“Who is he?”
“Lloyd Elsner. Know him?”
Father John shook his head. It had been years since he’d attended meetings or been in large groups of Jesuits. There were a lot of fellow Jesuits he didn’t know.
Rutherford gripped the armrests and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll call the retirement home and have them arrange to fly Lloyd to Riverton. If you don’t mind, think I’ll turn in. It’s a long, boring drive up here. Not much to see.”
“You don’t like driving through the wide-open spaces?”
Rutherford moved toward the doorway, then turned back. “I’m glad you do,” he said.
8
STATE OF WYOMINGv. Travis Birdsong. Charge: Murder, first degree. The Honorable Mason Harding presiding. Michael Deaver, prosecutor. Harry Gruenwald, defense.
Vicky flipped through the court transcript, glancing down the pages to get the gist of what had happened. The defense attorney, Harry Gruenwald, had intended to file an appeal. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have ordered the copy of the transcript. Yet Amos said that no appeal had been filed.
It had surprised her how thin the transcript was when Annie dropped it on her desk this morning. Now she saw the brief statements, the few witnesses, and the hurried examinations. Murder trials were usually more complicated—witness after witness, a methodical introduction of evidence. But Travis Birdsong’s trial had lasted only a day and a half. The jury reached the verdict in two hours. The evidence must not have been strong enough for a murder conviction, so Travis was convicted of voluntary manslaughter, a crime of passion. There was a hurried sense, almost like an odor, lifting off the pages, as if Travis had certainly been guilty of something.
The phone was ringing again in the outer office. It had been ringing all day. Routine matters that probably went to Roger Hurst, the new associate. Important matters, like the proposal for the BLM that would protect Red Cliff Canyon—those were the matters that she and Adam handled. They were building the kind of practice Adam wanted. They both wanted, she reminded herself. She’d finished the proposal a few minutes ago and e-mailed the copy to members of the Joint Council.
Now she thumbed backward through the transcript of Travis Birdsong’s trial until she came to the prosecutor’s opening statements. Michael Deaver, assistant prosecuting attorney seven years ago, elected county and prosecuting attorney last fall. She’d faced the man in court numerous times. He was tenacious and confident. And he could be brutal, like a predator waiting to tear to pieces the testimony of any witness who gave any hint of stumbling. In the cases she’d defended against Deaver—burglary, assault, fraud—she’d sat on the edge of her chair, ready to jump to her feet and object to his tactics. She’d won a number of cases, and Deaver was not the kind of prosecutor who appreciated losing. She could imagine the way he had commanded the space between the prosecutor’s table and the bench at Travis’s trial, shooting pointed glances at the jury, the spectators, the defendant, everything in his tone and manner affirming that Travis Birdsong was guilty of murder, no question.
Members of the jury, the state will show beyond a reasonable doubt, indeed beyond any doubt whatsoever, that the defendant pointed a shotgun at the victim, Raymond Trublood, a man who had been his friend, a man who had trusted him. The defendant pulled the trigger, firing the shot that ended his friend’s life. We will produce the evidence, ladies and gentlemen of the jury…
Vicky paged through the rest of it. She could almost hear his voice, rising at certain points—beyond any doubt whatsoever—and lowering to a whisper at just the right moment—a man who had trusted him. Oh, he was good, Deaver.
She read through the testimony of Deaver’s first witness, Mrs. Marjorie Taylor, owner of the Taylor Ranch.
Deaver: Mrs. Taylor, please tell the court of your association with Travis Birdsong and the victim.
Taylor: I hired them. They worked for me, both those Indians. They came around in the fall, said they were looking for cowboying work. Well, they looked sturdy enough and they had some okay references, so we decided to take them on, give them a chance, you know. We’re always trying to help out the Indians around here, those that want to work.
Deaver: When you say, “we,” who do you mean?
Taylor: Andy Lyle, my foreman. Been with me for going on ten years now, ever since my husband died. Couldn’t run the ranch without Andy. About the time the Indians showed up, we’d bought a Hereford bull since we were looking to increase our herd. So we figured a couple extra hands could help out.
