“ I must have? A moment ago, you said I didn’t. You told this jury that no one reloaded.”
“ I must have been wrong.”
“ Let’s see what else you were wrong about. Now who was shooting at whom in the little exchange we just heard?”
Again, she sensed where this would lead. “Simmy was shooting, but you must have gotten the gun away and…”
“ And what?”
“ I don’t remember.”
“ Well, maybe this will refresh your recollection.”
I nodded to Patterson who started the tape.
Cimarron called out to Jo Jo to bring the branding iron.
“ Simmy, why not just finish it?” she said, and in the jury box, no one moved.
Cimarron told her he wanted me to suffer, “but I’ve never killed a man, and I won’t start now.”
“ If he lives and starts talking,” she said, “it’ll just complicate things. Keep it clean and simple.”
There was the sound of grunting and great, husky breaths. My hand had found the stud gun, and we were grappling for it. I remembered lying there on my back, his weight pinning me down, my raising the gun.
Click.
Again I stopped the tape.
“ What was that?”
“ You tried to shoot him.”
“ Right. But there were no bullets. So what happened?”
“ As I said before, you must have reloaded, then shot him.”
“ Now, on direct exam, you testified that immediately prior to firing the fatal shot, I was fighting with Mr. Cimarron?”
“ Yes.”
“ We were both on the floor, with Mr. Cimarron pinning me down?”
“ Yes.”
“ So, how did I manage to shoot Mr. Cimarron? Did I ask him to get off me and wait a moment while I walked to the sawhorse, calmly found a new clip, inserted it, found another nail, loaded it, then asked Mr. Cimarron to please put his ear up to the muzzle so I could shoot him at point-blank range?”
“ I don’t know. I was under great stress and frightened. I just know you shot him.”
“ Was I conscious at the time I allegedly shot him?”
“ Of course.”
“ And did Mr. Cimarron strike me after he was hit?”
Her eyes darted from me to the jury. “Of course not. He died instantly.”
“ You heard the testimony of Sheriff’s Deputy Dobson that I was unconscious when he arrived.”
“ Yes.”
“ What rendered me unconscious after I supposedly shot Mr. Cimarron?”
No answer.
“ Isn’t it true, Mrs. Cimarron, that the click we heard on the tape came when your husband and I were struggling for control of the stud gun, and immediately thereafter, he hit me with such force that my head bounced off the barn floor, knocking me unconscious?”
“ No. You shot him before you passed out.”
“ How! With an empty gun?”
“ I don’t know how. I can’t be expected to remember every detail.” She turned to the jury. “You can’t know what it was like, seeing your husband butchered. You can’t get everything straight.”
“ Well, let’s see if we can re-create what it was like.” I walked to the defense table and whispered a request to Patterson. In the back row of the spectators’ gallery, I saw Detective Racklin. Patterson got up and headed into the corridor, returning a moment later with the bailiff and two life-size dummies. I placed one on its back and struggled with the other to get it sitting on the first one’s chest.
“ Now, Mrs. Cimarron, do these dummies accurately represent the situation with your husband pinning me to the floor?”
“ Yes, I suppose.”
I got the stud gun from the evidence table and removed the clip. Then I put in on the floor next to the two dummies.
“ And your testimony is that somehow, from that position, I put a nail through his ear, though you don’t recall my reloading the stud gun?”
“ It happened. You shot him. Only you know how.”
“ Now where were you standing in relation to the two of us?”
She pointed to my left.
“ Please answer audibly,” the judge told her, his voice seeming to startle her.
“ Close, maybe five yards away.”
I stepped back several steps. “Here?”
“ Yes.”
“ And where was the sawhorse with the clips of bullets and the nails?”
She pointed to the end of the clerk’s table. One step from where I stood.
It would work. I knew it now. The timing was perfect.
I picked up a nail and a plastic clip from the evidence table and placed them where she indicated. “Okay, let’s back up the tape a few seconds, start it again and see what happens. And Mrs. Cimarron, if you’ll bear with me, for purpose of this demonstration, please pretend I’m you.” The jurors’ eyes never left me. They expected magic, and I intended to deliver. I nodded to Patterson who hit the rewind button, then the play.
Again Jo Jo told Cimarron to keep it clean and simple. Again the sound of our grappling, then the click and the clunk of my head against the floor. One-thousand-one. I picked up the wooden plank from the evidence table, one- thousand-two, came up from behind the Cimarron dummy and swung at the back of its head.
Thud. The plank hit home and the dummy toppled forward onto the Lassiter dummy. A millisecond later on the tape, one-thousand-three, thud.
Then a grunt that had to be from Cimarron on tape, because the dummy didn’t say a word.
One-thousand-four.
I dropped the plank, took two steps to the clerk’s table, one-thousand-five, picked up the clip and a nail, one-thousand-six, walked back to the dummies, picked up the stud gun, one-thousand-seven , calmly inserted the clip and the nail.
One-thousand-eight.
The Cimarron dummy’s head was leaning, chin down, on the Lassiter dummy’s chest. I leaned over and jammed the muzzle of the stud gun into its ear.
One-thousand-nine. I pulled the trigger.
Whomp. The sound shuddered through the courtroom.
Whomp. More muffled perhaps, but the same sound on tape.
The nail tore through the dummy’s head, traveled on an upward path, and embedded in the wall of the courtroom just below a photograph of an 1890s judge with full chin whiskers.
“ Mr. Lassiter!” The judge rose from his chair. I stifled him with a “shusssh.”
The tape was still running.
The only sound in the courtroom was sand trickling onto the floor from what had been the dummy’s plastic skull. “Shit.”
Who said that? The jurors were confused. No one in the courtroom had said a word.
“ Shit,” again on the tape. It was Jo Jo, and the jurors knew it. They looked at her. Not accusing. Not yet. Just intense curiosity. Shit is fine if you’ve hit your thumb with a hammer, but it isn’t the most eloquent lament for a lover slain. She sounded exasperated. Not angry, not mournful.
“ That’s not the way it was supposed to go,” she said.
Now the jurors looked at each other. Who was she talking to?
