Shit! I can’t sing worth a damn. Now, instead of fighting, I’m turning into a song and dance man.
Chapter 21
Monday, June 24th
A MONTH AFTER MY last fight, I was finally permitted to go after sorcerers again. Thanks to how I’d screwed up the last time, Diana had used Juan to find some lowlife scum in Denver who I was sure to beat.
I’d learned something important about myself in the meantime. Since moving to Colorado, I’d become an adrenaline junkie. I loved the excitement and danger in magical fights, and I loved people patting me on the back for saving their asses. These weren’t particularly fine qualities for a human being to have, but everybody has flaws.
My biggest problem was that Laura wasn’t happy with me fighting again, but her main worry was that I’d lose. Diana and Juan assured her that wouldn’t happen, so Laura kept her opinions to herself. That was the best that I could hope for.
My first fight as the new me turned out to be anticlimactic. I walked up to the door of Dean Smithers, a minor thug in Escobar’s bookie operation, and dropped him with one punch to the forehead. He didn’t have much magic to give, but I took it all. When Juan, Smithers, and I got back to Boulder, I visited briefly with Diana at her office in city hall.
After accepting her congratulations, I said, “Sign me up for a fight a day, and you can pick sorcerers much stronger than this dirtbag.”
She shrugged. “We’ll ramp up gradually. No need to take crazy risks. I promised your wife.”
-o-o-o-
Monday, July 29th
Morgan County Courthouse, Bramer, Oklahoma
TWO MONTHS AFTER MY conversation with Nicky and Felicity about scheduling my murder trial, I stood in front of the Morgan County courthouse. In the intervening time, he’d told me several times that I was crazy, but I reminded him that I knew the good people of my home county.
And I did. The new sheriff was a long-time member of the same Methodist church I’d attended most of my life. The district attorney, Brent Star was one-quarter Osage, and his daughter had been in my class at school for twelve years running. She and I had been good friends all that time. Plus, Felicity had no trouble rounding up a dozen folks in the county who were willing to vouch for my overall good character, including one of the county commissioners.
Brent had been happy to waive the death penalty to get his hands on me, but other than that, he’d cut me no slack. A week before trial, we turned down his request for two-month delay, and since then, he’d become downright surly. Fortunately, that was equivalent to a bright smile in Denver, and I had no reason to second-guess my decision to face hometown justice.
Nor did I have to show up at trial alone. Laura had come for the trial, of course. Now seven months pregnant, I was hoping she’d raise a few sympathies with the jury. In addition, Katie, Tess, Sorcha, Diana, Holly, and Don showed up for the trial.
Not to be outdone, most of the rest of the courtroom was filled with the Osage members of my family, including both of my grandparents that lived in America. The unspoken message they seemed to be saying was that they’d be watching carefully to make sure the white man’s legal system was treating me fairly.
That was comforting, but I still had no idea what the government planned to say that could take a whole week to hear. Nevertheless, Nicky was sure Brent would fill the time somehow. My lawyers expected the prosecutors to harp on the brutality of the crime and hope that would raise an overwhelming desire by the jury to make sure someone paid for the murder of a local lawman.
My defense was mainly that I didn’t know Jack about Cantor’s trip to eternal hellfire, and I was ready to produce a dozen witnesses who’d say I was in Boulder at the time the man died.
One worry nagged at me a bit. I’d been careful about any loose talk on the phone, but I didn’t know exactly what I might’ve said in an unguarded moment that could now be misconstrued. Nicky and Felicity had worked their butts off for two months preparing for trial, but that wasn’t my problem. Grandpa had insisted on paying for my defense, and I let him.
The only part of our case that hadn’t worked out was that we’d subpoenaed Raul Escobar to testify. Because he lived out of state, we couldn’t force him to attend, and he didn’t.
We got to the courthouse early, but this was a typical Oklahoma summer. I was already hot and sticky before I walked up the courthouse steps. I’d gotten used to cool Colorado in the summer, but that was a minor problem. My stomach wouldn’t stop churning, and I kept reminding myself that this day was inevitable, sooner or later.
