Cam eased back on his haunches, holding his head in both his hands. Something sticky and hot was seeping through his hair and down his jaw. He crouched there, sick and shivering.
"Jesus," he whispered into the dark. "What am I going to do? What in the name of hell am I going to do?"
Chapter 16
Dear God! Cam looks terrible, Shea thought as the bailiff led Ty and her to the seats they'd occupied in the courtroom the day before. Seeing the dark hollows scoured beneath Cam's eyes and the lines of weariness bracketing his mouth, she wondered if he'd slept last night at all.
She'd tossed and turned herself until almost dawn, grappling with the memory of following Cam to his office and what she'd found when she got there. Never had she imagined that the strong, calm, capable man she thought she knew could be so fragile and vulnerable. She had taken him into her arms instinctively, needing to comfort, needing to absorb as much of his confusion and pain as she could. She'd wanted so much to be with him, to offer him the balm of lovers' intimacy, the succor of her tenderness.
Close as they'd been last night, he'd finally given up the last of his secrets, trusted her with what he believed was the worst of himself. Even after he'd told her what he'd been and done, Shea's faith in him was unshaken.
God knows Cam had made his mistakes, but he wasn't brutal or cruel. He wasn't the kind of man Wes Seaver was, and she couldn't help believing Cam had had reasons of his own for joining up with the guerrillas so late in the war.
She only feared—especially when she saw how brittle and drained Cam looked this morning—that he would bend beneath the weight of Wes Seaver's threats, sacrifice his honor to protect his sister.
She couldn't bear the thought of that, of what it would do to him, of what it would do to Rand and Lily. Cam was the foundation the two of them had built their lives on, and while Seaver's revelations might rock their world, Cam's family would survive unless he crumbled.
Shea looked up at where Cam was giving a few last instructions to his bailiff and wished she'd had that insight to give him last night. Shea longed to go to him now, look into his eyes, and reassure him. She wanted to tell him he must stand against Seaver's threats for everyone's sake.
But the courtroom was quickly filling with lawyers and jurors and spectators. The trial was about to resume, and she'd have no chance to talk to him.
Beside her, Ty leaned in close. "Is Cam mad at us?" he wanted to know.
Shea smiled and gently smoothed down Ty's hair. He hadn't slept well, either. She'd heard him cry out more than once in the night, but when she'd gone to him, he'd turned to the wall to hide his tears.
"Of course Cam's not mad at us," she offered gently. "He doesn't want to be here today any more than we do."
Ty nodded as if he understood, but before she could say more the deputies brought in the defendants.
As he settled into his chair at the defense table, Sam Morran glanced back at his boy. A smile touched his lips, a smile warm enough to drive the fear and sadness from his eyes.
Ty reached out and closed his short, blunt fingers around the tails of his father's battered sack coat. He gripped it tight, crimping new wrinkles into the already rumpled cloth.
The brevity and the intensity of that contact wrung Shea's heart. What would this child do when the jury brought back their verdict? How would she console Ty when his father was sentenced to hang?
"First District Court is now in session," the bailiff intoned.
Cam clapped his gavel and the trial picked up with the presentation of the defense attorneys' cases. Cal Edwards, Jake Seaver's attorney, called his first witness.
Hyram Plumber was the barkeep at the Citation Saloon, one of Denver's seediest drinking establishments. After establishing that the man had been pouring drinks the day of the robbery, the lawyer went on to question him. "Were any of the men in this room drinking at your establishment that afternoon?"
"Why, yes, sir, they were," Plumber answered crisply. "Mr. Seaver and Mr. Morran were there, and Mr. Faber came in a few minutes later. The three of them ordered a bottle."
"Can you identify those men for the jury, Mr. Plumber?"
"Sure," Plumber said with a nod of his bald head. "They're the ones sitting over there, done up in manacles."
