by J. R. WRIGHT
Seeing him go, Katie knew what would follow. And she was right. Ten minutes later Preston Ames showed his face in the tavern. He marched directly up to her, slammed a fist on the bar and demanded to know what’d happened to his deputy. He then cast his steely eyes around the room in anticipation someone would give him the answer. But no one did … not even a hint.
“Katie?” He then turned to face her.
“What, Sheriff?” she said just to antagonize him. This brought sporadic laughter that ended quickly.
“Who coldcocked my deputy?”
“Well, Sheriff, I really didn’t see anything. My back was to him when he fired his gun. Then there was such a commotion I was knocked to the floor. When I finally got my senses back Striker was on the floor unconscious and his gun was laying on the bar down there.”
“Does anybody know what prompted Deputy Striker to fire his gun?”
Still he got no answer. Katie, however, said, “When I first saw him he appeared to be searching for someone. He was going from table to table paying close attention to faces. I just figured you sent him with a warrant or something, Sheriff.”
“I didn’t send him anywhere,” Preston said. “If Striker was here it was of his own accord.”
“I think he was looking for Lester Kingsley,” somebody in the room said. “As soon as Lester entered the tavern I saw Striker pull his gun and head in his direction.”
This sent chills up Katie’s spine. But why would Striker be gunning for Lester? Because of what Lester knew about Clyde? Why would he care?
“What else do you know?” Preston went to the man.
“Well, I saw Bart Miller sucker punch Striker as he passed him by at the bar.”
“What happened to Kingsley?”
“I don’t know.”
And it seemed nobody else did either. Not even Katie. But she couldn’t help but feel a little guilty about what happened to Striker, not that he didn’t deserve it … the bastard!
“And this Bart Miller? Anybody know where he went?”
“Home, I suppose. I told him to leave,” Katie said, and this seemed to satisfy Preston. But he wouldn’t forget … she knew that. If Bart ever returned to Blazedale, no doubt he’d be arrested … or worse.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Woody Clampett drove into town Sunday, just before noon, and checked in at the hotel. He then asked Ralph Longley, the hotel owner, to ring up Katie Peck. He wanted a sit down with her and Yancey Burke at the county jail. She was expecting him, and a half hour later the two of them entered the sheriff’s office.
Unfortunately the sheriff wasn’t in and the deputy in charge wasn’t at all cooperative. “Nope, nope, nope …” seemed to be the entirety of the smallish, bearded man’s vocabulary.
“Can you ring him?” Woody suggested.
“Nope.”
“Then sir, as an officer of the court, you leave me no choice but to relieve you of duty. Your shameful conduct is contrary to both state and federal laws. As an attorney, ready access to my client is carved in stone, sir. Even the Bible gives mention of it.” Upon saying that, and it was obvious by the blank look on the deputy’s face, he hadn’t understood a word said, Clampett drew a large pistol from under his suit jacket and quickly disarmed him. Then, taking a ring of keys from a peg on the wall, Woody marched the little man, hands up, through the jail room door, into a cell and locked it.
All this was done to the surprise of Katie, who remained speechless the entire time. Knowing the part about the Bible was utter bull shit, she couldn’t help but wonder what repercussions would arise once Preston Ames discovered what had occurred here.
Anxious to see Yancey, Katie dashed ahead. One look at him and she couldn’t believe how much better he looked since she was here last, on Friday morning. She wanted to come yesterday but spent the morning trying to locate Lester Kingsley, who hadn’t been seen since disappearing Friday night. Gracie was beside herself for fear something bad had happened to him this time.
Katie reached through the bars and touched Yancey’s face as he stepped up. He looked disheveled and rumpled, but at least the swelling in his face was down to near normal.
“Katie …” Yancey said.
“Sorry I couldn’t come yesterday. I …”
“That’s okay,” he said. “I don’t remember much of it ... That pain medicine caused me to sleep most of the day.”
“How are you, Mister Burke?” Woody came up, unlocked the cell door and opened it. “I must say you look better than when I saw you at Terryville prison.” He took Yancey’s extended hand for a firm shake.
“I’m all right,” Yancey returned. “Could use a bath is all … and maybe a change of clothes.”
“I’ll get you something before the day is out,” Katie said. “Helmer is about your size. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind loaning you a suit for the trial. The tub and hot water I can bring from across the street, whenever you’re ready.”
“Maybe after dark,” he said, as if being naked in daylight was against his beliefs, regardless of who was or was not around.
“Yancey, I don’t think you have a thing to worry about,” Clampett said. “For one, the sheriff doesn’t have a shred of evidence you did it — he never does, except for his intuition. For another, Katie has proof you couldn’t have been there at the time Clyde was killed. If that Kingsley can’t be found, I’ll put her on the stand with the statement he signed.” He turned to her. “Good work, Katie.”
To that Katie beamed.
“And there’s another factor here; Sheriff Preston Ames isn’t as popular as he once was. There’s a growing number of people in this county that now think his devil may care style of law enforcement is no longer relevant. And you have to figure, some must worry the day will come when the man points his finger their way on some trumped up charge.”
