Medicine Wheel

by Ron Schwab

  “Gentlemen . . . and lady,” Judge Whitmore said in a soft voice, “this trial’s moving along at a nice pace. Mr. Fuller, do you still expect to finish up this morning?”

  “Yes, Judge.”

  “And what about the defense?”

  “We’ll be ready to proceed after noon break, Judge,” Serena said.

  “I won’t hold you to it, but how long do you think it will take to lay out your evidence?”

  “Two days, Judge. I would expect to finish by Thursday noon, allowing for cross by the state.”

  “With closing statements, this could go to the jury by mid-afternoon Thursday. I like that, counsel. Let’s go.”

  After the attorneys returned to their respective counsel tables, the county attorney called Nigel Baker to the witness stand. Cam felt unprepared for this witness and tried to appraise the man’s demeanor for a clue as to where he might take the case. He had a neatly-trimmed mustache planted on a pallid, washed-out face, which suggested he was a man who saw little of the outdoors—not surprising for a man of his occupation. He was a thin, bony man and would stand an inch or two under six feet, Cam guessed. Although he had a grim look on his face, Baker did not show any signs of unease or nervousness that most witnesses displayed at the prospect of being mauled by two dueling law wranglers.

  Fuller quickly ran through the preliminaries, establishing that Baker was forty-eight years old, a loan officer at the Manhattan Bank and that he had been employed by a St. Louis bank before taking a position in Manhattan little more than a year previous. He was single and resided in a rented house within walking distance of his work.

  Fuller turned to the serious questioning quickly. “Mr. Baker, are you acquainted with the defendant, Kirsten Brannon?”

  “I am.”

  “Would you describe the nature of your acquaintance?”

  “She’s a bank customer. I have acted as a loan officer for several of her loans.”

  “Did you see the defendant in your bank in the period immediately before the death of her husband?”

  “I did. About two days prior, as I recall . . . on a Wednesday.”

  “How do you remember that?”

  “Because Mrs. Brannon usually dealt with the bank president, Mr. Dawes, but he was out of the bank Wednesday of that week.”

  “Since you are a loan officer, I assume she was there to discuss a loan matter?”

  “She was. She wanted to purchase 320 acres of grazing land from Clem Rickers, but she required a loan to finance it.”

  “Did she qualify for a loan?”

  “Yes. She had considerable equity . . . parcels of land free of debt, unencumbered cattle. She, like most expanding farm and ranch operators are sometimes land poor, and she didn’t have the cash to buy that much land.”

  “So you granted the loan?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I told her she could have the loan, but she would have to give the bank a mortgage to secure it. She had about half the cash available, so it was a sound loan, and she had an excellent payment history with the bank.”

  “But there was a problem?”

  “Her husband . . . under Kansas law the spouse is required to sign the mortgage.”

  Cam knew what was coming next, since Kirsten had explained the bank loan problem and her reaction to it. But Baker was a good witness—matter of fact and calm. He decided to let the testimony play out—not that he had any real choice.

  Fuller continued. “Why was this requirement that the husband sign the mortgage a problem?”

  “Because she planned to take title to the land in her sole name. She did not seem entirely surprised by the necessity of her husband signing the mortgage, but she expected the bank to make an exception. According to bank records his name wasn’t on the deeds to any of the C Bar C land holdings. She had taken out loans without his signature in the past, but they did not involve real estate mortgages.”

  “And you explained to Mrs. Brannon the necessity of her husband’s signature on the mortgage?”

  “Yes, I did . . . very precisely. No signature, no loan.”

  “And how did she take this?”

  “She was angry . . . rather profane.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said the law was ‘nothing but bullshit.’ And that I should tell the bank president to ‘shove the mortgage up his ass.’”

  A few members of the jury chuckled noticeably. Cam figured they’d probably had a bank loan turned down sometime.

  Fuller was nonplussed. “Was that the end of your conversation?”

  “No. After she calmed down, she asked if I could suggest any other option for obtaining the loan. I told her there was nothing else I could suggest, and I urged her to reconsider her insistence that her husband’s name not be on the title. She was adamant that this would never happen. That’s when she made the comment.”

  This was well rehearsed, Cam thought, giving Fuller a bit of grudging respect.

  The county attorney asked on cue, “What comment?”

  “She said, ‘you mean if I killed the son of bitch, you’d make a loan to his widow?’ She left me speechless with those words. And then she got up and stomped out of the bank.”

  “Did you take her words seriously?”

  Cam almost rose to object to the question but decided to save his words for cross.

  “Very seriously,” Baker said solemnly. “Very seriously.”

  Cam looked at Serena, who had evidently been watching him for a reaction. She rolled her eyes and had faint traces of a smile on her lips. She appeared to agree that Baker had overacted a bit.

  “The prosecution has no further questions of this witness,” Fuller said, moving to his seat.

  “Mr. Locke,” the Judge said, “the witness is yours.”

  “Thank you, Judge,” Cam said, rising from his chair and approaching the witness. “Mr. Baker, from your testimony I gather you’ve been in the banking business over twenty years, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Have you ever had borrowers upset before because they couldn’t obtain loans?”