Mr. Edwards frowned as if he wished Plumber had used some other way of identifying his client and the others, but proceeded anyway. "Mr. Plumber, just how do you know these gentlemen were in your establishment at the precise moment the Bank of Denver was being robbed?"
"Well, sir, when we heard gunfire from the shootout at the bank, Mr. Seaver turned to me and said, 'What the hell is that?' "
A murmur rose in response to Plumber's answer.
Seaver's attorney waited for the din to die away. "And how did you answer Mr. Seaver?"
"I said, 'Damned if I know.' But then, for some reason, I took out my pocket watch."
"And what time was it?"
"It was ten minutes after one." Plumber paused for effect. "Which is amazing, you know, because that is exactly the time the Rocky Mountain News said the robbers came out of the bank."
"You're sure of the time?" Edwards asked.
"I said so, didn't I?" The saloon keeper took out a rumpled handkerchief and blotted perspiration from his upper lip.
"What did the defendants do when they heard the shooting?"
"Do? Well, sir, the three of them tossed back their drinks, and went out to see what the ruckus was about. I saw them head up the street in the direction of the shooting," Plumber testified, "so maybe that's how folks got the idea it was them that robbed the bank."
"And you're swearing these men were in the Citation Saloon at the day and time in question?"
The barkeep bobbed his head. "I specifically remember, because they left half a bottle on the table when they went out."
"Which you watered and sold to some other unsuspecting sod, you cheating bastard!" someone shouted from the back of the courtroom.
The place erupted with catcalls and laughter.
Cam straightened like a shot and banged his gavel. "There will be order in this court, or I'll have the bailiff toss the lot of you out into the street!"
Even at that, it took a minute or two for the crowd to settle. When they had, Cam turned to Mr. Edwards. "Have you any more you want to ask this witness, sir?"
"No, Your Honor."
Cam turned to Faber's and Morran's attorneys.
Morran's lawyer, Josiah Wallace, got up and asked one question. "And you're sure Sam Morran was in your establishment during the bank robbery?"
"Like I said. I know Mr. Morran real good. He's one of my best customers."
It was a dubious achievement, to Shea's way of thinking, but it established Sam Morran's identity.
Matt Faber's attorney asked specifically about his client, and received much the same assurances.
John McGreggor, the prosecutor, rose. "You testified, Mr. Plumber, that while the defendants were in your saloon, you took out your watch." Plumber inclined his head. "And that it was at exactly ten minutes after one o'clock in the afternoon on January the twenty-sixth, is that right?"
"Yes."
"You're sure it was the twenty-sixth?"
Plumber laid his hand across his heart. "It would have been my dear mama's sixty-first birthday. God rest her soul."
"Do you happen to have the timepiece in question with you?" McGreggor asked.
Cam frowned down from the bench. "Mr. McGreggor, is there a purpose to this?"
Shea's heart leaped and she couldn't help wondering why Cam was questioning the prosecutor's methods.
Was this what judges did, or was; he preparing to undermine the prosecution?
"I think you'll see the purpose, Your Honor," McGreggor answered, "if you allow me another question or two."
Cam scowled and nodded.
"Would you mind if I took a look at your watch, Mr. Plumber?"
Plumber shot a quizzical glance at Seaver's attorney, then
dug the watch out of his pocket.
McGreggor turned the shiny silver pocket watch in his hand and popped open the case. "This keep good time, Mr. Plumber?"
"Un-huh," Plumber answered, pressing his handkerchief to his upper lip again.
"And why do you find it necessary to carry this timepiece, sir?" McGreggor asked, shutting the case over the face of the watch.
"Well," the witness began with a grin, "for one thing, it ain't good business to have a clock in a barroom."
The crowd rumbled again, probably in agreement.
"I see," McGreggor murmured, flicking open the side of the watch case that protected the works. "So, Mr. Plumber, can you explain to me how you consulted this watch, the very one you claim to have been carrying on January twenty-six of this year, when it's engraved with your name and the date 'February eight, 1876'?"
