“ Let me think,” she said.
“ Think? You need to think whether you told your only sibling you were married?”
“ I believe I did tell Luis,” she said, a bit too quickly.
“ So you did tell someone?”
“ Yes, I suppose I did.”
“ Then a moment ago you were mistaken when you said you never told anyone?”
“ I suppose I was.”
“ Ever tell anyone else?”
“ No.”
“ So you never told me, did you?”
After all of that, she had to say no.
“ No,” she said. “I never told you.”
“ Not when you and I were alone in your house in Miami last June?”
“ No.”
“ Not when your husband showed up that night?”
“ No.”
“ And not when you say I attacked you in the barn?”
“ No.”
“ You didn’t say, ‘Jake, please, I’m a married woman, and my husband is in the house over yonder?’ “No.”
“ You didn’t think that information was important?”
“ I didn’t think it would stop you.”
Ouch. I had committed the cardinal sin on cross, one question too many. It was the equivalent of the “why” that will always burn you with a smart, hostile witness. Time to move on.
“ Mrs. Cimarron, what were the terms of your late husband’s will?”
“ Objection,” McBain said, still standing at the prosecution table. “Irrelevant.”
“ He wouldn’t say that if I was the beneficiary,” I told the judge. “Relevant to the issue of who wanted the decedent dead.”
Motive, motive, motive.
“ Overruled, but move it along, Mr. Lassiter.”
“ Simmy left no will,” Jo Jo said. “He died intestate.”
“ So as the surviving spouse, you receive one hundred percent of the estate, free and clear of all federal taxes?”
“ I really don’t know the law in that area.”
“ Oh come now, Mrs. Cimarron, you’re a lawyer.”
“ I’ve spent my entire career prosecuting criminals, not writing wills.”
Gonna wing it now. “But surely you have retained probate counsel and have prepared to file the appropriate papers with the state.”
Her eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I’ve retained a local probate lawyer.”
“ Who explained to you that you were the sole beneficiary and would receive one hundred percent of the estate, free and clear of federal taxes?”
“ I believe it was mentioned.”
“ So the ranch goes to you?”
“ Yes.”
“ And all personal property?”
“ Yes.”
“ And the mining claims, the treasure maps, the artifacts and products of Mr. Cimarron’s years of work?”
“ Yes.”
“ Life insurance?”
“ No.”
“ But there is a policy, isn’t there, with two million in death benefits?’’
“ I believe my brother is the beneficiary, just as Simmy was the beneficiary of Luis’s policy.”
“ Ah yes, your brother. Where is he?”
“ Nobody knows.”
“ When did you see him last?”
She studied me a moment before answering. The jurors were watching her, so I risked a little smirk. What does he know? “In June, just before he disappeared.”
“ And you’re sure you haven’t seen him since?”
“ Objection, repetitious as well as irrelevant.” McBain didn’t have the slightest idea where I was going, but he would soon.
“ Your Honor, I’ll tie it up shortly.”
“ All right, overruled.”
“ I’m sure I haven’t seen him,” she answered.
I paused to make a note on my legal pad as if this was testimony of great import, and of course, it was. Then I told the witness to take us through the events that night, and she did it all again, starting with my tearing off her clothes, and ending with my plugging Cimarron.
“ Was anyone else in the barn besides your husband, you, and me?”
“ Yes, the boy, your nephew, but he ran out when the fighting began. I’ve already testified to that.”
“ No one else?”
“ No, Mr. Lassiter. No one else.”
“ My nephew. What did he have with him?”
“ What do you mean?” A look of uncertainty in her eyes.
“ Did he have a video camera?”
She paused a moment. What does he know? “Yes, he did.”
I went to the defense table and pulled opened the paper sack. “This camera?”
“ I don’t know. It could be.”
“ Your Honor, I’ve taken the liberty of asking the bailiff to bring up a video monitor from downstairs. It’s in the corridor and can be brought in now. At this time, I’d ask that this videotape be marked for identification, and then I’d like to ask Mrs. Cimarron some questions about its contents.”
The judge glanced toward the prosecution table. “Counsel?”
“ We object, of course. We’ve had no notice.”
“ It’s impeachment material,” I responded, “and no notice is required.”
At the word “impeachment,” I thought I saw Jo Jo flinch. The judge overruled the objection, the clerk tagged the tape, and the bailiff wheeled in the monitor.
“ Now, Mrs. Cimarron. I’ve cued the tape to what we might call Round Two. Mr. Cimarron and I are struggling on the ground floor. You recall that?”
McBain was on his feet again. “Your Honor, we request that the tape start at the beginning so that the jury gets the full picture.”
“ Denied. You can do it on redirect. I don’t like to fuss with lawyers on cross.”
I was starting to like Judge Witherspoon. He came from the diminishing number of judges who let lawyers try their cases.
“ Mrs. Cimarron, just sit back a moment,” I told her gently. “Let’s close our eyes and listen.”
Jo Jo’s eyes remained open. Wide open.
The television flicked on with the sight of out-of-focus straw. The first sound was the whinny of a horse, then hoof beats.
“ Simmy! Simmy, he raped me! Are you going to let him go?”
I kind of liked that as an opening line. On direct examination, she never mentioned goading him. She had said she tried to stop us from fighting. Out of little inconsistencies does cross-examination grow.
The sound of the bullwhip, a whistle and crack of the leather sharp as a bee sting. The sound of feet shuffling again, close to the microphone, my hand scraping the wall, coming off with the bridle and bit, smashing Cimarron in the mouth, then a gasp and gagging-mine-as he kicked me in the gut.
The jurors strained to listen. If you hadn’t been there, you couldn’t tell who was doing what to whom. That’s okay. At the end, I hoped, it would all be clear. For now, so strange, listening to my own labored breathing, remembering the pain and the fear.
“ Don’t move, lawyer, or I’ll nail you to the barn wall.”
The words stabbed me, even now, recalling the terror.
I heard myself calling out to Jo Jo to tell him the truth. Again, she accused me of raping her and egged him on.
I heard the first whomp, the nail hitting at my feet. Another that buried itself in the wall. The click of the empty gun.
“ Damn. Josefina, there’s a full clip over by the sawhorse.”
I stopped the tape. “Let’s pause here for a moment. Did you reload the stud gun?”
She thought about it before answering. Surely, she knew there would be more sounds of the nails thunking into wood. “Yes, I believe I did.”
“ Once or more than once.”
“ Just once.”
“ With a clip of ten bullets? I believe Mr. Russo testified each clip had ten, 27-caliber bullets.”
“ Yes, that’s right.”
“ And after you reloaded, Mr. Cimarron continued to fire nails at me, didn’t he?”
“ Not at you, near you. He just wanted to frighten you, to teach you a lesson. You wanted to kill him, and you did.”
“ How did I manage to get the stud gun away from him?”
She didn’t want to answer. Get her off the script, she isn’t ready. “It’s all so confusing now, and listening to this, hearing his voice, it’s all so very upsetting.” Tears welled in her eyes.