Stoner's Crossing

by Judith Pella

  Then she saw Sam, who was sitting at the table with Barnum and Deborah, lean toward the lawyer and whisper something to him.

  ****

  Sam was disturbed by the lawyer’s brief speech. He wondered if they were getting their money’s worth.

  “That all, Jonathan?” he asked Barnum.

  “I learned long ago that a jury doesn’t appreciate long speeches. They want this ordeal over with as fast as possible. I have a feeling they are now much more sympathetic to our cause than they were half an hour ago.”

  Sam smiled, his respect for Jonathan Barnum soaring.

  ****

  Carolyn saw her stepfather smile and wondered what was going on. Had she missed something?

  But the prosecution was calling its first witness. “I would like to call to the stand Mr. Markus Pollard, former sheriff of Stoner’s Crossing, and arresting officer.”

  Pollard walked forward, and Carolyn thought he was swaying a bit on his feet. Had he been drinking? She remembered Griff mentioning that the man had become a drunk. He certainly looked it.

  The bailiff, the sheriff of Leander, held out a Bible and proceeded to swear Pollard in. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothin’ but the truth, so help you God?”

  “Yeah,” said Pollard, but he didn’t look the man in the eye as he spoke.

  Fuller, the prosecutor, strode forward. “Mr. Pollard, it is true that you were the sheriff of Stoner’s Crossing at the time of the crime in question, July of 1865?”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “How long had you held that position?”

  “’Bout five years.”

  “Did you see yourself as an experienced officer of the law?”

  “I was, and I still am. I’ve put plenty of criminals behind bars and know what I’m about. Why, I reckon I was instrumental in cleaning up the streets of Stoner’s Crossing.”

  Next to Carolyn, Caleb made a quiet “harrumph” sound and rolled his eyes. His disdain went unnoticed by all but his granddaughter.

  “Do you have a clear recollection of the events in question?”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Barnum interrupted. “The witness is being asked to evaluate a purely subjective matter.”

  “Objection overruled,” the judge said. “The court will decide if the witness’s memory is adequate.”

  “It oughta be mentioned,” Pollard went on, “that ‘cause of the suspect being a woman and all, most folks ain’t gonna easily forget what happened.”

  “Mr. Pollard,” said the judge sternly, “you are only to respond to direct questions by the attorneys or myself. Unsolicited comments cannot be accepted.” He turned to the stenographer. “Please strike Mr. Pollard’s comments from the record.”

  When the judge indicated for the prosecutor to proceed, Fuller tapped his lips thoughtfully for a moment, then said, “Mr. Pollard, you were the arresting officer the night of Leonard Stoner’s death, correct?”

  “Yeah,” Pollard answered, with a sidelong glance toward the judge.

  “Do you recall when you arrived at the scene of the crime? And, in your estimation, how long was this after the time of the murder?”

  “Well, the coroner figured Leonard was killed around midnight, ‘cause that’s when the first shots were heard. Caleb Stoner found the accused standing over the body not long after that, and he then sent a rider into town to fetch me. It probably took ‘bout an hour for me to get back to the ranch.”

  “And how did you find things when you arrived?”

  “Well, Caleb said nothin’ had been touched, except that Mrs. Stoner had dropped the gun she had been holding and was laying on her bed in what I guess was shock.”

  “Would you describe the scene?”

  “Lemme see…” Pollard rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin. “The body was laying on the floor, of course, near the glass doors that led to a kind of patio outside. He was on his side, his back to them glass doors. So, when you entered the room from the inside door on the other side of the room, you didn’t right away see that he was shot.”

  “Why was that, Mr. Pollard?”

  “’Cause the bullet wound was in the man’s back, that’s why. He was back-shot, he was.”

  “Were there any signs of other disturbances in the room, signs of a struggle, perhaps, or a burglary?”

  “Nope. The place was pretty tidy—oh, wait a minute, I do remember an overturned chair right next to the body, like he had tried to grab it as he fell—”

  “Objection,” Barnum said. “The witness is drawing a conclusion there about the chair. I ask that his last remark be stricken from the record.”

