Death of a Rancher's Daughter

by Susan P. Baker

  “Describe her hands please, I mean, can you compare the size of her hands to anything?”

  “Hmmm.” He scrutinized the courtroom and the witness stand. “I don't really see anything—maybe a three-by-five card or a bit longer than five inches. Quite small compared to a man's. At least an average man's.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.” Erma made some quick notes they'd be able to use in final argument. A three-by-five card was a great comparison and something that could be held up in front of a jury. She motioned to Rufina to sit down.

  Erma watched the sheriff. She didn't need to look at Holt to know he was wondering what she was up to. She could almost hear his teeth grinding. “Going back to the night of the incident, Sheriff, and back into the kitchen, can you remember anything about the size of the pockets on Mrs. Barboza's dressing gown?”

  He cocked his head. “Not much larger than her hands, maybe just a little. I didn't pay close attention.”

  Erma kept her eyes on him. “Well, could a ten-inch-long revolver be hidden in her bathrobe pocket, or would it have been noticeable?”

  He stifled a laugh, his hand slapping the counter. A huge hand, Erma noted, one she wouldn't mind seeing more of, or feeling, either. She mentally shook herself and refocused.

  “Well, ma'am, I certainly would have noticed if a big gun was sticking out of one of those little pockets. It probably would have stuck out three or four inches, at least.”

  “Objection, speculation,” Holt said.

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Jurors, disregard the very last statement.”

  “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?” Erma asked.

  “Yes, you may.”.

  Erma wanted to move closer to the sheriff, to get a whiff of him. She stood and straightened her skirt and jacket before ambling up to the witness stand, wishing now she'd varied her wardrobe from the black skirt-suits she'd been wearing since her friend's funeral the year before. She held out a photograph. “I show you what's been marked for identification as Defendant's Exhibit One. Would you tell the jury what this is?”

  “A photograph.”

  Erma kept the picture within his view. “You didn't take the photo, did you, Sheriff?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “What does the photograph show?”

  “One of the gun cabinets in the Schindler home.”

  “Does it truly and accurately depict what that particular gun cabinet was like and contained on the night in question?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Erma ran through the rest of the requirements to prove the photograph was admissible. She followed up by showing the photograph to Mr. Holt who glanced at it and flicked his fingers as if to say it wasn't worth his attention. Erma offered the picture into evidence.

  “No objection.” Holt didn't stand or look up.

  “It's admitted.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Back over to the sheriff, Erma leaned close when tendering the picture to him. She chastised herself for acknowledging an attraction to the man in the midst of a trial, but she couldn't help how she felt.

  “Sheriff, I draw your attention to the gun cabinet. Do you see the weapons we discussed a few minutes ago?”

  “You mean the pink ones?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, ma'am. All the pink guns were kept together in that cabinet.”

  “Any of them ten inches in length?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “In fact, they're considerably smaller than the Smith and Wesson .45 that has been put into evidence today, correct?”

  “Considerably.”

  “Judge, may I tender this photograph to the jury?”

  “Hand it to the bailiff, Mrs. Townley, and retake your seat.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Erma handed the photograph to the Deputy Cortez who passed it to the first juror.

  She walked back to her table and sat down, pausing to give at least some of the jurors time to look over the picture. Where was Mel? The call shouldn't have taken long. “Sheriff, the prosecutor has qualified you as a firearms expert, correct?”

  “Yes, ma'am, Mrs. Townley.”

  “So I take it you're familiar with a wide array of firearms from handguns to rifles, revolvers, semiautomatic weapons—”

  “Yes, yes, yes.”

  “You've fired many weapons? You've trained with them? Trained others on them?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Would you step down from the jury box and demonstrate for the jury the proper stance someone should assume when firing a revolver such as the m1917 Smith and Wesson .45 at someone across a room?”

  “Judge.” Mr. Holt leaped up.

