Erma whispered, “His goddamned belt buckle is bigger than a cow pie.”
“Looks like a rancher businessman—or someone going to a wedding,” Sandra whispered back.
“Well, hell,” Erma replied, “he is the former. Guess we're going to hear what's up with him now.” She flashed her eyebrows up and down at Rufina, who shrugged.
After he was sworn in, he settled down on the witness stand, overflowing it with his large frame, like the sheriff had. Holt began the questioning by asking Elgin's name and address. He then launched into the night of the murder.
“You had dinner at the Schindler home on the night of Katy Jo Schindler's demise, correct?” Holt asked.
“Yes, sir. I often dine at Mrs. Schindler's home.”
“Who all was there, Mr. Burgess?”
“Well, sir, Mrs. Schindler, of course, both her twin daughters, her boy Rex, and me.”
“What about Doug Christian?”
Elgin shook his head. “Oh, yeah. I forgot, sir.” He glanced at Erma and Sandra.
Holt held his chin in the air. “Let me ask you this. Was the defendant there at the dinner?”
Elgin stiffened, and his eyes cut over to Rufina. He moved closer to the microphone. “No, she was not—not at the dinner itself.”
“You did see her that night?”
“Saw her in the kitchen. She was overseeing the two Mexican girls who were fixing the food, and she helped serve.”
“Did she speak to you, or you, to her?”
“No, sir. I caught her looking my way a few times. I was facing the kitchen door.”
Holt shot a look at Rufina. “You do know her, right?”
“Yep, I know her. She's Mrs. Schindler's maid.”
Erma ducked her head in Sandra's direction. “Racist pig.”
Holt said, “You mean her housekeeper.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Her señora. That's what they call them in Mexico. Same thing, to me.”
“She supervises the women who work for Mrs. Schindler and runs the house, doesn't she?”
“Well, yeah, yes. I guess that makes her the housekeeper.”
“Moving on. What, if any, relationship do you or have you had with the defendant?”
“Nothing. No relationship. I never took a shine to her. She don't like me either, as far as I can tell. Never been friendly to me.”
“No reason she should be, is there?”
“No, sir. She was my friend's employee, that's all.”
“By friend, you mean Mrs. Schindler, right?”
Elgin cleared his throat. He turned to the jury, so his expression was partially concealed. Some of the jurors smiled at him. The son of a gun wanted to make sure they understood his implication. Erma started to whisper an expletive to Sandra again but decided against it in case the judge overheard. Her fingers itched to get ahold of him. She could hardly wait until her turn came to question him.
“Yeah. Yes,” Elgin responded. “The Widow Schindler.”
Erma clenched her fists. She didn't like Elgin and what he was implying. She knew if BJ were there, she wouldn't either. On cross-examination, Erma would have to explore that, so the jury would understand more clearly what was in Elgin's mind.
“Back to the night of the murder. You were at dinner with the Schindler family. I assume the ladies in the kitchen served the meal—then what happened?”
“I didn't see them after that. Well, the two younger Mexican women. The defendant stuck around for a while and then disappeared.”
“What was the defendant's demeanor?” Holt shot another look at Rufina.
“I'd have to say she appeared angry. Hard to say with that face.”
Erma drew a sharp breath. Sandra gripped Erma's arm. Rufina wore a poker face.
Holt's jaw was working. “Did she do anything to make you think she was angry?”
“Just the way she walked. Rigid. Her eyes unfriendly.”
“Who do you think she was angry with?”
Erma stood. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”
The judge, who had been almost reclining in his chair, bounced to an upright position. “Sustained.”
Holt said, “Did she do or say anything to indicate who she was angry with?”
“Well, sir, it was the way she was acting. She looked at me like she could kill me.”
“Objection—”
“Sustained,” the judge spoke before Erma could complete her objection.
What was up with Elgin? Besides being a racist and a sexist, he sounded like he hated Rufina. But why?
“Let me ask you this,” Holt said. “Without interpreting what her expressions looked like to you, did she do anything else you thought inappropriate?”
