Disputations When Drunk

A Short Story

United States Courthouse, Springfield, Missouri

1895

“Close the door, Marshal.” The Honorable Augustus Harvey took another look through the passageway to his chambers, verifying that none remained in the courtroom. “Did you bring what I told you?”

“I did.” Abraham Woolsey tucked a plug of tobacco into one cheek and adjusted the cuspidor at his feet before placing a bottle of whiskey on the judge’s desk.  “Thought you weren’t a drinking man.”

“I abstain from all liquor, but the purpose of the bottle will be made clear in due time. Do you miss the high plains of Texas?”

“Not especially,” the marshal replied. “Outlaws are disappearing from there, same as everywhere, and once the work dries up, a man’s left with nothing but the heat. Besides, I’m getting too old to chase bandits.”

“And thus, you find yourself in our sleepy little city instead. I trust that your wife is settled in?”

“She is. Poor Annabelle’s a New England girl, hated the summer heat even more than I did. I think she’ll be quite happy here.”

“And your son –”

“Grandson,” Woolsey corrected him. “Abraham Junior is a banker in Kansas City, and he was kind enough to send me the boy for a couple of months. It’s good to have a youngster around the house again. You married?”

“My wife has been dead for some years,” the judge said quickly. He uncorked the bottle and poured a quantity of amber liquid into a glass. “You may recall that I demanded a full report upon your return, and when the old German tribes examined one of their own, they consumed a large quantity of alcohol. Do you know why that is?”

“I imagine it was to keep everyone honest. A drunk man can’t keep his story straight, and it’s easier to spot the liar.” Woolsey slid the glass across the desk. “Of course, I would feel downright rude if I drank alone.”

“As I said, I abstain –”

“And you’re a better man for it.” The judge flinched as Woolsey shot a brown stream of tobacco juice into the cuspidor. “But my guess is that when a man was questioned, both the fellow in the dock and his interrogator were required to drink – am I right? Besides, nobody needs to find out that we had a few drinks together.”

“Very well then.” A second glass was placed on the desk, and for the first time, Harvey noticed the object that lay in the bottom of the bottle. “What’s that?”

“A gift from an Apache medicine man,” Woolsey said. “That particular mushroom grows only in the Sacramento Mountains, and it’s rumored to show you visions of the next world.”

“Is it safe?”

Abraham Woolsey took a glass from the judge’s desk and downed the whiskey in a single swallow, and the Honorable Augustus Harvey studied his face for several minutes, perhaps waiting for his untimely death.

“Well?”

“Can’t see that I notice any difference,” Woolsey said. “Your turn.”

A frown turned down the corners of the judge’s mouth as his eyes lingered on the drink, a man in the grip of a deep moral dilemma, and he wrestled with his conscience for a good half-minute before his fingers wrapped around the glass. Harvey drank, and a deep flush spread across his cheeks as he grimaced at the taste, but with the first swallow put away, he did not hesitate – both glasses were refilled, and he nodded at the man across the table.

“All right, Marshal – please begin.”

“To start, I have to say that I’m quite fond of the Ozarks, for they remind me a great deal of my boyhood home in Tennessee. The woods and hollows hide many things, and I’m certain that the gang of bootleggers took this into account when they decided to float their whiskey up the White River from Arkansas.”

“Selling their wares in St. Louis and Kansas City while evading the federal excise tax on intoxicating liquors.” The judge pushed a glass across the desk. “Take a drink.”

Woolsey took the glass in his right hand, and the judge averted his eyes as he spat a stream of tobacco into the container at his feet. The empty glass was returned to the desk, and Harvey avoided his stare as the Marshal waited.

“That’s a nasty habit that you have.”

“My wife says that I lack refinement.” Woolsey nodded toward the full glass, resting next to the empty. “Your turn.”

“As you wish.” Judge Harvey drained his portion and refilled both glasses. “The mushroom is a disappointment, for I see no visions of the afterlife – please continue.”

“As you instructed, I traveled to Bradleyville and took custody of one of the bootleggers, a man captured atop the long ridge that lies south of the town. I believe that is a parcel of your land…”

“It is.” The liquor had loosened his tongue a little, and Woolsey detected the faintest slurring of the judge’s speech. “My family owned a sawmill, and through hard work and thrift, we made our fortune in the aftermath of the war.”

