Death of a Rancher's Daughter

by Susan P. Baker

“As a fingerprint expert, you were called by the sheriff to examine fingerprints on State's Exhibit Two, the weapon used to kill the decedent, correct?”

  “Yes, sir. My job is to consult on fingerprint identification, examine items for fingerprints, analyze fingerprints, compare fingerprints, and make an identification, if possible, among other things.”

  Sandra and Erma exchanged glances. This guy was one of those who couldn't answer with a simple yes or no.

  “You did that in this case, Mr. Wegner?”

  “Yes, sir, I did, and found three fingerprints. Two of them were smudged beyond usefulness. I did find a partial fingerprint, though, on State's Exhibit Two.”

  “Did anyone give you an impression to compare the partial fingerprint with?”

  “Yes, sir. The sheriff's office provided me with the fingerprints of a Mrs. Rufina Barboza.”

  “Tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury what you found, Mr. Wegner.”

  “The partial print comes from Rufina Barboza.”

  Sandra held Erma's forearm to stop her from jumping up. Erma's usual style was to interrupt as much as possible in the hope of confusing the jury. Sandra thought a more direct approach would be better. She and Erma had discussed it, and Erma had agreed. Erma shook off Sandra's hand.

  Holt let several seconds go by. The judge's tapping of his pen on the counter sounded like a woodpecker striking a tree. Voices from out in the hall came through the walls. The heating unit kicked on with a rattle, smelling like something burnt. Sandra scooted over in her chair and laid her hand on Rufina's arm. Rufina put her hand on top of Sandra's, her lips hinting at a smile. She had been and remained the most composed of any of them, as though she had complete faith in her defense team.

  Holt shifted in his chair. “Thank you, Mr. Wegner. Now let's break down what you found. Tell the jury what you were looking for and what you discovered in your comparison of the two prints.”

  “Objection.” Erma sprang from her chair. “Calls for a narrative.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Danforth said. “Mr. Holt, proceed in question-and-answer format.”

  Holt's mouth turned down. “What were you looking for in comparing the two prints?” He gave Erma a sideways look, as if he was afraid she’d object again. “Strike that. Judge, may I approach the witness.”

  “You may,” the judge said, looking bored.

  Holt placed the gun on the counter in front of the witness. “First, where was the identified fingerprint found on State's Exhibit Two?”

  “On the trigger guard.” He held up the gun and pointed to the trigger guard like no one on the jury would know what that was.

  “Did you find prints anywhere else?”

  “Just those two smudges I already mentioned, but otherwise, it had been wiped clean.”

  “Objection,” Erma said, rising about halfway out of her chair. “Calls for a conclusion on the part of the witness.”

  Holt stood. “Judge, if he didn't find fingerprints anywhere on the weapon except the trigger guard, someone would have had to wipe it clean. Obviously, someone would've had to handle it in the past, or it would never have arrived at the premises.”

  “Unless the person who fired the gun on the night in question wore gloves.” Erma stood with her hands on her hips.

  “You attorneys approach the bench.” The muscles in the judge's jaws flexed. When all four lawyers arrived at sidebar, the judge gave them a sour look. “Y'all aren't going to do this throughout the rest of the trial. If you have an issue like this to discuss, approach the bench. I'm not going to have arguments like this in front of the jury.”

  Both Erma and Holt nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Erma shrugged on her way back to the table. So did Sandra, hoping the jury would get the impression the sidebar conference was of no importance. At least the judge didn't side with Holt.

  “For the record, objection sustained.”

  Continuing his white-knuckled grip on his pen, Holt perched on the edge of his chair. His jaw muscles flexed like the judge's had a minute earlier. “Which finger matched the print?”

  “The trigger finger of her right hand.”

  “So now tell the jury what you were looking for when examining—when comparing the prints.” Holt leaned back and put a tiny smile on his lips, as though confident his witness would do right by him.

  “Well, sir,” Wegner said, puffing out his chest, “what we look for are points. Matching points.”

