Gary Alexander - The Best American Mystery Stories 2010

Two days after his fight with John Lawrence, Enright’s horse came in riderless, blood on its saddle. People knew the horse, and they knew Enright’s last dispute.

The lawyers were all in the courthouse, an ostentatiously named one-story building on Main Street. Most lawyers spent most days in the courthouse, trying a case or observing a trial or researching land or water titles. Or gossiping, as they were doing at four o’clock of the afternoon when the chief of police came in. He might have been seeking a warrant, but finding the object of his search in the courtroom, he proposed to take him into custody that minute. “John Lawrence, you’re under arrest for the murder of Luke Enright.”

“Who?” asked one of the lawyers.

“The little bastard who took over my practice,” John said. A good attorney would have shut his mouth before he could finish the thought aloud, but he had no attorney.

“He took over more than that,” the chief said portentously. “While you were gone, he and your — well, he was a lodger in your house.”

“My wife needed an income,” John said, sounding sullen and unconvincing to everyone.

There were several rejoinders to that, referring to Mrs. Lawrence’s needs, but no one spoke them aloud.

“And your wife is gone too,” the chief announced as if it proved his point. “Did you kill them both at once?”

“No,” another man said quickly. “I saw Mrs. Lawrence riding out myself, with luggage in her carriage.”

“Which direction?”

“North. The Austin road.”

“Horrified by what you’d done,” the chief of police said to John, moving toward him.

John shook his head. “Just going to visit her sister for a while.”

“You can explain to a jury,” the chief said, reaching for John.

As he did so, the courtroom door opened, and everyone looked toward it. There was a certain apprehension in some of those gazes. One of the last times some of them had seen that door open, Mexican troops had come through it. But this late afternoon, the lowering sun only cast the shadow of one man. William Harcourt had returned to the courthouse.

He seemed to be well informed of what was happening. “What do you propose to do with the prisoner, Chief?” he asked briskly.

“Put him in jail, wait for — well, the circuit judge, I suppose.”

“What about bail? He’s entitled to indictment by a grand jury, as well. But we have neither magistrate to set bond nor district judge to call a grand jury.”

The only district judge in the region had been captured along with the rest of the lawyers. One of the first three released, he had immediately returned to his home state of Mississippi, declaring it was unsafe to practice law in Texas. No one had yet been appointed or elected to take his place.

Judge was a position of distinction and honor, but it did not pay very well in the days of the Republic and offered no retirement pension. Lawyers took turns at the position, serving for a term or perhaps two out of a sense of duty, but always returning to more lucrative private practice. There were two men in the room who could claim the lifelong title of “Judge,” but no current holder of the office.

“He’ll just have to wait,” the police chief declared. Everyone in the room murmured at that. The lawyers didn’t like to think of their colleague sitting in jail with no legal recourse.

“I believe the Constitution entitles him to speedy trial if he demands it,” another lawyer observed. Harcourt was glad he no longer had to do all the proposing. “That’s right,” another one said, “and a grand jury to determine whether there’s cause to hold him.”

“Well, we just don’t have those things,” the police chief said, beginning to sound sulky. He was usually comfortable in his authority, but being the only nonlawyer in a room full of attorneys made a man want to stand with his back to a wall.

“We can have,” Harcourt said quietly.

The room went quiet. The nearly two dozen lawyers in the room looked around at each other. Most of them had served on a jury at one time or another, being readily available when a call for jurors went out. They were in a courtroom where hundreds of trials had been conducted. If any other group had thought of conducting an inquiry, they would have been a kangaroo court or a lynch mob, but this group could make it official.

“I don’t want to sit in jail,” John said. He hadn’t moved from his chair.

“Would you rather be hanged tomorrow?” Sam Maverick said, stalking to the center of the room. “That’s what we’re talking about. There wouldn’t be any appeal. This is real, John.”

“Yes,” the prisoner said. “I’d prefer that, if a jury of my peers thinks it just.”

He sounded resigned and yet eager. Men looked at each other, wondering if they were ready to assume this responsibility. It was a moment before they realized that Bill Harcourt was speaking.

“Sam Maverick is one of the largest landholders in this county,” he drawled as if telling a story. Bill stood by the jury box, leaning against its rail. “And we know he has large herds of cattle, some of them taken in fees. But he refuses to brand them. They roam free, so he can claim any unbranded cow is his.”

“I’ve never—” Maverick began, but Bill waved him silent.

“Well, we are all mavericks now. Unbranded rogues, who answer to no one. That was the lesson of Perote. The lesson the Mexican general intended to teach us when he kidnapped us from this room. Our institutions are hollow, except as we give them form. There are only rules because we submit ourselves to the rule of law. Otherwise, this is a frontier. This building is a sham, unless we fill it with justice.”

The men began to assemble themselves, some moving toward the jury box. Quickly, a lawyer named Early Jones was suggested and chosen as judge. Without much formality, the district clerk swore him in, with an oath to uphold the laws of the Republic of Texas.

“We need a prosecutor and the accused needs a defender,” the new judge said.

Several lawyers moved toward John. Only Bill stepped toward the clerk. “I’ll prosecute.”

The silence was puzzled. Bill and John were known to be friends. And they all knew Bill as a tenacious and thorough trial lawyer who had sent more than one man to prison while serving as a special prosecutor. Several lawyers, including John himself, looking up in surprise, wondered if Bill bore some secret grudge against the man with whom he’d been chained for more than a year.

“Unless there are any objections?” Bill asked, looking around.

No one said a thing. A few shook their heads.

“You need to take the oath,” the clerk said.

Bill hesitated. “To do what?”

“Uphold the laws—” someone began, but another who had served one term as district attorney interrupted.

“The prosecutor is sworn to do justice.”

“I’ll take that oath,” Bill said, and did so.

Samuel Maverick looked at the new prosecutor, then went to stand beside the accused. “I’ll defend. If John will have me.”

The defendant shook his hand, sealing the agreement.

A dozen men were sworn in as jurors. Others took seats inside l lie bar. They were all part of this. Without a consensus of opinion, there could be no resolution. Judge Jones assumed the bench and a more formal air. “Call your first witness.”

Bill said, “Chief, come forward and give your evidence.”

The chief of police walked slowly and suspiciously into their midst. No one cared about his suspicions. They knew this proceeding to be as legal as they could make it, whether they waited for a duly appointed judge or not. They would take their responsibilities seriously. No one seemed to feel this more strongly than Bill Harcourt, who looked sternly at the witness, ignoring the defendant’s troubled stare.