Medicine Wheel (22 page)

“Well, trying to camouflage the transaction was a totally wasted effort. It only looks worse. The best we can do is make disclosure. There is some logic to a woman facing legal problems working out a temporary arrangement for her business affairs. We can put the best face on it, but it hardly seems that a grieving widow would be worrying about business matters.”

“She doesn’t pretend to be a grieving widow. She’s not good at pretense.”

“Oh, I think she can pretend if she has to. I will be speaking with her, and I think you will see in the courtroom a widow who has some sorrow and remorse for the evil and twisted deceased husband. After all, she loved him once, and that counts for something.” Serena stood and said, “I think this is enough for today. I will want to speak with you again before the trial. It was nice seeing you, Thad.” She reached her hand across the desk and he took it, receiving her firm, businesslike grip.

He had been summarily dismissed.

45

T
HAD
WAS
ALLOWED
to bring an extra chair into the cell, and he set it down next to the little table where Kirsten was already seated. It was early Friday afternoon of the week before the trial. “I thought I’d stop by for a spell before I talked to your lawyer again. I’m supposed to meet with her for a final ‘rehearsal,’ so to speak.” He sat down. “She doesn’t like that word . . . Rehearsal . . . so I find myself using it to annoy her. It seems to me that’s what it is.”
 

Kirsten was unresponsive and appeared deeply in thought, so he waited silently, knowing she would speak when she was ready. Odd, he thought, how he was getting so accustomed to her moods and habits.

Suddenly she broke the silence. “They’re going to run the railroad north to Randolph.”

He was starting to get used to her doing this, popping up with statements that made no sense in the context of their current conversation. “That’s nice,” he said noncommittally.

“No. Listen. I heard the sheriff talking about it with the deputy. It’s going to follow the Big Blue. They didn’t say which side, but it will have to be on the west side . . . our side. The west is on higher ground. A big part of the east will flood. Don’t you see what this means?”
 

She looked at him in seeming expectation of the correct answer. He would have to disappoint her. “Well, it will be nice for the folks in the Randolph area.”

“Think, Doc. Who owns land on the west side of the river?”

“Let me guess. Thad Locke and Kirsten Cavelle?”

“You’re doing better, Doc,” she said. “And the railroad is opportunity knocking. Your north quarter has the perfect level site in the bottomland for a spur. We could put up a livestock yard there where people could bring their hogs and cattle to ship. Better yet, we could build an auction house where buyers come and bid on livestock to ship to the big slaughter houses. We’d take commissions on both selling and shipping. There’s space for all kinds of businesses that need railroad access: grain brokers, limestone producers, saw mills . . . the list is endless. We could set up these operations ourselves and hire managers. We’d make jobs for people and have nice profits for ourselves. The railroad is the future and will be for as far as we can see.”

“Kirsten, slow down. You’re making my head spin. I’m just a simple country vet, and you’ve got me building a commercial empire.”

“Hell, Doc, you could even build an animal hospital at that site. And we could require veterinary livestock inspections before shipping. You could make some extra gold eagles from that, and buyers would have extra protection against buying diseased hogs or cattle.”

Remembering Quincy’s swine fever tragedy, Thad thought her idea had merit. “I’ll see what I can find out about the rail plans. This isn’t going to take place overnight.” Damn. Her enthusiasm was sucking him into the scheme.
 

“No, it will take several years to get lines built to Randolph. But we could be ready for it.”
 

“I’d have to think about how involved I’d want to be.” She was crazy as a loon to be thinking about these things with the gallows possibly looming in her future, but her vision had him in its clutches.

“You think I’m nuts, don’t you?”

“No, you’ve got some interesting ideas. I’d be lying if I said they didn’t intrigue me, but—”

“You’re wondering why I’m even thinking about this when I might be dead or in prison in a few weeks.”

He shrugged. “Okay, the thought had crossed my mind.”

