That bastard. That lousy prick.

Big Kate took her down the steps and out the front door of the Hall of Justice and told them newspapermen if they took one snap, she’d kick ’em all in the balls. She yelled for a glass of water, fanning Maude Delmont’s face and unpinning the wide-brimmed black hat. Maude fluttered her eyes open and then closed them again.

“Maude?”

She opened her eyes and righted herself on the granite steps, looking out on Portsmouth Square.

“That horrible man,” Kate said.

“The heat is awful,” Maude said. “All this black.”

Kate had a copy of the Examiner she’d plucked from the hands of a curious newsboy and waved it high up and down, breezing Maude’s face. A cup of water was placed in Maude’s hand and she stood.

“He can’t make up those things,” Kate said. “Not in this town, he can’t.”

“Movie people are all alike,” Maude said. “I’m never returning south. It’s a place without shame or a conscience.”

Kate shared a smile with her. The midday sun was a burning white. “Could you please call me a cab?” Maude asked.

Kate disappeared. Maude waited at the foot of the steps of the Hall of Justice for several minutes until Al Semnacher skipped down them, a mongrel group of newsmen at his heels. He tipped his bowler hat at Maude and there were pictures taken.

“I see you’ve made arrangements,” she said.

“How are things at the Palace? Heard the St. Francis kicked you out.”

Maude turned her head away. “I had my luggage moved to the Palace. The accommodations are much more to my liking.”

Al laughed. “Luggage? The only luggage you ever carry is a fresh set of bloomers in your pocketbook.”

Maude leapt at his throat, black hat rolling from her head, dropping her pocketbook and reaching her fingers around Al Semnacher’s skinny neck, trying to wring it like a chicken. His glasses were knocked off and Al fell to his back, swearing and cussing and calling her a nasty whore, and she kneed him in the balls and slapped him across the face until she felt a big arm reach around her waist and pull her back, the sweet voice of Big Kate telling her that her cab had come.

“Mrs. Delmont, are you okay?”

Maude put her hand to her chest and just breathed. “I have no idea what came over me.”

12

Sam walked with Dominguez up Kearny Street away from the Palace Hotel and toward the Hall of Justice. It was the second Monday since the Arbuckle party and the third day with Judge Lazarus and police court, and Frank Dominguez said he wouldn’t bet heads or tails which way the judge was leaning. The fog had burned off in the early-morning heat and Sam got a nice breath going, trying to pace out his answers so as not to sound winded to the fat attorney. He wore tweed pants and a tweed vest with a white shirt Jose had boiled for him, a cap and laced boots.

“How solid is your information?” Dominguez asked.

“Solid.”

“You want to tell me where you got it?”

“I’d rather not,” Sam said. “If it’s all the same with you.”

“U’Ren and Brady are putting up three docs today,” Dominguez said, not winded a bit, taking the hill, the talk, and a big cigar in easy stride. “All three will testify that the girl’s bladder burst from external force.”

“Rumwell?”

“Not Rumwell,” Dominguez said. “One doc who performed the autopsy with Rumwell at Wakefield, one fella, a Dr. Strange, who performed the second autopsy for the county, and a doctor who treated her at the St. Francis.”

“What does the county man say?”

“I haven’t seen his official report yet,” Dominguez said. “I was told it was still being typed up and I’d have ample time to question the man in court.”

“For some reason, I don’t think Brady is going to bring up the missing parts.”

“And I don’t want to look like a fool for asking unless we’re sure.”

“We’re sure,” Sam said.

Bankers, lawyers, and businessmen of all types flowed down the hill, walking past Dominguez and Sam in their buttoned-up coats and waxed mustaches, heavy leather satchels in hand. Two streetcars passed each other on Kearny, electricity sparking off the wires.

“Think this could be enough to throw out the case?” Sam asked.

Dominguez puffed on his cigar, lengthening his strides, cresting the hill at Portsmouth Square. A crowd had gathered on the front steps of the Halls of Justice. Dominguez clicked open a gold timepiece that hung on his waist.

“I don’t believe we’ll get a murder indictment,” Dominguez said. “I think that Lazarus will rubber-stamp the grand jury decision for manslaughter. Probably tomorrow.”

“And we prepare for real court.”

Dominguez puffed more on the cigar and squinted his eyes in the smoke.

“I’ll need you to go to Los Angeles,” Dominguez said. “Miss Durfee spoke to you about what she learned in Chicago about the girl?”

“Some,” Sam said. “But I can’t leave the city. My wife’s about to burst in a week or two. Really, anytime.”

“I can make sure you’re compensated, Sam. A new family needs money.”

“We have operatives in Los Angeles.”

“And they haven’t found a scrap on that girl.”

Sam put his hands in his pockets.

Dominguez crushed the last bit of his cigar under his shoe. He watched the dark mass of Vigilant women growing in a great black curtain on the steps.

“You understand what we’d need?”

“I do,” Sam said.

“Sam, you’re not looking at me.”

“It’s not my favorite type of work.”

“We wouldn’t have long,” Dominguez said. “Weeks at most. I don’t want any more time for Roscoe to get crucified in the papers.”

Sam watched a woman unload sandwiches and a teakettle from a large wicker basket. Another woman brought her own chair, placing it at the foot of the great steps and knitting away with giant, sharp silver needles.

“When’s the Delmont broad up?”

“She was supposed to go first,” Dominguez said.

“Make any sense that U’Ren would keep the woman who swore out the complaint, their main witness, off the stand?”

“No,” Dominguez said. “No, it does not.”

Dominguez walked toward court, turning back a few steps later, and yelled, “Talk to your wife, Sam.”

MAUDE DELMONT let reporters into her room on the fifth floor of the Palace Hotel earlier that morning and held court all the way through breakfast. She sat on the bed, fully clothed, but rested her head back like an invalid and stared at a ceiling fan while she spun wild stories about Virginia Rappe and their enduring friendship, a friendship Maude said lasted even into death. When the questions became too personal, too detailed, Maude would only have to stretch her forearm across her head and say she’d grown tired and the newspapermen would ease off, taking a few of the scraps she’d fed them.

“We met at the Million Dollar Theater,” Maude said.

They’d met in Al Semnacher’s living room, parceling out a bottle of laudanum and taking disgusting turns with Al.

“I had never seen her touch alcohol until the Arbuckle party.”

In the three weeks Maude had known her, the girl always had a stomach full of gin and an arm full of heroin. She liked cocaine. Sex was as easy as wiping her nose.

“We often went to church,” Maude said. “She was little but had the most lovely, strong voice.”

The girl was ripe, full of curves and solid meat, and couldn’t have found a church in Los Angeles with a road map.

“Will you make her funeral?” a newsman asked.

Maude sadly shook her head, standing from the bed, grabbing the now-trademark black hat and veil, readying for court.

“I can’t,” Maude said. “Her former fiancé, Mr. Lehrman, is taking care of the arrangements. I’m needed here to set the truth straight.”

“Did he kill her?”

“I only know what the poor girl told me only moments after her encounter,” she said. “I can only imagine the horror of what that blubber must have been like. Please, I must be alone. I can’t breathe.”