“What did you do?”
“I ran for the house. He yelled after me, saying when he called 911, he also asked for an ambulance. I rushed inside and found the other people clustered between the front door and the kitchen, which is off to the side.”
“Then what happened?”
“I told the mother to take me to the decedent. I told her Rex said his sister was dead, but was she sure? She was crying a lot, but said she thought so. She hurried to the back of the house—the house is huge, let me tell you, and I followed.”
“And you found what?”
The deputy glanced at the judge and the jury. “A woman, a young woman, coated in blood, lying in a king-sized bed. I had no doubt she was dead.”
“Because . . .”
“Her eyes were open wide and fixed, and there was a hole in her.”
Holt and his assistant turned to the jury to emphasize the testimony. The jurors' faces were impassive, even the women's. Erma fingered her copy of the deputy's report and pretended to read it.
“What did you do then?”
“Well, I did eyeball her up close to be sure she wasn't breathing and then ushered the mother out of the room. Poor lady was losing it. So we went to the kitchen where everyone was. It's not far from the front door.”
“Everyone was in there? Everyone?”
“Not Rex. I guess he was still outside.”
“Can you describe the demeanor of the people in the kitchen?”
“The mother, Mrs. Schindler, and her surviving daughter stood with their arms around each other, crying most of the time. It took forever for them to be able to talk. Doug Christian stood close to them. He had been crying. I could tell by his face. Rufina Barboza, the defendant, leaned against the kitchen cabinets, bent over, holding her stomach.”
“What did you do then?”
“I radioed for assistance and for the justice of the peace and called the sheriff at home. Being as how the decedent was the daughter of a former county commissioner, I thought the sheriff would want to know right away. I wrote down everyone's names and addresses. After a few more minutes, the EMTs showed up, and I told them she was dead. They went back there—to the bedroom. Then my shift supervisor, a detective, and the sheriff showed up.”
“Did you leave at that time?”
“After I spoke to my superiors, they told me to go back out on patrol.”
“So you left?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you later make a written report?”
“Yes, sir.”
Holt stood. “Pass the witness.”
“Proceed Mrs. Townley.” The judge's face was expressionless.
Erma studied the deputy's face for a moment. “Deputy Bumgarner, my name is Erma Townley. I'm representing Mrs. Barboza in this case.” She sat down and flipped to a page Mel had handed her from the trial notebook.
“Yes, ma'am, nice to meet you.”
“Now, Deputy, you say when you arrived, Rex Schindler stood outside the house?”
“Yes, ma'am. The porch light was on. As I drove up, he was pacing up and down.”
“What was he wearing?”
“What was he wearing?”
“Yes. Do you remember what he was wearing?”
The deputy paused for a moment and gazed up at the ceiling. “A buff-colored leather jacket, a turtleneck shirt—black, I believe, black pants, and black leather boots.”
“Thank you. You have amazing powers of recollection.”
His face crinkled with pleasure. “That's what they say.”
“How close to Rex did you get, sir?”
“How close did I get?”
“Yes, sir. Were you close to him when he spoke to you? When he told you his sister had been killed?”
“Pretty close, for a moment.”
“Did you notice anything unusual about him?”
“Did I notice anything unusual about him?”
“Yes, sir. Deputy Bumgarner, let me ask you this—do you suffer from a hearing loss?”
“Do I—” He winced. “Oh, no ma'am. I know what you're getting at. I don't know why I do that. I just do.”
“You mean why you repeat everything the defense attorney asks you?”
He took a deep breath, his eyes darted around the room, and he let the breath out. “Yes, ma'am. I apologize. It's a bad habit of mine.”
Erma cocked an eyebrow. A bad habit he didn't apply to prosecutors. “So let's go back to my question. Was there anything unusual about Rex Schindler?”
“Unusual like what?”
“Like the smell of alcohol? Were his eyes bloodshot? Did he stagger or stumble? What was his demeanor?”
“Oooh. Well—” he got right up on the microphone again “—he did smell like a distillery.”
