“Sorry, Mr. Holt.” Again the sheriff glanced at Erma. His eyes flickered past hers and back to Holt.
When Erma turned around, no one was at the door or window. She glanced at Rufina, who shrugged. Two old men sat about midway in the gallery, one on each side of the aisle, and an old woman perched on the edge of the back bench, looking like she was stopping by to rest her feet. Typical court watchers.
“Now, Sheriff,” Holt leaned back and draped one arm over the back of his chair, so he was almost facing the jury, “tell the jury how the weapons were stored.”
“They were all in locked gun cabinets. The rifles in tall cabinets with glass in them, but you could see them, and several gun safes.”
“Describe the room for the jury, please.”
“Wall-to-wall gun cabinets and gun safes with a large—very large—oak desk sitting plumb in the center.”
“And a desk chair?”
“A desk chair and a green leather easy chair. Nothing much on the desk except a desk pad and a calendar and a light—one of those fluorescent ones with a magnifier in it.”
“What, if anything, was unusual about the room?”
“Not a thing. I've been in there a number of times in the past. When Commissioner Schindler was still alive—when he was still a county commissioner—he had some of us officials over from time-to-time for drinks and a little supper. I saw nothing out of the ordinary after the murder.”
While the sheriff testified, Holt's face screwed up. The sheriff wouldn't keep his answers short. Erma knew Holt wanted to tell him to shut the hell up, but he couldn't do that, at least until the judge called a recess.
The judge wore a long-suffering expression, his forehead resting on his palm. He appeared to be the type who expected the lawyers to control their witnesses and, if they couldn't, he wasn't going to do their job. His glance at Holt was a hard one, his jaw muscle flexing.
“Sheriff, if you'd answer what my questions call for, I promise to get you down from the witness stand as soon as possible.” Through clenched teeth, Holt smiled at his witness.
“Yes, sir.”
“So the room, the den, appeared to be dedicated to guns. A gun room in other words.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sheriff's eyes wandered to the jury, looking them over for a few moments. Erma followed his eyes, wanting to detect any apparent connection.
“Did any of the rifles or guns appear to—strike that. Were all the cabinets locked?”
“Yes, sir, they were.”
“And the gun safes. Were they all locked?”
“Yes, sir. Locked up as tight as a—”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Did you unlock each one and examine their contents?”
“Yes, sir, I did. Mrs. Schindler stayed in the room—even in her agitated or what I guess you would call her grieving state—she was present the whole time.”
“Did Mrs. Schindler say if they had their own inventory of the guns?”
“Later, Mr. Holt. I didn't ask her that night, but my investigator went back later, and she gave him copies of the insurance policies covering the weapons and the itemized list provided to the insurance firm.”
“Back to the night of the murder, Sheriff. You unlocked the cabinets and safes and examined the contents?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Schindler gave me the keys. I inventoried each and every cabinet and safe.”
“Did it appear that any weapons were missing from the cabinets and safes? Any racks not filled, any spaces that might have the outline of a gun in the dust? Any indication of a missing gun?”
“Objection.” Erma stood. She was sure getting her exercise. “More than one question, Judge.” She plopped back down.
“Sustained. Mr. Holt, we're on a tight schedule, but please—”
“Sorry, Judge.”
Erma didn't care if he asked ten questions at once. She'd objected because the Q and A was starting to go too smoothly. She wanted to break up any intimacy developing between them.
Holt clicked his pen and straightened the papers in front of himself. “So did it appear that anything was missing, Sheriff?”
“No, sir. It did not.”
“Did Mrs. Schindler indicate she thought everything was in order?”
Erma could have objected again, but she let it go. BJ would testify later.
“Yes, sir. She said everything looked fine to her.”
“Now, Sheriff, did you find any weapons in the rest of the house? Other than common kitchen knives and the like?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Please tell the jury what you found and where in the house you found it, if you'd be so kind.”
