Unvarnished Truths

 “Yes. I killed your father,” he said, peering up guardedly through wire-rimmed spectacles.

There was a long, heavy silence. “He left me no choice.”

Then, “A jury ruled it was self-defense.”

He sighed. “It was a long time ago.”

The speaker was a craggy man, with extra weight around his waist over a thin frame. He was dining alone in a candlelit San Francisco restaurant, overlooking the wharf. He had a bushy mustache, and closely cropped blond hair. He was in his late forties. He wore a business suit, perhaps an accountant.

A folded newspaper on the table before him was dated July 7, 1907. The headline above the fold proclaimed in large type that a guilty verdict had just been reached in a graft trial against a city councilman. A photo beneath was a close-up of the man speaking. A byline below the photo identified him as Frank Heney, special prosecutor and prominent San Francisco attorney, who promised that other prosecutions would follow.

“How did you find me?” Frank asked.

Standing across the table from him was a much younger man, in the bloom of youth, tall, blond, clean cut, wiry, trim, with hat in hand. He had the clothes and look of a workman. His name was John Handy, Jr.

“It wasn’t hard.” John pointed to the newspaper. “I went to your office and your secretary said you had already left. After a bit of charm, she shared that you frequented this restaurant.” He added, “I am inclined to believe you, based on what my Grandma from Tucson said. May I join you?”

“Larcena Scott? You were finally reunited with her?” Frank asked with genuine astonishment, gesturing for him to take a seat.

John nodded affirmatively. “I was.”

“I lived with her in Tucson for a while. She told me what you did for our mother. She said our father jumped you and tried to murder you with his bare hands to get even. She said you finally had to shoot him to get him to stop.”

Frank cocked his head to one side, weighing the veracity of the account. “That’s the truth.”

“I came to warn you,” said John. “Some men recently tried to recruit me to kill you.”

Frank recoiled in surprise.

“For as long as I can remember, our father's people told us that you ambushed him. Shot him in the back in cold blood after you lost in court. These men must have assumed that I wanted revenge.”

“How on earth did they find you?” asked Frank.

“They went to Tucson to investigate you, then tracked me down.”

“Did they say why?” asked Frank.

“I guess because of these high profile cases,” he said, pointing again to the newspaper. “The people you are up against have considerable resources.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I’m not a murderer.”

“Did you think I was?”

“Well, if it’s all same to you, I’d like to hear your version. But on the basis of what Grandma Larcena told me, no, I’m inclined to thank you for your chivalry.”

Heney was visibly relieved. His features relaxed, “Can I offer you refreshment?” he asked.

John shook his head no.

“What do you want to know?” asked Frank.

“For starters, what were they really like, my mother and father?”

Frank raised a brandy snifter to his lips. His bushy mustache slid neatly along the lip of the rim, separated by the glass from the richly biting liquid against his pallet, by design. He looked pensively out a window. It was dusk, and fishing boats were docking.

The rush of memory was almost physical. He felt more than recalled Tucson’s dry air, the clarity of the mountain views, the intense sunlight, the desolate desert landscape, bright moonlit nights, almost bright as day, the cactus, crumbling adobe dwellings interspersed among the shiny windows of new mansions and stores.

“You have no recollection of them?” asked Frank.

“Very little. Our mother was the center of my world. Our father was imposing. He could be friendly one minute and scary the next. I recall the fights, all of us do, except maybe the youngest, who was a newborn. Him calling her names like ‘slut’ and ‘addict’, which I was too young to understand. Me wanting to defend her, feeling helpless. Her acting dopey and non-responsive at times. He frequently locked her up in her bedroom; she would scream hysterically for hours to be let out. Us kids being taken away to San Francisco, never to see either of them again. Being told about their deaths later on. Not much else.”

Heney took another sip of his brandy.

“She was a beautiful woman, your mother. She was delicate, almost like porcelain but with painfully awful migraines, which eventually led to her addiction. He was a respected doctor with a reputation for a bad temper and inability to let go of grudges. Very influential, a pillar of the community.”

“He fell in love at first sight. He saw her perform in a school play. She was a young girl, barely out of grammar school. Her family, ignorant of his character, was eager for the match. As a newly-established doctor, he was an eligible bachelor, despite the age difference. They seemed happily married on the surface. Five healthy children, a large house in the best neighborhood, social prominence, a telephone, running water, domestic help, all the conveniences.”

Frank fell silent, lost in thought.

 “At your father’s funeral, the whole town turned out, particularly from the Mexican community. He helped a lot of people, even the destitute. He was in the medical profession to heal, first and foremost.” He added, reminiscing now, “In the late 1870’s smallpox broke out. People died horribly, with running sores and in terrible pain. The few medical facilities that existed were quickly overrun and people had to be treated at home, if they had one. Stopping the epidemic quickly was essential. Your father bought up all the vaccine he could find, and inoculated people for free if they could not afford it. Widespread suffering was narrowly averted.”