Elgin shifted around in the witness chair. “Well, I hate to say it, but she was making goo-goo eyes at Mrs. Schindler during the same time period as she gave me the look I already described.”
Erma leaned over to Sandra and whispered, “You think he's heard the rumors BJ and Rufina were lovers?” Rufina looked as brittle as a slice of burned toast. The poor woman's demeanor had to be a response to Elgin's testimony.
Sandra said behind her hand, “There's some subtext in what he says and, hell, in this whole sorry situation. You'll have to find out more on cross.”
Holt had paused and was looking in their direction, probably to give the goo-goo eye statement time to sink in. He could, however, hope the jury would watch her and Sandra and wonder why they were conversing. Erma elbowed Sandra and straightened up.
“’Goo-goo eyes’?” Holt said. “What do you mean by that?”
“Hell—I mean, heck, everybody knows Rufina—the defendant—worships the ground Mrs. Schindler walks on. I think she's jealous because Mrs. Schindler and I are courting.”
Erma's whole body tensed. She wrote on her legal pad in huge letters. WHAT THE HELL? Her hands shook. If only BJ hadn't left town to find Rufina's boyfriend.
“Calm down,” Sandra hissed.
Erma scribbled again, “Just figured out Holt's alternate theory of the case. He's implying Rufina intended to shoot BJ out of jealousy and shot Katy Jo instead.” She pushed the pad in front of Sandra. Sandra glanced at it and pushed it back.
While writing the note, Erma had missed the next question.
Elgin said, “Yes, sir, I've been seeing Mrs. Schindler for months now, and Rufina, I mean the defendant, hasn't liked it one bit.”
Holt leaned back in his chair and exhaled audibly. “She didn't stay long after the meal was served, and she didn't have dinner with the rest of y'all?”
“No, she did not.”
“Sir, do you recall where everyone went after the dinner was over?”
“I think to bed. Rex walked me to my truck and said he was going to bed.” Burgess stroked his chin. “Everyone else had scattered. BJ and the twins cleared the table and took the dirty dishes to the kitchen for the maids to clean the next day.”
“Before you left, did you see anyone lingering around outside?”
“No, sir. Rex had went back inside as I started up my vehicle. No one else was around. Of course, it was dark, but the porch light was on.”
Holt rose. “Pass the witness.”
Erma stood. “Judge, do you think we could have a little break? I drank a lot of tea during lunch, if you know what I mean.”
A couple of the jurors snickered.
“Take ten-minutes.” Giving a vulture look at everyone in turn, the judge added, “And don't be late.” He swept off the bench like a bird in flight.
The bailiff escorted the jury out of the courtroom.
“Rufina, you gotta go?” Erma snatched up her purse.
Rufina shook her head. She had wrapped herself up in her shawl. Erma suspected Rufina suffered from the chill of fear.
“Good, stay there. You, too, Mel. You can go anytime. Come on, Sandra, we've gotta talk.” She grabbed Sandra's arm. As soon as they were in the hall, out of hearing range of the other court participants, Erma said, “So wh
at the hell do you think Holt's doing?”
Sandra rested a hand on the wall above Erma's head. “I think he's laying out every conceivable theory of the case and going to let the jury choose the one they like the most.”
“How in the hell are we supposed to defend against that?”
“The best we can. We'll refute every argument he puts forth. We have to be prepared since at final argument, he gets to open and close. We have to guess what his closing will be, but we're smart girls, Mom.”
“I don't know what you're grinning about.”
“I don't either. I feel like shit. The stress is getting to me. I'm worried about Mel. And my face is breaking out.” She touched a red bump on her chin. “I'm too old to have pimples.”
“Oh, for Christ's sake. At least you can get laid to relieve your stress. What's an old dame like me supposed to do?”
“Is the sheriff married?”
Erma shoved at Sandra's arm. She walked across to the water fountain and took a drink. “I don't have to go to the restroom. I needed a minute. Imagine that ass Elgin implying Rufina meant to kill BJ out of jealousy. What a crock.”