  “By that you mean places on both prints that appear to be the same?”

  “Yes, sir, more or less. Points of similarity. Matching ridge characteristics.” He liked using buzzwords.

  “What did you find in this instance?”

  “Well, sir, I was able to identify eight matching points.”

  “What you're saying, sir,” Holt said, “is in that partial print alone you were able to match eight points of similarity between it and the full print the sheriff's office took from the defendant and conclude the prints were one and the same. Correct?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Wegner said, dusting the arm of his jacket as if to remove something.

  “Ahem. Pass the witness, Your Honor.” Holt inclined his head at Erma.

  Erma was halfway to her feet when the judge said to proceed. “There are no universal standards of matching points. True, Mr. Wegner?”

  “Yes, ma'am, that is true.” He pursed his lips and sneaked a glance at Holt.

  “In fact, the FBI has said there should be no minimum standard. Right?”

  His eyes went to Erma and back to Holt. “Yes, ma'am.”

  “The same is true in the United Kingdom, specifically England, am I right?” Erma held her pen with both hands like she was about to break it into two even pieces.

  Wegner nodded.

  “Answer for the record, sir,” the judge said.

  “Oh, sorry. Yes, correct.”

  “In other countries, there are set standards,” Erma again.

  “Yes.”

  “In Australia, they have a minimum standard of twelve matching points. In France and Italy, the standard is sixteen, correct?”

  “Yes. In this country, examiners have varying standards ranging from eight to sixteen points.”

  “But no set standard.”

  “No, no set standard.”

  “So each examiner establishes his or her own standard.”

  “Yes, true.”

  “Your standard is eight?”

  “Well, in a partial print—”

  “So what we have here is your subjective opinion that the fingerprints match?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “There is no objective test.”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “In other words, another examiner might have a minimum standard of ten points, or twelve points, or sixteen points, right? Another examiner's subjective opinion might be contrary to yours, correct?”

  Wegner's eyes shifted to Holt and back. “Well, yes, ma'am.”

  “Pass the witness.” Erma tossed her pen on the table and stared down at the legal pad in front of her.

  “Re-direct, Mr. Holt?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Holt leaned as far toward the witness as the table would allow. “Mr. Wegner, your conclusion the fingerprint belonged to the defendant was based on your identifying eight points of similarity. Tell the jury why you're confident your opinion is correct.”

  Wegner turned toward the jury. “If a partial print contains eight points, one can only assume a full print would contain ten, twelve, or even sixteen points of similarity.”

  “Objection.” Erma drew herself up to her full height. “The witness is drawing a conclusion.”

  “Sit down, Mrs. Townley.” The judge's arms were crossed. “The witness has qualified as an expert and is permitted to draw a conclusion.”

  “Pass the witness.”

  “Anything more, Mrs. Townley?”

  “Just a couple more, Judge.” Erma folded her hands in fro
nt of her. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. “Sir, with that reasoning, couldn't it also be true that even though there are eight points of similarity, if you had the whole print where there was the possibility of ten, twelve, sixteen, or more points of similarity and no other points of similarity were found, a conclusion could be drawn that the partial print is not the print of my client, Rufina Barboza?”

  The judge held his chin in the palm of his hand and covered his mouth. Sandra couldn't tell if he was hiding a smile or a frown. Holt stood up and sat down and clicked his pen like mad. Erma maintained her pose.

  “Well, Mr. Wegner? Do I need to repeat myself?” Her question sounded like the end of it should’ve been, you moron.

  Sandra risked a peek at the jurors. Several of them quickly hid their smiles.

  “No, ma'am.”

  “No, ma'am, I don't need to repeat the question or no, ma'am, a conclusion couldn't be drawn.”

  “A conclusion could be drawn,” Wegner said, his shoulders slumped when he looked Holt’s way.

  “A conclusion could be drawn that the print was not Mrs. Barboza's?” Erma's loud voice bounced off the walls.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “One more question, sir, and I'll be through with you. You did say the partial print was found on the trigger guard, not the trigger, correct?”