It took the judge all morning to seat a jury because everybody in the county knew practically everybody else. On the plus side, Felicity did manage to get two Osage tribal members onto the panel. One of them happened to be a distant cousin. Even better, one of the grizzled old farmers on the jury was the husband of a woman who’d taught me Sunday school for a dozen years. Mom and she had exchanged Christmas cards and family news until Mom’s death. Actually, Mom had participated with Brent’s wife in a local book club since before I was born. I felt I’d get a fair shake. What more could anyone ask for?
Not surprisingly, Brent began his opening statement by harping on Cantor’s gruesome death. I’d been happy to hear the details at the time, but it wasn’t quite as much fun to hear the coroner lay it out in nauseating detail. “Sheriff Cantor was first shot in the leg with a bullet from a 7mm magnum hunting rifle. That immobilized the sheriff but would not have killed him, assuming prompt medical attention.”
Brent asked, “Did he get any medical attention?”
“He did not. Drag marks at the scene of the crime showed that he tried to pull himself towards his vehicle, which had a radio, but he only made it a dozen feet before he stopped advancing.”
The DA flashed onto a large screen several photographs showing drag marks in the dirt next to an abandoned farmhouse.
Then Brent asked, “Based on your inspection at the crime scene, did you determine why Sheriff Cantor only got a dozen feet?”
The coroner nodded. “There were two contributing factors. First, someone scalped the sheriff with a long sharp blade.”
I was afraid Brent was going to show us the bastard’s exposed skull, but that was apparently too nasty for gentle folks to bear. Instead, Brent asked us to stipulate that the man had been scalped, and Nicky was happy to do that.
“Would that scalping have been painful?” Brent asked.
“Extremely. It certainly produced shock and may have even resulted in a loss of consciousness.”
“What was the second factor that had immobilized the sheriff?” the DA asked.
“About the same time as the scalping, someone partially disemboweled the sheriff. Several feet of his intestines protruded outside of his stomach cavity.”
The DA showed the courtroom more pictures. These were revolting, but in rural areas, folks were much accustomed to seeing livestock and deer field dressed. In any case, nobody in the courtroom barfed.
Yet. Then the DA asked, “Was the sheriff attacked any further?”
“Yes. Someone used a sharp blade to slice the skin on his chest into one-inch strips, which were peeled off his body and tossed into the dirt.
One of the elderly women on the jury said, “Oh, my God!” Then her breakfast came up.
That produced a hubbub, and she was led away. The judge recessed the trial until an Osage janitor I knew by sight, but not by name, came and cleaned up the mess.
When the trial resumed, the sick woman was replaced on the jury by an alternate, and Brent soldiered on.
“How long do you estimate it took the sheriff to die from the time he was hit with the initial gunshot?”
“Whoever did this obviously intended to cause great suffering,” the coroner said. “It would’ve taken at least twenty minutes for the wounds to the head, stomach, chest, and leg to have bled sufficiently to kill Sheriff Cantor. None of the wounds, although very painful, would have caused death on their own if the sheriff ha
d received prompt medical care.”
That was the gist of it, but the coroner testified for another half-hour about various details of the murder.
When Nicky got his chance to ask questions, he said, “Nothing for this witness, Your Honor. We thank him for his testimony today.”
Yeah, as though he’d done me some kind of good.
I listened to the details from a crime scene tech about how they’d recovered the bullet and the body but not the scalp. I’d known that already because Grandpa, Francis, and I had burned it in a campfire. I still had a small urn full of ashes from that fire, and each time I fought a sorcerer, I marked my chest with those ashes.
That reminded me of the main question in the trial. Would the jury make me pay for a crime someone in my family undoubtedly had committed? Everybody in the courtroom knew someone in my family was responsible. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for the jury to convict me and call it good.