The sheriff turned in his chair to face the jury. “Well, there was a .38 revolver in Mrs. Schindler's night table, top drawer. And, oddly enough, when I entered the house and walked into the kitchen where everyone was gathered, a .45 was lying smack dab in the middle of the kitchen counter.”
Erma had been wondering whether and when they were going to get to that.
“Did you question anyone about this .45?”
“Yes, I did. I asked the group standing in the kitchen why a gun was lying on the kitchen counter.”
“Did anyone answer you?”
“Yes. Douglas Christian said he found it on the path outside. The path leading to the defendant's cottage.”
Holt let that statement sink in before he proceeded to his next question. “Sheriff, what kind of gun was it? I mean, the model?”
“Smith and Wesson m1917 .45 caliber revolver.”
“May I approach the witness again, Judge?”
“Yes, Mr. Holt.”
Holt circled around to the front of his table, reached inside a soft-sided brown leather briefcase and came out with a pistol, which looked to Erma like something out of a cowboy and Indian movie. The gun barrel was long, the whole gun looking like it was a foot in length. Though Sandra had seen it when she'd been in Fredericksburg earlier, Erma hadn't had a chance to examine it herself.
“Sheriff, I hand you what's been marked for identification as State's Exhibit Two. Do you recognize it?”
“Yes. It's the revolver I found in Mrs. Schindler's kitchen.”
Erma had been expecting the proffer. She sat back and assumed an air of someone who had no concern for what was transpiring in the courtroom, thumbing through some paperwork and making some notes. She murmured to Mel, “Pretend I'm saying something important to you and nod your head vigorously.”
Mel put on a serious face and nodded like crazy.
Holt stepped over to Erma and showed her the gun. Erma gave it a once over and stood, “No objection, Judge.” She sat back down and continued to pretend nothing of importance was going on while Holt placed the gun into evidence, and the sheriff talked about it.
“Sheriff, tell the jury what you did when you found the gun on the kitchen counter.”
Sheriff Krichman cleared his throat. “Well, I'd forgotten my gloves, so I went back out to my patrol car and retrieved a pair.”
“Excuse me, Sheriff, but tell the jury what kind of gloves you're talking about.”
“Latex gloves. You may have seen them on television, worn at crime scenes. So I pulled them on and picked up the gun by the grip and placed it in a paper bag. I then took the weapon to my patrol car and locked it in the trunk.” His eyes roved around the room, stopping for a moment on Erma's face.
Adrenaline spiked through her, and Erma shivered.
“What did you do before you put it in the bag, if anything?”
“I sniffed the gun barrel.”
“What did you smell?”
“The weapon had been fired.”
Holt frowned. “You mean, you smelled cordite, right?”
The sheriff cocked his head. “Cordite hasn't been used in about sixty years.”
Holt's face grew crimson. “But you could tell the gun had been fired?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Holt.”
“So what did you do?”
“I put the gun in the paper bag and took it out to my car.”
Mr. Holt stood. “Pass the witness, Judge.”
“We'll take a five-minute recess. And only five-minutes.” The judge cut his eyes at Erma in a don't-be-late expression.
When they returned, Erma remained standing. “May I proceed, Judge?”
“Yes, you may.”
She closed one eye and tilted her head. “Sheriff Krichman, have we met before?” She pretended to be ready to write. When he cast his indigo blue eyes on her, a rush of energy struck her chest.
“No, ma'am, we sure haven't. I would have remembered.”
She leaned over her legal pad and hoped her face hadn't turned as pink as the prosecutor's had a few moments earlier. “I wondered, because—”
Holt jumped to his feet, his ballpoint pen clicking. “Objection, Your Honor. Is that a question or is this a private conversation between my witness and the defense attorney?”
Erma stood again. “I was getting to a question, Judge.”
“All right, you two.” Judge Danforth's eyebrows drew together. “Let's move on.”
