by Ron Schwab
I said, “Some folks say those two holes in the rock look like big eyes if you use imagination . . . thus, ‘Weeping Springs.’ The sandstone formation above is known hereabouts as ‘Mushroom Rock.’”
Casey seemed mesmerized by the scene, as her eyes took in what I sometimes called my little Garden of Eden. “I’ve never seen a place more breathtaking,” she said. “Even in this drought, it perseveres.”
“Take off your boots and cool your feet. Take a drink from one of the eyes. There’s no colder, sweeter water on this earth.”
We slipped off our boots, rolled up our pant legs and waded into the pool, which was no more than two feet at the deepest. We drank lustily from nature’s fountains, soaked our feet for a spell and then rested in the shade with backs propped against tree trunks. We talked for several hours, even the old clockmeister losing track of the time. There was something about this place and this time that opened us both up. First, there were the little, insignificant disclosures as we tiptoed our ways up the fragile stairway that leads to trust, but by the end of our time there I had revealed parts of myself I had never displayed to another person, not even Emily or Cam. I do not think I flatter myself when I say Casey must have done the same. I warned myself that I was on treacherous footing here and that Casey would be returning to another life when Celeste’s trial was over. Still, when finally and reluctantly we picked ourselves up and headed back to the house, I admitted to myself that I was incapable of shrugging off my fascination with this woman.
22
Casey
CASEY MCGLAUN WAITED in the makeshift courtroom that doubled as a town hall. The room was a large, hollow shell in final stages of construction, and the scent of fresh-sawn lumber wafted in the air. Seating for spectators consisted of temporary benches constructed of cedar planks and limestone blocks. Tables and chairs for judge and counsel had been moved from the county courtroom across the street, and jury chairs had been commandeered from other county offices. Because of the notoriety of the trial, District Judge Conrad Hutchens had pressed the hall into service to accommodate the rafts of newspaper reporters and onlookers expected to pack the room. Ordinarily, pending construction of a courthouse on the town square, district court matters were taken up in the county courtroom, which could not hold a jury much less the hordes of spectators who had already begun to file into the austere room.
The meat of the trial commenced today, and Casey had chosen a gray, high-necked dress, no less conservative than the black one she had worn yesterday for jury selection and opening statements. She dared not risk offending any of the upright males on the jury, some of whom might be wary of a female advocate in any case. Celeste had rebelled at Casey’s instructions to dress similarly, but in a test of wills, Casey had gone to the Wainwright mansion and personally selected Celeste’s garments and had bluntly informed Celeste she had no choice, since her lawyer was her only link to the wardrobe. Casey had no intention of letting her client steer the case.
The voir dire had gone well enough, and examination of the all-male jury pool had identified the worst prospects from Casey’s perspective, and she had whittled them from the jury, first by motions for cause—such as friendship with a witness or other reasons for possible bias—and then via her six peremptory challenges. The latter allowed her to strike potential jurors she decided by logic or instinct were, from her client’s standpoint, best removed. Jury selection could be tedious, but Casey was satisfied with the work that had pared the prospects to twelve tried and true. She was particularly pleased to have targeted two jurors to whom her message would be directed. One was a smooth-cheeked schoolteacher, obviously sincere and bright, eager to do his duty. The other was a burley blacksmith, who had seemed fair-minded during voir dire and unsusceptible to intimidation. She saw each man as a different kind of leader whose influence could sway others, or who, if persuaded of the rightness of his view, would hold out and deny the required unanimous verdict to convict, plummeting the case into mistrial.
Each lawyer had made opening statements following jury selection, and Casey was reasonably comfortable with her own ten minutes of remarks, which, if nothing else, had elicited a collective sigh of relief from judge and jury after Jess Cooper’s one hour opening. Today the prosecutor would begin to lay his evidence before the jury, and Casey felt butterflies in her stomach as trial approached. She had the experience now to know, however, this was a good sign, that her nervousness only meant she was ready for the race.