  “Of course, it’s a common occurrence.”

  “Then why did you seem to find Mrs. Brannon’s anger so unusual?”

  “Well, it wasn’t the anger; it was what she said about killing her husband.”

  “Did you think she was going to kill her husband?”

  “I thought she might.”

  Baker stepped nicely into the trap. “Did you alert the sheriff that you thought Mrs. Brannon might kill her husband?”

  “Well, no.”

  “If you thought Max Brannon’s life was truly in danger, why not?”

  Baker was silent for some moments. For the first time, Cam thought, the man’s veil of confidence seemed to have been pierced. “I guess I didn’t really think there was an imminent threat to Mr. Brannon.”

  “So you didn’t really take Mrs. Brannon ‘very seriously’ as you stated earlier?”

  “Perhaps that was an overstatement,” Baker conceded.

  “Just a few more questions, Mr. Baker. Do you have an opinion regarding Mrs. Brannon’s competence as a businesswoman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Very competent. An excellent manager. She makes a very good loan. It was just this matter of her husband’s signature.”

  “Then tell me, Mr. Baker, do you honestly think if Mrs. Brannon intended to kill her husband, she was stupid enough to have made that statement in your bank?”

  Fuller flew out of his chair. “Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness. Insufficient foundation.”

  “Withdraw the question,” Cam said. “No further questions.”

  49

  THE PROSECUTION HAD rested its case, and it was only mid-morning. Serena and Cam had another brief debate over the wisdom of calling Kirsten Cavelle Brannon as a witness. Cam told Serena he felt tha
t the prosecution case was leaky and that Kirsten’s testimony carried too much risk, but he emphasized it was her decision—and Kirsten’s. When she spoke to Kirsten, the client affirmed her readiness to testify but deferred to Serena’s judgment. It was an awesome responsibility, but Serena quickly made up her mind.

  Kirsten was called first to give the only eyewitness account of the events that unfolded on the night of Max Brannon’s death. Serena determined she should lay out the story to the jury and then call her other witnesses and set out the other evidence to shore up Kirsten’s narrative.

  Kirsten had told the jury of the night’s events in some detail, reciting her beating and rape with flawless words and a voice devoid of emotion. She had required minimal prompting, but, perhaps, a little more emotion would have been helpful, Serena thought. She was appreciative, though, of her witness’s poise and calm demeanor. She did not act like a person who was guilty of murder. Now Serena had to caulk the cracks in the story.

  “Mrs. Brannon, you’ve related the events that took place the night of your husband’s death as best as you recall them, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must understand, though, that the jury must wonder why there is no mention of your husband’s death. You were aware of it, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I knew he was dead.”

  “Did you know how he died?”

  “I just knew he died. I remember nothing of how it happened. The sheriff told me he was shot.”

  “Did you kill your husband?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Knowing that Fuller would press in cross examination, Serena pursued. “But you were there, how can you not know?”

  “I know this sounds convenient. But I don’t remember anything about my husband’s death, only that I saw him dead on the bed.”

  “Could someone else have killed him?”

  “It’s possible, but I understand why the sheriff and Mr. Fuller wouldn’t think so. I was the only one there when Chet came to the house. And I didn’t see someone else enter the house.”

  “After you were beaten—”

  “Objection,” Fuller yelled. “Assumes the truth of the defendant’s testimony.”

  Judge Whitmore said, “Could you restate your question, counselor?”

  “Certainly. Mrs. Brannon, was there any time during this period that you were not awake?”

  “Yes, I passed out at least three times following the beating. I don’t know for how long.”

  “Thank you. Now I’d like to turn to something else for a few moments. You heard the testimony of Nigel Baker about statements you allegedly made at the bank?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Do you have any comments about those statements?”

  “Yes, Mr. Baker told the absolute truth . . . including his remarks about my unladylike language, I’m embarrassed to say. It’s no excuse, but I was angry about the situation. It seemed to me like any woman . . . or man, for that matter . . . should have a right to own and dispose of separate property without restriction. But I assure you I would not have made those statements if I had any intention of killing my husband. I’m not that stupid. I did take some steps to eliminate the problem, however.”

  “And what steps did you take?”

  “I met with Cameron Locke the next day about getting a divorce from my husband.”

  “Because of the banking problem?”

  “No. Because our relationship had deteriorated terribly over the past year and a half, and we were no longer living in our home as husband and wife, you might say. I had been beaten on another occasion and there were other differences I’d rather not discuss out of respect to my late husband. I had already decided the marriage was going to end. The banking problem spurred me to action.”

  Serena determined she should beat the prosecutor to one more issue he was likely to bring up. “Mrs. Brannon, did you buy the Rickers land?”

  “No, but I have a verbal agreement that I can purchase a quarter section of it someday, if I wish.”

  “Would you explain?”

  She outlined her arrangement with Thad.

  “So you loaned Dr. Locke half the money to purchase the entire tract with the understanding he would give you an option to buy the quarter nearest your land in the future?” Serena summarized.

  “Yes.”