  “Your Honor,” argued the prosecutor, “the witness is merely drawing a conclusion about a field in which his expertise has already been established—”

  “It’s been mentioned,” said Barnum, “but I cannot agree that it has been established.”

  “You are quibbling over semantics.”

  “Just because the man was once a sheriff and has arrested a few people doesn’t make him an expert on criminology, Mr. Fuller.”

  “Around here, Mr. Barnum,” interjected the judge, “it is often the closest thing we have. This isn’t Philadelphia or Washington.”

  “I understand the limitations of the frontier, sir,” said Barnum, “but I still wish to have a ruling on my objection. If it were a minor point, I might relent, but this is an important aspect of my client’s case, since she contends that there was indeed an intruder in the Stoner house that night.”

  “I will overrule your objection, Mr. Barnum. Keep in mind that you will have ample opportunity to cross-examine the witness and explore the strength of his statements.”

  Jonathan nodded at the judge, submitting to his ruling. It was true, he’d soon have his chance at the witness.

  But the interchange seemed to send the prosecutor in a different direction. Fuller explained that for the benefit of the court and to erase lingering doubts, he would gladly establish Pollard’s right to testify as an expert witness. And the next two hours were spent at that task. Fuller questioned Pollard about other murder investigations he had participated in, and Pollard took the opportunity to ramble on and on about his colorful, and sometimes sordid, experiences as sheriff. His rhetoric made him sound like a dime-novel hero.

  Finally, the judge put a stop to the torture. “You have made your point, Mr. Fuller. I think even our esteemed defense attorney will accept the witness’s credentials.”

  “Most heartily!” Barnum nodded.

  “We will take a recess for the midday meal,” said the judge. “When we return, I hope we can resume a more pertinent line of questioning.”

  After lunch, the prosecutor took another two hours to question Pollard. How he thought of that much to ask, Carolyn couldn’t imagine. Even she didn’t have so many questions. He tarried endlessly on such insignificant points that Carolyn almost lost interest.

  At three o’clock the court session had to recess for the day. The saloon owner needed time to clean up his place and get everything back in order for the evening’s activities.

  51

  Jonathan Barnum cross-examined Pollard the next day. His goal was to cast doubt upon the man’s previous testimony by discrediting him as a witness. He was greatly helped in his purpose by the fact that Pollard looked as if he had never left the saloon after yesterday’s court session.

  “Mr. Pollard,” Jonathan said, “in your previous testimony you stated that you had a clear memory of the events of—”

  “Objection,” Fuller said. “Those statements were stricken from the record.” The prosecutor folded his arms smugly across his chest.

  “My mistake,” Jonathan said. “Let me rephrase my question. Your previous testimony indicated that you had an exceptionally clear memory of the events of nineteen years ago, down to such detail as to how the victim’s body was arranged on the floor. Surely, if your memory of nineteen years ago is so clear, you will have no difficult
y in describing to me your activities last night.”

  “Objection,” Fuller repeated. “I don’t see where this is leading or how it relates to the case.”

  “I think it will become clear as I proceed.”

  “I’m curious myself,” the judge said. “Objection overruled.”

  “Now, Mr. Pollard, please tell me about last night.” Barnum folded his arms and waited.

  “Well…um…lemme see, I reckon I spent a few hours right here in the saloon. I’m from out of town, you see, and I ain’t got no place else to go.”

  “What did you do here—play cards, visit, drink?”

  “A little of everything, I suppose.”

  “How much money did you win at cards?”

  “Ain’t that a private matter?”

  “Yes, I see your point. Let me phrase it another way: Did you win over ten dollars?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think so? It was only a few hours ago, Mr. Pollard. You have no idea of your financial standing following the card game?”

  “Um…” Pollard scratched his head and screwed up his face in intense thought. He put a hand inside his vest and started to remove a wallet.