  Wegner coughed into his hand. “Yes, ma'am. That's what I said.”

  Erma whispered to Sandra, “Can you think of anything else?”

  Sandra shook her head. If Holt's witnesses couldn't do any better than Wegner, the defense might have a real shot at an acquittal. Across the aisle, Holt's rigid posture and blanched profile indicated his awareness of the case's problems.

  “Pass the witness, Judge.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “I'm thinking we shouldn't let Rufina testify.” Later that night after they'd returned to the cottage, Erma had changed to an ankle length, heavy cotton dress and thick socks. She rocked back and forth in an overstuffed glider, her feet propped on a footstool.

  Sandra, wearing a dark red chenille bathrobe and flip-flops, sipped wine and paced around the little living room. She hoped the wine would help her fall asleep, though she would probably get slightly inebriated and lie in bed staring at the ceiling in the dark, thinking about what the next day might bring.

  She moved a curtain aside. The sun had set. Mel had gone horseback riding with the son of a couple who worked on the ranch. Their cottage was nearest to Rufina's, the one Erma and Sandra were using during the trial. He'd taken Mel riding once before, and she'd come back in one piece, so Sandra let her go again.

  “It's gotten dark. Mel should have been back a while ago.” Sandra moved to another window, but the scenery didn't change. She shouldn't worry. BJ had assured them Mel was safe with Diego. “You think that kid is crushing on Mel?”

  “Maybe, but don't worry about it. We won't be here much longer.”

  “I saw the way he looked at her.” That's all Sandra would need, to get home and have her ex-husband, Jack, call and complain that Mel was pining over some kid in Fredericksburg. He'd make innuendos about Mel working for them after school and about what might happen the next time she wanted to take Mel someplace for any length of time. If she went to work for the insurance firm, though, he'd most likely find something else to complain about.

  “Not to change the subject back to what I was talking about, Rufina's trial, but we do continue tomorrow,” Erma said.

  “I heard what you said about Rufina not testifying. I've been trying to look at it from the jury's point of view.”

  “Well, of course.”

  Sandra plopped down on the sofa and bounced up again like the sofa was a trampoline. “Number one, if we don't put Rufina on, they'll wonder whether she's guilty, of course, but number two, they won't have a sense of who she is.” Sandra traipsed into the kitchen and refilled her wine glass. She raised her voice. “I don't care what anyone says, she's scary-looking. We don't see her scars like we once did because we know her well by now, but the jury doesn't. Some people will feel sorry for her, but others will be repulsed, whether we want to admit it or not.

  “I once had a friend, a black friend, who ran for office,” Erma said, turning in the rocker to watch Sandra. “His campaign photo was stern-looking, mean-looking some might say. I told him he needed a smiling face in his campaign photos, that white people are scared of black people, and he needed to give them the impression he was no one to be afraid of.”

  Sandra returned to the living room. “Your point being?”

  “Well, he didn't agree. He liked the serious-looking picture, thought it made him appear dignified.” Erma rocked hard in the chair, like she'd just been injected with a shot of energy. “Long story short, he lost the election. I still think more white people would have voted for him if they hadn't been afraid he'd get into office and do something to them.”

  “Yeah, I think you're right, whether anyone would admit it or not. So you think we should put Rufina on?”

  “I don't know. I don't think Holt's proven their case.”

  “I think there's reasonable doubt.”

  “You're damn right there is, but does the jury think so?” Erma shuffled into the kitchen. She took a highball glass from the same cabinet as the wine glasses. “Don't say a word,” she said over her shoulder in a loud voice. “I’m only having one drink. Not like you, who has been having more than one every night, even though I'm sure the doctor told you to cut back.”

  Sandra ignored that jab. She'd had esophageal spasms over the years, and they were never related to drinking wine. “Next you'll light up a cigarette.”

  “No. I keep telling you I've given them up for good.”