Speaking of Preston, a loud banging came on the jail door, which Woody Clampett had locked from the inside, and in the little window appeared the angry face of Sheriff Ames. “What the hell is going on in there?”
“A lawyer’s conference with my client, Sheriff,” Clampett returned as he walked toward the door, keys in hand. “It’s all in accordance with the law, I assure you.”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Clampett!” Preston was also angry Woody’s shiny new Packard was parked in his usual spot out front.
“I’m afraid not. I’ve already put your deputy under arrest — I can do the same with you, if necessary.”
Once the door was opened, Ames came through it in a huff. But when he laid eyes on Katie down the way he settled a bit. “Give me those keys,” he yanked them from Woody Clampett’s hand and stepped to release his deputy. “What are you doing in there, Weasel? I said no visitors! Get out of there!”
The deputy came stomping out. “Well, he put me in there — said it was the law,” Weasel said and gestured to Clampett, who towered over them both.
“It is the law, Sheriff, and you know it … you old coot! Now leave us be so I can do my job.”
“Get out, Weasel,” Preston said and followed him out, closing the jail room door behind him.
Woody and Katie spent another hour with Yancey before going their separate ways: Clampett to the eatery to charm the locals, some of them potential jurors, and Katie to the telephone office to ask Gracie Kingsley’s mother Marta if Lester had showed up at home, before meeting him there. She wanted to talk to Helmer about borrowing the suit, anyway.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The decades-old county courthouse was a white painted wood sided structure of little character. It sat three blocks east of the sheriff’s office, at the very end of the main street.
Katie entered the courtroom at a quarter of nine, passed beyond the rail and took a seat directly behind Woody Clampett at the defense table. Courtrooms were nothing new to her. With a father that was a prominent attorney in Nashville and a grandfather that served as a Tennessee state judge, she practically grew up in them. And from that exper
ience she learned an awful lot about the law. She dreamed as a child of becoming a lawyer herself one day, until that was dampened by the fact women were not allowed to become educated in the law, nor could they serve as lawyers. This only made sense when she also learned from her mother, females were not allowed to vote — and still couldn’t to this day. That may soon change, though, and she was a supporter of that. To her thinking, just because a man had more visible working parts was not enough reason to grant them all of the privileges.
A few minutes later Sheriff Ames and Deputy Striker appeared to her left, and between them was Yancey Burke, looking very handsome in the black suit she had brought him along with a starched white shirt and blue string tie. On his feet, however, were his scuffed brown boots and on his head the dusty sugar loaf hat, deeply creased from the crown midway down to the large brim.
They took Yancey to the defense table and rather harshly forced him down into a chair next to Clampett. He turned to see Katie and just as he did Striker snatched the hat from his head and dropped it to the floor. This near caused Yancey to come up again, but thought better of it, since his hands were cuffed at his back.
“Remove the chains,” Clampett ordered, when the two of them began to walk away.
At that point Striker, with a nod from Sheriff Ames, removed the handcuffs and left it at that.
“And the leg irons!” Clampett demanded, a little louder this time.
This brought laughter in the packed courtroom. Striker angrily returned a second time and completed the job.
Judge Jethro Samuels, a small balding man with a near white, horse brush mustache, entered through the side door at exactly nine. He promptly climbed the steps and seated himself at the bench. He was not wearing a black robe, but rather a somewhat baggy brown suit. Nobody had announced him and nobody had risen to their feet when he entered. Katie thought this strange. But then this was the West, and as she knew all too well, things were done differently here. It was obvious to her now even common court procedure was not followed to its exactness in this relatively new state of Montana — only two decades old this year.
Judge Samuels gaveled the courtroom quiet, then ordered the jury brought in. Striker, standing to the side, went to a door to the right of the bench, opened it, and twelve jurors filed into the jury box, filling every available seat.
When the noise settled the clerk announced: “We are gathered here today for case number three thousand seven hundred and eighty-five: Burr County, Montana versus Yancey Burke. The charge is murder in the first degree.”
As discussed with Woody Clampett yesterday, since he knew few people in the area, Katie was to keep an eye out for any bad apples in the all male jury. Most of them she didn’t know at all, and were most likely from the far reaches of the county. But there was one she knew for a fact disliked her, and because of that feared he may look unfavorably toward Yancey, since everyone knew they were close friends. Years ago the man had tried to talk Helmer into firing her from the tavern, claiming she was too young and good looking to be the bartender of an establishment patronized mostly by men. Surely wives will become jealous … marriages will suffer … and divorces will occur because of her, he’d prophesied. Of course nothing of the sort had come to pass. But that hadn’t made this man any less hateful toward her, when occasionally they came face to face on the street. At that point he always turned away, as if ashamed to be in her near company.
On a pad of paper brought for the purpose she wrote: “Top row — third man from the left,” and slipped it to Woody.
Yancey also spotted a man whom he’d once had a run in with — over a horse trade gone bad. The man had lied about the horse’s age. Upon later examination he discovered teeth missing, a sure sign the animal was much older, and demanded his money back. The man refused and Yancey was forced to other measures. After a good shellacking and soak in the river, the hombre finally saw it his way. Yancey pointed the man out.
