by Robert Knott
“Enough,” Callison said.
Chastain and Book helped Juniper get Black back in his chair. Juniper nodded to Chastain and Book.
“Thank you,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”
Chastain and Book backed away and Juniper stood between Black and LaCroix, blocking Black’s view of LaCroix.
Valentine leaned in to Virgil and me.
“How about that?” he said in a whisper. “Damn sure didn’t see that one coming.”
“Nope,” I said. “Me, neither.”
“Don’t think ol’ Juniper saw that in his orbit, either,” Valentine said.
Juniper was in Black’s face, talking a blue streak to Black, trying to calm him. Black continued to try to get a look at LaCroix, but Juniper kept moving, stepping from side to side, blocking Black’s view. Finally Black looked down, like a little boy taking his medicine, but he was fuming.
By the time Callison got the room quieted, Juniper had Black settled, but Black was now beyond seething rage.
“He’s fit to be tied,” Valentine said with a hush.
Black had turned inward and it was obvious that his fury continued to mount. His neck was bulging, brimming above the collar of his shirt. The veins in his dark red face looked as if they would explode and he was close to foaming at the mouth. His eyes were bored in, locked solid, staring downward as if he were trying to burn a hole in the floor with his bloodshot, angry eyes.
“You may continue, Mr. Simmons.”
“And what did you do then, Mr. LaCroix?” Dickie said.
“Well, I was confused,” LaCroix said.
“How so?”
“I did not know what to do,” LaCroix said as he looked out to the courtroom, seeking some kind of kinship with everyone that was looking at him.
“Go on,” Dickie said.
“I just watched, I’m afraid,” LaCroix said. “At first I thought I should do something, but then I thought I should not. I should mind my own business. He, of course, is an intimidating man. I made some sort of judgment, some assumption that what I was witnessing was most likely a lovers’ quarrel, you see, and I should simply stay out of it.”
The crowd half agreed and half disagreed.
“So you did nothing?” Dickie said.
LaCroix shook his head.
“I . . . I did not, I’m mortified to admit. And now, now that we know the heinous outcome of this . . . I am frankly ashamed of myself.”
“No further questions at this time, Your Honor,” Dickie said.
“He’s going to leave it at that?” Valentine said under his breath. “Not ask what, if anything else, he witnessed?”
Callison nodded and looked to Juniper.
“Mr. Jones?”
“Dickie is smart,” I said. “He’s setting Juniper up, he’s making it where Juniper will be the one dropping the blade.”
Juniper looked to Black, who was still about to explode. Juniper whispered something to Black as he stared at the floor. Juniper whispered to him again, and Black’s eyes looked up at Juniper, then shifted to LaCroix. Juniper said something to Black and Black nodded slightly.
“Mr. Jones,” Callison said. “You may cross-examine, and if you do not wish to do so, say so.”
“I do, Your Honor,” Juniper said, and he got to his feet and moved away from Black.
“Juniper is smart, and he knows the trap Dickie has left for him,” I said. “How he gets around it is another story.”
55.
Juniper glanced back to Black, then turned his attention to LaCroix. Juniper, for the first time in the proceedings, looked uncertain as he approached LaCroix. He stopped in front of the stand and paced for a moment.
“The worm, it turns,” Valentine said quietly.
“Does,” I said.
“Looks like Black’s goose has just been stuffed proper and overcooked,” Valentine said.
Virgil did not say anything, but he shook his head a little.
“Wonder what in the hell is this little attorney fella gonna do,” Valentine said. “Poor bastard’s got himself a battleship to row upstream with a sapling stick.”
“Mr. LaCroix,” Juniper said. “You said you saw Mr. Black on more than one occasion?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you see him prior to the day in question, when you allegedly say you saw Mr. Black?”
Dickie offered an objection, but Callison overruled.
“I allege nothing, I saw . . .”
“Answer the question,” Juniper said. “Where did you see him prior?”
“Why, at Bloom’s Inn, like I said.”
“Where did you physically see him at the Inn?”
“What?”
“Where?”
“I’m not certain what you mean.”
“This is not difficult questioning here, Mr. LaCroix. Did you see him in the parlor, in the hall, on the front porch, on the roof, swinging from the eaves . . . where did you see him?”
“Oh, well . . . I saw him, let’s see, coming and going. He’s rather hard to miss.”
“When?”
“At different times during the day.”
Juniper looked at the painting. He studied it for a moment.
“You said you painted in the evening and you set up in the evening.”
LaCroix nodded and smiled.
“Um,” he said. “Yes, but . . .”
“But?” Juniper said. “But? . . . Why are you lying?”
“Objection,” Dickie said.
“You said you painted in the evenings,” Juniper said, then turned to Callison. “Your Honor, I am trying to establish some basic timeline here that Mr. LaCroix seems to be lying about, and I want to know why he is lying under oath.”
Dickie shouted, “Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained,” Callison said. “Let him answer, Mr. Jones.”