Sandra said, “Go get him.”
Erma shot Sandra a fake smile before returning to the courtroom. She would do whatever she could to show what a jerk Elgin Burgess was. She swung open the door. Rufina sat stone-faced like a skinny Buddha. Elgin stood at attention next to the witness stand. No one else had returned. Erma scooted around the prosecution table to Elgin and peered up into his face. She didn't say anything, just looked up at him like a sergeant would do a soldier in a line up.
The door to the jury room creaked, so she went back to her table. She grinned at Rufina. “Hang in there, my friend.”
After everyone was seated, Erma asked, “May I proceed, Your Honor?” When the judge nodded at her, she said, “Mr. Burgess, I'm Erma Townley, one of the defense lawyers for Rufina Barboza.”
“I know who you are.” He spoke in a monotone, looking like he was focusing on a spot on the wall in the back of the courtroom. Holt had probably told him to do that.
“We've met, right?”
“Yes, we've met several times.”
“On the night of the incident for which we are in court, you and Rex Schindler were drinking mezcal, weren't you?” Since the two of them had been drinking mezcal the night she'd had dinner with them, odds were they had been on the night of the murder.
His head jerked so hard he could have gotten a whiplash. He didn't answer.
“Some people think drinking mezcal prolongs one's sex life.” Erma didn't watch the jury to gauge their response. She hated grandstanding lawyers. “Is that what you thought? That you were going to get lucky with BJ—Mrs. Schindler that night?”
“Objection,” Holt yelped, leaping up. “She's testifying. She's not allowed to testify, Judge.”
“Sustained,” the judge said.
Erma gave Holt her best pitying expression. What a crybaby.
“Putting aside your thoughts about your sex life, Mr. Burgess, you never answered my first question. You were drinking mezcal the night of Katy Jo's murder, correct?”
Holt's pen clicked twice.
Burgess's eyes flickered in the direction of the judge. “Yes, but by suppertime, we'd moved on to wine.”
“How much mezcal had you imbibed by supper?”
“A couple of shots.” He still wouldn't look at her.
“A couple. So two? Two shots?”
“More or less.”
“Well was it more? How many shots exactly?”
“Well...uh...four.”
Erma squared her shoulders. “Ahhhh, was it four? You remember you had four shots of mezcal? And mezcal is in the tequila family, am I not correct?”
The ballpoint pen clicked. “She's asking more than one question, Judge.” Holt rose partway to his feet.
“Sustained.”
“Was it four or not, Mr. Burgess?”
“Yes, it was four shots, Mrs. Townley.” He frowned.
“Four shots of Mezcal. And it's made from the agave plant, like tequila is, right?”
He nodded.
“Answer for the record, Mr. Burgess,” Judge Danforth said.
“Yes, made from the agave plant like tequila.” His face had grown granite hard.
“When you say shots, Mr. Burgess, do you mean like from shot glasses? Shot glasses like bartenders use? Or water glasses? Or those special little tinted glasses from Mexico?”
Holt's head rolled around on his neck, and he sprang to his feet again. “Judge—”
The judge grimaced. “Mrs. Townley, you know better than that. Stick to one question at a time.”
“I was trying to save the court time, Your Honor.” She turned her attention back on the witness. “Mr. Burgess, describe the kind of glass you and Rex Schindler were tossing shots out of.” Not correct English, but the best she could do and most likely more to Burgess's understanding.
Burgess's eyes darted back and forth between Holt and the jury. He pursed his lips. “American bartender-type shot glasses.”
Erma folded her hands in front of her. “All right. Y'all were drinking mezcal and then wine with dinner. What kind of wine?”
“What difference does it make?” Burgess's tone was sharp.
“I'll ask the questions, Mr. Burgess. If you're unaware of the type of wine, say so.”
“It was red, okay?”
“What'd y'all have to eat with the red wine? Was it steak?” Erma saw out of the corner of her eye that Holt held his head in his hands. He stared down at his table like he was long-suffering.
“Yes, steak. You want me to tell you the precise cut?” He folded his arms across his chest.