Deaver: Was it unusual for two men to apply together for work on the ranch?
Taylor: We didn’t make anything of it. They were friends, they said. Worked on a ranch south of Lander the year before. Guess they liked working together.
Deaver: Birdsong and Trublood didn’t get along very well, did they?
Taylor: Well, they got in a big fight day before the murder. Raymond was beating the you-know-what out of Travis. I yelled for Andy and he broke them up. I told them, any more of that and they were going to be off the ranch.
Vicky pulled a yellow highlighter out of the desk drawer and made a long, yellow smear across the question. “Leading question,” she said out loud. Where was Harry Gruenwald? He should have objected; then the judge would have asked Deaver to rephrase.
Deaver: What were they fighting about?
“Object, Gruenwald.” Out loud again, as if the defense attorney were in the office.
Taylor: About money, what else? They stole that petroglyph, and they got into a fight over the money they got.
Gruenwald: Objection. This is hearsay and conjecture, Your Honor.
Judge: Sustained. The jury will disregard. Mr. Deaver, you’re on a fishing expedition. You will confine your questions to the matter before this court.
Deaver: Your Honor, it is a fact that a petroglyph was recently stolen from Red Cliff Canyon. Chips and rocks identified as having come from the rock of the petroglyph were found in the victim’s pickup. The theft goes to the defendant’s motive for shooting Mr. Trublood.
Judge: The defendant was not charged, Mr. Deaver. Stay on track.
Deaver: Mrs. Taylor, please tell the court what you saw the following day.
Taylor: Yeah, that day I’ll never forget. I was working in the office up by the house when I heard a gunshot. “Jesus,” I said to myself. “One of those Indians went and shot the other.” So I ran out of the office down the road to the barn because I knew Raymond had been shoeing horses in the corral right next to the barn. I saw Andy running ahead. He was already in the barn when I got there. Right inside the door, there was Raymond on the ground, a big hole in his stomach. I’ve seen enough varmints get hit with a shotgun. I knew the Indian was dead. Laying next to him was the shotgun that we kept in the barn. Andy says, “I seen the bastard. I’ll get him,” and he takes off running. I ran back to the office and called the sheriff. Next thing I know, here comes Andy with Travis. I mean he’s got that Indian by the arm and there wasn’t any way he was going to run off again.
Deaver: Your witness, Mr. Gruenwald.
Gruenwald: No questions.
No questions? Vicky ran the highlighter over the words, pressing so hard that the print turned orange. She skipped past the next few lines: Andy Lyle called to the stand. Sworn in. States his name and says he is the foreman at the Taylor Ranch.
Deaver: Mr. Lyle, please tell the court what you witnessed on the day of the murder.
Lyle: Well, it’s just like Marjorie, Mrs. Taylor, says. I was bringing a couple of horses to the corral when I heard the gunshot. I jumped off my horse and went running for the barn. Just as I got to the door, Travis there comes running out, and he’s going, I mean, a hundred miles an hour, like he can’t get away fast enough.
Gruenwald: Objection.
Judge: Stick to the facts, Mr. Lyle.
Lyle: Okay. Fact is, I seen him running out of the barn fast. So I went after him and brought him back. Sheriff’s deputies were there. They arrested
him.
Deaver: Your witness.
Gruenwald: No questions, Your Honor.
Vicky could feel the frustration bubbling inside her. She skipped through the testimony of other witnesses: the deputy who took Travis into custody, the man from the Wyoming Crime Unit who said the fingerprints found on the gun stock matched those of Travis Birdsong. It was like watching planks set into place until, finally, the side of a barn loomed in front of her.
