claims, working them alone.
He found silver, but not long after he did, the crash of 1893 gutted his claims. Luckily for future generations of Cimarrons, he believed in land as well as holes in the ground. He had bought, free and clear, six thousand acres near Basalt. His son had tried ranching, farming, and apparently drinking, and the third generation-K.C.’s father-lost the spread to unpaid taxes. K.C. ended up with the more modest digs near Woody Creek.
I read aloud to Kip. “‘Mr. Cimarron died apparently without leaving a will. So far, no one has claimed to be the intestate beneficiary, and no living relatives are known to authorities. If none are found, Cimarron’s assets, including the ranch and mining claims, escheat to the state.’
“ So what?” Kip asked.
“ Cui bono? Who stands to gain? That’s what Charlie Riggs always asks when someone is killed. But the estate doesn’t give us any answers.”
I skimmed more of the story, then read aloud again. “‘Although prosecutors refuse to confirm it, well-placed sources indicate that Mr. Cimarron was killed attempting to protect Ms. Josefina Baroso from sexual assault. Ms. Baroso, an assistant state attorney in Miami, Florida, was Mr. Cimarron’s houseguest, and the pair were frequent companions at local social events several years ago. Ms. Baroso is expected to be the key prosecution witness. Her whereabouts are currently as big a secret as the location of the Lost Dutchman’s Mine.’
A little local wit there, I suppose.
Sexual assault. That would make me real popular with the local jury pool. In my experience, jurors don’t mind murderers all that much, but rapists and child molesters are dog meat.
“ If I were you, Uncle Jake, I’d go into that newspaper office and kick some butt. You remember Paul Newman in Absence of Malice?”
“ Hush. I’m still reading.”
There were some pictures of old smelters and railway cars filled with ore and a brief recitation of Cimarron’s collection of mining claims and maps of supposedly buried treasure. The head of the historical society had fond memories of the late Mister Cimarron, who would sit for hours in the library poring over old diaries, family Bibles, maps, and deeds. I learned more than I needed to know about the Treasure Mountain hoard, millions in gold buried near the top of Wolf Creek Pass. If a man could only find a grassy mound and stand on it at six o’clock on a September morning, he could dig for the gold buried under the shadow of his head.
Then there were the prospectors who used a cave near Dead Man’s Creek to wait out a blizzard in 1880. Inside the cold, dank cavern, they found five human skulls and hundreds of gold bars hidden in the rocks. After the storm, they took five bars back to their camp and returned with wagons, hoping to bring the rest out. But they never found the cave entrance again.
“ Hey, Kip, get a load of this. ‘K. C. Cimarron was a larger than life romantic figure, a man of vision, a combination of Indiana Jones and Errol Flynn.’ “
“ Errol Flynn was a Nazi, Uncle Jake.”
“ Good point.”
The newspaper story concluded by calling Cimarron a “throwback to Pioneer days, a big, hearty son of the West.”
Son of a bitch was more like it.
At the bottom of page three was a sidebar in a box. There was a photo of a mean-looking lug with a threatening scowl. He had two black eyes, a swollen lip, and a thoroughly disagreeable countenance. Wait! That was me. The photo was taken in the hospital at a time I was not prepared to receive guests. In fact, all I was prepared to receive was codeine.
The alleged killer of Saint Cimarron, according to the story, was one Jacob Lassiter, a Miami lawyer facing disbarment, a man accused of a second murder in Florida. Then they repeated the “sexual assault” on the angelic Ms. Baroso.
“ Hey, Kip, get a load of this. It says here I’m facing additional charges for contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”
“ It ain’t true,” he said. “I was a delinquent before I met you.
“ With all this pretrial publicity, maybe I should ask for a change of venue.”
“ Yeah, like to Samoa.”
I needed help. Granny could only do so much. Charlie Riggs wrote me inspirational letters with moral support. Britt Montero called from the Miami Daily News, either to wish me well or to get an exclusive interview, I couldn’t tell which. We went out a couple of times years ago, but Britt always found triple homicides more interesting than my description of a bull rush past the offensive tackle.
At the moment I needed a lawyer more than friendly chitchat. So when Kip headed back for his bus, his eyes wet as I hugged him good-bye, I used the jail phone to make a collect call to an old friend and sometimes adversary.
H. T. Patterson was in Aspen the next day and had a bond request filed the day after that. The state attorney worked up a sweat arguing against any bond, but the judge set it at a cool million dollars. Granny and Doc Charlie Riggs pledged all their assets, as did I, but we were still short, and not even close at that. One more phone call and Gina Florio came up with the rest, only her name was Gina de la Torre now, married for the time being to Carlos de la Torre, sugar baron. When I knew her, she was a Dolphin Doll, shaking her booty for fifteen bucks a game, and we lived together for a while, but that’s another story. Thanks to Gina, we had enough collateral to spring me, and as long as I showed up at trial, they’d get their money back, minus ten percent which I promised to repay, even if it was out of my prison salary. I was ordered not to leave the county or attempt any contact with Ms. Baroso, or bond would be revoked.
The day I got out, I assembled my team. Granny, Kip, H. T. Patterson, and I met at the Woody Creek Tavern. Granny had bourbon, H.T. an iced tea, and Kip and I split a Coors, the world’s most overrated beer.
“ You sure you want me to try the case?” H.T. asked. He was wearing a blue denim suit with red piping and red leather cowboy boots so new he must have bought them at the Denver airport. He looked like a very short and very black John Wayne.
“ Why wouldn’t I? You’re a real lawyer. You got bond issued in the blink of an eye.”
“ I merely pointed out your clean record of never having been convicted of a felony, though you do seem to have a history of contempt citations and occasional misdemeanor assault. But the fact remains that I am not…shall we say, demographically correct for this case?”
“ Why?”
“ This ain’t exactly Malcolm X country. You’re not likely to get even one dark complexion on the jury, unless it’s pasted on at the tanning salon.”
“ I don’t care. I need you. I’m facing a lifetime of sleeping with a cork up my ass-”
“ But you’re innocent,” Granny interrupted. I didn’t correct her.
“ Guilt or innocence isn’t always black or white,” I said in my lecture tone I must have learned from Doc Riggs. “It’s more of a continuum. Somewhere in the middle is not-so-guilty bucking up against not-so-innocent. The state has to prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Apparently, they can prove I fired a nail through Cimarron’s brain. Hell, I can’t even deny it, ‘cause I don’t remember. But it was justifiable if I was acting in self-defense. The problem is that Jo Jo Baroso is going to weave a web for the jury that makes me the attacker. That’s why I need you, H.T.”
“ You think I can break her?”
“ I don’t know, but you’re a great lawyer. Hell, when we oppose each other, you always convince me you’re right.”
“ Jake, I’ve never known you so accommodating and amiable, so considerate and cooperative as when you’re under indictment. In any event, I thank you for the gracious compliment.”
“ I mean it. You remind me of Bum Philips’s line about Don Shula. ‘He can beat your’n with his’n or his’n with your’n.’ H.T., I’d take you on either side of a case.”
“ Well then, let’s get to work,” Patterson said. “Start by telling me everything that happened that night. Take it slowly, try to remember every word spoken, every move made. Don’t leave out anything, no matter how