“Sheriff, I take it by your direct testimony State's Exhibit Two is alleged to be the murder weapon?”
“Yes, ma'am, it is.”
“Sheriff, you said Rex Schindler wanted to be in the room while you inventoried the guns and, well, let’s see—” She referred to her notes. “You stated, 'He wanted to be in there with me, and he wanted to read the inventory, and he wanted to be the one who signed off on it.' Isn't that your testimony?”
“Yes, ma'am, that's what I said, all right.” He swiveled in the witness chair, turning more toward her.
“Did you form an opinion on why Rex Schindler wanted to be in the den with you?”
“Objection.” Holt only rose half out of his chair. He must be tired to getting his own exercise. “Calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness.”
The sheriff looked at Holt and then the judge and didn't answer.
“Sustained.”
Erma hoped Mel was taking in any notable expressions on the part of the jury. “Well, then, let me ask you this, Sheriff Krichman. You did exclude him from the room while you conducted your inventory, didn't you?”
“Absolutely, ma'am.”
“Rex didn't leave the room willingly, did he?”
“He protested, but I didn't have to physically throw him out if that's what you mean.”
“I didn't mean anything,” Erma said.
“Objection.”
“What is the nature of your objection?”
“Uh. Uh. Sidebar comment?”
The judge frowned. “Overruled.”
Erma refrained from smiling. All the years she'd played poker with lawyers and judges worked to her advantage. Perhaps Mr. Holt would figure her out before the trial was over. Perhaps not. “Let's go over this inventory for a few minutes, Sheriff. You said there was a sh—a load of guns in the den, and I see by this inventory you were correct.”
“Is that a question, Judge?” Mr. Holt again.
“Ask your question, Mrs. Townley.” The judge rolled his neck from side to side and shrugged, like his muscles were stiff.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Erma said. “Sheriff, there were a lot of small guns in the den, correct?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Derringers, smaller pistols—more lightweight weapons?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“In fact, you came across a pink gun, correct?”
“Correct. Several pink guns and one baby blue.”
“Would you say those guns were generally smaller and easier to handle than the Smith and Wesson m1917 .45 caliber revolver?”
“Usually pink guns are guns for the ladies, ma'am.”
“So yes?”
He cleared his throat again. “Yes, ma'am. Smaller and easier to handle most of the time. Some are large and weigh more.”
“We'll get to weight in a moment. Ladies don't generally have the same strength in their hands as men, do they?”
“Some do; most don't. Unless they workout or train with weapons like female deputies and other female police officers.”
She couldn't ask for a more cooperative witness. Holt, chewing on the end of his pen, could have been an over-ripe melon about to burst. Erma turned to Mel, “Quick, give me my research on the gun.” She stood. “May we have a moment, Judge?”
Judge Danforth nodded while maintaining his long-suffering demeanor, his lips compressed.
Mel thumbed through the trial notebook and extracted some pages. When she closed it, the clack of the three binder rings echoed through the courtroom.
“Get me the photographs of the den, too, honey,” Erma murmured. “Then take your phone and go call the hospital. Check on your mom.”
While Mel combed through their box in search of the file containing the pictures, Erma laid the pages of research on the table. “Now, Sheriff, the weapon that has been placed into evidence was the gun Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark—”
“Objection!” Holt jumped about a foot off the ground.
Erma stood, all wide-eyed innocence.
The judge sighed. “What is your objection this time, Mr. Holt?”
“I don't know what Indiana Jones has to do with this murder case—irrelevant, I guess, Judge.”
“Your Honor,” Erma said, “I'm trying to give a little background about this weapon to the jury.”
“Mrs. Townley, I don't see how the history of this gun has any relevance. Sustained.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Erma sat down. “Sheriff, the m1917 revolver, was a gun the U.S. Military in World War One and also in World War Two used, correct?”
“Same objection, Judge.”