Plumber paled, and Shea heard Cal Edwards curse under his breath. "Goddamned idiot!" he mumbled.
Cam banged and banged his gavel, but it was a full five minutes before the turmoil in the room sank to manageable levels.
When it did McGreggor continued, "I have a bill of sale from Hense Jewelers, which details the sale of this watch and is dated the eighth of February."
Cam scowled over the edge of his bench at the witness. "Well, Mr. Plumber, you care to tell the court what happened here?"
Plumber had sweated through his shirt and vest. "I got nothing to say, Your Honor."
"Well then, I'm going to ask my bailiff to escort you to the room next door so we can have a little chat when I'm done here about what happens to witnesses who perjure themselves."
Once Plumber was gone, Cam turned to the jury. "Now then, it's my duty to direct you to disregard this witness's testimony and not to consider it in your deliberations."
The trial proceeded, and in the course of the morning, the defense called three more witnesses who proved hardly more reliable than Hyram Plumber.
Just before twelve o'clock, Cam banged his gavel and adjourned the court for the noon meal. Shea waited in the corridor, needing to talk to Cam, needing to convince him not to bow to Seaver's threats. But Cam never showed his face beyond the tightly locked door of his chambers.
The afternoon session was louder and more unruly than the previous one, probably owing to the fact that most of the spectators had sought their lunch at the saloons surrounding the courthouse. Once Cam had called everyone to order, he asked the lawyers to make their final statements.
Shea listened raptly, and found Prosecutor McGreggor's strong and relentlessly logical. Five citizens of Denver had been ruthlessly shot during the robbery. Numerous unimpeachable witnesses had identified the outlaws. All three of the defendants had been arrested outside the bank with their weapons drawn.
The defense attorneys attempted to convince the jury that their clients had been mistakenly identified in the confusion of the robbers' escape.
After all the lawyers had spoken, Cam turned to instruct the jury. As Shea understood it, this would be his chance to explain how they should consider the evidence, limit the scope of their deliberations, and temper the outcome of the trial.
Shea's heart beat hard inside her. If Cam was going to submit to Wes Seaver's blackmail, he would begin to guide the jury's purpose now. As if he knew what she was thinking, he glanced across at her, and the desolation in his eyes made her belly churn with dread.
"Sometimes," Cam began his directive, his voice ringing low and resonant across the crowded courtroom, "sometimes mitigating circumstances alter the deliberations a jury undertakes and affect the outcome of a trial. I believe that there are things about this case, this robbery, that might influence the way you judge the men being tried today."
Oh, Cam, no!
Shea bit her lip to keep from crying out, knowing it was already too late to change what was about to happen. If she'd wanted to help him stand against Seaver's threats, she should have held his hands in hers last night, promised him that Lily would understand and forgive him his past, and pledged to help and support him whatever came. She hadn't done that. Instead she had let him run her off, let him believe he had to walk this treacherous road alone.
Up on the judge's bench Cam continued his instructions to the jury. "I think that the deaths of your friends and your neighbors might well color the deliberations you are about to undertake. I know you are bound to feel bitterness and grief at the deaths of these good men. You may even long for revenge against their killers. That's more than understandable, but those feelings have no place in a juror's mind."
Cam compressed his lips before he went on. "When you agreed to serve on this jury you took an oath. You promised to set aside your personal considerations in the name of the law. It is my duty to remind you of that pledge."
His gaze moved over the jury, the courtroom, and came to rest on the defendants.
"You must consider the charges against these three men solely on the evidence presented here—and nothing else. No wishes to avenge these senseless deaths, no feelings of bitterness and hatred. It is the law that raises us a step above the beasts, and we must uphold the rights and responsibilities it demands of us."
Shea's throat closed and her eyes burned with pride. Cam had not bowed to Seaver's threats. He might be forced to confront his past, but he would do it as a man who stood for right and honor. If he let her, she would stand proudly beside him through whatever came.