“I came there to the inn at various times during the day for a while, just sketching, getting my framework down,” LaCroix said. “And during those times, a few times, I saw Mr. Black.”
Juniper looked at LaCroix for a long moment, then he moved to the painting. He picked it up and looked at it, smelled it, and touched it with his little finger. He rubbed his little finger with his thumb and looked at the residue of paint on his fingers.
“Still wet,” Juniper said.
LaCroix nodded.
“Takes a while to dry thoroughly,” he said.
“When did you finish this painting?” Juniper said.
“I’m not sure I ever finish a painting,” LaCroix said with a proud boyish smile as he looked to the audience.
“Yes,” Juniper said. “By the look of this, I can certainly see your point.”
The comment brought a few chuckles from the crowd.
LaCroix sat with his shoulders back and acted as though the comment didn’t have an effect on him.
Juniper looked closely at the painting again.
“Looks like this painting was just only recently done, and just barely dry.”
“No, it’s been done awhile,” he said.
“It’s a rather crude and uninspired piece,” Juniper said. “Is this your first painting?”
LaCroix’s face flushed. Dickie objected, but Callison quieted him.
“First painting or no?” Juniper said.
“It is not my first painting,” LaCroix said.
“So you have other paintings?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Dickie said. “I do not see how any other paintings that have been painted by Mr. LaCroix have any bearing on this—”
“On the contrary, Your Honor,” Juniper said, interrupting Dickie. “I am only attempting to substantiate this man Mr. LaCroix is the painter he claims he is.”
“Oh, I am,” LaCroix sai
d defensively.
“So you say.”
“Objection overruled,” Callison said. “Continue, Mr. Jones, but get to your point.”
“Again,” Juniper said. “You have other paintings?”
“Why, of course,” he said.
“Where are they?”
“Well . . . they are at my home.”
“And where is it you call home?”
“In Denver,” he said.
“So, Your Honor, I would just like to point out to the jury, that unless this court were able to obtain those said paintings and had the opportunity to view them, or if we were able to gather witnesses that have witnessed Mr. LaCroix painting the said paintings, we have no real evidence to show this jury that confirms Mr. LaCroix is even a painter at all. Much less any evidence that proves he was where he said he was during the painting of this”—Juniper looked at the painting—“Bloom Where You Are Planted concoction.”
“Objection,” Dickie said. “This is ridiculous. Mr. Jones is hanging on by a thread and he knows it.”
“Point taken,” Callison said. “The jury can decide on this painterly matter based on the evidence presented in this court . . . I’m going to have to agree with Mr. Simmons here, Mr. Jones . . . Continue, Mr. Jones, but get to the point, and in doing so, let’s choose a direct line of questioning that is without the unnecessary subversive commentary.”
Juniper nodded, then paced for a moment.
“Did you get paid to come here today?”
“No.”
“Why are you here?”
“I felt it was my responsibility to be here.”
“Do you know anyone in this courtroom?” Juniper said.
LaCroix looked out to the room and scanned the faces.
“I do not.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes,” he said. “Well . . . I met those here with the Denver law enforcement when I arrived here in Appaloosa, but then and only then.”
“Did you pay for your travel here?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“They did, the Denver Department of Law Enforcement.”
“How is it that you are just coming forward with this information?”
“I read about this in the Denver paper, about Ruth Ann’s body being found, and I contacted the authorities.”
“That is not the only reason, is it?”
LaCroix was silent for a long moment.
“No.”
“Oh?” Juniper said. “What was the other reason or reasons?”
“Oh, no,” Valentine said under his breath. “Juniper might have just belayed the wrong yard lift.”
“I saw more,” LaCroix said. “More of what Mr. Black did . . .”
Juniper turned away from LaCroix so quickly he looked like a calf hitting the end of a dallied rope.
“That will be all, Your Honor,” Juniper said loudly. “No further questions.”
Juniper hurried back to his table.
“I saw him . . . not just drag her, but I saw him beat her,” LaCroix said. “Beat her to her death.”
Black bolted from his chair and charged LaCroix. This time he was way too fast for anyone to stop him. LaCroix scrambled back, trying to stay out of Black’s rapacious reach, but he was not fast enough.
56.
Prior to Black being sentenced to hang for the murder of Ruth Ann Messenger, he managed to injure Lawrence LaCroix pretty good that day. Black was quick on his attack of LaCroix. His first contact took LaCroix off his feet and slammed him so hard into the back of the courtroom the plaster caved in and fell from the wall and ceiling. By the time Chastain, Book, the bailiff, Virgil, and I could get to Black, he had broke LaCroix’s nose and jaw, knocked out some teeth, cracked ribs, and fractured both his painting arm and right leg. LaCroix ended up unconscious and had to be carried out on a stretcher and hauled off to the hospital.