Jess Cooper entered the building and took his place at the opposing counsel table. He nodded pleasantly, and Casey returned the greeting. Momentarily, the sheriff escorted Celeste Wainwright to her chair next to Casey’s. The woman was incapable of looking anything but regal, Casey thought.
“Good morning, Celeste,” Casey said. “Did you rest well last night?’
“Of course. You said I should put this in your hands. I have taken your words to heart.” A tad bit of sarcasm, perhaps?
A rotund court reporter with pens, ink and a stack of paper took a chair at the left far end of the judge’s table, which had been placed on a wooden platform to give the jurist some semblance of an elevated bench. Abruptly, the bailiff announced, “All rise.”
The room’s occupants arose as one, and District Judge Conrad Hutchens limped through the back door of the building and made his way to the judge’s table. A pale man, whose black robe could not hide a rail-thin body, the judge appeared frail and sickly. But his voice was strong, and, with his command of the courtroom and eminent fairness, he had already earned Casey’s respect.
The judge set his reading glasses on the table and looked sternly at the lawyers. “Are you ready to proceed, counsel?”
Both replied, “Yes, your Honor.”
“Then, Mr. Cooper, the prosecution may commence its case.”
“Very well, your Honor. The prosecution calls Sheriff Isaac Bell.”
Ike Bell swaggered to the judge’s table and was sworn by Judge Hutchens before he took a straight-back chair in front of the court reporter. The county attorney stood and rattled off a series of mundane questions to establish the sheriff’s professional qualifications, and Bell responded quickly and confidently. That accomplished, Cooper commenced his examination.
“Sheriff Bell, were you acquainted with Ralph Wainwright?”
“Yes, sir. Knowed him since statehood.”
“And when did you last see Mr. Wainwright?”
“Dead or alive?”
“Deceased.”
“Well, I seen him in Tillie Crump’s pigpen this past June.”
Cooper sighed. “Would that have been June 8, 1884 to be more precise?”
Cooper glanced at Casey, anticipating an objection. He was blatantly leading the witness, but it was pointless to object, Casey thought. The answers were irrelevant to guilt or innocence, and it would serve only to annoy the judge and the jury to interrupt with repeated objections. Save them for when it counted.
The sheriff responded. “Yes sir, June 8. That was the date.”
“Can you tell the jury in your own words how you came to be there and what you found?”
“Well, I come to be there because Ian Locke rides up to my place that afternoon and says him and Tillie found Ralph's body in the pigpen. I rounded up my deputy, little Jimmy Hawkins, and Cash Berry, the undertaker, and headed out to Tillie’s like a Kansas tornado. Hell, you come along later. You know we was there.”
“And what did you find at Tillie Crump’s?”
“We found Ralph's head, one foot, an arm and other sundry parts?”
“You found the dead body of Ralph Wainwright?”
“Never saw a live head by itself. As to a body, there wasn’t much, but I can swear that Ralph had cashed in his chips.”
A tittering arose from the spectators, and the reporters began writing feverishly. The sheriff promised to add a bit of color to this trial. The judge tapped his gavel a few times on the table and quieted the crowd with a glare.
Cooper continued. “Sheriff, did you observe anything about Mr. Wainwright’s remains that caused you to suspect foul play?”
The sheriff was obviously relishing his moment in the public eye and was playing to the audience now. “Well, a man don’t just jump in a pigpen and offer himself up for supper.”
The spectators laughed loudly, and the judge hammered his gavel repeatedly on the table. First, the judge admonished Ike Bell. “Sheriff, this is a most serious matter. You are in this courtroom as an officer of the law, and I expect your responses to be made with appropriate dignity. You are the county sheriff, not the county clown.”
The sheriff’s face reddened, and the judge faced the spectators. “There will be no more outbursts. Next time, I clear the courtroom. Continue, Mr. Cooper.”