Someone on the jury tittered. The judge's dark look wasn't wasted on Burgess, who squirmed.
Holt's pen clicked several times.
“So you and Rex Schindler, BJ Schindler's son, had been doing mezcal and then wine for a couple of hours that night?”
“Yes—well maybe an hour and a half.”
“Were y’all in the living room? The den? The den is where the liquor is kept, am I not correct? Not the den with the guns, but a separate den, right?”
“Yes, you're correct. We were sitting around the other den.”
“Where was BJ Schindler?”
“In and out. Same with the girls.”
“When you say the girls, you mean the twins or the kitchen help?”
“The twins.”
“Rufina was in the kitchen with the two young women who prepared dinner.”
“I assume so.”
“What about Doug Christian?”
Burgess’s head jerked again. He raised an eyebrow. “I don't remember Doug Christian being there. Maybe he was.”
Erma doodled on her legal pad. Sandra bumped Erma's leg under the table and shoved her legal pad under Erma's nose. How come he doesn't remember Doug being there? Erma nodded. “The twins—they were identical, right?”
“Yes.”
“Could you tell them apart?”
“Nope—no. Not many people could, as I understand it, except their mother.”
“Not even Rex?”
“I don't think so. Not always. He told me when they were young, the girls would play tricks on him. He wasn't always sure which one to tell on.”
Several scenarios were playing out in Erma's mind. She wasn't quite ready to put it all together, wasn't quite sure where Elgin Burgess fit into the picture, but she was quite sure he was involved with the killing somehow, along with Rex. She couldn't prove it, of course. But that wasn't her job. Her job was to create reasonable doubt.
“Mrs. Townley,” the judge said in an ear-splitting voice. “Are you through with your examination?”
She'd let her mind wander a bit too long. “Sorry, Judge.” She made a few quick notes before her thoughts became too jumbled and confused and the ideas that had come to her disappeared. “Now, Mr. Burgess, would you describe the Schindler twins to the j
ury, please?”
Holt jumped up, his pen clicking continuously. “I don't think that's necessary, Your Honor. The surviving twin is on my witness list—”
“Are you going to call her?” Erma also got to her feet.
Holt looked from the judge to Erma to the judge again. “Strike that objection.”
“You may answer,” the judge said to Burgess.
“Blond, blue-eyed.”
“Petite?” Erma asked.
“I guess you could say that.”
Erma wanted to walk up to the witness stand and slap the shit out of him. Not that she wasn't used to witnesses on cross being difficult, but she didn't like Elgin anyway, and his attitude made everything more annoying. “Do you say that? That they are—were—petite?”
“Yes, if you mean small, short and small-boned, yes.”
“Like Rufina?”
Someone gasped, and it didn't come from the defense table.
“Mrs. Barboza is almost black, so no, they weren't like her.”
“For the record, Mr. Burgess, my client is very small, isn't she, in spite of being ‘almost black’ as you say?”
“Yes she is.” He picked a tissue from the cube in front of him and dabbed his forehead with it.
Sandra snorted. “That's one for argument.”
Erma noted his words. “All right. Let's go back to your direct testimony.”
Elgin straightened, his eyes searching the courtroom as if for an escape hatch.
“How long would you say you and Mrs. Schindler have been courting?” Erma had to struggle to keep a normal tone of voice.
“Oh, heck, ’bout a year or more I would say.”
“So for a year or more, you've been going over to the Schindler home to see Mrs. Schindler?”
“Every chance I got.” His mouth formed a smug smile.
“How often would that be?”
“Once or twice a week, at least.”
“She would invite you over?”
“Rex would ask me for drinks if he was home from San Antonio.”
“Would Mrs. Schindler invite you the rest of the time?”
“Well, ma'am, sometimes I would just happen to be there, like for business or something.”
That caught Erma's attention. Business? What business did they have in common? And what was the something? She wasn't about to ask. “When you were there for ‘business or something,’ she would ask you to stay for dinner?”
Death of a Rancher's Daughter Page 31