Lassiter 06 - Fool Me Twice (32 page)

I leaned over to my lawyer. “H.T., what’s
going on? You promised I’d testify. Isn’t it a little early
to—”

“
Already decided. You have
to.”

“
Okay, but then, why no
mention of self-defense? If I’m going to testify, it’s my only way
out.”

“
Self-defense admits you
killed Cimarron.”

“
Of course it does!” My
whisper was a little too loud, and one of the jurors looked over,
just as the judge explained he would work them nine-to-six and get
them out of here by the end of the week. “Jo Jo will testify I put
the stud gun to Cimarron’s head and pulled the trigger.”

“
But you can’t remember
that?”

“
Not exactly, no. I mean, I
remember pulling the trigger, but I didn’t think it went
off.”

“
And Ms. Baroso lied to you
about Cimarron beating her?”

“
Yes.”

“
Then lied to Mr. Cimarron
about your having assaulted her?”

“
Of course.”

“
And lied to the police
about who attacked whom?” I threw up my hands in disgust. “Yes. She
fooled me. She fooled Cimarron, and she fooled the
police.”

“
Don’t look so glum, Jake,”
H. T. Patterson said. “She hasn’t fooled me.”

CHAPTER 22

MOBILE, AGILE, AND
HOSTILE

Sheriff’s deputy Clayton Dobson testified
that he was the first officer on the scene where he found a woman
who identified herself as Josefina Baroso. When he first saw her,
she had a blanket covering her. She was disheveled and emotionally
distraught. She led him to the body. Two bodies really.

The man who was alive was semiconscious.
Kind of moaning, lying on his back in the straw. Yes, sir, I do see
him in the courtroom. That’s him sitting right over there, the big
fellow in the blue suit.

The victim, one Kit Carson Cimarron.
Recognized him, knew this was his ranch. Knew his daddy, too.

Called for homicide and an ambulance. Took a
statement from Ms. Baroso who said—

Objection, hearsay.

Sustained.

Secured the scene and turned it over to
Detective Racklin when he arrived twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes
later.

***

Homicide Detective Bernie Racklin was
perhaps the only male in Pitkin County who didn’t wear cowboy
boots. He was short and pudgy, in his mid forties, with a receding
hairline. He wore khaki pants, a blue blazer, and scuffed cordovan
penny loafers. Racklin looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place
him. He, too, took a statement from Ms. Baroso, who apparently had
plenty to say and told the same story every time. Racklin puttered
around the barn for several hours, along with a crew of crime scene
technicians dusting for prints, shooting photos, swabbing up drops
of blood, slipping nails and chips of wood into little evidence
bags.

“
What was Ms. Baroso’s
condition when you interviewed her?”

“
She was upset and had been
crying. She displayed bruises on her ribs she said came
from—”

The prosecutor held up a hand. “Just give us
your observations, please.”

Thanks, McBain. I appreciate that.

“
She was bruised about the
torso. Her face appeared to have been struck as she had the
beginning of a black eye. The injuries did not appear to be
serious, and she was lucid, alert, and aware of her
surroundings.”

With the prosecutor’s assistant displaying a
series of photos blown up to poster size, Racklin spent the next
hour describing what seemed like a twelve-round championship
fight.

“
Photo number one
represents what, sir?”

“
This is the loft of the
barn. This is where the defendant first attacked the
decedent.”

Whoa! He wasn’t there. He was relying on Jo
Jo’s statements.

“
Based on the physical
evidence, were you able to determine what occurred in the loft?”
Brian McBain asked.

“
Yes. The floor is wood.
There are scuff marks from the decedent’s cowboy boots consistent
with a struggle occurring there. He would have been dragged across
the floor ...”

Cimarron dragged? With what, a crane?

“
...There were no scuff
marks from the defendant’s footwear.”

Of course not. I was wearing sneakers. I
just hate pseudo-scientific evidence from cops.

“
We inspected the wooden
planks that make up the walls of the loft. Close examination
revealed the presence of human hair embedded in the rough
splinters. The hair matched that of Mr. Cimarron, and scuff marks
on the floor near the wall are consistent with Mr. Cimarron having
been thrown into the wall with great force.”

He paused a moment while the prosecutor
handed him an enlarged photograph showing a cracked wooden
plank.

“
Looking at what’s already
been marked as state’s exhibit twelve, can you tell us what that
photo shows?”

“
Yes, that’s the plank. As
you can see, there is a fissure in the area from which we extracted
Mr. Cimarron’s hair. That was an area of the plank seventy-seven
inches above the floor. Mr. Cimarron was a very tall man, six feet
seven, even taller in boots. Further, there was an abrasion on the
back of Mr. Cimarron’s head, and indications of a heavy blow,
serious enough to cause a concussion.”

Bull! He did more damage to the wall than it
did to him. I’m the one who had a concussion. He never even
blinked.

“
Based on your
investigation and the physical evidence, what did you conclude
concerning the activities in the loft, as pictured in photo number
one?”

Hey, H.T., do something. Anything.

I squirmed in my seat, and Patterson placed
a calming hand on my arm. Damn lawyers!

“
Mr. Cimarron was attacked
by the defendant, who though not as large, is quite a physical
specimen. He is a former professional football player who is still
in good condition, better in fact than Mr. Cimarron ...”

That’s for sure. Mr. Cimarron is stone-cold
dead.

“
It would appear that the
defendant dragged Mr. Cimarron around the loft. They might have
been locked up as wrestlers sometimes do. Then the defendant swung
Mr. Cimarron into the wall, where he struck his head with great
force. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t knock the man unconscious
at the time, though it surely stunned him. Then, the two tussled
some more. Somehow, the defendant fell through the railing depicted
in photo number two and into the stall below, as shown by the third
photo.”

