Death of a Rancher's Daughter

Home > Other > Death of a Rancher's Daughter > Page 18
Death of a Rancher's Daughter Page 18

by Susan P. Baker


  Mel leaned forward to speak. “I need both of you to quit doing sh—stuff that is hazardous to our health. I'm terminating this call, Grandma. If it's not a fake cigarette, please put it out, or I'm calling your doctor.” She punched a button, disconnecting the phone call.

  “What do you think you're doing?”

  “Just what I said. You and Grandma—you both act like your shoe size sometimes.”

  Sandra choked back a chuckle. She tousled her daughter's hair. “All right. All right.”

  Mel shrugged off Sandra's hand. “No reason you and I can't discuss what Doug said, is there?”

  “For fifteen, sometimes you seem like you're old enough to be an associate.”

  “I think of myself as a junior associate,” Mel said pulling a fake grin. She snapped her fingers and rocked in her seat to a tune only she could hear.

  Mel's dancing in her seat was more of what Sandra expected. “Where are your notes?”

  Mel unbuckled her seat belt and reached into the backseat for her backpack.

  “I wish you'd use a roller bag. You're going to have arthritis in your back and shoulders before you're thirty. Buckle up again.”

  “Give kids another reason to pick on me? No—way.”

  Mel was, admittedly, a little nerdy. Not that Sandra cared. She loved her daughter. She didn't care whether Mel played tuba in the band or joined the tennis team or tried out for cheerleader. Whatever the kid wanted to do was all right with her.

  Mel had chosen to become a little nerd or geek or whatever they called them these days. Since she'd started working at the law office, she dressed like she thought a lawyer should, way more formal than most kids. It had cost her. She'd shared with Sandra and Erma the jeers and the sneers from the other kids, but claimed she wasn't bothered. Of course, they knew she was. When Sandra suggested Mel modify her behavior and mode of dress, she refused, saying it was their problem, not hers. Sandra wanted to go to the principal and file a bullying complaint, but Mel begged her not to, saying she'd handle it.

  Erma wanted to send one of her old criminal clients to pay a visit on the worst of the bullies, but Mel laughed. She thought Erma was joking.

  Now, after putting her seatbelt back on, Mel pulled out the legal pad on which she'd made notes and dropped the backpack on the floor between her feet. “Ready.” She beamed at Sandra, reminding her of when Mel was a young girl and had done something she'd been especially proud of, like crossing the stage to receive her perfect attendance certificate.

  If they hadn't been in the car, Sandra would have reached over and hugged her. “Tell me what you think he said before he choked up.”

  Mel sighed. “’The gun was lying right there—right beside the path to the cottage where we’ something something ‘that used to be Rufina’s.’”

  Sandra scratched her lip. They never did find out what the “something something” was. She'd been embarrassed to see a man choke up and almost bawl into his sliders. What kind of witness was he going to make if he couldn't hold himself together? Not that she cared at this point, since he was going to be Holt's witness.

  “He was going to the main house to find out where Katy Jo was and ‘practically tripped over it.’” She flipped to the next page. “He thought how weird it was someone would leave a gun there. He was using the flashlight on his phone to light his way to the house.”

  “He's right. Why would any kind of weapon be on a sidewalk or path to a house? We need to find out more about the path. Paved? Simply worn-down grass from being walked over so much? Lined by bushes? I didn't pay attention when I went from the house to Rufina's to find out why she had locked herself inside.”

  “I could do that when we get up there. Go and check out stuff like that.”

  “We'll see. Our position is going to be someone planted the forty-five, figuring it would be found, since it would be in plain sight in the daytime.”

  “You think that's what happened?”

  “Yup. I shore do, honey child.”

  Mel grinned. “You crack me up sometimes, Mom.”

  “What?”

  “Talking like that. You sound like you just came from East Texas.”

  “There's only a few things I remember about my daddy, but his way of talking stuck with me. Of course, I reserve the vernacular for people I know well.”

  “Of course. Anyway—”

  “So what else should we be focusing on that he said?”