Clampett rose to his feet. “Your Honor, I have two jurors I’d like removed from the panel for possible conflicts.”
At that point the county prosecutor, Lane Wilson, a bone lean bushy haired man of fifty, who just happened to be a distant cousin of Judge Samuels, sprang to his feet. “Your Honor, must we allow this man to do this every single time he comes to this court? It’s hard enough finding twelve responsible people in this county, to give of their time, without him running rough shod over the entire group.”
“I’m not running rough shod over anyone, Your Honor. Why, I can see from here these are fine upstanding gentlemen. It’s just that over the years I’ve developed a keen eye for those who may not physically be up to the task. Now we wouldn’t want to get halfway through this thing and have to start over because one of our jurors had a heart attack, would we? Besides that, it’s in accordance with the law. If the prosecutor had a hand in picking them, as I suspect he did, the defense has a right to change that selection within reason. And I don’t think two is unreasonable.”
Looking guilty, Wilson found something interesting on one of his hands and scratched at it.
“Pick your eliminations, Mister Clampett,” the judge said, appearing put out.
At this point, the jurors began looking about the panel in search of two that may appear so feeble they may croak before trial’s end. Then once the eliminations were made the remainder took a sigh of relief, content Attorney Clampett thought them worthy of the task.
The judge then asked for a show of hands of those in the gallery who may want to serve as a juror. Eight of the hundred or so males of the room raised their hands.
The judge then dug in his pocket and came out with stick matches of which he counted out eight. Out of sight of anyone who may be watching, he broke two of them short and brought them back up stick first in his hand. “Come forward, gentlemen.” Each man went to the bench and selected a match until two came up with headless ones. Those then took their rightful place in the jury box.
One of those replacements, Katie was delighted to see, was Jake Pearson, the old farmer from north of town. She knew he had no love for Clyde Banyon, the way he’d carried on in the tavern the day of the funeral.
With that done, Judge Samuels said, “Mister Wilson, do you have an opening statement?”
Wilson got to his feet. “You all know why we’re here today,” he said as he approached the jury. “We’re here to avenge the cold blooded murder of Clyde Banyon. Many of you may have known him, but for those of you who didn’t, Clyde was a good man …”
With that the gallery erupted in laughter and the judge needed to gavel them down again. “Be careful what you’re doing out there! If I have to, I’ll clear the courtroom! Do you understand?” With that many of them actually answered in the positive: “Yes,” “Yep” and “Yo!”
“I knew Clyde well,” Lane Wilson continued, “Not only through his services at the livery he owned — free and clear of any debt, I might add — but also from the faith we shared. Clyde Banyon was a Godly man, folks …”
“Clyde Banyon never set foot in a church the entirety of his miserable life!” someone shouted from the gallery. “I know that for a fact! Hell, Miss Mary Boil gave him a bible once, hoping that may bring Godliness to his heathen ways. Guess what? Clyde took it to the outhouse. I saw it there with half the pages missing … he was all the way up to Jeremiah …”
Again the gallery roared with laughter.
Through all of this the judge gaveled. He then shouted, “Sheriff,” and pointed the handle of the gavel to the guilty party, the fully bearded man who had spoken, dressed in overalls and a red and black plaid shirt. “Remove that man!”
Preston Ames, who was stationed at the side door, moved quickly toward the man. To get to him, he had to step over outstretched legs, from those who spitefully refused to move them out of the way. Then once he was collared, the man shouted in continuation, “I thought we were after the truth here? Clyde was a heathen through and through, Judge, and you know it.
”
“I know no such thing, Wilber. Take him out!”
Once Wilber was out the door and things quieted down, Lane Wilson was lost for words. He studied the faces of the jurors for an embarrassingly long time, then simply went to his table and seated himself.
“Are you finished, Mister Wilson?” Judge Samuels asked.
“I’ve said all I have to say, for the moment. The evil deed of that madman will come forth soon enough,” Wilson said. He then cast a finger toward the defense table, where, of course, Yancey Burke sat alongside Woody Clampett — who presently had a pleased look on his face.
“Mister Clampett,” the judge said.
“Gentlemen …” Woody stood. “I’m not here to bore you with a bunch of horse biscuits about what a great man my client is. But I will say this: Yancey Burke never killed anyone …ever!” His voice boomed. “I want you all to pay close attention to the so-called facts that will surely be presented here. As usual the Burr County sheriff will take the stand and say the defendant is guilty as sin of the crime charged … Don’t believe him. As far as other testimony, the prosecutor will most likely parade a variety of witnesses before you, most with tidbits of information that is meant to dazzle and confuse what is truth. Be very watchful of what is said … most likely these people will have been coached … and there’ll be no truth at all in what they say. ‘Anything to get a conviction’ is the prosecutor’s motto.”
Woody then went to the jury box. He laid a hand on the rail and spoke in a low tone as he studied each of their faces: old, young, clean shaven and bearded. “Now, gentlemen, before this circus begins and the other side brings out the elephants, hooked up trunk to tail as they parade by, I just want you all to remember one thing: elephant manure smells a whole lot like bull shit!”
As he walked away, Woody heard considerable laughter coming from behind and smiled. At least a few of them liked him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN