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“ I am not going to steal these witnesses’ thunder,” McBain continued. “You will hear the testimony from each of them, and when you do, I am convinced that you will determine that the state has met its burden of proving beyond and to the exclusion of every reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty of murder in the second degree.”

***

H. T. Patterson smiled, rocked back and forth in his cowboy boots, and told the jurors that it was an honor to stand before them, the people who can put an end to a grave injustice that has befallen his client. He reminded them of their promise this very morning that they would wait until all the evidence was in before reaching any conclusions. He told them that the state’s burden to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt was the highest standard of proof known to our system of jurisprudence. Without his nose growing a millimeter, he told the jury that my character was unblemished, and a string of witnesses from Florida, including football coaches, judges, and lawyers would attest to that.

Moving close to the rail, Patterson raised his voice a notch. “Ms. Baroso’s testimony is subject to cross-examination, and it is on cross-examination that you will judge whether the evidence meets this burden of proof. It is not true that she is the only eyewitness. No, Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Lassiter was an eyewitness, also, and you shall hear from him. I submit that you will find Ms. Baroso’s story to be ambiguous and improbable, dubious and doubtful, and when you do, the state’s case will fall. It will fall like a house of cards. It will collapse like-”

“ Objection, Your Honor.” McBain slowly got to his feet. It was the quietest objection I’d ever heard.

“ Sustained,” the judge said. “I don’t know how they do it in Mia-muh, but up here, we save closing argument till the evidence is in.”

Patterson thanked the judge with a gracious smile as if he had imparted the wisdom of the Holy Grail. Patterson summed up with the usual platitudes about our by-golly best system of justice in the world. He thanked the jurors in advance for their rapt attention, though two were already looking out the window, and another was catnapping. Then he sat down, and Judge Witherspoon gave the jurors a little speech about not reading the newspapers or discussing the case among themselves.

I leaned over to my lawyer. “H.T., what’s going on? You promised I’d testify. Isn’t it a little early to-”

“ Already decided. You have to.”

“ Okay, but then, why no mention of self-defense? If I’m going to testify, it’s my only way out.”

“ Self-defense admits you killed Cimarron.”

“ Of course it does!” My whisper was a little too loud, and one of the jurors looked over, just as the judge explained he would work them nine-to-six and get them out of here by the end of the week. “Jo Jo will testify I put the stud gun to Cimarron’s head and pulled the trigger.”

“ But you can’t remember that?”

“ Not exactly, no. I mean, I remember pulling the trigger, but I didn’t think it went off.”

“ And Ms. Baroso lied to you about Cimarron beating her?”

“ Yes.”

“ Then lied to Mr. Cimarron about your having assaulted her?”

“ Of course.”

“ And lied to the police about who attacked whom?” I threw up my hands in disgust. “Yes. She fooled me. She fooled Cimarron, and she fooled the police.”

“ Don’t look so glum, Jake,” H. T. Patterson said. “She hasn’t fooled me.”

CHAPTER 22

MOBILE, AGILE, AND HOSTILE

Sheriff’s deputy Clayton Dobson testified that he was the first officer on the scene where he found a woman who identified herself as Josefina Baroso. When he first saw her, she had a blanket covering her. She was disheveled and emotionally distraught. She led him to the body. Two bodies really.

The man who was alive was semiconscious. Kind of moaning, lying on his back in the straw. Yes, sir, I do see him in the courtroom. That’s him sitting right over there, the big fellow in the blue suit.

The victim, one Kit Carson Cimarron. Recognized him, knew this was his ranch. Knew his daddy, too.

Called for homicide and an ambulance. Took a statement from Ms. Baroso who said-

Objection, hearsay.

Sustained.

Secured the scene and turned it over to Detective Racklin when he arrived twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes later.

***

Homicide Detective Bernie Racklin was perhaps the only male in Pitkin County who didn’t wear cowboy boots. He was short and pudgy, in his mid forties, with a receding hairline. He wore khaki pants, a blue blazer, and scuffed cordovan penny loafers. Racklin looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. He, too, took a statement from Ms. Baroso, who apparently had plenty to say and told the same story every time. Racklin puttered around the barn for several hours, along with a crew of crime scene technicians dusting for prints, shooting photos, swabbing up drops of blood, slipping nails and chips of wood into little evidence bags.

“ What was Ms. Baroso’s condition when you interviewed her?”

“ She was upset and had been crying. She displayed bruises on her ribs she said came from-”

The prosecutor held up a hand. “Just give us your observations, please.”

Thanks, McBain. I appreciate that.

“ She was bruised about the torso. Her face appeared to have been struck as she had the beginning of a black eye. The injuries did not appear to be serious, and she was lucid, alert, and aware of her surroundings.”

With the prosecutor’s assistant displaying a series of photos blown up to poster size, Racklin spent the next hour describing what seemed like a twelve-round championship fight.

“ Photo number one represents what, sir?”

“ This is the loft of the barn. This is where the defendant first attacked the decedent.”

Whoa! He wasn’t there. He was relying on Jo Jo’s statements.

“ Based on the physical evidence, were you able to determine what occurred in the loft?” Brian McBain asked.

“ Yes. The floor is wood. There are scuff marks from the decedent’s cowboy boots consistent with a struggle occurring there. He would have been dragged across the floor…”

Cimarron dragged? With what, a crane?

“…There were no scuff marks from the defendant’s footwear.”

Of course not. I was wearing sneakers. I just hate pseudo-scientific evidence from cops.

“ We inspected the wooden planks that make up the walls of the loft. Close examination revealed the presence of human hair embedded in the rough splinters. The hair matched that of Mr. Cimarron, and scuff marks on the floor near the wall are consistent with Mr. Cimarron having been thrown into the wall with great force.”

He paused a moment while the prosecutor handed him an enlarged photograph showing a cracked wooden plank.

“ Looking at what’s already been marked as state’s exhibit twelve, can you tell us what that photo shows?”

“ Yes, that’s the plank. As you can see, there is a fissure in the area from which we extracted Mr. Cimarron’s hair. That was an area of the plank seventy-seven inches above the floor. Mr. Cimarron was a very tall man, six feet seven, even taller in boots. Further, there was an abrasion on the back of Mr. Cimarron’s head, and indications of a heavy blow, serious enough to cause a concussion.”

Bull! He did more damage to the wall than it did to him. I’m the one who had a concussion. He never even blinked.

“ Based on your investigation and the physical evidence, what did you conclude concerning the activities in the loft, as pictured in photo number one?”

Hey, H.T., do something. Anything.

I squirmed in my seat, and Patterson placed a calming hand on my arm. Damn lawyers!

“ Mr. Cimarron was attacked by the defendant, who though not as large, is quite a physical specimen. He is a former professional football player who is still in good condition, better in fact than Mr. Cimarron…”