  “He picked up the gun and carried it into the house to ask Mrs. S about it.”

  “And smeared any fingerprints there would have been, we hope.”

  “He was carrying it into the kitchen when he heard the screams coming from Mrs. S.”

  “So he says.”

  “Mom, you don't think he's a suspect, do you? Just because he found the gun?”

  “He says he found it. He could have shot Katy Jo and been heading out of the house when he heard the screams coming from BJ and decided to turn around and go back in and pretend he found the gun.”

  “Tsk-tsk. I liked him.”

  “I liked him, too, honey, but that doesn't mean he's not the killer.”

  “Awww—so you think maybe he and Katy Jo had a fight, and she ran in to tell her mother about it, and he followed and got the forty-five out of wherever it was kept and went looking for her and killed her?”

  “That's certainly one theory of the case I intend to present to the jury.”

  “What? You think he murdered Katy Jo? You really think he did it? Why would he come talk to us if he had killed her?”

  “Mel, I don't have to think he did it to argue that.”

  “Won't he look bad to everybody in town?”

  Sandra snorted. “Bless your heart. I keep forgetting this is your first case.”

  “I don't understand what you mean.”

  “Think about it. What's our job in this case?”

  “For Rufina to be found not guilty.”

  “Right. You know what burden of proof is, right?”

  “Beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecutor has to prove her guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “So if I argue Douglas had means, motive, and opportunity, how will the prosecutor's case be affected?”

  “Oh—ohhhh—means—he got the gun.” She clapped her hands. “Motive—he was mad at Katy Jo for something. Opportunity—he was in the house, and she was in BJ's room. I get it. Like if you argue he could have killed Katy Jo, somebody on the jury might have doubts about Rufina killing her.”

  Mel was a quick study. A warm feeling for her daughter wrapped itself around Sandra's heart, though she found it sad Mel was learning some of the facts of life so young. “Exactly. All I have to do is create doubt in one juror's mind to get a hung jury.”

  “You're going for a hung jury?”

  “No. I'll take it, if I can't get anything else, but I'm going for not guilty. We have a long way to go before we've prepared our case, but I'd say Doug got us off to a good start.”

  “Wow, Mom. That's so cool the way your brain works.”

  “Thank you, li'l darlin'.”

  “But don't you care if you smear Doug's name?”

  “I'm not paid to worry about Doug. My job is to get Rufina set free.”

  Mel stared out her window.

  “That bothers you, I know. It's a hard lesson to learn.” And one of the reasons Sandra tried to discourage Mel from becoming an attorney. In so many other lines of work, she wouldn't witness so much of the seamy side of life.

  Mel didn't look at her.

  “I'm going to tell you a little story about Erma from when I was young.”

  Mel glanced at her and back out the window, her body rigid.

  “One afternoon when I was probably younger than you are now, I was at Erma's office after school. We lived above the office when I was little and moved to a nice house later, right?”

  “Yeah.” Mel nodded but still didn't look at her.

  “Well, she had this man sitting in her
office with her. I heard them talking. I was in the kitchen making a peanut butter sandwich when two cars full of deputy sheriffs showed up. They banged on the back door and the front door. The secretary let them in, and they burst right into Erma's office and arrested the man sitting at her desk.”

  “Can they do that?” Mel finally looked at her.

  “They did, so I guess they could.”

  “What did Grandma do?”

  “Erma didn't do anything. She merely stood and watched them cuff him and drag him away.”

  “I don't understand.”

  “Wait, I'm not through. So me: 'Mom, they just came inside your office and took your client away. Aren't you mad?'“

  “Erma: 'No, I'm not mad. He's not my client. He hasn't hired me.'“

  “What?” Mel turned sideways in her seat. “What did she mean?”

  “Here's the rest. About an hour later, a woman came in with a huge wad of cash and hired Erma to defend the man. As soon as the woman left, Erma said, 'Now I'm mad! They can't do that to my client.'“

  Mel laughed. “Now I get it. Though isn't that kind of cold-blooded?”