A small twitter came from someone in the jury box.
“Could you tell what it was? Did it have a distinct aroma?”
“No, but not bourbon.”
“And his demeanor? He staggered a bit, didn't he? And weren't his eyes bloodshot?”
Holt jumped to his feet. “Objection. Compound question.”
“One at a time, Mrs. Townley. One question at a time.” The judge crossed his arms, his face deadpan.
Erma stood and ducked her head. “Yes, Your Honor.” To the deputy, she said, “He was staggering, right?”
“A little. I'd say just a little.”
“His eyes were bloodshot, too, right?”
“Yes, ma'am, I had enough light to see that, but just about every time I run into Rex around town, his eyes are bloodshot.”
A couple of chuckles came from the jury.
“All right, Deputy,” the judge said. “That'll be enough of that.”
The deputy rocked back in his chair and nodded. “Yes, Judge.”
Erma sat down. “Let's go back inside the house. Talk about the other folks for a bit. An aroma of alcohol on anyone else's breath?”
“Mrs. Schindler smelled like toothpaste, but it could have been toothpaste mixed with the smell of wine.”
“Nobody else?”
“No, ma'am, not like Rex, anyway. I did get close enough to smell them.”
“Okay. Can you tell me how the people in the house were dressed?”
“How they...Mrs. Schindler wore a nightgown and a bathrobe. The nightgown had blood on it.”
Erma had not heard of that. She'd have to talk with BJ and find out what else she hadn't talked about.
“What did the surviving twin have on?”
His eyes roved around the courtroom, as he stalled for time to think over what he would say. “Sweater and jeans.”
“Sweater and jeans,” Erma repeated for the benefit of the jury. “And Mr. Christian?”
“Jeans and a western-style shirt, you know what I mean, plaid with snaps. And boots.”
“What did Kathy Lynn have on her feet?”
“Running shoes. Pink.” He wore a satisfied smile.
“My client, Mrs. Barboza, what was she wearing?”
The deputy squinted at Rufina. “Her hair was in a long braid, and she wore a bathrobe over a nightgown. Oh, and on her feet, some Crocs. The ones without the holes in them. Beige colored over white socks.”
“Thank you, Deputy. Now, was a Mr. Elgin Burgess anywhere around? Mr. Burgess had been at the house for dinner earlier, did you see him anywhere?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Smoke practically spiraled out of Holt’s ears. “She's testifying.”
“Sustained.” The judge frowned at Erma. “Rephrase your question.”
“Elgin Burgess, he owns a spread next to Mrs. Schindler's, did you see him anywhere on the night of the murder?”
Holt jumped up again. “Judge, she's doing it again.”
“Mrs. Townley, approach the bench. You, too, Mr. Holt.”
Pasting on her most innocent face, Erma walked to the front of the courtroom. She had to stand on tiptoes to be able to speak over the top of the bench.
The judge w
hispered, “Mrs. T, you're a seasoned trial lawyer. I know it and you know it. Mr. Holt knows it, too. I'm sure you know every trick in the book and then some.”
Erma tried to look indifferent, though she wanted to smile. He was giving her a dressing down, a flattering dressing down.
“I'm warning you, Mrs. T, if you persist in this kind of behavior, you're subject to sanctions.”
“But Judge—”
The judge shook his head. “I don't want to hear any excuses.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Holt smirked in her direction as they returned to their tables.
Erma said, “Deputy—”
“No, ma'am. I didn't see no one else. I've given y'all the names of everyone who was there.”
“Thank you, sir. Now let me ask you this, no one else besides Mrs. Schindler had blood on their clothes, did they?”
“No ma'am.”
“My client, Mrs. Barboza, did not have blood on her anywhere, did she?”
“I said no.”
“How big would you say Mrs. Barboza is, Deputy?” She turned to Rufina. “Rufina, please stand.”
The deputy took a moment to look Rufina over. “About five feet tall and a hundred plus pounds. Not real big.”