Now it was Gruenwald’s turn to present the defense. She’d met the man on only one occasion, shortly after she’d left the firm in Denver and moved to Lander to open a one-woman law office. She’d made a point of visiting other lawyers in Lander and Riverton, introducing herself, chatting a little, saying she’d just stopped by to meet them, and all of them knowing she was angling for a referral now and then. Gruenwald was a year beyond Travis Birdsong’s case then, a large, shambling man, she remembered, in rumpled slacks and shirt, the miniature silver buffalo head of his bolo tie bobbing on his chest. He had moist hands that gripped both of hers, and he’d told her he was glad to meet her. Should she ever need advice on how to handle a case, she shouldn’t hesitate to call. He’d had…what was it? Thirty-five, forty years’ experience? Knew all the judges in the county, knew the prosecutors, too, knew his way around. Knew how to get things done in these parts. Shortly afterward, she’d heard that he’d left town.
Gruenwald: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client, Travis Birdsong, is an honest and hardworking Indian, never been in trouble in his life. I intend to offer evidence which will prove that Mr. Birdsong is an upright citizen and an ethical man. The evidence will show that Mr. Birdsong would never have committed such a heinous act.
Vicky stared at the typed words, forcing herself to believe what she was reading. Why didn’t he focus on the fact that the prosecution would be unable to prove the charge beyond a reasonable doubt? He could raise some significant issues: How much time had elapsed before Lyle had reached the barn after hearing the shotgun blast? Any blood spatter in the barn? Blood spatter on Travis? Where was a ballistics test on Travis? Where was the evidence that he’d recently fired the gun? How was it that Lyle had seen Travis exit the barn, but Marjorie Taylor did not see him?
But Gruenwald hadn’t raised any of those issues. Instead, he’d said: I would like to begin by calling Mr. Amos Walking Bear, my client’s grandfather.
Walking Bear. God, the elder had been carrying a heavy burden for seven years. He’d testified on behalf of his grandson, sure that he was helping him.
Gruenwald: Mr. Walking Bear, tell the court the nature of your relationship with Travis Birdsong.
Walking Bear: Travis is my grandson, my daughter’s boy.
Gruenwald: Will you describe his character?
Deaver: Your Honor!
Gruenwald: If it pleases the court, my defense of Mr. Birdsongrests upon the man’s proven character, and his grandfather is in a position to testify about this from his own experience.
Deaver: Mr. Walking Bear was not present on the day in question.
Judge: I’m inclined to go along with you, Mr. Gruenwald, but don’t step out of bounds.
Walking Bear: I’ve known Travis since the day he was born. His mother, that’s my Emma, had him right there in the living room. My wife and two friends took care of everything. Emma and the baby stayed on with us. After my wife died and Emma was killed in a car accident, there was just me and the boy. He was ten years old. I always taught him the Arapaho Way best I could. That boy knew right from wrong. He had good character. No way could Travis shoot Raymond. No way. Travis had a hard time even pulling the trigger on varmints, even though sometimes he had to.
Gruenwald: Nothing further, Your Honor.
Judge: Mr. Deaver?
Deaver: You taught Travis the Arapaho Way.
Walking Bear: Yes, sir.
Deaver: And what might that be?
Walking Bear: To live with honor so he can walk upright like a man that don’t have any heavy loads weighing him down. Think about what he was doing. Be thoughtful in everything. Don’t hurt nobody. Don’t kill nobody. Make the people proud.
Deaver: I see. And when did Travis leave your home?
Walking Bear: After he got out of high school, he went out and started cowboying. Worked at a couple of ranches around the area before he hired on with Mrs. Taylor.
Deaver: After high school. So that would be about four years ago, would it not? Travis left your home four years ago, so you don’t know if he continued to follow the Arapaho Way.
Walking Bear: I know.
Deaver: When was the last time you saw your grandson?
Walking Bear: I’m seeing him right now. I seen him yesterday in the jail.
Deaver: And before that?
Walking Bear: Week before the murder, he come to the house.
Deaver: Did he tell you how things were going at the ranch?
Walking Bear: He didn’t say much.
Deaver: Was that unusual? Your grandson whom you raised like your own child not wanting to talk? Was it because something had happened between him and his friend, Raymond?
Walking Bear: He didn’t say.
Deaver: Didn’t say anything? Anything at all?
Walking Bear: Said he might be looking for another job in the summer.