  “What now, Mr. Holt?” The judge cupped his ear toward Holt like he was hard of hearing and straining for the answer.

  “I don't think it's a proper line of questioning.”

  “Overruled. Go ahead, Sheriff.”

  The Sheriff eased out of the jury box and took a position between the counsel tables and the bench. He spread his legs apart and crouched down a little.

  “And the proper grip, Sheriff. Would you demonstrate the proper way for a person to hold a revolver?”

  “You want me to show you with the .45 over there?”

  “Oh, no, sir. Just like you'd show a newbie who has never held a gun—before you actually let him hold one in his hand.”

  The sheriff put his hands together and demonstrated how a gun should be held with both hands. “This is the proper way to hold a revolver, but a semiautomatic would be held differently.

  “We're only concerned with the revolver today. So the proper way is to hold it with both hands?”

  “Yes, the support hand stabilizes the gun and makes the shooter more accurate. I do teach them, however, to get comfortable using one hand—even their non-dominant hands—in case they should be disabled.”

  “You may retake the witness stand, Sheriff. Thank you.”

  Erma made like she was taking a few notes, but she needed a moment to calm herself. Mel should have been back. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She hoped Sandra was going to be okay.

  “So, Sheriff, is it safe to say there is a lot to learn about handling and shooting a firearm?”

  “Yes, ma'am. Most people could probably pick one up and shoot it but suffer the consequences of improper handling.”

  “So suffice it to say most people would not shoot a gun one-handed like in the movies all the time—like we saw Indiana Jones do in Raiders of the Lost Ark and his other movies—and if they did, their shot would not be accurate?”

  “Objection, Judge,” Holt said. “You've already ruled on this.”

  “Approach the bench.”

  As soon as Erma got within the judge's earshot, she whispered, “Your Honor, I've laid a foundation for this question. I'm simply trying to demonstrate for the jury what they have seen on television and in the movies is not realistic. It takes training to shoot a gun accurately and the use of both hands in most instances.”

  Holt began to talk, but the judge shut him down. “I'll allow it.” As they went back to their tables, the judge announced, “Objection overruled.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Townley.” The Sheriff's face was not quite as stony as it had been earlier. “I agree with you there. Most people would not fire a gun one-handed or if they did, it would not be accurate.”

  “Sheriff, would the length of the barrel make any difference in accuracy?” She wanted to deflect what she thought would be the prosecution's comeback.

  “Yes, a longer barrel is usually more accurate.”

  “Especially from a great distance?”

  “Um—usually. Depends on the gun—the reliability of the gun.”

  “Which a shooter wouldn't know about unless he was familiar with the gun?”

  “Correct.”

  “I have a few more questions, Sheriff. The five-and-a-half-inch barrel of the m1917 Smith and Wesson .45 caliber revolver would make that gun more accurate as oppos
ed to a small, snub nose revolver or one of those pink guns shown in Defense Exhibit One?”

  “Again, generally speaking, yes, but some long-barreled guns do have accuracy problems. The shooter really should be acquainted with the gun.”

  Erma stared down at the table, her fingers covering her mouth as she went over in her mind how she wanted to ask her last few questions for maximum impact.

  “Sheriff, I read somewhere—”

  “Objection, defense counsel is testifying.”

  “Sustained.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Isn't it true if the grip of the gun is too large for a person's hand, that too will affect accuracy?”

  “I'd say if the grip of the gun is too big for a person's hand, it could affect several things, accuracy being one of them. You want a proper gun grip on a proper size gun and your support hand in its proper place to stabilize the handgun and make the shooter more accurate. It's hard to get that if the gun—therefore the gun grip—is too large.”

  His testimony was like a classroom instructor's, exactly what Erma wanted from him. Holt had called the sheriff as his witness, but Erma was confident she'd turned him into her own.

  “Sheriff, given your decades of experience and training, in your expert opinion, would the grip of the m1917 Smith and Wesson .45 caliber revolver fit properly in the hand of Rufina Barboza?”