“I heard there were rumors –”

“There are always rumors, Marshal. Where a man becomes rich through the virtue of his own labors, you will find detractors who spread slander about –” The judge paused in mid-swallow. “Really, Marshal, your spitting is distasteful. Must you continue?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have your virtues, your honor.” Woolsey slid the empty glass across the desk. “We should move along, for my wife expects me home for dinner, and she’ll be after me if I’m late. You may find it strange, given my chosen profession, but I try to judge no man based solely on which side of the law he falls, and old stories about your family are no reflection upon your character –”

“Just say it out loud,” the judge snapped. “They claim I made my fortune as a bootlegger!”

“As I said, it’s not my job to judge a man’s past.” Woolsey paused, and each man reached for his glass. “However you made your money, you grew into a man, got a good education, even got yourself appointed to the federal bench. I’d say that makes up for the recklessness of youth, wouldn’t you? At any rate, this particular prisoner, a ruffian by the name of Bill Simpson, claimed to have information, which he wished to trade for leniency on any sentence that the court might choose to impose. I heard him out, but I gave due consideration to the fact that any man facing a long stretch in Jefferson City might be inclined to embellish his story.”

“Indeed.” The judge slid a glass across the table, and Woolsey noted how much had gone out of the bottle. “Among those who commit crimes, one regularly finds a tendency to falsehood. Can we get to the point?”

“Of course – my wife contends that I become long-winded once I spin a tale.” A stream of tobacco juice went into the cuspidor, and an empty glass returned to the table. “Bill Simpson was a man of about my age, and he grew up in one of those little hollows, raising corn and hogs, hunting to supplement the family’s diet, and cutting timber to provide a meager source of cash income. Perhaps he even hauled a few logs to your sawmill.”

“Don’t remember the name if he did.” Augustus Harvey drained his glass. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“As I said, Bill Simpson was a bootlegger – not all the corn they grew went to feed those pigs. I was surprised to find that he was well-dressed, all decked out in a suit, when I met him at the jail, so I imagine he did well for himself. Mister Simpson came from humble beginnings, but his operation was not one of a dirt farmer with an old copper pot – there was real money in his line of work.”

“And that’s why I never touch the stuff,” the judge interjected, swaying a little behind his desk. “Men will drink their entire payday in the saloons, leaving wives and children with no currency for food or clothing.”

“Indeed.” Woolsey paused to freshen his plug of tobacco before taking the proffered glass. “As you said, criminals frequently lie – ‘The guilty flee where no man pursues,’ my wife says – and I discounted his story accordingly. Speaking of which, I imagine she will be looking for me soon, so we should move things along. At any rate, Bill Simpson, notwithstanding his dress and grooming, was a man of low character, and he thought to sway my opinion through slanderous words. He said –”

“Dear God.” The judge gulped at his whiskey. “I suppose my name came up.”

“In great detail, sir. The ruffian claimed that he sold you timber – which may be true, though it would be reasonable that you would forget his name in the intervening years – but also that he was a participant in an illicit distilling operation, of which you were the proprietor.”

“Damned lies,” the judge hissed, reaching for Woolsey’s glass.

“Of course. I’ll grant that not every occupant of the federal bench has clean hands, but the public expects their judges to maintain at least the appearance of propriety. If there were any truth to the story… I really should wrap things up, for my wife is expecting me.”

“Hold on, Marshal.” The Honorable Augustus Harvey took a long swig directly from the bottle, mostly empty save for a thin layer of alcohol and a desiccated mushroom. “I hope you understand that there’s no truth at all to these stories, and even if there were, there’s not a thing you can do about it. I am a federal judge, and my word will far outweigh the story of a common criminal. Go home to your wife and forget every word of this liar’s tale – your career will be far easier that way.”

“I’m sure it would,” Woolsey said, “and Bill Simpson gave me no evidence that you had made a single dime of profit from the illicit liquor trade – he could shout his story from every rooftop, and it would mean nothing.”

“Good. I’m glad we see eye to eye…”

“But there is one more thing.”