“I would be insane if I didn’t plan ahead and put my brain to challenges. Pops taught me that. He was over fifty when I was born and several years past seventy when he died, but he never stopped moving, even when he accepted he was dying. He kept right on buying breeding stock he’d never see a calf from and land he’d never see harvested. He always said he’d never retire and never quit working. The only alternative he said was to sit back and wait for the Grim Reaper to show up. The last day of his life, one of the hands helped him into the saddle, and Pops rode out to check out the home place one more time. The horse came back riderless and they found Pops at the top of a hill overlooking his land, leaning against an old oak tree. It looked like he’d just dozed off and never woke up. Well, they may have me in a cage, but I’m not going to live whatever time I’ve got like there’s no future and nothing that needs doing.”

“I’ll see what I can find out about the railroad and keep you updated.”

She reached across the table and put her hand on top of his. “Thanks, Doc. I knew I could make you understand.”

46

C
AM
LIKED
AND
respected Judge Cyrus Whitmore, who was anything but the stereotypical stern, cantankerous judge so often created in the public mind. On the contrary, Judge Whitmore’s round, fleshy face wore a perpetual smile, like that of a man content and pleased with his lot in life. He was generally casual and relaxed in his courtroom, but he good-naturedly maintained order and carried a Peacemaker in the holster beneath his robe. He was loath to hold tight rein on the lawyer combatants, but was quick to call the advocates up short when one or the other abused his generosity. The rotund jurist with the thatch of red hair topping his otherwise bald scalp might be misjudged as something of a bumpkin by a lawyer making his first appearance in Judge Whitmore’s courtroom. Cam knew better. Whitmore was one of only a scattering of Midwestern judges with a law school education—Yale no less—and he was nobody’s fool.

After opening statements, the judge had declared a brief recess and now consulted with his bailiff. Cam sat at the defense counsel’s table, which was parallel to the prosecution’s table so that the adverse parties faced each other. The raised judge’s bench and witness stand were positioned a dozen feet from the end of each of the tables, and public seating for thirty to thirty-five people commenced about ten feet from the opposite end of the tables. The jury box was positioned behind the county attorney’s table, which left Cam facing the jury and suited him just fine.

Cam sat nearest the judge’s bench, and Serena at the other end of the table, with Kirsten, attired in mourning black, in between, which gave them each ample access to their client during the course of the trial. Frank Fuller and his tall, pencil-thin deputy were seated at the prosecutor’s table and were engaged in what Cam guessed to be an intense discussion.

The spectator seats had been packed from the moment court convened, and Cam noted that at least three newspaper reporters had captured front row observation posts and were not surrendering them, apparently having made a mutual defense pact of some kind. If one reporter left the room, the other two tenaciously resisted any effort of another citizen to claim the vacant seat.

The jury selection had been accomplished quickly. During the
voir dire
questioning, one elderly self-ordained preacher had gone into a diatribe about wifely obedience and repeated firmly at least three times “an eye for an eye.” The judge had granted Cam’s motion to remove for cause, and two others showing similar proclivities had been likewise removed. The prosecutor was successful in removing four who opposed the death penalty, interestingly, also on religious grounds. The pool was then reduced to “twelve good men and true” by alternating silent strikes by the lawyers crossing off names on the jury list. Cam had stricken the remaining Klansman and the wife beater, as well as another dubious prospect. Fuller had removed the colored men for whatever reason with his peremptory challenges.

The opening statements had been the briefest Cam could remember. The prosecutor had simply declared the state would prove that Kirsten Brannon had killed her loving husband in cold blood while he slept and that said killing was willful, deliberate and premeditated, requirements of murder in the first degree. Cam had pointed out that the opening statements did not constitute evidence and that the facts had yet to be revealed. He had emphasized several times that guilt must be established “beyond a reasonable doubt.” He alluded to the defendant having been beaten nearly senseless by the deceased, carefully planting the seed of her fragile mental state.

