City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1) Read online

  "Frederica Fairbank does not have a reputation for concerning herself too much with what folks think."

  "You know my aunt?"

  He laughed. "Most of Los Angeles knows your aunt. Or at least knows of her. Besides, I did a little checking on you. Wouldn't be prudent to do less than that."

  "I don't want to be the cause of hurting her," Kit said. "She's been good to me."

  "The decision is up to you, but if it's just about a place to live, well, you can stay here. We have a spare office."

  It was hardly an offering of residential comfort. But glancing around the room at the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling law books in light calf bindings, Kit knew she wanted this job more than ever. From the impressive windows behind Earl Rogers' desk, Kit saw the austere, gray-granite Times building. It appeared to be watching them, just waiting for some news to be made by Earl Rogers. Perhaps waiting for the news of his latest folly—the hiring of a woman assistant.

  "You'll work hard and get paid horribly," Rogers continued. "You'll lose sleep and pace the floors. But if you stick to it, if you listen and learn, I'll give you this guarantee: Someday you'll be a lawyer."

  Her heart raced.

  "The building isn't the Nadeau Hotel," Rogers continued, "but it'll do. There are washrooms in the building, a small cooking facility, and an icebox. I have a small quarters in the back of this office. I'd designed it for myself, but since I rarely use it—you might as well. There's a bed there, and we could probably make some arrangement for your clothes. If you keep up the office and give it a cleaning once in a while, you can live here until you find more a more desirable situation."

  Kit's hands were trembling. She remembered the inappropriate proposition of Heath Sloate. "I don't know that it would be a good idea. What would people say?"

  Rogers raised a brow and leaned forward. "What are they going to say about you anyway—and do you really care?"

  Kit shook her head. "I do care about Aunt Freddy."

  He leaned back and shrugged. "The choice is up to you. I'm offering you a solution, a place, and wages as my assistant."

  Kit swallowed. Could God be working through Earl Rogers? Was this her answer?

  "What do you say?" asked the lawyer.

  She had come all this way, hadn't she? Surely another few weeks wouldn't make a difference—certainly it would give her time to see God's hand more clearly. Hadn't that been exactly how her own father had led his life? How many times had he told her that faith was a risk, but one that required us to walk anyway?

  Kit found herself saying, "All right."

  "You mean we're agreed?"

  "Yes, Mr. Rogers."

  "Capital!" Rogers slapped his desk. "And you will start calling me Earl."

  "I'll try, sir."

  "And you won't call me sir."

  "It's just so unconventional."

  "But then," Rogers said, "so are you."

  Kit couldn't argue the point. The famed lawyer had turned on his considerable advocacy skills and given her answers to her arguments. She was unconventional. The arrangement was unconventional. But it would allow her to pursue her dream. She smiled and looked her benefactor in the eye.

  "All right, Earl."

  "That's the ticket."

  Ticket! She had a train ticket waiting for her and Julio downstairs.

  "Something the matter?" Rogers asked.

  "There is something I have to attend to."

  "By all means. Take your time. You have your whole future ahead of you!"

  Kit went back down to the street, where Julio was waiting for her. "A change of plans," she said to him.

  "Como?"

  "Have my things brought back here."

  "Here?" Julio frowned.

  "Here. I'm staying."

  A look of fear—for her—swept across Julio's face. "Señora Fairbank, she no will be happy."

  How well I know that! Kit thought.

  What had she gotten herself into?

  Chapter Twelve

  "WHY DIDN'T YOU insist that she return?" Heath Sloate demanded.

  Frederica Fairbank wrung her hands, hopelessly twisting her lace handkerchief. What she had hoped would be a nice tea in her home had turned to an argument. "I tried to make her go," she said. "I purchased the ticket and even had her things delivered to the station."

  Sloate gave her a look of disbelief. "So what detained her?"

  "Apparently . . . well, that is to say . . ." Freddy stammered, knowing Heath would never be happy with her lack of information. "I don't really know. She left here, I thought, to take the train back to New York. Her things were loaded, I'd given her some money . . ."