  “No fair peeking, Mr. Pollard. Let’s forget that for a moment and think of something else. Perhaps you can tell the court how much ‘liquid refreshment’ you consumed.”

  “Maybe a couple of glasses of whiskey.”

  “I will remind you, Mr. Pollard, that you are still under oath.”

  “Well, now that I think of it, maybe a few more than that.”

  “Five glasses? Six? Ten?”

  “What in blazes does it matter?” a frustrated Pollard exclaimed. “Who counts, anyway?”

  “I can tell you I had three cups of coffee last night at dinner and one glass of milk with an excellent slice of apple pie.”

  “Okay, I don’t remember how much I drank, and I don’t remember how much money I won at cards!”

  “Just to set your mind at ease, Mr. Pollard, the bartender tells me you drank half a bottle of rye whiskey, and you played no cards at all.”

  “That still don’t got nothing to do with the murder,” Pollard muttered defensively. “I wasn’t that much of a drinking man back then.”

  “You did indulge in alcohol at least occasionally?”

  “Sure! I was never no teetotaler.”

  “Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, “the defense is defaming my witness’s character, and I demand that he show cause. If he wishes to prove that Mr. Pollard was not in possession of all his faculties on the night of the murder, then let him state it clearly and provide adequate proof.”

  “Point well taken, Mr. Fuller,” the judge agreed. “Mr. Barnum, what do you say to that?”

  “My intent is not to defame character, but rather to show that a man given to frequent association with strong drink loses a portion of his memory capacity. And for this reason, I must call to question Mr. Pollard’s detailed recollections of the events in question. It is important that we discern between a man’s actual memory and what he has been told about certain events.” Barnum looked at Fuller. “As far as proof goes, I have several depositions from some of Pollard’s acquaintances in the last twenty years.” He went to his table, withdrew a folder of papers from his briefcase, and handed it to the judge. “I will submit these to the scrutiny of the court. In essence, they state that over the years Mr. Pollard has been far less associated with sobriety than with drunkenness. Two of those statements are from lawmen who had to fire Mr. Pollard because of intemperance. His memory of Leonard Stoner’s murder may be clear, but as long as there is even a slight question of it being otherwise, then I must refute his testimony.”

  “This entire trial, by its very nature, is based on memory,” Fuller protested. “How do you propose we judge between what you call actual memory and acquired memory?”

  “In my opinion, the first step would be to call witnesses whose memories are generally reliable.”

  “Your Honor, that is entirely subjective!” Fuller complained.

  “Mr. Barnum, you make an interesting point,” the judge said, “but the prosecutor is correct in debating the issue. Our role in this court is to establish facts. As attorneys you may disprove the validity of such facts by cross-examination and by discrediting the witnesses’ so-called memory. However, I believe it will be self-defeating unless we rule on an individual basis. Thus, all recollections of the events of nineteen years ago will be acceptable to this court unless you attorneys can rule out individual instances—but this will only be acceptable with cause, not as a blanket action. Now, since there is no objection before me, will you proceed, Mr. Barnum?”

  Jonathan glanced at Fuller, who nodded for Barnum to continue.

  “I have no further questions,” said Jonathan, much to the consternation of both the prosecutor and the judge.

  “Call your next witness, then, Mr. Fuller,” said the judge.

  Thus it went throughout that day, the next, and, after the weekend, into the next week. The prosecutor called several more witnesses—Dr. Barrows, Mr. Vernon the banker, and several other citizens of Stoner’s Crossing.

  It became increasingly difficult for Jonathan to discredit the memories of these more upstanding and credible witnesses. He was confronted with hours of testimony to the fine character of Leonard Stoner and the marital discord between him and his wife. In the matter of the discord, the witnesses described what they saw—even Deborah could not dispute the truth of their statements. And, mirroring the trial nineteen years before, Deborah somehow came off looking like the villain.

  After days of such testimony, even Jonathan was stymied, though he continued to put a positive face on it. “We must remember that this is the prosecution’s case. We will have our day in court and our own witnesses.”

