check on the furnace?”
H. T. Patterson cleared his throat. “For the record, Your Honor, I have no objection to Mr. Lassiter joining as co-counsel, although I do not join in his motion.”
In other words, don’t blame jour lawyer if you screw it up.
“ What about you, Mr. McBain, any objection?” the judge asked.
“ Yes, sir. Yes, indeed. Cheap theatrics and a trick for the appellate court. Mr. Lassiter sees which way the wind is blowing, and he’s trying to build error into the record. He’s going to take over, and when he’s convicted, claim ineffective assistance of counsel. If he loses the appeal, he’s got a federal constitutional claim for habeas corpus. It’s all a ruse, Judge, a slick ploy.”
“ But if I deny the request, that’s an issue for appeal, too,” the judge mused, smiling ruefully.
He thought it over some more, and I remembered one of my first clients in the P.D.’s office. He insisted on representing himself, but he had no legal training, so the judge appointed me to sit as co-counsel and offer advice, none of which was taken. The client was cross-examining a man he supposedly mugged in a dark alley. “How can you identify me when I knocked you cold from behind?” the budding barrister asked.
Finally, Judge Witherspoon shrugged and said, “Well, I’m going to let you have a go at it, though I wonder if you might show the court some respect by pulling your tie up to your collar before you address the witness.”
I grabbed a yellow pad and a pen just to look official, adjusted my tie, ran a hand over a two-day growth of beard and got as close to the witness stand as I could without asking for permission to get closer.
“ Good morning, Jo Jo,” I said.
“ Good morning, Mr. Lassiter,” she replied.
“ Mr. Lassiter. Yesterday, it was Jake. And a few months ago in Miami, it was mi angel, was it not?”
“ No. That was a long time ago.”
I gave her a little smile. “It must have been before I started stealing, raping, and killing?”
“ I don’t know when your life swerved off its path.”
“ Nor I, yours.”
“ Objection, argumentative!” McBain stayed on his feet. He didn’t want to waste time leaping up for the next objection.
“ Sustained. Mr. Lassiter, you know better than that. I caution you to adhere to the rules of evidence, or you may resume your seat.”
“ Ms. Baroso, or should I say, Mrs. Cimarron?”
“ Either one.”
“ But you obviously prefer Ms. Baroso, correct?”
“ That’s what I go by.”
“ In fact, you never told anyone you were married, isn’t that right?”
She paused, then nodded and said, “That’s right.”
“ Except your brother, Luis, who prefers to be called Louis, and is known affectionately throughout the justice system as Blinky?”
I was smiling at her confidently, and for the first time, her look changed. Just the first hint of apprehension. She knew me well enough to know my sarcasm usually preceded the baiting of a trap. Her look seemed to ask: What does he know?
“ Let me think,” she said.
“ Think? You need to think whether you told your only sibling you were married?”
“ I believe I did tell Luis,” she said, a bit too quickly.
“ So you did tell someone?”
“ Yes, I suppose I did.”
“ Then a moment ago you were mistaken when you said you never told anyone?”
“ I suppose I was.”
“ Ever tell anyone else?”
“ No.”
“ So you never told me, did you?”
After all of that, she had to say no.
“ No,” she said. “I never told you.”
“ Not when you and I were alone in your house in Miami last June?”
“ No.”
“ Not when your husband showed up that night?”
“ No.”
“ And not when you say I attacked you in the barn?”
“ No.”
“ You didn’t say, ‘Jake, please, I’m a married woman, and my husband is in the house over yonder?’ “No.”
“ You didn’t think that information was important?”
“ I didn’t think it would stop you.”
Ouch. I had committed the cardinal sin on cross, one question too many. It was the equivalent of the “why” that will always burn you with a smart, hostile witness. Time to move on.
“ Mrs. Cimarron, what were the terms of your late husband’s will?”
“ Objection,” McBain said, still standing at the prosecution table. “Irrelevant.”
“ He wouldn’t say that if I was the beneficiary,” I told the judge. “Relevant to the issue of who wanted the decedent dead.”
Motive, motive, motive.
“ Overruled, but move it along, Mr. Lassiter.”
“ Simmy left no will,” Jo Jo said. “He died intestate.”
“ So as the surviving spouse, you receive one hundred percent of the estate, free and clear of all federal taxes?”
“ I really don’t know the law in that area.”
“ Oh come now, Mrs. Cimarron, you’re a lawyer.”
“ I’ve spent my entire career prosecuting criminals, not writing wills.”
Gonna wing it now. “But surely you have retained probate counsel and have prepared to file the appropriate papers with the state.”
Her eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. “Yes, I’ve retained a local probate lawyer.”
“ Who explained to you that you were the sole beneficiary and would receive one hundred percent of the estate, free and clear of federal taxes?”
“ I believe it was mentioned.”
“ So the ranch goes to you?”
“ Yes.”
“ And all personal property?”
“ Yes.”
“ And the mining claims, the treasure maps, the artifacts and products of Mr. Cimarron’s years of work?”
“ Yes.”
“ Life insurance?”
“ No.”
“ But there is a policy, isn’t there, with two million in death benefits?’’
“ I believe my brother is the beneficiary, just as Simmy was the beneficiary of Luis’s policy.”
“ Ah yes, your brother. Where is he?”
“ Nobody knows.”
“ When did you see him last?”
She studied me a moment before answering. The jurors were watching her, so I risked a little smirk. What does he know? “In June, just before he disappeared.”
“ And you’re sure you haven’t seen him since?”