“
Are your conclusions
consistent with the statements provided by Ms. Baroso?”

Oh brother, talk about getting hearsay in
the back door.

I shot a look at Patterson, who hushed me
with a whisper. “Stifle yourself, Jake. She’s going to testify
anyway. No use making it look like we’re afraid to hear it.”

He had a point, though I could have done
without hearing her lies twice.

“
Yes, consistent in every
material respect.”

McBain walked his witness through more
exhibits and more description of the brutal beating administered to
poor, fat, Kiwanis Man of the Year Kit Carson Cimarron by a
weight-lifting ex-football-playing flatlander from a godforsaken
place where they don’t hardly speak no English.

Detective Racklin testified that the
defendant continued his assault upon Cimarron on the ground floor.
There was evidence the defendant attempted to impale Mr. Cimarron
with a pitchfork, four superficial stab marks in the thigh matching
the prongs precisely.

Well, that was close, as close as a nephew
of the first degree of consanguinity.

No, there were no usable fingerprints on the
pitchfork handle, but that’s not unusual. They could have been
smeared, or the pitchfork could have been held in a way not to
leave prints.

Mr. Cimarron defended himself with a
bullwhip, and subsequent examination of the defendant’s wounds
revealed Mr. Cimarron scored some defensive strikes.

Defensive? I’d like to show Detective
Racklin some defensive strikes.

So the two behemoths continued to slam each
other around, falling into the corncrib, Mr. Cimarron defending
himself, as always, and landing some punches, too. They were both
physical men, and they did damage to each other.

“
Then what happened?”
McBain asked.

“
Apparently, the defendant
got hold of the nail gun, and—”

“
Objection!” Patterson was
on his feet. “Evidence is not based on what
apparently
happened.”

“
Sustained.”

“
Let me ask it this way,”
McBain said. “When you arrived in the barn, what did you observe
concerning Mr. Cimarron.”

“
I observed that he was
dead.”

In the gallery, a couple newspaper reporters
tittered, but the jurors were ominously serious.

“
Go on,” McBain
prodded.

“
He was lying on his left
side on the floor. A pool of blood extended from his right ear in a
circular pattern surrounding his head. There was a small amount of
blood appearing in his right ear in what was clearly an entrance
wound, very small. There was a smudge of grease or dirt on the ear
itself that could have come from the muzzle of a gun. Examination
revealed an exit wound in the skull above the left ear. It was
about the size of a quarter. My first impression was that Mr.
Cimarron had suffered a gunshot wound to the head at close
range.”

“
Did further inspection
change your opinion?”

“
Yes. Lying approximately
three feet from the body was a nail gun, or stud driver as they’re
sometimes called. It had a clip of live ammunition—a plastic strip
of .27-caliber bullets— sticking out the top. That’s how they’re
loaded.”

“
What else did you observe
in the vicinity of the body?”

“
Approximately eight feet
away, in the direction of the exit wound, there was a leather
saddle on top a sawhorse. Embedded in the saddle just under the
horn was a nail that was bloody at its point and along its shaft.
Adhering to the underside of the nail’s head were fragments of bone
and skin and what may have been brain tissue.”

One of the jurors, a middle-aged woman
schoolteacher, put a lace handkerchief to her mouth. The others sat
at rapt attention.

“
From your experience as a
homicide detective, what did you then conclude?”

“
Mr. Cimarron had been shot
in the right ear at point-blank range by a nail from a stud driver
powered by .27-caliber bullets. The nail exited Mr. Cimarron’s head
through the skull just above the left ear and continued until it
struck the saddle.”

“
Was this conclusion
consistent with Ms. Baroso s statement?”

Cute. Speculation corroborated by hearsay,
but H. T. didn‘t want to make a fuss.

“
Yes, it was
consistent.”

“
We’ll learn more about the
fatal shot both from a tools expert and from the medical examiner,”
Prosecutor McBain told his witness, but the statement was intended
for the jury.

McBain looked through his notes, made a
series of check marks on his legal pad, took a sip of water, and
started off in a different direction. “Did there come a time when
you had an opportunity to question the defendant?” McBain
asked.

“
In a manner of speaking,
Mr. McBain. I accompanied you to the hospital the next morning, and
we spoke to Mr. Lassiter there.”

Right. I remember the guy now, somewhere in
the fog.

“
Tell us what
transpired.”

Patterson shot me a look. No lawyer likes
surprises, and though I had remembered the prosecutor, I forgot
about talking to the cop. Now what the hell did I say? Whatever it
was would be admissible as an admission by a party.

“
I told the defendant I
remembered him from his pro football days. I recalled a game
against the Broncos where he had a couple of sacks and a fumble
recovery ...”

Great. Five mediocre seasons, and this guy
has to remember my best game.

“…
so I complimented him on
that.”

“
And what did he
say?”

“
He sort of spoke in an
exaggerated Southern accent and said he always aspired to be
mo-bile, a-gile, and hostile, but all he could manage was the last
of the three.”

Oh shit.

“
Anything else?”

“
Yes, sir. You informed him
of the cause of Mr. Cimarron’s death, and he said ...” Racklin made
a production of thumbing through his notes. “‘It’s the first time
in my life I ever drove a nail straight.’

“
Your witness,” McBain said
pleasantly, allowing himself a little smile. If the smile could
talk, it would have said, take your best shot, sucker.

H. T. Patterson nodded, as if thanking his
adversary for a great favor, and stood to address the witness.
“What was my client’s physical condition when you first saw
him?”

“
I’m not a
doctor.”

“
Oh come now, Detective
Racklin. Long before you were a homicide detective, you were a
patrolman, were you not?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
And you testified many
times in auto accident cases as to physical condition?”