Cam drew a long breath and let it out again before he concluded. "As you go off together, you must consider each of these men's crimes separately. That means you might well decide on different verdicts for each of them—and ultimately provide for different punishments. The bailiff will escort you to a room where you can consider those decisions."
Deputy Sim Cummings led the jurors out a side door of the courtroom. Cam rapped his gavel sharply to adjourn the court. There was nothing for any of them to do now, but wait.
* * *
"Jury's coming back, Judge," Deputy Cummings said, seeking Cam out in the small spartan chamber down the hall from the courtroom.
Cam put down the cup of coffee he'd been drinking and pushed to his feet. "Be right there."
"We gonna have a necktie party, Judge?" Someone in the hallway waved a flask in his face as if the man were proposing a toast. Cam batted the flask aside.
"We'll have to see," he answered and promised himself that once this was over he was going to take a bottle of whiskey off somewhere and drink himself insensible.
The jury had come to their verdict even faster than Cam had anticipated. Nor did he think their efficiency boded well for the men on trial. Not that he was surprised; these three were unquestionably guilty of the charges brought against them.
Except maybe for Sam Morran. Cam couldn't imagine for a moment that Morran could have shot someone. Certainly none of the witnesses had said he did, but Cam supposed that didn't matter. Denver was in a hanging mood. The populace—goaded by the shrill headlines in the newspapers—had decided the men who'd died in the course of the robbery had to be avenged, and today that bill came due.
It was time for Cam to play his part in this—despite Wes Seaver's threats. Once the jury had published its verdict, he'd pass the sentence, set the date, and attend the execution.
The very thought of facing another hanging—especially this hanging—made his belly burn. Dear God, he hated being part of this!
He hated even more that he was going to have to condemn Sam Morran in front of his boy. He'd wished he could count on Shea to keep Ty out of the courtroom, but he knew short of chloroform or hog-tieing she wouldn't be able to prevent the boy from being there. In a way Cam couldn't blame him. He'd needed to be at his father's bedside when he died, and he hadn't been a whole lot older than Ty was now.
As Cam took his place on the bench, he glanced across and saw that Shea and Ty were seated in their usual place. Though Ty's mouth was set, Cam could see a glimmer of hope in him, some stubborn childish belief that everything would be all right. Sh
ea sat with Ty's hand wrapped tight in hers, and Cam thought she might be hoping for a miracle, too.
In any case, he figured he owed her some sort of warning. He caught her eye, then nodded almost imperceptibly. Still holding his gaze, she inclined her head.
What surprised him even more than her perceptiveness was the compassion he saw in her eyes. She understood what having to pass this sentence was doing to him, how speaking the words was going to flay his soul. And he could see that no matter what he'd told her, no matter what he'd done, she was willing to stand by him when this was over.
The din in the courtroom rose as the prisoners were escorted to their places, and Cam noticed the way Sam Morran greeted his son. The communication that flowed between them, the need to touch, the yearning to speak of things that only boys and fathers knew sliced to the quick of him.
He saw the fear beneath Jake Seaver's bravado, and the acceptance in Matt Faber's eyes.
Cam straightened as the bailiff called the court into session. "And have you come to a verdict?" Cam asked the foreman of the jury a few moments later.
"We have, Your Honor."
Cam asked the defendants to rise, then turned to the foreman again. "How find you in the case of Matt Faber?"
"Guilty on all counts, Your Honor."
The courtroom buzzed like a hive of bees. Cam rapped his gavel for silence.
"And Jake Seaver?"
"Guilty on all counts."
Cam hesitated and let his gaze stray to the last man at the defense table. "And Sam Morran?"
"Guilty, sir."
To his credit, Morran's face gave nothing away. Cam suspected he had accepted what was going to happen long before. From what Shea told him, Morran had been trying to kill himself with drink ever since Ty's mother died.
Cam slid a glance at where Shea had her arm around Ty and his heart twisted hard. Still, he banged his gavel for silence, then turned to the row of defendants.
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