“How did you know them?”

“She came to me for legal representation. Before that your Dad once treated me, but it was all professional, not social.”

“What was the problem between them?”

Heney thought for a moment before answering. He chose his words carefully.

“I’d say love gone bad. She wanted to escape. He was … domineering. He wanted to strip her of everything, including a roof over her head, as revenge.”

“Did she betray him?”

“I saw no evidence of it and his lawyers could not prove it, but he was convinced. She denied it.”

John paused to formulate his words.

“But was he correct, nonetheless?”

“Your mother had far too much character and class for that. I think she just no longer wanted to be with him because of the cruel way he treated her, and he could not stand the very thought of it. Anything else cut too deeply. A bad combination of vanity and ill temper was at its root core, I think.”

“Would you say that just to protect a mother’s reputation?”

“I don’t sugar-coat the truth to spare feelings. I have no use for it,” replied Frank.

“Good,” replied John. He paused.

“Did he cheat on her?”

Frank hesitated. “In fact, he was living with another woman in sin while the divorce was ongoing. He made no attempt to hide it.” He scoffed. “Matter of fact, he rubbed her nose in it. He occasionally drove a buckboard with his mistress in plain sight seated beside him below her bedroom window, with her locked up inside, taunting her, I am sorry to say.”

Frank signaled the waiter for the check. He said, “This talk of killing has brought back unpleasant memories. It is probably best not to be walking alone at night. Will you walk with me?”

“It is an honor, sir, to accompany you,” replied John. “I assume you are referring to memories of my father?”

“He stalked me. He tried to run me down with his horse and buggy more than once. He hired a couple of ex-lawmen. There were armed confrontations. It got so bad my brother Ben accompanied me with his weapon everywhere, even the privy, but” he added, lifting a finger for emphasis and with a practiced smile, “not inside.” The attempt at humor fell flat, but John smiled politely anyway.

They crossed a street, and ascended a route that passed through both rough and genteel neighborhoods. Ruins from the earthquake of the previous year were still visible through misty swirls of incoming fog.

“How did you happen to wind up representing my mother?” asked John.

Frank looked up sharply as he buttoned his overcoat against the moist, chilly air.

“No other lawyer would.”

John, with surprise, asked “Why?”

“Your father was influential and wealthy. He engaged fancy lawyers. Your mother was without support except for what her stepfather, Mr. Scott, could lend to her, but he was not rich by any means. Also, your father threatened to kill any lawyer who took the case. Judges too who might hear it.”

“They all believed him?” asked John

“He shot and killed a man in cold blood once for just cursing him out. The fellow ran a tented store on the Apache reservation. Your father was a customer. He took offense and shot the owner point blank inside his own store. But before the man died, your father treated the wounds and the man wrote a note exonerating him. He took the blame for insulting your father first.”

“When was that?”

“1870 or so. Your father was not charged criminally. But people remembered and steered clear of him and his unpredictable dark side.”

“But you were not afraid.”

“I tried to get out of it too, at first. It did entail grave danger and little compensation, but duty prevailed."

He shook his head in wonderment, adding, "I was lucky to come out of it alive.”

The way became steeper, and Frank began to breathe more heavily from the effort.

“How long did the harassment continue?”

“Almost two years.”

John took time to let the implications sink in.

"Would you do it all over again, if you had to?" he asked.

"It seems from your warning that I may already have done so," replied Frank, in a serious tone, but with a smile.

“Tell me about the gunfight.”

“Your father bragged publicly he would kill me with my own gun. I figured if I did not wear it openly, he might be less inclined to pick a fight. But I carried one hidden in my pocket, anyway, just in case. I knew it would be a fight to the finish, no holds barred, if we ever locked horns.”

“When we lost the child custody battle, I appealed. Your father became infuriated.”

Heney continued: “I had just returned from visiting San Francisco with my brother Ben. He stayed on for an extra day. While I was walking alone to get lunch, I spotted your father coming towards me. I paused to speak with a workman, as a pretext for avoiding a confrontation, but he passed nearby anyway.”

Frank paused, his face betraying regret, “I couldn’t help it. I looked up involuntarily as he went by and made eye contact. That set him off. He grabbed me with one hand, pushed me up against a wall, and pounded me repeatedly with the other as hard and as fast as he could, my feet dangling in the air. He was a big man, strong like an ox. I was overwhelmed by the fierce onslaught of blows. I finally managed to wriggle free, pulled the gun from my pocket and fired.”