Deaver: I see. He was planning to leave the ranch, which might suggest, would it not, that there was some trouble, some reason that he wanted to get away.
Gruenwald: Objection. Calls for opinion.
Vicky smeared the last lines with yellow highlighter. “Where have you been, Gruenwald?” she said. Out loud again, as if he had come through her door and were shambling across her office. “Asleep?”
Deaver: Mr. Walking Bear, you stated that Travis didn’t even like killing varmints, even though there were times he had to do so. What might those times be?
Walking Bear: Coyotes or fox getting after the calves. Sometimes he had to shoot them, but he didn’t like doing it.
Deaver: But he did it anyway, isn’t that true? Why, Mr. Walking Bear? Because they represented a threat, and Travis Birdsong thought he was justified in eliminating any creature that he perceived to be a threat.
Gruenwald: Your Honor, this is outrageous.
Judge: Yes, it is. The jury will ignore Mr. Deaver’s remarks.
Deaver: No further questions for this witness.
Gruenwald: Your Honor, the defense has no further witnesses.
Vicky stared across the office. The image of the lawyer was clear as a colored poster that might have appeared on the wall. The man had called Amos Walking Bear without any idea of what the old man might say. Deaver had moved in for the kill and turned Travis’s grandfather into a witness for the prosecution. But Deaver had also given the defense an opening: He’d shown that Travis could have used the weapon earlier to kill coyotes. Gruenwald could have recalled Andy Lyle to the stand. He could have asked if Travis had ever used the shotgun to shoot coyotes and fox. He could have hammered home the point that Travis’s fingerprints on the shotgun did not prove he had killed Raymond. He could have planted more than reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury.
But he didn’t do any of it.
Vicky slapped the transcript on top of the pile of papers growing on her desk. She knew the rest of it. The reiteration of the evidence by Deaver, and Gruenwald’s pitiful defense summation that didn’t address any of Deaver’s arguments. She tapped her fingers on the cover of the transcript. What was she missing? Everything was in place for a conviction, except…
Except for the motive. Where was the motive? The stolen petroglyph? Neither one had been charged with the theft. Travis and Raymond got into a fight two days before the murder? So what? People got into fights; cowboys got into fights. It didn’t mean someone ended up shot to death. They’d grown up together. They were friends. Chances were, they’d gotten into fights in the past, and nobody had been killed.
But Deaver had supplied the motive. The man was cle
ver, she had to give him that. He’d gotten Mrs. Taylor to mention the stolen petroglyph; he’d managed to reinforce what everyone on the jury was probably already thinking: Travis had shot Raymond over whatever money they’d gotten for the petroglyph. There was a climate in the courtroom—it lifted off the pages of the transcript like dry dust—that they were both guilty, which made it easy to assume that Travis was also guilty of shooting his friend. True, the judge had instructed the jury to disregard the prosecutor’s comment, but the words had been spoken, they existed. They had lived in the jurors’ minds.
And it explained why the jurors had brought in the verdict that they did. They had assumed that Travis and Raymond had gotten into another fight, probably over money, and that Travis had grabbed the shotgun and pulled the trigger. A crime of passion: voluntary manslaughter.
Still—and this was the part she couldn’t get around—there was no evidence to link a seven-year-old theft to the petroglyph stolen last week. Amos Walking Bear was grasping at straws. An old man, longing to see his grandson free again before he himself died.
Vicky had pulled her bag out of the bottom drawer of the desk and gotten to her feet when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver. “Norman’s on the line,” Annie said.
“Put him through.”
The line went dead a moment, and Vicky dropped back into her chair. Then, a clicking noise. The chairman’s voice boomed in her ear: “Vicky, what’s going on?”
She waited a beat before she said, “I e-mailed the proposal an hour ago, Norman. Didn’t you get it?”
“We’re looking it over. That’s not what I’m calling about. Gossip around here says you’re taking up Travis Birdsong’s case, gonna get that SOB out of prison.”
“Amos Walking Bear came to see me.”
The Drowning Man Page 8