Casey did not envy the county attorney. A witness out of control was a living nightmare. Either Cooper had not coached his witness or the witness was impervious to coaching, likely the latter.
The county attorney rephrased his earlier question. “Sheriff Bell, was there anything specific about the condition of Mr. Wainwright’s remains to cause you to conclude he was murdered?”
“Yes, sir. There was a bullet hole in his skull.”
Casey arose from her chair. “Objection, your Honor. The prosecution has offered no evidence to show the witness’s competency to testify on this issue or the basis for him to draw such a conclusion.”
The judge removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes thoughtfully. “Sustained,” he said. “The jury will disregard the witness’s answer.”
Cooper tried again. “Sheriff, in your experience as a lawman, have you had occasion to observe a number of bullet wounds?”
“Yes sir.”
“And can you describe the condition of Mr. Wainwright’s skull that persuaded you he had been struck with a bullet?”
“Well, I don’t know what else would have made a hole like that.”
Cooper flinched, waiting for Casey’s objection. She decided she would rather demolish the testimony than exclude it, especially since she doubted the jury’s collective ability to truly disregard anything said in the courtroom. She considered objections more a tool to keep opposing counsel honest than anything else.
Cooper directed another question to his witness. “Was there anything about the hole in the skull that, based upon your experience, would convince you that this was a bullet hole?”
“The size. It was a little hole. Nothing else could make a hole like that.”
The county attorney moved on with his examination, squeezing a clumsy narrative from the sheriff supervising the removal of the remains from the Crump farm to Cash Berry’s funeral parlor. Casey allowed Cooper to lead the sheriff through the story without objection, but her vigilance intensified when the prosecutor’s questions took a sudden turn in another direction.
“Sheriff,” Cooper said, “I want to ask you about something that happened subsequent to the discovery of Mr. Wainwright’s body. Is it true that someone approached you with information about the circumstances of Mr. Wainwright’s death?”
“Yes, sir. His son. Mr. Karl Wainwright.”
“And what did he tell you about those circumstances?”
That son of a bitch. “Objection, your Honor. That question calls for blatant hearsay. It relies totally upon the statements of another party, not upon anything within the personal knowledge of this witness. The sheriff cannot testify about anything told to him by another party, who as a matter of fact is on the prosecution’s witness list.”
“Sustained,” said the judge. “This line of questioning is improper Mr. Cooper.”
Cooper shrugged innocently and sat down. “The state has no further questions of this witness.”
The judge said. “Before cross, Miss McGlaun, I’m going to call a ten minute recess. The witness may step down if he wishes.”
During the recess, Casey reviewed her notes, however, she fumed silently at Cooper’s attempt to get the hearsay testimony past her. How stupid did he think she was? She was more insulted than anything else. She supposed he was testing her, and maybe that was fair enough, but she had an aversion to approaching law as a game. She took a deep breath and let her temper cool. Anger in the courtroom could blind a trial lawyer at a critical moment. She looked up from her notes for a moment, just long enough to see Ian Locke slip into the room and claim an abandoned chair at the back of the room.
“You like him, don’t you?”
Casey turned to Celeste, who had evidently been watching her. “Ian Locke? I find him an interesting man. He has an enviable reputation as a lawyer in this community.” She wasn’t interested in sharing any thoughts about Ian with a woman who had, during an interview at the jail, flaunted the fact she was his former lover.
“I would have married him if he’d asked me,” Celeste said almost wistfully. “He was mine for a time, but he didn’t love me, not in the marrying way.”
Casey did not comment and returned to her notes. In a few moments, Judge Hutchens took his seat and a more subdued Sheriff Bell made his way to the witness chair.
The judge declared the court reconvened and nodded at Casey. “You may proceed with cross, counselor.”