He was silent for a moment, then added, with a shake of his head, “He was still pounding on me after the gun went off. At first, I thought I had fired a blank. Then he faltered. Still, he walked a block back to his office, and telephoned the railroad yard to arrange transport for a renowned colleague with knowledge of gunshot wounds from Bisbee, just before he collapsed. The railroad commissioned a special train. The doctor arrived seven hours later, but it was too late. He operated but your father died from loss of blood.”

“Why did you take the case?”

“I felt as a lawyer I had to. I couldn’t live with myself if I turned my back on her and let him continue to abuse her until she succumbed to his will and perhaps even perished.”

He sighed.

“But she did perish anyway,” John concluded softly.

“Yes,” replied Frank sadly, acuity aware of the loss once again. “Not long after your father's death.”

“Were you in love with her?” asked John, as he read the other’s body language.

Frank reacted swiftly if subtly, with a quick movement of the head and eyes, as though accused. He paused, remembering her pealing laughter, their private moments, the tantalizing allure of budding sexual attraction. He looked John straight in the eye and said, with determination, “I never let anything interfere with my professional duty.”

He relaxed his tone as he regained composure and deftly changed the subject. “Your showing up in Tucson must have been a happy surprise to your grandma. Last time I saw her she was shaken. She was convinced that she might never see any of you again and then cancer took her only child, in short order.”

“When I showed up unannounced at her door,” replied John, “she said it was a moment she had prayed for over the years. She was in tears. She was beyond delighted to meet my bride. We lived in her house for almost two years. It was a very happy time.”

“How did you happen to go to Tucson?”

“I couldn’t stand growing up under my other grandmother’s roof. It was so confining, with her and my aunt worrying about what other people might say, filled with self-righteous talk about others, and stern reproaches for us kids. I didn’t believe a word she said about our parents. As soon as I could, I ran off to sea. I sailed around the world, then returned home, married my sweetheart, and took her to Tucson for our honeymoon. We paid our respects at the cemetery, and sought out Grandma Larcena.”

“But you’ve come back to the Bay Area to settle?” inquired Frank.

“Yes,” replied John

“How do you fare?” asked Frank.

John was quiet. “We’re happy enough for now, me, the wife and our baby.”

“And your work?” asked Frank.

John seemed a little embarrassed and his manner became awkward.

“A little of this and that. Mostly work with my hands. Never did finish school.”

Frank changed the subject.

“How is Larcena doing?” asked Frank with a fond smile. “I liked and respected her.”

“Good," replied John. “She had a hard life but always managed to rise above it. I often ask myself what she would do in a given situation, and follow that as my guide.”

“I assume you know about the Apache kidnapping,” said Frank.

“Only vaguely. She didn’t want to talk about it. I got the feeling her reluctance had something to do with our mother.”

“Yes, she got the idea in her head that she was responsible for Mary Ann’s tragic ending. The kidnapping tale was too impressive for any daughter to compete with, as though Larcena’s shoes were always too big for Mary Ann to fill, regardless of her own accomplishments. Or the toll of the experience on Larcena’s body weakened it so much that Mary Ann's health was disadvantaged as an infant and later as an adult. Larcena blamed herself. She didn’t want to talk about it after Mary Ann's passing, not like before.”

“And the kidnapping itself?”

“Some Apache braves broke into a tent in broad daylight in the mountains where she and her newly-wed husband were camping. He and his partner were out logging for timber. The Apaches took her and a young Mexican girl she was tutoring. Larcena was just recovering from malaria. After a while she became too weak to keep up the pace, so they speared her badly through her chest, threw her over a cliff and left her for dead. Luckily she was young. She hung on between life and death for days, then woke up and crawled fifteen miles back to the camp, living on nothing but melted snow, wild grasses and onions. It took her a full two weeks. She was a ragged and torn scarecrow when she was finally discovered, near death, but against all medical prognostications, she made a complete recovery and gave birth to your mother the next year.”

Frank smiled.

“If you write to Larcena, please send her my best.”

John. nodded. “Will do.”

“Well, we’re here,” said Frank.

John looked at the rooming house.

“No family?” he asked.

Frank was quiet. “No, never married. Not yet at least.”

“Well then you must meet my family,” offered John.

“I would love to,” replied Frank.

“Shall I contact your office to set something up?”

Frank smiled and agreed. They shook hands, and John went on his way. Frank climbed the steps to the boarding house, and up the stairs to his small attic room.

He undressed and went to bed, thoughts of the death threat and upcoming legal battles swirling in his head, then finally, as he dropped off, a recurring image of young Mary Ann smiling sweetly at him, haunting him still from beyond the grave.

@ JHM 2020