-o-o-o-
Tuesday, July 30th
LAURA AND I SPENT the night after the first day of trial at Grandpa’s farm in Osage County. I was a lot more worried about a sorcerer attack than the trial, and Samuel’s farm was a fortress against either a non-magical or sorcerer assassin.
Neither threat had materialized, and when the trial resumed on day two, I was sitting between Nicky and Felicity. Although I was facing life in prison, I couldn’t say that the proceedings were riveting. For example, when they talked about boot prints and clothing fibers, I hardly paid attention at all.
But my lawyers did. They leaned forward, straining to hear every nuance of each word, and they threw around obscure scientific terms like they had PhDs in chemistry or biology. At the end of each expert’s testimony, either Felicity or Nicky asked, “Did you find any evidence that proves Ian O’Rourke was anywhere near the scene of the crime?”
The answer was always no, but they never seemed to pass up a chance to ask the question anyway.
-o-o-o-
AFTER LUNCH, A GROUP of us walked back to the courthouse. Grandpa Samuel asked Nicky, “How do you think it’s going?”
My lawyer hemmed and hawed. “About as I expected. The jury at this point will definitely want somebody to spend life in prison for the crime. I hope they’re keeping an open mind about Ian’s guilt, but it’s impossible to say.”
Grandpa nodded. “At the beginning of your part of the case, I want you to put me on the stand. I want to tell them that Ian had no part of it. I know because I plotted the murder myself.”
“Whoa!” I yelled. “Not happening! He’s my lawyer, and he has to do what I say.”
Nicky and Felicity both held up their hands to stop us from arguing.
Then Nicky said, “we’re a long way from that yet. Let’s see how the case goes. We still have the bombshell video about the O’Rourke family’s deaths, and I know that the deputies mixed up in that case will also testify here. When they do, we’ll destroy their credibility.”
Grandpa shrugged. “I’m not letting Ian go to prison for my crime.”
“And I’m not letting you go to prison for what I would’ve done if I could’ve,” I said.
-o-o-o-
AS USUAL, NICKY WAS right. The DA’s next witness was Jack Rand. He explained the basic crime scene for the jurors, at least the part that the coroner hadn’t already talked about. Rand also said that they immediately began investigating Samuel’s side of my family. According to the deputy, we were well known for being fiercely protective of one another, and our ancestors had a fondness for scalping the enemy.
I don’t know why Nicky didn’t object to that, but he grinned instead.
Unfortunately for Rand, my mom’s family was huge. Our yearly reunions typically attracted more than a hundred folks. Rand described all the people he’d investigated as suspects, beginning with me and then Grandpa. Rand also detailed his numerous contacts with the Boulder County sheriffs and the city police. They’d even tracked the cell phone I was using at the time. Other than plenty of cursing about the cops, I had said nothing incriminating.
Again, I didn’t understand why Nicky let all that stuff come into evidence, but he did.
Then Rand went through the same kind of details about Samuel, with similar results. Grandpa didn’t swear much, but I’d seen grown men pee their pants when Grandpa expressed his displeasure about something they’d done. It was no surprise to me that Brent had come after me instead of Samuel.
I was beginning to wonder if Rand was going to describe all my uncles next, but then the DA asked, “Did you find someone who knew about the murder before it occurred?”
“Yes,” the deputy said. “I spoke to Simon Red Calf, who is a fourth cousin to the defendant. Mr. Red Calf was in the county lockup on an armed robbery charge the day of the murder, so we knew he hadn’t committed the crime.”
A murmur ran through the gallery, mostly from my Osage relations. Every family has a black sheep or two, and Simon was ours. He’d been in and out of jail since he was sixteen.
I glanced back at Grandpa, and his brow was furrowed. He whispered to Francis who got up and hurried out of the courtroom.
“What did Mr. Red Calf say to you about the murder?”
Nicky shot out of his seat. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”
“It’s an admission against interest, judge,” Brent replied.
“I’ll allow it,” the court ruled. Judge Mathews was a quiet man generally, and he’d been fair to me.
