“The final day was October thirteen, 1967. It started on the Yerba Buena ranch, where Robert Osborne was born and where he lived most of his life. The weather was very warm, as it had been since early spring, and the river was dry. A late crop of tomatoes was being harvested and crated for shipping, and the picking of dates was scheduled to begin. The ranch was a busy place and Robert Osborne a busy young man.
“On October thirteen he awoke before dawn as usual and began his preparations for the day. While he was in the shower his wife, Devon, also awoke but she didn’t get up. She was in the early stage of a difficult pregnancy and under doctor’s orders to stay as quiet as possible... I would like to call as my first witness Devon Suellen Osborne.”
The courtroom stirred, rustled, whispered, shifted its weight. Then everything was suddenly quiet again as Devon walked toward the stand. “Do you swear...?” She swore, her raised right hand steady, her voice flat. Ford could scarcely remember the wild weeping girl of a year ago.
“Would you state your name for the record, please?”
“Devon Suellen Osborne.”
“And where do you live?”
“Rancho Yerba Buena, Rural Route number two.”
“Displayed on the easel is a map. Have you seen it before?”
“Yes, in your office.”
“And you had a chance to study it?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a true representation of a portion of the property known as Rancho Yerba Buena?”
“To my knowledge it is.”
“Do you own any portion of Rancho Yerba Buena, Mrs. Osborne?”
“No. The deed has been in my husband’s name since he was twenty-one.”
“During the early part of Mr. Osborne’s absence, how was the ranch business carried on?”
“It wasn’t. Bills piled up, checks came in which couldn’t be cashed, purchases were at a standstill. That’s when I went to you for help.”
Ford turned to Judge Gallagher. “Your Honor, I advised Mrs. Osborne to wait until ninety days had elapsed from the time her husband had last been seen and then appeal to the court to appoint her as trustee of the missing man’s estate. The appointment was granted, Mrs. Osborne was bonded, as required, and through my office made periodic accountings to the court of receipts and disbursements and the like.”
“And that is your present position, Mrs. Osborne,” Gallagher said, “trustee of the estate?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Continue, Mr. Ford.”
Ford went over to the map and pointed to the small rectangle bearing the letter O. “Is this the ranch house, Mrs. Osborne?”
“Yes.”
“And it was here that you saw your husband before sunrise on October thirteen last year?”
“Yes.”
“Did any conversation take place at that time?”
“Nothing important.”
“In the reconstruction of a man’s final day it is difficult to say what’s important and what isn’t. Tell us the things you remember, Mrs. Osborne.”
“It was still dark. I woke up when Robert came out of the shower and turned on the bureau lamp. He asked me how I felt and I said fine. While he was getting dressed we talked about various matters.”
“Was there anything unusual about the way he dressed that morning?”
“He put on slacks and a sports jacket instead of his working clothes because he was driving into the city.”
“This city, San Diego?”
“Yes.”
“Would you describe the slacks and jacket, Mrs. Osborne?”
“The slacks were lightweight gray gabardine and the jacket was gray and black dacron in a small plaid pattern.”
“Why was he driving into San Diego?”
“A number of reasons. In the morning he had a dental appointment, and after that he was going to drop in and see his mother and then pick up a tennis racket he’d ordered, one of the new kind made of steel. I reminded him too that it was Dulzura’s birthday — she is our cook — and that he should buy her a present.”
“Did he, in fact, do all of these things?”
“Except the present, he forgot that.”
“Wasn’t there a luncheon meeting at noon which he was expected to attend?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what the meeting was about?”
“It concerned problems of migrant labor in California agriculture.”
“Did he go to the meeting?”
“Yes. Robert had the idea that the problem must be solved at the source, the crops themselves. If crops could be regulated chemically, such as by hormones, perhaps harvesting could become a twelve-month-a-year business which would give steady employment to agricultural workers and do away entirely with migrant labor.”
“Now, Mrs. Osborne, that morning after your husband finished dressing, what did he do?”
“He kissed me goodbye and told me he’d be home for dinner about seven-thirty. He also asked me to keep a sharp lookout for his spaniel, Maxie, who’d taken off the night before. I thought Maxie had caught the scent of a bitch in heat and gone to find her, but Robert suspected something more sinister might be involved.”
“Such as?”
“He didn’t say. But Maxie was never allowed near the bunkhouse or the mess hall, and at night he was kept inside the house.”
“Was this for the dog’s protection or yours?”
“Both. At certain times of the year there were quite a few strangers around the ranch. Maxie was our watchdog and we were — well, I guess you could call us his watchpeople.”
At the unusual word a little hum of laughter vibrated through the courtroom and bounced gently off the walls.
“The dog, then,” Ford continued, “was not friendly toward any of the workers on the ranch?”
“No.”
“In the event of an attack on your husband, do you think the dog would have gone to his defense?”
“I know he would.”
Ford sat down at the counsels’ table and spread his hands in front of him, palms up, as if he intended to read in their lines the past as well as the future. “When and where were you and Robert Osborne married?”
“April twenty-fourth, 1967, in Manhattan.”
“How old was Mr. Osborne at that time?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Had you known him long?”
“Two weeks.”
“Since you were willing to marry him after so brief an acquaintance, I must assume he made a considerable impression on you.”
“Yes.”
A considerable impression.
They had met at a Saturday afternoon concert at the Philharmonic. Devon arrived during the opening number and slipped quietly and apologetically into her seat. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness she became aware that the seat on her left was occupied by a large young man with fair hair and horn-rimmed glasses. Every minute or two he turned to stare at her and at intermission he followed her into the lobby. She wasn’t used to such uninvited attention and it made her a little uneasy and more than a little curious. The young man gave the impression of having walked into the concert hall either by mistake or because someone had given him a ticket and he didn’t want to waste it.
She was the first to speak. “Why are you staring at me?”
“Was I staring?”
“You still are.”
“Sorry.” His smile was shy, almost melancholy. “I guess I can’t help it. You remind me of someone back home.”
“Someone nice, I hope.”
“She used to be.”
“Isn’t she nice any more?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She’s dead.” After a moment’s hesitation he added, “A lot of people think I killed her. I didn’t, but when people want to believe something, it’s hard to stop them.”