The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 72
It certainly felt over, Rye thought as he stared into the fire. There was no mention of Gig in the news story, and he wondered if Lem Brand had lied about getting his brother out of jail.
He slept uneasily again, repeating over and over in his mind what he’d say to Early if he came back (Look, I don’t want any trouble for Gig and me . . . ).
In the morning, another skiff of snow had fallen, like sugar onto a biscuit. After breakfast, Rye swept Mrs. Ricci’s steps and walked downtown along the old hobo highway. It was rare to walk the trail and see no one, but with so many men in jail or wintered up, Rye felt alone in the world. He emerged in the fuel and freight yards east of downtown, then walked the tenderloin into the center of downtown and eventually to the building where Fred Moore had a small office on the second floor, and where Rye took off his bowler and asked to see his old lawyer.
Fred came out of his office in shirtsleeves. He clapped Rye on the shoulder. “What great timing, Rye,” he said. “I just got some news.”
“How’s Gurley?” Rye asked.
“Climbing the walls,” said Mr. Moore. “We’ve got her preparing for trial, but she’d rather be out there fighting.”
He led Rye back to his office and explained that, two weeks earlier, he’d petitioned the court to dismiss the conspiracy charge against Gregory, since, unlike some other union leaders, he wasn’t an elected officer. Moore had argued that since Gig had already been found guilty of disturbing the peace, he should be released after thirty days, like the other nonleaders arrested in the original free speech riot, and not charged again with conspiracy.
“It was a sound argument,” Fred said, “but the last thing I ever expected was this judge responding to a sound argument.”
While the lawyer spoke, Rye was looking down at Mr. Moore’s desk, at what appeared to be a coffee stain on the swirls of dark wood grain.
Fred cleared his throat. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Ryan? The judge ruled in our favor. Thirty days is today. Your brother’s getting out this afternoon.”
Rye looked up to see Fred Moore’s disappointment at his reaction. “Oh. That’s great news. Thank you, Mr. Moore.”
Fred smiled and shrugged, rearranged some papers on his desk, covering the coffee stain. “I haven’t had a lot of victories to celebrate in this fracas, but I’m two for two with you Dolans.”
“No, it’s great,” Rye said. “I was just surprised is all.” Even if he could tell Mr. Moore about his deal with Lem Brand, Rye realized he wouldn’t want to take away his lawyer’s sense of accomplishment.
“The city is altering its strategy,” Mr. Moore said. He explained that the first prisoners, like Gig, had done their month in jail for disturbing the peace and were being released, hundreds more expected to go in the coming weeks. These men had been beaten and put on bread and water, or had gone on voluntary hunger strikes, and most were in no shape to protest again. Others were eager to move south for work or bed down for winter. With the union rethinking its strategy and the Industrial Worker shuttered for good, the protests had dwindled to the occasional hobo who made his way past the railroad guards. So now the city could concentrate on prosecuting the leaders and sending them to state prison.
“After your brother’s release, the only two left are Filigno and Elizabeth. If Pugh convicts them, it’ll be a clean sweep.”
Mr. Moore got his hat and coat, and he and Rye left the office and walked the four blocks to the jail. It was a cold, sunny day, few people out on the streets. There was a café a block from the jail, and Mr. Moore gave Rye two bits and suggested he wait there. “I don’t know how long it will take to get him released.”
Rye was relieved not to have to go to the jail. He sat in the window of the café with a cup of coffee, watching people in scarves and heavy coats hurry down the sidewalk, trailing dusty clouds of light new snow.
Everything Rye had done the last month had been with this in mind—the day his brother got out of jail. Meeting with Ursula and Lem Brand, going to Seattle with Gurley to raise money to hire Clarence Darrow, talking to Del Dalveaux, Wallace and Taft, Early Reston and Brand’s man Willard—all for this moment.
But now that it was here, knowing that all it had taken was a flick of Lem Brand’s wrist, Rye felt demoralized. It didn’t matter what he did, what Gurley did, what Fred Moore did, what any of them did. Somewhere there was a roomful of wealthy old men where everything was decided. Beliefs and convictions, lives and livelihoods, right and wrong—these had no place in that room, the scurrying of ants at the feet of a few rich men.
It made him think that Early Reston was right, in his way—even if Early wasn’t really Early—that maybe it was the castle that needed to be blown up, and that was when Rye looked up and saw, through the light haze, his lawyer walking down the street with a tall, gaunt man in a snow-dusted coat, a patchy beard climbing his sallow cheeks to his bruised eyes.
Rye rose and met them at the door,