She took the better part of the day, stopping several times to wipe the tears. As the afternoon wore on, the windowpanes of the courtroom shuddered with an approaching storm. Outside, the sky darkened, and snow cascaded from the sky. Inside, it was stuffy and the air so dry, the skin on my knuckles was splitting. I longed for the heat and humidity of home, for a gentle easterly, warm as a baby’s breath, as it crossed the Gulf Stream.
What was I doing here? I fought the urge to stand and run, the courtroom door banging behind me. My arms tensed. Would the bailiff stop me? No, he was asleep, waiting for his Social Security check.
Where would I go? An island, maybe. Barbados, Aruba, Curacao. I yearned for sunny days and wide beaches, and most of all, freedom. How far would I get? They would hunt me down. They would compare me to Ted Bundy, who crawled out a window in this very courthouse, before going on a rampage of rape and murder in Florida.
I’m not sure what my face showed, but Patterson put a calming hand on my shoulder. I forced myself to concentrate on a spot on the wall just above a line of old photographs of judges who presided here. And I thought about where we were and where we had to go.
McBain had done his job, and Jo Jo had done hers. It was all wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow, an early Christmas present for the jury. I was jotting down notes as the prosecutor was winding down his questioning.
“ Ms. Baroso, please forgive me for asking this, but did you love your husband?”
“ So very much. It was an unconventional arrangement, I know, but it worked for us. He had his ranch and his dreams of buried treasure. He was out here, in the country he loved. I had my career, contributing to society in the best way I could. In my heart, I know we loved each other as much as any other couple.”
“ Did you intend the defendant to follow you to Colorado?”
“ No. I didn’t even tell him I was coming here. He admitted to me he broke into my house and listened to my answering machine to find me.” A look of sadness for the pathetic, obsessed stalker seemed to cross her face. “I thought he had gotten over me, but once he began representing my brother again, something happened. It started all over again, and he began pursuing me.”
The poor woman. How could anyone blame her for all this?
“ So, in summary, Ms. Baroso, the defendant followed you to Colorado without your knowledge or consent, confronted you in the barn on your husband’s property, struck you and forced you to submit to sexual intercourse…”
I tugged at my lawyer’s sleeve, but he waved me off.
“…and when your husband found you, disheveled and beaten, the defendant taunted him, beat him, and finally shot a nail through his brain, killing him?”
“ Objection, leading,” Patterson said, quietly.
“ Granted. The jury will disregard the question…”
It didn’t matter if they disregarded the question. They already knew the answer.
“ Mr. McBain,” the judge said, “do you have anything further, because the bailiff tells me the weather is deteriorating, and I believe I’m going to let these good folks go home early today.”
“ Just about finished, Your Honor.”
“ Ms. Baroso, is there anything else you wish to say, anything you’ve left out?”
She didn’t even have to think about it. You don’t have to when you’ve rehearsed the closing line. “If only you could have known him,” she said, turning toward the jury. “Such a fine, decent man, so full of life. I loved him, and I miss him so.”
The judge cleared his throat and banged his gavel, telling everyone to be back at nine in the morning.
My eyes were still on Josefina Jovita Baroso, as she walked gallantly out of the courtroom. I thought about what Kip had said this morning, that nobody would believe her. My lovable nephew was wrong.
I can read their faces, Kipper. I can read their minds.
They believed her and were ready to convict. Hell, if I’d been on the jury, I would have convicted me, too.
CHAPTER 26
I didn’t go to Barbados, Aruba, or Curacao. Instead, I said good-bye to Patterson, slogged through the snow, and got my rental car from the garage at the foot of Galena Street. There were no beaches or bikinied lasses along the way. There were boots and gloves, scarves pulled tight against the cold. Before coming here, the last time I saw a ski mask, it was being introduced into evidence against my client who wore it when pointing an Uzi at a convenience store clerk in Hialeah.
My car yawked and hawked and sputtered like an old codger clearing his throat. I nearly flooded the carburetor but finally got it to turn over and cough itself to life. I pulled onto Main Street and turned left, for no good reason, it could just as well have been right. Clouds hung low, shrouding the town in a gray mist, obscuring the surrounding mountains. There was no wind, and the snow fell straight and hard, as if dumped from a celestial truck. I used to ski on days like this, the visibility so poor you had to guess where the next mogul would pop up. But then, I windsurf in thunderstorms, too.
I drove slowly, politely yielding the right of way a couple of times. Traffic was heavy, the Volvos and Jeeps, Range Rovers and Land Cruisers heading home, ski racks laden with equipment. Hey, fun seekers, I envy you, muscles stretched and lungs expanded. Load up with complex carbs tonight, stretch out with someone you love-or at least like-in a hot tub, and be back at it in the fresh powder tomorrow. Me, I think I’ll just visit the courthouse and let them call me a rapist and murderer all day.
I drove aimlessly and found myself heading east out of town. I turned left and started up a gentle rise on the lower slopes of what was probably Smuggler Mountain. I was lost, but what did it matter? I had nowhere to go and lots of time to get there. Suddenly, from behind, a black Dodge Turbo Ram pickup with dual rear wheels pulled out and passed me, its oversize tires chomping through the fresh snow. Through its steamy rear window, I caught sight of a long spill of dark hair. I squinted at the personalized Colorado plate as the truck sped on. “Aurum.” I didn’t have to call Doc Riggs for the translation. I remembered it from high school chemistry, right along with dropping a dissected frog down Joan Wooldridge’s blouse.
Aurum is gold.
She was driving Cimarron’s truck. Hers now, I supposed. I gave the rental some gas and followed the taillights up the hill. She turned right, and so did I. She turned left, and I followed. Hey, this was fun. We went about a mile, made a couple more turns, and she slowed. I hung back, watching, waiting.
I tuned the radio to an oldies station and heard the Beatles longing for yesterday. Me, too. I listened to my wipers clackety-clacking and had a conversation with myself.
Just what the hell was I doing?
Following Jo Jo Baroso.
Why?
Because, like Everest, she’s there.
What does that mean?
It means I don’t know why. Maybe I want her to testify tomorrow that I’m still stalking her, turn up the heat some more. Maybe I’ll run her car into a ditch, grab her and make her eat a handful of snow. Or maybe I just want to know why she’s driving up Smuggler Mountain in the middle of a blizzard. Maybe I figure there’s an answer out here, because there sure as hell isn’t one anywhere else.
Through the gray haze and falling snow, I didn’t see the fork in the road. She turned left smartly. I hit the brakes and tried to follow but spun out. I whipped the wheel back, let up on the brakes, then kissed them gently. The car straightened and came to a stop. I had missed the turn. I started up again, threw it into reverse, tires spinning, got back to the fork, and took the turn ever so slowly. The taillights were gone. Half a mile up the road was another fork. I took the low road and never saw the pickup again.