Cam noted that the bailiff had departed to retrieve the jury and that the judge was straightening the papers on the bench. In a few moments the bailiff returned, escorting the jurors to their seats. During the
voir dire,
Cam had targeted two jurors for special attention. One, a young bachelor school teacher, had seemed a sensitive, non-judgmental person with an open mind. The other was an elderly farmer, who was the father of five daughters, one of whom—Reva had ferreted out of somewhere—pathetically put up with a wife-beating husband. Serena had singled out another young juror, a young storekeeper who could not take his eyes off of her and gave her shy smiles when they made eye contact.

Judge Whitmore tapped his gavel lightly on the bench. “Okay gentlemen . . . and lady . . . are you prepared to proceed? Mr. Fuller you’re up first.”

The county attorney got up and walked around to the front of the table. “The state calls Sheriff Sam Mallery.”

Mallery ambled up to the witness stand, was sworn in by the judge and sat down. He was an old hand at this, and he seemed confident and at ease. Cam knew him to be an honest man, but he could be a cagey rascal and would have to be questioned cautiously on cross-examination.

Fuller established the sheriff’s credentials quickly, rattling off the usual name, residence, occupation and experience inquiries. Then he asked Mallery how he came to be at the Brannon house on the day of Max Brannon’s death, and the sheriff explained how Chet Grisham had pounded on his door in the early morning hours and how the circumstances Chet had described convinced him to invite the county attorney along to investigate the scene. The county attorney led him through their arrival at the house and the encountering of Kirsten and members of the Locke clan, carefully avoiding any mention of Kirsten’s injuries. “And did you have cause to investigate the bedroom of the Brannon house?” Fuller asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And will you tell me what you saw?”

“I found Max Brannon naked in his bed and stone-cold dead.”

“How do you know the man was Max Brannon?”

“I’d known him for several years . . . seen him in town a number of times.”

“Was anyone else in the room with you at this time?”

“Yes . . . you were.”

“Do you have an opinion as to what caused Mr. Brannon’s death?”

“He was shot. There was a hole between the eyes, clean as could be.”

“Could this have been self-inflicted?”

“No.”

“How do you know this to be the case?”

“No obvious powder burns, so there must have been some distance between the gun barrel and his forehead. Take a pistol . . . unloaded please . . . and see how easy it would be to fire the weapon true holding it a few feet away from your head.”

“Do you have any other basis for your conclusion?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what is it?”

“No gun anywhere nearby. None in the room.”

“Was there a gun on the premises?”

“Three of them. Two Winchester rifles . . . a Model 1866 and a Model 1876 . . . and an Army Colt revolver hanging in a holster near the door.”

“And did you observe anything about the weapons?”

“Well, the rifles weren’t loaded, but the Colt was short a cartridge in the cylinder.”

“You testified that the only people in the house when you arrived were the defendant and members of the Locke family.”

“I did.”

“Was there anyone else near the house?”

“Cam Locke’s boy was outside . . . he was the only one I seen.”

Fuller looked at the judge. “That’s all I have for the witness for now, Your Honor.”

Judge Whitmore widened his smile a bit and nodded at Cam. “Your turn, counselor.”

Cam got up and approached the witness stand, leaving his notes on the table. “Just a few questions, Sheriff.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said the pistol was short a cartridge. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And from that you concluded what?”

“That the pistol was used to kill Max Brannon.”

“What caliber bullet does the Army Colt use?”

“It was a .45.”

“And the coroner removed a bullet from Mr. Brannon’s skull, is that right?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“And what caliber was that?”

“Well, he thought it was a .45.”

“He thought?”

“It was all broke up . . . couldn’t say for sure.”

“I see. Have you seen a revolver with a bullet or two missing from the cylinder before?”

“Well, yeah.”
 

“Correct me if I’m wrong. But could there not be a lot of reasons for that . . . like firing the weapon to scare off an animal, for instance?”

“Well, sure but—”

“So you can’t say with certainty that the missing bullet ended up in Mr. Brannon’s head?”

The sheriff tossed a look at Fuller as if expecting silent instructions. “Well, not a hundred percent, but it seems likely.”

“Likely. And you’d hang a woman on ‘likely’?”