  But nothing could hide the fact that they had little more now than Deborah had years ago. Mabel Vernon had agreed to testify for the defense, in stark defiance of her husband. But besides a few character witnesses, they had little else to present. Each day the lack of a new breakthrough in the case became more painfully evident.

  An extremely daunting blow came when the prosecutor called his next two witnesses. The first was an elderly woman named Betty Jenkins, who was introduced as the widow of Bob Jenkins. Mr. Jenkins had been the proprietor of the Stoner’s Crossing General Store twenty years ago. He passed away ten years ago, and his wife had moved back to her hometown of Houston. Jonathan was truly dismayed at his error in not investigating Jenkins’ family closer after he had discovered the man was dead.

  He had to admit the prosecution had done some fine footwork in coming up with the storekeeper’s wife after all these years. But then the most crushing factor in her testimony came to light—she had brought with her a record of the transaction in which Deborah had purchased a derringer from the store. Her husband, she said, never threw anything away. She had cartons full of old ledgers and receipts from when he owned the store. She also testified that she recalled when “Mrs. Stoner” bought the gun. She had been in the store at the time, and later her husband had admonished her not to tell a soul because it was meant to be a Christmas gift for Mrs. Stoner’s husband.

  A few days after the Christmas holidays, Mrs. Jenkins saw Leonard and asked him how he liked his wife’s Christmas gift. When Leonard had no idea at all what she was talking about, she assumed she had gotten the matter mixed up with something else and dropped it.

  In cross-examination, Jonathan tried to cast doubt upon her statement.

  “You must have met with many people every day in the store, Mrs. Jenkins?”

  “Oh yes. The place was always busy.”

  “It probably wasn’t easy to keep everything and everyone straight.”

  “That’s just it,” said the woman, “most folks were always amazed at my memory. I never forgot a name or incident or conversation. My husband often said it was uncanny.”

  Jonathan questioned her memory o
f other long-past events, and though some of it couldn’t be corroborated at the moment, it did reveal a woman with a sharp, lucid mind. Jonathan finally dismissed her, and the ledger that recorded the gun sale was admitted into evidence.

  The final witness for the prosecution was Laban Stoner.

  Carolyn was shocked when he appeared in the courtroom, for he had not come to town with her and her grandfather. Caleb didn’t seem surprised at all, but gazed at his son with a very rare approving look.

  “What was the character of your relationship to the defendant?” asked the prosecutor.

  Laban shrugged. “She was my half brother’s wife. I seldom saw her because I stayed away from the main ranch house.”

  “Why was that, Mr. Stoner?”

  “I did not like the company of my brother, Leonard, or my father. It was best, for the sake of peace, to stay away.”

  “But none of this ill-feeling carried over to your brother’s wife?”

  “No. I did not care one way or the other about her—that is, until after my brother Jacob left.”

  “She had something to do with his leaving?”

  “She was having an affair with him, and when Leonard caught them, Jacob was forced to leave or—”

  “Objection!” Jonathan said. “The witness’s statement is pure conjecture. No proof has been given to establish this as fact.”

  “Objection sustained,” the judge ruled.

  “How do you know they were having an affair?” Fuller asked with a smug glance toward Jonathan.

  “I saw them together often, riding, meeting in secluded places.”

  “You followed them?”

  “I did a couple of times because I was worried about what was going on. I was afraid of what Deborah Stoner was doing to my brother—to both brothers.”

  Jonathan cross-examined Laban incisively, but could not get him to budge from his statements. He also questioned him regarding his activities on the night of the murder. Laban said he couldn’t remember. Jonathan literally bombarded him over this point but could not get him to waver an inch from his claim. Nor could the defense attorney find any other chinks in Laban’s armor. Finally, the prosecutor objected that Barnum was badgering the witness. He pointed out that Laban Stoner was not on trial, and the judge agreed. Obviously discouraged, Jonathan dismissed Laban.