  "You gave her money? I thought I told you . . . Oh, never mind. What happened after that? Where did she go?"

  "She had my man leave her at the station, and he returned with this note." Freddy stopped wringing her hands long enough to reach into the pocket of her dove-gray morning dress. She produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to Heath.

  He opened it and read aloud in a clipped tone. " 'Aunt Freddy, I am grateful for your generosity and help. Please do not worry about my decision or choice in this matter, but I cannot return to New York. I will be working for Mr. Earl Rogers. I will make my way here and in doing so, make you proud. Love, Kit.' " He growled out her name as if it were something spoiled and rotten in his mouth.

  "Rogers! That addlepated woman will be the ruination of you, Frederica! Mark my words." He threw the note onto the floor. "I'll get to the bottom of this."

  "She has a will of her own," Freddy replied, then turned away in shame. I used to have a will of my own. Oh, Jasper, I'm not half the woman I used to be.

  She squared her shoulders. "What will you do?" she asked without bothering to face Sloate.

  "I'll do what I have to," he said in a menacing tone. "Just as I always have."

  He started for the door.

  "Where are you going, dear?" Freddy said.

  "I have an appointment," Sloate snapped. "It may surprise you, but in spite of your travails with your niece, I have other matters to attend to."

  And with that he left the room.

  Freddy sat down, her heart heavy. Oh, Kit. What's to become of you?

  ———

  "Now, listen," Earl Rogers said, meshing his fingers and putting his hands behind his head. "One cannot practice law without remuneration. In criminal law, you'll be coming across numerous cases involving the lower order of society. These are not your upper-crust citizens, and the management of money is a foreign thing to them. So the number-one rule in criminal law is not finding out who did what to whom. It is this: Get the money up front. Understood?"

  Kit understood, but she wasn't comfortable with it. But she was working for Rogers now, not the other way around. "Yes."

  "Good. You can use Jory's room for the interview."

  "What interview?"

  "Your first interview."

  "When?"

  "Now."

  Rogers stepped to his office door, opened it, and called for Bill. A moment later a rough-looking man came in.

  "This is my chief investigator, Bill Jory," Rogers said.

  "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," said Jory. His smile was amiable and his handshake sure.

  "Thank you," Kit said.

  "A man named Ryan has come in to see us," Rogers said. "He is asking us to represent him in some sort of matter involving his daughter. He wasn't clear. I want you to interview him, find out what his case is, and most important, how much he can afford to pay."

  Kit cleared her throat. "All right."

  "Bill, let her use your office for this."

  "Right. This way, Miss Shannon."

  Jory showed Kit to his office. It was tidy and reeked of cigar smoke.

  "You sure you know what you're getting yourself into, working for Earl?" Jory asked.

  "No, Mr. Jory, not in the slightest."

  "That's what makes our line of work so interesting. Have a seat."
<
br />   He offered her the chair behind his desk, and Kit sat. She felt official, like the real lawyer she hoped she would be someday.

  "I'll send in the client," Jory said, "and leave you alone. It's good to have you with us, Miss Shannon."

  "Thank you, Mr. Jory."

  Jory stepped out for a moment, then returned with a smallish man, perhaps in his middle forties, looking scared. He was dressed in what must have been his best suit of clothes, but which was starting to fray at the elbows and shoulders. His brown hair was unkempt with shafts of gray streaking through it. His eyes were red-rimmed, as if he had been crying before coming up the stairs to Rogers' office. His hands were trembling slightly as he held his hat.

  "Mr. Thomas Ryan," Jory said. "This is Miss Kathleen Shannon. She'll be conducting your interview."

  Ryan looked momentarily confused, perhaps at the sight of a woman doing official legal business, but he nodded and took a chair. Jory excused himself and shut the door.

  "Good day, Mr. Ryan," Kit said.

  "Day, miss," he said. Kit noted a slight Irish brogue. It gave her a sense of familiarity and set her more at ease.