  Sandra laughed, too. “You're learning. It's a cold, cruel world out there, trite as that might sound.”

  “Yeah. Ugly sometimes.” She shook her head and rested her head against the window. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes as they approached the Mitchell Causeway Bridge to Galveston Island.

  “Mom? I'm wondering something.”

  “What, sweetie?”

  “Is Doug's having the gun the only thing we have to defend Rufina on?”

  “So far. I'm still working on my theory of the case. I do think someone framed her for the murder, but we have to figure out why. Who else had means, motive, and opportunity?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Re-state your name for the record.” In their role-playing, Erma was acting as Mr. Holt. They had arranged their law library furniture, as best they could, to resemble a courtroom with chairs for each court participant. They had drawn the drapes and put up two LED track light bars. Erma sat at one end of the long, dark oak table. Rufina sat in the faux witness stand.

  “I already told my attorney, Ms. Salinsky, when she asked me. Rosalinda Rufina Mendez Lopez Barboza. I go by Rufina Barboza. Barboza was my husband's last name.” Rufina sat prim and proper with her hands folded in her lap and looked Erma in the eye.

  “All right, stop.” Sandra scooted to Rufina and crouched down. “Good eye contact with Mr. Holt, but you can't cop an attitude and expect the jury to like you. The jurors' empathy is one of the most important things in this case.”

  “What did I say?” Rufina arched her back, her undamaged eye flared.

  “'I already told my attorney, Ms. Salinsky, when she asked me. . ..'“ Erma said, trying to be patient. Patience had never been one of her strong suits. The last few days, having Rufina living with her, had tested Erma. Rufina couldn't have been a better guest—making her bed, cleaning up after herself, even cooking for the two of them. Erma liked her solitude, though. She liked not having to be polite to anyone for hours at a time. She liked talking to herself, doing whatever struck her, and hanging out in her underwear if she wanted to.

  “How you spoke sounds defiant, even sarcastic.” Staying down at Rufina's eye level, Sandra elaborated. “We will, by then, have established you as much as we can as a regular Jane. We've been over this. This is tough on you, but we have to overcome their difficulty at even looking at you. We plan to do that on direct. Holt won't be happy. He'll try to make the jurors dislike you, so we must be ready when he does. Don't help the DA.”

  “All the tricks I observed in court as a clerk have gone out of my head now that I'm sitting up here.” Rufina covered her mouth with her hands.

  “That's very common.” Erma understood. She had once been a witness herself. “That's why we practice. Let's move on.”

  Sandra went back to her place.

  Mel watched from the faux judge's chair, her eyes following the conversation, but she didn't say anything.

  “So what would your name be if you still lived in Mexico?” Not looking at Rufina, Erma pretended to write on her legal pad.

  Rufina glanced from Erma to Sandra and back. “If I still lived in Mexico? I never lived in Mexico, Mr. Holt.”

  “You're a Mexican national, aren't you? A Mexican citizen?”

  “I have dual citizenship, both U.S. and Mexican citizenship. My mama and my papa are from Mexico, so I applied to get citizenship there as well as here.”

  “Your parents, were they here illegally?”

  “No, sir.” Rufina pressed her lips together.

  “Don't physically react to Holt's provocations. He probably will ask that question, but you, and we, have to conceal our feelings.” Erma tapped her pen on the table and clicked it and stared at the legal pad as if she were Holt deciding what to ask next. “So you're not at this time an illegal alien, Señora Barboza?”

  “Surely he won't be that stupid.” Sandra started pacing. “Surely he won't phrase it that way.”

  “He's an asshole. He's going to appeal to the prejudices of the voters of Fredericksburg. Even if none of them is racist, and I'd be mighty surprised if that were the case, he wants to upset Rufina. Did you see the way her mouth tightened? I guarantee you Holt wouldn't have missed that.”

  Sandra nodded. “I saw it. Rufina, honey. It's hard, but you gotta be like a turtle and let stuff roll off your back.”

  “I didn't even realize what I did. Exactly what did I do?”