Now, however, the whole dramatic event was over and gallows were already under construction. The alderman of Appaloosa did not appreciate the idea of the town having a permanent structure for hanging people. So instead of having standing gallows, there was precut lumber ready for reassembly when it was time for it to be used again, and according to Judge Callison, this was the time for it to be put to use.
The site where the gallows were erected was on the far outskirts of town, past a makeshift little saloon that was neatly christened as the Gallows Door Cantina. It was nothing more than a three-sided lean-to with a cluster of tables and chairs under a stand of hackberry and mimosa. The place was open only when it was warm or when there was a hanging about to take place, and currently the reasoning criteria of both were in effect.
Virgil and I sat in the shade, drinking beer and watching the workers putting the gallows structure together when Valentine came walking up behind us.
“Lovely day for a hanging,” he said.
Virgil looked back.
“Not yet,” Virgil said.
“Next week,” I said.
“Yeah,” Valentine said as he stopped and looked at the construction workers a moment. “I heard . . . Ironic, it’s the goddamn day before Independence Day. The day before he was supposed to open the damn gambling joint.”
“It is,” I said.
“Who thought of that?” Valentine said.
“That was the good judge,” I said.
“Some kind of sick joke?”
“Judge wanted to be out on the afternoon train for Yaqui so he could be home for the Fourth.”
“Isn’t that thoughtful?”
He shook his head, removed his hat, and took a seat. He pushed back his thick hair with both of his hands and smiled at Virgil.
“Not seen you around for a while,” Virgil said.
“You been looking for me?”
“No,” Virgil said.
“You need something?”
“No.”
“You miss me?” Valentine said.
“Did not,” Virgil said.
“I’ve been enjoying the good life,” Valentine said.
“That so?” Virgil said.
“Made me a short trip over to the hot springs.”
Virgil looked at him with his head tilted a bit.
“You should try it,” Valentine said. “Take Allie. Cures what ails you.”
Valentine looked to the gallows.
“’Sides,” he said. “There’s only so much of this kind of shit a fellow can tolerate.”
“It’s been expected,” Virgil said.
“Understand the good judge heard the case against Truitt Shirley?”
Virgil nodded.
“Heard there was testimony that supported some self-defense, Truitt thought Roger Messenger was pulling on him, but the good judge found him guilty.”
“Ten years for second-degree murder,” I said. “We’ll be hauling him off after the hanging.”
“The old judge is on a roll,” Valentine said.
Eloise came out from the lean-to. Eloise was a local barmaid in Appaloosa. She was in her forties and was a bit plump but pretty as a peach. She was a sprightly and spirited woman with pounds of curly red hair and was never without a sassy smile on her face.
“Beer?” she said to Valentine. “That’s all we got.”
Valentine looked her up and down.
“Well, I by God beg to differ,” he said with a smile.
She put her hands on her hips.
“Well, aren’t you a charmer,” she said.
“I have been called worse,” he said.
“I’m sure you have,” she said.
“Beer it will be, my dear,” he said.
Valentine watched her as she walked back to the lean-to, then looked back to the gallows again. After an extended moment he said
, “Poor bastard.”
“Black?” I said.
“Yep,” Valentine said.
“We were just ruminating on that very thing,” I said.
“And?” he said.
“Up to the painter LaCroix’s last statement about what he saw, it could have been a different decision, is all.”
“That all is a hell of a lot,” Valentine said.
“Damn sure is,” I said.
“His life,” Valentine said. “Painter was convincing, though.”
Virgil nodded.
“He was,” he said.
“But you been edging on the speculation that Black just might have been railroaded?” Valentine said.
Virgil didn’t say anything, but his lack of response answered the question.
“He was goddamn fit to be tied, that’s for sure,” Valentine said. “He was on that goddamn painter like a riled black bear.”
“He was,” I said.
“Well, I sure as hell knew firsthand he had that kind of goddamn fury in him,” Valentine said. “I thought I had him good when I first caught him. I come up behind him there at the cactus garden just off the city square. I put my sawed-off to the back of his head and had one of my helpers, Sanchez, get the cuffs on him. I could tell the whole time this was happening Boston Bill’s temperature was climbing like a hot poker. No sooner did we get the cuffs on him and went to put him in the wagon than the sonofabitch kicked Sanchez off the side of this lil’ ol’ bridge like an empty fruit can, spun around on me, got both hands on my neck, that I realized I just might have saddled more of a horse than I could ride. I was able to pop him a few hard fucking rights, but it didn’t faze him. He picked me up off the ground and slammed me so hard up against the bars of the wagon I was seeing fireflies, and the simple fact I managed to pull my cutlass and put the tip of it to his throat is the only thing that saved me from a handmade wood box. After that I slapped him hard a few times and he showed no more effrontery . . . but up until then he kind of put the fear of goddamn Mohammed in me.”
Eloise came with Valentine’s beer. He leaned back as she set it on the table in front of him. He looked up at her and grinned.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Are you flirting with me?” she said.
“What gives you that impression?”
“You,” she said.