  Holt sprang up, his neck and face ripe tomato red. “Your Honor—”

  His face deadpan, the judge held up his palm toward Holt. “He's your expert, Mr. Holt. Now, sit down. Court reporter, read back the question.”

  The reporter, Matthew Grieger, pulled out a length of narrow paper from his machine and read the question.

  The sheriff shook his head. “Properly in her little hand? Not hardly. She'd be able to shoot it, all right, but—”

  Clicking his pen like nobody's business, Holt jumped up again. “Objection, non-responsive.”

  Not waiting for a ruling, Erma asked, “And if she had no training in the use of firearms and were to pick up that gun and shoot it at a target in the dark, how accurate do you think—”

  He shook his head. “I'd have a hard time seeing how it could be accurate.”

  Erma stood. “Pass the witness.”

  As Erma sat again, Mel plopped into the chair next to her. “Sorry I took so long. Mom wanted to know what was going on with the testimony. She's getting out tonight!”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Once Sandra's pain subsided, a different slow burn grew inside of her, one that arose from being stuck in the hospital for most of the day. She hadn't been able to dissuade the EMTs from taking her to the ER. Now, hours later, she sat on the side of the gurney and fumed. She felt like she was incarcerated. She wanted to return to the courthouse. Could the medical staff be any slower? The black institutional clock on the wall ticked her life away. She'd actually seen one of the hands move.

  Mel had called and said Erma had things under control, the case was going smoothly. Mel was having fun seeing her grandmother best the prosecutor. Her last words were something like, “Grandma is getting down with the case.”

  Which made Sandra think of her insistence that Erma take it easier since her heart attack. To relieve Erma's stress, Sandra had started doing all the litigation, both civil and criminal. Erma was left with office probate work and only minor court appearances. Erma had been happy enough. Hadn't she? She hadn't missed trials, longed for them like a lost lover. Had she? Surely Erma had felt the weight of litigation lifted from her shoulders, had enjoyed working shorter days and fewer weekends.

  When Sandra paid attention to someone other than herself, which she knew she needed to do more of, she had to admit there had been less spring in Erma's step since Sandra had taken over. Erma could still be cantankerous. That hadn't changed. More and more though, Erma had complained she was bored by most estate cases. Rarely was probate litigated, and Sandra was doing all the litigation anyway. Erma missed that part of their law practice—the preparation, the trial, the adrenaline rush. In an estate case, the main party was dead. There was no reason for Erma to hurry to work each day. No one really needed her.

  Since BJ had hired them, Erma had perked up. The sparkle had returned to her eyes. She had bustled around the office, often thinking aloud, brainstorming with Patricia and Sandra. When Mel came in from school, Erma had bounced ideas off Mel. She'd explained the reasoning behind a lot of what they were doing in their preparations.

  The news from Mel was good on how the trial was going. Erma and Mel were getting along fine without Sandra. They would be fine without her if she left the law practice. The decision to leave or stay was hers and hers alone. Of course, it always had been, but now more than ever she realized she needed to search her heart. They'd be all right without her. What did she want?

  Hell, what she wanted was more of the same. If she decided not to take the job, she'd have to admit it to Erma and listen to Erma when she said I-told-you-so. But being back in the saddle, so to speak, had caused Sandra to rethink her life, again. Maybe it was shaking off the depression and the humiliation of the Stuart situation. Or maybe, whether she admitted it publicly or not, she liked criminal defense work. Or was it the prospect of fighting for the underdog, fending off powerful forces that threatened an injustice?