Casey stood and moved deliberately around the table to approach the witness, who, unable to meet her penetrating gaze, cast his eyes downward. “Sheriff Bell,” she said, “you testified that when you were at the Crump farm you observed a bullet wound in the skull of the deceased, is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And in reference to this hole—” Casey walked to her table, picked up a sheet of parchment and appeared to be studying it thoughtfully, as she turned back to Bell. “You stated you didn’t know what else would have made a hole like that. Am I quoting you accurately?”
The sheriff shrugged nervously. “I suppose so, more or less.”
“More or less?”
“I said what you said I said,” Bell growled testily.
“Just how would you describe this wound in the deceased’s head? I don’t recall that you ever answered this question when Mr. Cooper posed it, other than to say it was a ‘little’ hole.”
“It was a little hole, like I said.”
“A little hole.” Casey’s brow furrowed as if trying to understand. “How little? The size of a penny?”
“Bigger than that.”
“The size of a silver dollar?”
“Some bigger.”
Casey made a circle with her thumbs and forefingers and raised her hands in the direction of the jury. “This big, Sheriff?”
“Almost, I guess.”
Casey whirled back to the witness. “My word, Sheriff are you suggesting someone shot Mr. Wainwright with a cannon?”
Bell flushed with anger. “No, of course not.”
“A buffalo gun?”
“No.”
“What kind of a weapon would make a hole that size?”
“I can’t say.”
“You can’t say? But I believe it has been implied that you have some expertise in such matters.”
“I’ve been a lawman a good many years.”
“Yes, I recall you testified to that. How many murders have you investigated in the eight years you have served as sheriff of this county?”
“Uh, I’m not exactly sure.”
“Would it be fair to say, Sheriff, that there has been only one murder in this county during your tenure?”
“My what?”
“Your years of service.”
“I guess maybe there ain’t been more than one. I run a law-abiding county here. We’ve had two folks do themselves in though.”
“Was not one of those suicides by hanging?”
“Well, yeah, but the other shot hisself.”
“With what?”
“Swallowed a shotgun.”
“And the single murder case. Was that crime solved?”
“Uh . . . no.”
Casey was silent for a moment, allowi
ng time for the jury to sort out the sheriff’s testimony. She returned to her table on the pretense of reviewing her notes again. When she turned back to Bell, she observed that he was looking haggard and solemn, ready to call it a day.
“Sheriff, I have just a few more questions. If I were to ask you to characterize this so-called bullet hole as round or ragged, what would be your reply?”
“Ragged, I suppose. Things was pretty tore up.”
“Reconsidering your previous testimony, could you concede just the slightest possibility that something other than a bullet could have caused this damage . . . a sharp instrument, even a hammer, perhaps?”
“Well, maybe possible, but not likely.”
Casey returned to her seat. “No further questions, your Honor.”
23
Ian
“WHICH WAY DO you think the wind’s blowing?” Will Heasty asked, referring to the progress of the Wainwright trial.
We were seated in my office weighing some of the events that were forcing us to decisions that neither of us had expected to face prior to the anticipated verdict in Celeste’s trial. I had just returned from observing a few hours of the first full day of the trial. The judge had declared a recess for lunch and I had grabbed a sandwich at Reuben’s before returning to the office to meet with Will.
“Can’t tell at this point,” I said. “Casey made chopped beef out of Ike’s testimony. She’s damned good . . . smooth as silk. She never asks a question she doesn’t pretty much know the answer to. She’s not going to choke on any of her own words. Jess is a good enough lawyer, but he sure as hell better have some solid facts on his side.”
“What’s happening this afternoon?”
“Jess is calling Cash Berry and Doc Hesterman, I guess. Still trying to establish cause of death. I can’t imagine Cash would add much that couldn’t be pretty well shredded by the defense. Doc might do the prosecution some good, but I have a hunch Casey’s physician out of Omaha gave her reason to believe cause can’t be proved. And he’s always in the background as an expert for the defense. If there’s a credible eyewitness, it seems to me that most of the evidence being put forth right now isn’t all that important, but I guess you never know what a jury’s going to latch on to and there’s a cumulative impact of testimony.”