Erma motioned for Rufina to sit again. “Are you familiar with guns, Deputy Bumgarner?”
“Yes, ma'am. Somewhat.”
“What about a .45 caliber?”
“Yes, ma'am.” He nodded. “Some makes.”
“How much would you say a .45 caliber pistol weighs, Deputy?”
“Objection, relevance.”
Holt was trying to get her goat. “The relevance will become apparent, Judge, in a moment.”
“Overruled. You may answer, Deputy.”
“Depending on who makes the gun, it can weigh anywhere between two and three-fourths pounds to almost six pounds.”
“Kinda heavy for a woman, wouldn't you say?”
He's eyes flashed. “Some women.”
“The larger the woman, the easier it would be for her to handle a whole lot of gun like that, right?”
“You could say that.”
“But would you say that?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Did you determine whether the bedroom was dark at the time of the shooting?”
“It was kind of dark when Mrs. Schindler took me in. The door to the bathroom was open and light came from that and a small bedside lamp.”
“Did she turn on the overhead light for you?”
“She didn't need to. I could see the young lady was deceased.”
“But did she?”
“No, ma'am.”
“You could see the hole in the decedent's chest without the overhead light, couldn't you?”
“Well, there was blood everwhere. I mean a lot of blood on her.”
“So that's a no?”
“I saw where it was. Where the wound was.”
“The wound was smack dab in the middle of her chest, wasn't it, Deputy?”
“Yes, ma'am, I believe it was.”
“One last question before I let you go. What was the dead woman wearing?”
He sat for a moment, his eyes searching the room like the answer would be written on one of the walls. “A bathrobe over a nightgown, what I saw of it.”
“And on her feet?”
“I don't believe I could see her feet, Mrs. Townley, they was under the covers.”
“Oh, I just remembered something, Mr. Bumgarner. You did see a .45 caliber pistol lying on the bar in the kitchen, did you not?”
Deputy Bumgarner sat up straight in his chair. He looked at the judge and then at Holt, as if asking for help. He pointedly did not look at the jury or the bailiff. Finally, his eyes met Erma's. “No, I did not, ma'am.”
Erma let a beat go by. “Thank you, Deputy Bumgarner. Pass the witness.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Call your next witness, Mr. Holt.” The judge's eyes swept the courtroom from Sam Holt all the way around to the jury box. He leaned back, his arms crossed.
“Get ready,” Erma said to Mel, who sat at the counsel table with her. “I don't know who he'll call next.” If she couldn't have Sandra, at least she had Mel who had been keeping up pretty well. Erma prayed Sandra would be all right. They'd check on her later, but for now, they had a case to try.
Mel flipped through the binder. “You want me to pull the section on the next witness as soon as he says his name?”
Erma elbowed Mel. “Yep. You're getting good at this.”
Holt stood at his table.” Sheriff Ed Krichman.”
Mel clicked open the rings and took out what they had on the sheriff, handing the pages to Erma. Erma glanced at Rufina, who appeared to have homesteaded the end of the table, and winked.
Rufina had said she preferred to see everything going on in the courtroom, including who peered through the doors. She wouldn’t sit with her back to the gallery. She held a pen, ready to take her own notes on the legal pad she'd been provided.
The sheriff, a huge man dressed in full tan uniform except for the gray Stetson he held under his arm, trod down the aisle and nodded at Holt. He passed through the bar and stepped up into the witness stand. After the judge swore him in, the sheriff sat down and twisted the microphone until it was right below his mouth. He had yet to give Erma even a cursory glance. He was seventy, if he was a day, with salt-and-pepper hair and a gray-white lock combed back from his forehead. Deep lines etched his weathered face.
Holt took several minutes to establish not only who the witness was—that he'd been Sheriff of Gillespie County for nearly thirty years—but to qualify him as an expert in weapons and ballistics and as a crime scene investigator. After the preliminaries were out of the way, Holt ascertained whether Krichman had responded to a call at the Schindler ranch. Preening for the jury, Holt continued, “Sheriff, did you find any weapons at the ranch?”