  Mel waved her hand. “Your lips got really tight around your teeth.” She looked at each of the women and shrugged like she wasn't sure she should have said anything.

  “The other thing is the trick question. He's going to try to hold you to that, so at least during his cross, the jurors will think you were undocumented at one time.” Sandra pointed in Rufina's direction. “Things like that can be cleaned up on re-direct, but in the meantime, they remain in the jury's mind.”

  “Like 'When did you stop beating your wife?'“ Rufina asked.

  Sandra laughed. “Exactly. And Erma phrased it very well. 'So you're not at this time an illegal alien?' All you can say is yes or no. Even with a no answer, the jury might wonder whether you were at one time an undocumented immigrant.”

  “I understand.” Rufina squared her shoulders. “Some things are coming back to me. I'm glad we're doing this. What I need to do is get in an answer different from what he's implying before he can object.”

  “Right.” Erma said. “He's experienced, so that won't be easy. He's a real son of a bitch and sharp—all the things a DA ought to be. But we're defending you, so we don't like those traits.”

  Sandra went back to her chair and sat down. “I could go over your citizenship status on direct, but it's irrelevant, so I hate to raise the question in the jurors' minds. I'll have to give it some thought.”

  “Let me go to the next question, or else let's take a break.” Erma licked her lips. Her mouth was dry.

  “We'll have a break in a little while. We've barely started.” Sandra stood again. “I think at this time, I'll ask for a bench conference. Your Honor, may I approach the bench?”

  “You may.” Mel grinned and made her posture more rigid.

  Sandra approached, and Erma walked up beside her. “Your Honor, I object to Mr. Holt's question due to its being phrased in a prejudicial manner.”

  Erma coughed and made her voice deeper. “Why I don't know what she means, Judge. It's a perfectly legitimate question.”

  “What exactly is it about the question you object to, Miss Salinsky?” Mel frowned.

  “The way he called her Señora Barboza,” Sandra said. “He's trying to appeal to the prejudices of the jury by pointing out through innuendo she's Latina. It's no secret, Judge, but you can see where this line of questioning is aimed, though, can't you?”

  “Mr. Holt, I will ask you to speak only English in this courtroom.”

&n
bsp; “Ha! Excellent response, Mel.” Erma chuckled and did a little shuffle from one foot to the other, like a dancing elf. “They haven't told us who the judge is going to be, but some good old boy might say that. In other words, Mr. Holt, be more subtle.”

  As Holt again, Erma lowered her voice. “As long as the same applies to the defendant.”

  “Well, counsel, she is Latina. I'll excuse her if a word now and then slips out in Spanish. You, on the other hand...well, you know what you were doing.”

  Erma nodded at Mel like she would a real judge. They went back to their positions.

  “Okay, Mrs. Barboza, where were you born?” Erma continued her questioning as Holt.

  “Here in Fredericksburg. On the Schindler ranch. A midwife delivered me.”

  “I think you testified on direct examination that you lived on the ranch until you graduated from high school?”

  “I graduated from Fredericksburg High School, got a job with the District Clerk's Office of Mason County, married my high school novio—sweetheart. We rented a casita on South Milam Street for a short period and moved back on the ranch, where my husband was a hand.”

  “You knew BJ Schindler in high school?”

  “Yes, of course. Consuela, my great aunt, worked for Billie J—Mrs. Schindler's—mother. My father worked as a hand on the ranch. After Billie J and Roy married, they combined Roy's family ranch and Billie J's family ranch. When Consuela retired, my mother became the ranch señora.”

  “By señora, you mean—”

  “Housekeeper.” Rufina's eyes cut over to Sandra as if to ask if it was all right to interrupt Holt. “The same job I hold with Billie J—Mrs. Schindler—now.”

  “Wait a sec. Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” Erma, as Holt, said. “How long did your mother work as housekeeper?”

  “For a long time. Then a few years ago, when my father's knees got so bad, they had saved some money, so my mother and father retired and moved to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.”

  “You're getting ahead of me again here.”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Holt.” Sporting a small smile, Rufina ducked her head.

 

‹ Prev