Abraham Woolsey carefully noted the judge’s countenance, for his words cut through the alcoholic haze that filled the room. The Honorable Augustus Harvey, he saw, had gone deathly pale, and his hand trembled as he reached for the bottle.

“I believe you mentioned, your honor, that your wife is dead. The way I heard it from old Bill, she died quite young, didn’t she? Funny thing is, I spent a solid two hours in the churchyard at Bradleyville, and I never did find no grave.”

“Of course not. I had her buried here in Springfield –”

“That’s not what Bill tells me,” Woolsey interrupted. “Indeed, the story in Bradleyville is that your wife ran off twenty years ago. They say you were a jealous man, always watching where she went and who she spoke with. In fact, there’s talk that maybe she didn’t run off at all, that she was buried in one of them hollows on your family’s land. If a man took Bill Simpson at his word, he might even sniff out the location of her grave, since young bootleggers – the kind who cut timber and make whiskey for more respectable folks – might be called on to assist with other, less pleasant tasks. And the respectable party, a man who went on to study law and make himself a fortune before getting appointed to the federal bench, would want to keep the story quiet.”

“You’re treading on dangerous ground, Marshal…”

Woolsey listened. Somewhere within the building, he heard a door open, like the booming of a distant gunshot.

“That whiskey – the Apache say that the mushroom lets you see the spirit world. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I know this: people are haunted by their evil deeds. A man thinks that a prison cell or a hangman’s rope is the worst that can happen, but that ain’t true, is it? The dead linger, and no matter how fast we run, we can never run far enough. Does she come to you, Your Honor? Show up in your courtroom or haunt your dreams?”

“I never meant any harm… and I cleaned up my life afterwards… I stopped drinking, earned my law degree…” The judge closed his eyes, desperate to organize the thoughts in his sodden brain, as another door opened. His eyes widened as they listened to the footsteps moving slowly through the courtroom. “My God, Marshal – that mushroom… you really can see the next world.”

The door to the chamber opened, and all was chaos.

The Honorable Augustus Harvey’s eyes widened, and the last vestiges of color drained from his face as he raised a trembling finger toward the figure in the doorway. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth, and Woolsey could only guess at the words that never quite escaped the lips, robbed of all sound in the extremity of the judge’s fright – It’s her. He rose, swaying to and fro on drunken legs, then at last, a shriek of horror and despair passed through the open mouth as the judge clutched his chest. Augustus Harvey toppled to one side and lay still, his eyes wide and staring.

“My God, Abe.” Annabelle Woolsey gaped in shock. “Is he dead?”

“I believe he is.” Woolsey prodded the body with the toe of a boot. “It appears that his heart gave out as you walked into his chamber.”

“I was told that the judge was a temperance man.” Annabelle’s eyes lingered on the empty bottle. “I wouldn’t have expected… Abraham Woolsey, did you take one of my morels?” 

“He wouldn’t be the first man whose public persona diverged from his private habits, and as for the mushrooms,” the marshal replied, blushing, “I’ve heard that certain fungi can impart a curious flavor when added to whiskey.”

Woolsey braced for a scolding – morels were uncommon, and his wife had gone to a great deal of trouble to collect the meager stash that resided in their pantry – but her attention returned to the dead judge.

“He looks like he’s seen a ghost,” she whispered.

“I suppose I should get the undertaker.” He felt the judge’s neck a final time, seeking a pulse, and found nothing. “He’ll be none too happy about missing his dinner.”

“I’m none too happy either,” she replied, “though I have little enough appetite now.”

They exited the chamber, and he sent Annabelle home to check on their grandson, for there was no need to detain her further – he would be working late, and the youngster needed tending. Both of them, he thought, would have ample opportunity to answer questions when the coroner’s jury convened. Abraham Woolsey gave a final glance toward the empty courtroom as his belly rumbled from the missed dinner. The guilty flee where no man pursues.

The cuspidor, filled with tobacco juice and unconsumed whiskey, remained behind with the body.

Author’s Note: I’m usually good about identifying the inspiration for specific ideas, but this one went to publication without a nod to Spencer Klavan, who mentioned the Germanic tribes’ custom in this post. Spencer is a brilliant guy and a great writer, and if you’re interested in philosophy, religion, or ancient history, you would do well to check out his blog.