“Yes, I did.” Krichman's elbows rested on the counter. Thick-fingered paws encircled the base of the microphone, his mouth, an inch away. His words, crisp and clear, proved he was an experienced witness.
“Would you tell the judge and jury where you found a weapon or weapons?”
The sheriff turned toward the jury. “In the Schindler den.”
“Describe for the jury what you found in the way of weapons.”
“I don't want to sound flippant, but the den was virtually a small arsenal of guns, knives, and rounds—bullets.”
“To get right to the point, let me ask you this. Prior to entering the den, did you have a chance to see the decedent's body?”
“Yes I did.”
“Did you examine her in any way?”
The sheriff coughed. “No. Clearly, she was deceased. She had a decent-sized bullet wound in her chest, and blood was everywhere.”
“So is it safe to assume the weapon used was a gun? In other words, no evidence a knife had been used on the decedent?”
“Definitely a gun. No evidence of a knife.”
“Then, Sheriff, let's go back to the den. Aside from the knives and bullets, what did you find in this ‘small arsenal’?”
“Let's see. Mind if I refer to my notes?”
Holt cut his eyes at Erma, the skin stretched tight across his face in a pained look. She knew he hated to say yes, because once the sheriff referred to his notes, she would get to see them if she wanted. Erma gave him a Cheshire-cat grin.
“You need them to refresh your memory?” The muscles in his jaw flexed, which they often did.
“Like I said, it was a small arsenal. I inventoried the weapons myself—made a list for our records, partly to protect my boys. I had the missus sign off on it, agreeing to my inventory.” For just a moment, his eyes took in Erma.
Erma leaned over to Mel and whispered, “Get me our copy of the inventory, honey. It's under a separate tab.”
“The missus you’re referring to is Mrs. Schindler?” Holt asked.
“Yes, sir. The son,
Rex, wanted to be in there with me. He wanted to read the inventory. He wanted to be the one who signed off on it, claiming some of the guns were his, but they were in Mrs. Schindler's house, so as far as I was concerned, they were hers. Possession being nine-tenths of the law and all.” He made eye contact with Erma again before shifting his eyes back to Holt.
His deep, vibrant voice had already resonated with Erma, but his steadfast indigo blue eyes nailed it. Something about him struck a chord deep in her, like she'd known him in another life. She shook off the feeling, stared down at her copy of the gun inventory, and wondered whether his notes would reflect anything different, anything useful to the defense.
“May I approach the witness, Your Honor?” Mr. Holt asked.
“You may.”
Did the sheriff's glances mean something? Or was he just relaxed enough by that point in his testimony to venture out of his safe zone and survey the courtroom?
“I hand you what’s been marked as State's Exhibit One for identification, Sheriff. Do you recognize it?”
“This is the typed-up version. What I was talking about—what I did was write down everything on my notepad and my secretary typed it up—my handwriting is not very good, but she's been with me long enough she can read and understand what I give her.”
Holt shook the papers in front of the sheriff. “I get it, but we're talking about the pages I have in my hand. Do you recognize this document?”
“Yes, I do.”
“What is it?”
Erma listened as Holt went through the requirements of proving up a document for it to be admitted into evidence. Holt showed her the typed list before offering it into evidence. “No objection.”
“Now, Sheriff, I refer you to State's Exhibit One. Tell the jury how many rifles were in the Schindler den.”
“Twenty-two, including a couple of antiques—a Winchester 1873 from the nineteenth century, a real beauty—”
“Sheriff,” Holt said, “we all know you're a lover of guns and rifles and other weapons, but for the purposes of this trial, please just answer my questions.”
“Objection.” Erma rose. “We all don't know that. I don't know that. Only that he's an expert on them.”
“Rephrase, Mr. Holt.”
Holt gave Erma a go-to-hell look. “Sheriff, please listen to my questions and answer them as briefly and succinctly as possible.”
Death of a Rancher's Daughter Page 24