  “I'm shocked you haven't started again. Proud of you.” For years, she'd been battling Erma to quit, especially after her heart attack. Could what she said be true? That remained to be seen.

  Erma gave her a sidelong glance and uncapped the bottle she'd taken from a shelf.

  “Here's what I think, Erma. We should discuss it with Rufina first and wait to make our decision after our motion for instructed verdict of acquittal gets shot down.”

  “Rufina wants to testify.” Erma poured two fingers of bourbon.

  “I know she does. Every client wants to testify, so what else is new? I'm inclined to let her, though.”

  “We woodshedded her pretty good before we came up here.”

  “I just don't know what Holt'll do to her.” Sandra started to pour herself another glass of wine and realized her glass was still full.

  “Oh, he'll do his best to put her in her grave.” Erma leaned against the counter and sipped the bourbon, closing her eyes as though she could taste it better that way.

  Sandra put the bottle of wine back in the refrigerator. “No question of that.” She took a swallow from her glass. “Holt is almost through with his case,” she said. “I'm thinking tomorrow he'll put Doug Christian on, and then maybe Kathy Lynn and Rex and Elgin to talk about the get together the night Katy Jo was killed. That shouldn't take very long.”

  “God knows what Rex will say. And Kathy Lynn, too. I wish she hadn't been avoiding us.”

  “I just thought of something.” Sandra whacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “I wonder if Doug can alibi Rufina.”

  “How's that?”

  “If he was with Katy Jo here, in this cottage, before she went in to see her mother, and if Efrain was here with Rufina—”

  “I don't see how Rufina could have hid Efrain from Doug and Katy Jo.” Erma's voice filled with excitement. “They all had to use the same entrances and exits, and this place isn't all that big.”

  “No lie. I never thought to ask him that.”

  “Hell, we were unaware of Efrain when you and Mel interviewed Doug.”

  “I need to dig through my notes and see if I can find his cell number, so I can talk to him tonight.” Sandra was heading for her bedroom when there was a noise at the front of the cott
age. Mel must have returned. She pivoted so she could open the front door.

  Mel came in and slammed the door. “Someone was following me.”

  “Goddamnit!” Erma jogged to the bedroom.

  “Are you all right?” Sandra took Mel in her arms.

  “I was so scared. I heard footsteps behind me.”

  Erma rushed out of the bedroom and bolted to the door, flinging it open, the revolver in her hand.

  “Where are you going?” Sandra hollered.

  “I'm going to kill the son of a bitch,” Erma yelled over her shoulder. She darted out into the dark, still in her socks.

  “Come back here,” Sandra hurried to the doorway, dragging Mel with her, but Erma was out of sight. “Your grandmother is crazy sometimes,” she said. “I'm sure whoever he was is long gone.”

  Mel stood behind her, shielding herself. “Are you going after her?”

  “No. I'm staying with you. Besides, she can shoot better than I can.” She stuck her head out, didn't see anything, and pushed the door closed. “Why were you alone?”

  “I—I was walking back here after we put up the horses.”

  “Diego was supposed to bring you back to the main house first and then put up the horses.”

  Mel gave Sandra a helpless look. “I know, but it was still early, so I told him I'd help take off their saddles and all.”

  Sandra hooked her arm around Mel. Kids. “So you were walking back here alone, I guess, in the dark.”

  “It wasn't dark when I started out. I wanted to stop by Rufina's and see her for a few minutes before I came home.”

  “You didn't tell Diego which cottage Rufina was staying in, did you?” Erma asked.

  Mel shook her head. “I know it's a secret. I just told him I'd walk back to the house, that it was okay.”

  Anger circulated in Sandra's body. She had made sure Diego understood he was to escort Mel back to the ranch house safely. “So then what happened?”

  “I did go to Rufina's for a little while. We sat in her kitchen, and she gave me some pecan cookies she'd baked. She told me some stories about how life was on the ranch when she was little, when her parents worked here, but it was pretty dark when I left.”