  "I'm here to assess what sort of case it is you have, and I will report to Mr. Rogers."

  "I understand, miss."

  "May we begin?"

  "Surely," he agreed.

  "Let me begin by asking where you live."

  "I have a shanty about five miles from here."

  "And are you employed?"

  "I'm an orderly at the San Fernando asylum."

  The word brought a chill to Kit. "Insane asylum?"

  "Yes, miss. By the mission, run by the Franciscans."

  A flash of memories came to Kit, taking her back to her own incarceration. She wondered how different an asylum overseen by priests would be from an orphanage where a Sister Gertrude could rule. She redirected her thoughts to the man before her and said, "And what is it you're being charged with?"

  "It's not me, miss," said Ryan, his face anxious. "It's me daughter."

  Kit began to take notes. "What is her name?"

  "Millie."

  "How old is she?"

  Ryan's hands twisted in his lap. "She is just twenty. Still a little . . ." His voice broke off. He seemed to be holding back more tears.

  Kit shifted in her chair, conflicting emotions inside her. She had a natural sympathy for someone who was obviously suffering, but she reminded herself of a rule her teacher, Melle Stanleyetta Titus, had told her back in law school. A lawyer must learn to separate emotion from analysis. Too much emotion never serves the client well.

  "I realize this must be difficult, Mr. Ryan," said Kit. "But please try to tell me the story as best you can."

  "I'm sorry, miss, I am. It's just that Millie is me only child, her mother long since dead. I tried to raise her right, to teach her right. I tried to teach her the Bible and how to please God."

  Kit felt an immediate connection with the man. He had tried to do what her own father had done. She found herself wanting to help him even more.

  "But I guess I don't know about girls and all," Ryan finished. "I didn't know what to say when that man, Uland, stepped in."

  "Who is Uland?"

  "Ace Uland, he calls himself. A gambler and a . . ." Ryan stopped himself.

  "And a what, Mr. Ryan?"

  "A man who sells women."

  Goosebumps broke out on Kit's neck. The whole picture was starting to form in her mind. She had seen it happen to young women in the Lower East Side.

  "He took her away from me," Ryan said, his voice cracking. "She fancied herself in love with him. I tried to tell her . . . there was nothing I could say. And then he led her into sin. . . ."

  Ryan choked. "Me own daughter . . ." He couldn't finish, but broke into sobs, his head in his hands. Kit poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the credenza and slid it toward Ryan.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know what to do."

  "That's why you're here," said Kit. "Tell me what trouble Millie is in. Has she been arrested for prostitution?"

  "Oh no," said Ryan, sniffing and rubbing a sleeve under his nose. "The cops don't care about that. They're saying attempted murder."

  "Of whom?"

  Ryan's raw eyes now burned with anger. "They wouldn't tell me. I tried to see her. They wouldn't let me. Me own daughter!"

  "How did you hear about it?"

  "One of the other girls. She thought I should know. She said Millie was too ashamed. Oh, please, miss. I've got to do something! They say Mr. Rogers is the best there is. Can he help us?"

  The mention of Rogers' name brought Kit back to a stark reality. She realized that for the last few minutes she had been completely caught up in Ryan's plight. Now came the part she dreaded.

  "Mr. Ryan," she said slowly, "Mr. Rogers is much in demand as a lawyer, as you must know."

  Ryan nodded, his expression without any indication that he knew where she was leading.

  "His fee for legal service reflects that. He would require his fee in full before starting his representation."

  Ryan said nothing.

  "I'm sure you understand, Mr. Ryan." Kit knew from his downcast gaze that he did not—or, rather, that he did only too well. The words were as hard for her to say as for him to hear.

  "I wish I didn't have to discuss fees," said Kit, "but Mr. Rogers cannot . . ."

  "I know, miss. I'm not a rich man, I work me land mostly. I get a pittance from the church for me duties at the asylum, but I fetch what I can from the crops. It's not the season now, though. I do have a horse. She's me only animal, but I could sell her. . . . She ain't worth much, but maybe I could get fifty dollars."