  “No further questions.”

  Judge Whitmore asked, “Would you like a break before Mr. Fuller begins his examination, Mrs. Brannon?.”

  “No, thank you, Judge. I’m glad to continue.”

  Kirsten’s response pleased Serena. Fuller would have less time to prepare. She noted that Kirsten seemed strangely energized by the process, certainly not intimidated. As she sat down, she saw that Fuller’s eyes were studiously focused on a note pad as he slowly moved toward the witness. The deep-in-thought act.

  “Mrs. Brannon, something you said about your relationship with your husband troubles me. You indicated you had differences you’d rather not discuss. I’m sorry, but I think Judge Whitmore will confirm you don’t have the option of not discussing matters that might be relevant to the evidence in this case. I am going to have to ask you about this. What kind of differences were you referring to?”

  He bit. Serena knew he would.

  “I just didn’t see any reason to sully Max’s reputation. It had to do with his whoring.”

  Fuller took a step back. “I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

  “Whoring, as in bawdy houses, Mr. Fuller,” Kirsten said, her voice remaining soft and calm. “I had suspected for months that my husband was visiting prostitutes. Several months before his death, when he was angry about something . . . he was always angry . . . he threw it in my face that he was seeing these women. I refused to share our bed after that, not just because of his adulterous acts, but also because I feared catching diseases.”

  Serena watched the reaction of the jury. Some were unaffected by the disclosure, but others had become quite attentive, especially her key jurors. Fuller didn’t seem to know what to do with the subject of prostitutes and made a quick retreat.

  “You spoke about an arrangement with Dr. Thaddeus Locke regarding purchase of the Rickers land. Would you describe the nature of your relationship with Dr. Locke?”

  Serena’s first instinct was to object to the relevancy of the question, but then she thought better of it. It might appear there was something to hide. She would take her chances with Kirsten’s instincts.

  Kirsten said, not the least defensively, Serena observed, “Before the night of my husband’s death, he did vet work at the C Bar C on two occasions, and I had never encountered him elsewhere. As I have already testified, he acted as my physician in treating the injuries I incurred. I became acquainted with him during my recovery . . . on a strictly professional basis, and since parcels of the Rickers place fit nicely with each of our operations, I asked him to enter into a joint venture on the purchase. He was reluctant because of appearances, but I convinced him most Flint Hills people aren’t prone to gossip, and those with dirty minds don’t matter. He finally agreed.”

  “Why didn’t you just divide the land up at the beginning?”

  “My life was obviously becoming very complicated. It’s rather difficult to conduct business when you’re incarcerated in the county jail. I doubt that the death of my husband under the circumstances would have made Mr. Baker more inclined to make a loan. We have a note and other papers to support what I’m saying and I’m certain that can be produced if the partnership becomes an issue. Some lawyers might find this irrelevant, I surmise.”

  Fuller interrupted, “Objection, Your Honor, the witness is not being responsive to the question.”

  The judge leaned his head toward the prosecutor and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, Mr. Fuller, I’ll order the jury to disregard the witness’s last sentence, but I daresay there’s a bit of truth to it. It’s closing in on noon, and I’m awful hungry. How far are we from finishing
this up?”

  “I don’t have any more questions of the witness, Judge.”

  Wise decision, Serena thought. She rose and addressed the judge. “Your Honor, if it would please the court, I need to discuss some matters with my client. Could we meet in the conference room off the hallway during recess? I’ve arranged for sandwiches and coffee from the Chuck Wagon.”

  The judge looked at the sheriff, who was standing near the exit. “Is that a problem, sheriff?”

  “No,” Sheriff Mallery replied, “I can assign a deputy to the door.”

  50

  THE TRIAL WAS going badly for the prosecution. The Nemesis had expected Locke’s cleverness, but this nigger bitch was slick—stepped up there just like a white man and took over the goddamn courtroom. What was the matter with those idiots on the jury? Couldn’t they see through the smokescreen? Max’s evil slut was going to walk out of there, free as a bird, while Max rotted in his grave. He just felt it.

  And where was Father? He hadn’t appeared since the trial commenced. Had he been abandoned by the only one he trusted? From time to time Father had absented himself for stretches as long as three or four months, but never when his counsel was so desperately needed. The demons were consuming him, the lust for vengeance unstoppable. But he must be patient and await the verdict. Or must he?

  The two women exited the courtroom, followed by his friend, Deputy Dagenhart, who nodded a greeting as they passed by and turned down the empty hallway. He could smell the fragrance of the women, and he thought he would like to take them both before the kill. But their meeting in the hall could be no coincidence. This was a clear message that the time had arrived, and he could not wait for another opportunity. He caressed the pearl-handled straight-razor in his trouser pocket, assuring himself that it was ready. The loaded Colt pocket revolver was nestled in his waistcoat.

  He heard Dagenhart say, “Somebody from the Chuck Wagon left a pot of coffee and sandwiches in the conference room. The judge says court starts up in an hour and a half. You got to use the outhouse, Brannon, I can take you out back. I’ll be outside the door here. You ain’t to leave without my say so.”