this morning.”

He placed the fireplace poker back in its iron stand, and turned his back to the hearth. Resting his hand casually on Papa's bronze bust of Abraham Lincoln that stood on the mantel, he gave me a rueful smile.

“It was worse than I expected. Despite my best efforts, it turns out they like me. Depending upon the results of my bar examination in February, it seems that I am to be Cunningham and Brill's newest associate attorney.”

I wasn't sure whether to congratulate him or offer my condolences. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don't know, I haven't had time to give it much thought.” He stood silently for a moment, looking down at Lincoln's bust. “Good old honest Abe would know what to do, Sarah, but I admit that I'm stymied.

“I've spent so long trying to avoid a career in the law, I can't seem to wrap my mind around the fact that someone actually wants to hire me as an attorney. I knew it would come to this sooner or later, but I became so adept at pushing the day of judgment to the back of my mind, I somehow forgot it was still there.”

“And now the day of judgment has arrived,” I said, deciding that commiseration was the proper response after all. “It takes courage to follow your heart, Samuel. That was what I decided to do, and in many ways it's cost me dearly. Still, I admit I wouldn't have it any other way.”

He smiled. “I know I tease you, Sarah, but the truth is I admire your courage in defying society and blazing your own path through life. I realize how much you've had to give up. But at least Father approves of your choice. He's going to be extremely disappointed to learn what I've been doing since law school. He loathes popular journalism.”

“I know. But this is your life, and you have to follow your heart.” I smiled with genuine sympathy. “In the end I know you'll make the right decision, Samuel. Just don't allow anyone, including Papa or me, to influence you one way or the other.”

He bent over and kissed me on the cheek. “What would I do without you, little sister?” Taking my hand, he pulled me to my feet. “It's getting late, and you have an important day in court tomorrow.”

“Oh, Lord, don't remind me, Samuel.” During our discussion I had briefly forgotten Fan and Lee's arraignment proceeding the following morning. Now, all my earlier apprehension came flooding back, nearly drowning me in a tide of frustration. “I feel so powerless to help those poor boys. No matter what I say, the authorities have already made up their minds about their guilt. As matters stand, they're being railroaded to the gallows.”

“All you can do is your best, Sarah,” he said, walking with me toward the door. “That's all any of us can do.”

I
had hoped that Fan Gow and Lee Yup's arraignment the next morning might be held without attracting undue attention. Unfortunately, the date of the hearing had leaked out to the newspapers, and the courtroom was filled to overflowing.

Upon my arrival, I was dismayed to discover a large and unruly group of demonstrators gathered outside the courthouse, many waving signs and placards demanding that the dirty yellow devils be strung up from the nearest tree or, better still, be drawn and quartered, like in the good old days.

To my horror, I saw several people who had obviously read Foldger's article the previous evening. They carried signs denouncing me as a loose woman, a hussy, a tramp, and, God help me, even worse. Reminding myself that I was here for the sole purpose of defending my clients, I lifted my chin and, paying no heed to the angry catcalls and racial slurs, boldly led Sun Kin Lu through the rowdy throng and into the building.

In spite of all the commotion, the proceedings themselves were quickly concluded. Although I received a few sly looks from the assistant district attorney's table, the judge—a portly, humorless
man whom I knew to be one of Papa's friends—put a vigorous stop to the murmurs and snickers directed at me from the spectators.

The two witnesses who claimed to have seen my clients near the Harrison Street Bridge on the night of Deacon Hume's murder dutifully testified. Notwithstanding my attempts to challenge their ability to identify Fan and Lee on such a dark night, the judge inevitably remanded the pair over for trial. Bail was denied.

What I found most disturbing were the vague insinuations coming from the assistant district attorney that there was a possibility Lee and Fan might also be linked to Nigel Logan's death. To allow sufficient time for the police to dredge up new evidence to support this charge, my clients' trial date was set for late the following spring.

As promised, Sun Kin Lu had brought with him a bag of dried meat and fish, enough I judged, to feed a dozen men. I stood patiently by while the guards removed every item from the burlap bag, holding each repugnant-looking piece up and trying, with deep belly laughs, to guess what it might be. To be fair, even I found it difficult to identify the dried foodstuff, some of the shapes resembling flattened rats, squid, pig's livers, and giant insects.

As one piece of dried meat and fish after the next was inspected and mocked, it was tossed with loud guffaws into the waste container. Sun's face grew progressively darker as this continued, until I feared he might lose control and explode. Good heavens, I thought in alarm. If he, too, were arrested, I would be forced to defend my Chinese interpreter, along with the two clients I already felt powerless to save!

When the guards finally finished, they left the room still joking about the disgusting-looking discards. It was pitiful to watch the disheartened expressions on the boys' faces, to see so many Oriental delicacies carried out with the trash. All that remained were a handful of grisly bits that would probably not amount to a single meal.

With Sun Kin Lu's help, I did my best to allay the young men's
fears and confusion about what had just taken place in the incomprehensible white man's courtroom. I could tell by their faces that they understood little of what I said. In all honesty, I wasn't sure how much Sun had grasped, consequently it was easy to see why he had failed to pass the information on to my clients.

When Fan and Lee were finally taken back to their jail cells, I asked Sun to wait while I composed a note to Li Ying, explaining the outcome of the morning's proceedings. It was a disheartening missive. I even offered to return Li's generous retainer, since I felt I had done precious little to help his unfortunate countrymen.

Sealing the letter in an envelope I had brought with me for this purpose, I thanked the interpreter, then left the courthouse to make my way back to Sutter Street.

I
was surprised to find Pierce waiting for me when I returned to my office. He and my downstairs neighbor, Fanny, were chatting in front of her millinery shop. The look of relief on Pierce's face at my arrival led me to believe that this was more than a strictly social call. I felt a stir of alarm, fearing that he and Fanny had read Foldger's article. Then, after studying their faces, I was relieved to realize that I was imagining trouble where it did not as yet exist.