  Sandra had been relegating those thoughts to the back of her mind while she focused on the murder case. She'd more or less laid out a plan, but Rufina's case had interrupted that plan. Life had interrupted her plan. She recognized how much she valued the past few weeks with her mother, her daughter, and even Patricia. She didn't think she wanted to give that up. This non-heart attack had given her a few minutes to articulate to herself what the thoughts swirling around in her head were. She had been about to make a more serious mistake than the Stuart thing, by abandoning her life in Galveston. So, she'd made that admission to herself now, but before she said anything aloud, she'd sleep on it. Could be she was simply tired and annoyed at being stuck in the hospital.

  What the hell was taking so long? Where was everyone?

  She swung her legs back and forth and listened for any noise that indicated her jailers might be coming to release her. No voices, no footsteps, just general hospital clamoring and the odor of disinfectant. She jumped down from the bed and put her head out from behind the curtain. The people who had attended her were nowhere to be seen. She rubbed her arms. Hospitals were always cold. They should make long-sleeved, wool hospital gowns. She eye-balled the plastic chair near the gurney, where her clothes were folded in a pile. Might as well dress while she waited.

  The clock ticked. Erma probably was having the time of her life. She'd been raring to go ever since the day BJ had called, even when Sandra refused to take Rufina's case. She was back to her old self. Sandra had suspected all along that Erma had manipulated her into resigning from the DA's office, so they could practice law together. Then the heart attack. Things had changed. Then Erma's friend Phillip had been murdered. Things had changed again. Now they might change a third time, change for the better.

  A conversation outside the curtained area grew closer. When the curtain was slung back, the resident who'd been taking care of her walked in with a nurse's aide.

  “All right,” the resident said, “you're released, Ms. Salinsky. When you return to Galveston, you need to make an appointment with your primary care physician about your esophageal spasms, particularly if you have them often. I'm sure you don't want another debilitating incident like you suffered today.”

  “If the EMTs had just let me talk, I would have told them what was happening.”

  “Look, I realize you're angry at having been here most of the day but think of this as a wake-up call. Incidents like the one you had are often a result of stress, of a person's lifestyle. Maybe you're due for some changes.”

  Exactly what Sandra thought, the concept of working for an insurance firm, bloodsuckers as Erma called them, had created the wrong kind of stress, had b
rought the spasms on, not Rufina's trial.

  “With the tests we ran, at least you know your heart is in good shape. You have any questions?”

  “I need to go back to the courthouse. Do y'all have taxis here?”

  The aide accompanying the resident handed a clipboard to Sandra and pointed out where she was to sign. “Your friend is outside waiting for you.”

  “Good luck.” The resident patted her back.

  Sandra signed where the woman told her. “Thank you, Doc. I apologize for being so difficult.”

  She approached the ER lobby in search of her “friend.” She hardly knew anyone in the Hill Country. Maybe BJ? She spotted Jared, with his briefcase on his lap, his head bent over some documents. A warm feeling forced her face into a smile.

  “Nice of you to come.” She was thankful he was there even though it could be interpreted as implying more intimacy in their relationship. God, was that what it was?

  He pushed his briefcase aside and stood and kissed her on the cheek. “I was here earlier, but they wouldn't let me see you.”

  “You didn't have to return.” How did she get into a relationship with a man who lived five hours away, six if she stopped for lunch?

  “Someone needed to drive you. I'm a lot better than our limited taxi service.”

  “Well, thank you. I guess I would have had to wait for Erma to come, or walk. Walking very far in these shoes can be difficult.” They both looked down at her four-inch heels, which she only wore when in jury trials.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  Her stomach growled.

  “You haven't had anything to eat since breakfast, have you?” Jared loaded his papers into his satchel.

  She shook her head. “I guess I shouldn't be thinking about food after this morning's experience, but I can't help it. I do like to eat.”

  “I've noticed.” His smile wasn't mean.

  “Do you have dinner plans?”

  “Nope,” he said. “No plans for later in the evening, either. Come on. Walk this way.” He held his briefcase in one hand and touched her lightly on the back with the other, guiding her toward the exit. His aftershave gave off a light peppermint-piney scent, a relief after a day of hospital smells.