The Anatomy of Deception - Lawrence Goldstone [130]
I was appalled. My young colleague seemed to have aged ten years in one night. He smiled dispiritedly when he saw me. “Hello, Carroll. Nice of you to come by.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I replied, trying to exude confidence. “I spoke to your father. He has retained a fine lawyer and you will soon be out of here.”
Farnshaw nodded slowly. “Yes. A couple of fellows inside said that Franklin was just the man to have if one didn’t care about niceties of the law.” His eyes darted this way and that to see if we were being overheard. “Carroll,” he said, terror in his voice, “I didn’t tell my parents, they’re so worried already, but you’ve got to see that I get out of here right away. I’ve already had my watch taken and they said they were going to kill me.”
“Who said they would kill you, Farnshaw?”
“Everyone. The guards said the prisoners will kill me and the prisoners said the guards will kill me.”
“They’re just trying to frighten you, that’s all,” I said soothingly. Borst knew the man was probably innocent, and I hoped he was decent enough to have given instructions that his well-being be assured. Then, too, his promotion would not come to much if the innocent scion of a prominent Boston family was murdered as a result of his erroneous arrest. “You’re not one of them and they’re making sport of you,” I went on. “No one would dare harm someone whose family could raise a public howl.”
“Do you really think so?” Hope flared briefly in Farnshaw’s eyes.
“Of course. In a day or two, you will be out and you and I will go to celebrate. I know just the place where we can each get a first-rate porterhouse.”
“That would be nice. But they did not seem to be speaking in jest. Someone really is going to murder me.”
“Farnshaw,” I said sharply, “you must keep up your spirits. You will be free in a matter of days. Your father will move heaven and earth for you; Franklin, as you said, is adept at this sort of thing, and I am not without resources as well. I know Turk’s haunts. I will not rest until I have found evidence to prove you innocent.”
“Thank you, Carroll,” he replied, his eyes still darting about as if the room itself could be his executioner. “That’s very decent of you.”
“Not a bit of it,” I replied. “It is a pleasure to be able to help.”
Some are more fit to tolerate such circumstances than others and, while I could not be certain how I would fare, it was hard to imagine someone less equipped to cope than Farnshaw. It really was imperative to free him, if not for his physical well-being, then for his sanity.
Farnshaw reached across and grabbed my wrist in a clawlike grip much like that of Turk just before he died. “I’m afraid, Carroll.”
“Anyone would be,” I said, although the words, I knew, would have no meaning.
I left Farnshaw minutes later. He urged me to stay so that he would not have to go back to his cell, but I could not dally at Moko if I hoped to find evidence to free him. I could feel how close I was to success. While the journal, if Simpson was correct, would provide ballast for an alternative version of the events, it was unlikely to be enough to turn the tide by itself. Any other bit of information that I could unearth, however, might be sufficient, when added to the journal, to force even Borst to admit he had acted without sufficient cause.
I spent the day going over the events, reviewing everything that had transpired, looking for weak spots in Borst’s case. The most damning evidence, other than the written record, was Turk’s announcement at The Fatted Calf that “George” was his associate. If Simpson was correct and Turk had a constant need to demonstrate how clever he was, might he have boasted to an intimate down there