“Same ruling.” The judge glared over his glasses.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Erma said, knowing most judges didn't like to be thanked. It could confuse the jury about whether the ruling was favorable or not. “Sheriff, tell me this: The m1917 revolver would typically be described as a man's gun rather than a woman's gun, correct?”
Mr. Holt got half-way to his feet and sat back down again, his jaw muscles rigid.
“You could say that. It's a mighty big weapon for a woman to carry around.”
Erma looked at her notes again. “In fact, the gun is over ten inches long, isn't it?”
“Yes, ma'am, the entire weapon is about ten point eight inches long.” He returned Erma's studied stare. “The barrel is five and a half inches long. Sometimes the weapon is modified to make the barrel shorter, but this gun is in its original condition. Mint condition for its age, I might add.”
Erma restrained herself from doing a little jig. The sheriff couldn't be more helpful. “Isn't it true this gun weighs over two pounds?”
“Yes, ma'am. About two and a quarter pounds.”
“Would you say it's a heavy gun for most women to carry around?” She intentionally repeated the Sheriff's words.
“Well, like I said earlier, some women are stronger than others, especially if they work out or are built like a—”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Are you acquainted with the defendant Rufina Barboza?”
The sheriff stared at Rufina for a moment. “Yes.”
“How did that come about?”
“She worked in the Mason County District Clerk's office for many years. I would occasionally run across her at their courthouse when I had to go up there for something, when I was a deputy, and then as sheriff.”
“How would you describe her? Strike that. Let me back up a minute to the time you entered the house.” She hinted at a smile and lifted one eyebrow. “I understand the kitchen was practically overflowing with people, right?”
“Well, I don't know if I'd say overflowing, but there were a number of people standing around in the kitchen.”
“Rufina Barboza was one of them, right?”
The sheriff nodded. “Yes, she was.”
“Would you tell the jury wh
at Mrs. Barboza was wearing?”
“What she was wearing?” He studied the ceiling for a moment. “A bathrobe over a nightgown, and tan shoes, Crocs.”
“Did the bathrobe have pockets in it?”
“Objection,” Holt said. “Relevance.”
“Mrs. Townley, are you fixing to show relevance any time soon?” the judge asked.
Erma stood to answer. “Yes, Your Honor. In a moment.”
“Overruled.”
“Sheriff, you may answer.” Erma sat again. She'd be tired of all the standing up and sitting down if adrenaline wasn't rushing through her body. “The question was 'Did the bathrobe have pockets?'“
His eyes searched the ceiling again. Erma refrained from glancing up. Funny how so many people did that when they were testifying. She kept her eyes on the sheriff.
“I believe so,” he said.
“I beg your pardon, Sheriff, but can you answer more affirmatively?”
“I do remember her leaning against the kitchen counter with her hands tucked into her pockets.”
“Thank you. How big were the pockets?”
“Large enough for her hands to fit in.”
“Now, I'll ask you to describe Mrs. Barboza for the jury.”
“Objection,” Mr. Holt said. “I don't see how the defendant's appearance enters into it. Irrelevant. Besides, the jury can see what she looks like for themselves.”
Erma stood again. “It's very relevant to our defense of Mrs. Barboza, Judge. The record cannot see her.” She wanted Holt to think she was protecting the record, and that was indeed part of it but not all.
“Overruled,” the judge said. “Sheriff, you may answer.”
Sheriff Krichman looked at Rufina. “Could she stand up?”
Erma motioned to Rufina to stand. Rufina rose and stepped away from the table.
“Yes, I'm correct in my recollection of her. She didn't stand much taller than the counter in the clerk's office. She's a very small—I guess you could say—petite woman, about five feet in height and my guess would be she weighs about a hundred pounds.”
“Go on, Sheriff,” Erma said.
“She's a dark-complected Latina with black and gray hair—long but up in a bun thing today, dark eyes, and part of her face and one hand badly scarred, most likely burn scars.”
Death of a Rancher's Daughter Page 25