“Mr. Red Calf told me he’d been involved in a meeting at Chief Samuel Sitting Bear’s house in which Ian O’Rourke was on an untraceable phone. The three of them discussed the—”
“Your Honor,” Nicky practically shouted, “that’s double hearsay, and highly prejudicial. At a minimum, the people should be required to call Simon Red Calf to the stand to hear whatever is supposedly an admission against his interest.”
The judge looked at the DA. “Do you intend to call him?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Tomorrow.”
“Then we’ll wait to hear about the alleged meeting and phone call until he arrives,” the judge replied. “Where is the witness now?”
“Protective custody, judge. As a precaution.”
I looked at Grandpa again, and he shook his head. I knew he wasn’t stupid enough to involve a lunatic like Simon in a murder conspiracy. Someone with an extensive criminal history is too easy for a DA to pressure.
Brent didn’t appear to be surprised by the ruling because he immediately switched gears to asking about my telephone records. I’d made over fifty calls to various kin in Oklahoma between the day when my parents and other family members were killed and the day Cantor died. Lots to talk about.
Rand recited some of my nastier comments about Cantor and Escobar, but I doubted that the jury expected me to have said anything nice about either asshole. The key point was that I hadn’t said anything about trying to kill either man.
When Rand’s direct testimony ended, the judge called a brief recess. Nicky immediately grabbed Grandpa. Felicity and I followed as they walked to an empty corner of the courtroom.
Before Nicky could ask, Samuel said, “Utter bullshit. I haven’t seen or spoken to Simon for at least six months. He was angry the last time we spoke because I refused to pay his bail anymore.”
I started to explain how Simon was our longstanding problem, but Nicky put up his hand. “I know. We did a criminal background check on all your adult family members. We expected this. I just wanted to be sure of your grandfather’s views.”
Nicky and Felicity wandered off, and I asked Grandpa, “Why did Francis take off?”
“To get Simon’s parents here, just in case. I want them in the gallery with me today and tomorrow. If he’s going to shame the family, he’s going to look us all in the eye while doing it.”
Grandpa then went to talk to several of his sons.
Felicity came back to me and took me by the arm. “This next part is going to be rough for you. Steel yourself for the
video.”
I nodded. I was planning to testify in my own defense, if the case lasted that long. When I did, I was going to explain why I’d shot the footage in the first place, but I hadn’t watched the video since that day.
Chapter 22
THE TRIAL RESUMED, AND Nicky stood before Rand in the witness box. “You were also present on September 2nd of last year when Ian’s family was killed, weren’t you?”
“Objection,” Brent said. “That’s not relevant to this trial.”
“According to the district attorneys own opening statement, Your Honor, Ian’s alleged motive for conspiring to kill Sheriff Cantor was revenge for the murders of Ian’s loved ones.”
“Overruled,” the judge said.
Rand nodded. “I arrived later, after the fires were already going.”
“Who else was there?” Nicky asked.
“Just the sheriff. He’d seen the flames from a distance and investigated.”
Nicky led Rand through his concocted story where he and the sheriff tried to save anyone alive in the house or barn, but it was too late.
After Rand told his tale, Nicky nodded toward the judge’s clerk.
“Deputy Rand, I’d like you to look at this video. Please tell me if you recognize the events shown.”
The deputy’s face blanched. This had to be the worst nightmare for any crooked cop in America. Someone with a phone might record their crime.
“Objection, Your Honor,” Brent yelled. “The defense has never hinted that it has a video relevant to this case.”
I glanced at the jury, and they were all leaning forward, eyes focused on the judge.
“Rebuttal, Your Honor,” Nicky said. “I’m using the video to impeach the deputy’s testimony just moments ago. I didn’t know I’d need this video until Deputy Rand perjured himself.”
“Mr. Star,” the judge said, “you opened the door with your summary of the case. You claimed the murders of Mr. O’Rourke’s family drove him to commit the crime he’s accused of today. I’ll allow the evidence solely for purposes of impeachment.”
Vengeance (The Sorcerers' Scourge Series Book 3) Page 20