  Kit closed her eyes, knowing fifty dollars would not come close to Rogers' fee. Besides, she couldn't bear the thought of this poor man selling his only horse.

  What to do now? She couldn't give Ryan any hope that Rogers would take the case. And what good would it do to recommend he seek other legal counsel? She knew the poor had little recourse in matters of criminal justice. It wouldn't take long for him to fall into the hands of a less than honest attorney—one who would not only take his horse, but title to his land as well. And Ryan would no doubt sign it over for the sake of his daughter.

  "Not enough, is it?" Ryan said.

  Kit swallowed. "As I said, Mr. Ryan, Mr. Rogers is much in demand. . . ."

  "I thought as much. It was just a hope." Ryan stood and extended his hand. "You've been very nice, miss. I'll try me luck somewhere else."

  There would be no luck, Kit knew. She saw the future for him in her mind—bad lawyer, quick verdict, daughter sent away to the women's prison where, if she survived, she'd come out worse than she went in, unable to make a living except by selling her own body over and over again.

  Kit stood up quickly and without a moment's reflection said, "I'll see your daughter, Mr. Ryan."

  He frowned in seeming confusion. "You, miss?"

  "I have a legal education, Mr. Ryan. I work as Mr. Rogers' legal assistant."

  "Well, I'll be," he said, scratching his head. Then he smiled hopefully and said, "I would be much obliged to you, miss! And I'll sell me horse as soon as—"

  "No," Kit said. "You keep your horse. I am not representing your daughter, nor is this office. Not yet, anyway. But I'll see what I can find out, and maybe there's a way to settle this matter without Millie going to court."

  "Oh, thank you, thank you!" Ryan said, pumping Kit's hand. His face was now so full of optimism Kit felt as if she'd stepped into quicksand. And on her first day!

  Chapter Thirteen

  KIT SHOULD HAVE TOLD Earl Rogers. She knew that. She also knew, if she had, that he would have forbidden her to have anything to do with Millie Ryan's case. Kit hadn't lied to him. She never would have done that. She'd only waited for Rogers to leave his office for court. There was no sin in waiting, was there?

  Nor was there anything wrong with her walking into a jail of the county of Los Angeles and asking to
see Millie Ryan, right? She did notice, however, that her step was lively.

  Dressed in a simple plum walking-out dress, Kit had taken care with her hair, styling it just as Corazón had taught her. She topped her head with a matching hat concocted of straw and feathers and ribbon. Corazón said the creation looked like a bird at rest—its head all tucked down into a nest. The very memory made Kit smile.

  How she missed her friend. She thought of paying the maid a visit, but Kit knew that she would probably have to come face-to-face with Aunt Freddy as well, and frankly, she simply wasn't ready for that scene.

  The jail for women was located behind the police station itself. The uniformed officer at the jailhouse desk—a portly, ruddy-faced man—had snorted at her, as if the request was as ridiculous as asking him to unlock all the cells. But then Kit mentioned that she worked for Earl Rogers, and the officer's look had changed immediately.

  "That mouthpiece is trouble," the officer had said.

  Kit had immediately snapped back, "And you don't want that trouble to rain down on you, now, do you?" She was astonished at herself for saying it, but there was something exhilirating about standing up and being able to use the name Rogers to get results.

  The guard grumbled and took her to the back of the station, through a large wooden door with a barred window to a row of dark green cages in a dimly lit corridor. In a few of the cages sat women—some young, some old—but all seeming to be under a pall of darkness.

  Kit quickly scanned the occupants of the cells. One woman who caught her eye grinned toothlessly at Kit and screeched, "Well, ain't she the fine one, all gussied up? Come to give us ladylike lessons, have you?"

  "Quiet there," the guard said. He shook a billy club at her.

  "Aw," the woman said, "don't you love me no more?"

  Kit found herself wondering about the woman, what she might have done to get here, if anyone could have helped her in some way in the past. Would she be able to help Millie Ryan now?