by Grace Walton
The Lord had saved him from his reprobate past. He wasn’t about to walk down that panty and bikini strewn carnal road again. The next woman he had sex with would be a wife. His wife. And she’d be the last woman he ever slept with as well.
God help him, he looked back over to see the frumpy woman from the elevator frown as she recognized who he was. Being an authentic Christian was far from easy he thought as a sour line twisted his mouth.
“Good morning Dr. Ferguson.”
“Good morning.”
Carrie was miffed when the man’s deep voice sent involuntary tingles fluttering down her spine, once again. It felt like butterflies were doing calisthenics back there.
“Please state your name and occupation for the jury,” the lawyer said.
“My name is Gage Black Knife Ferguson. I teach Native American Studies at UCLA.”
OK, she said silently. So he’s intelligent, so he’s not your run of the mill redneck rancher. The tailored black suit and Rolex had already told her that in the elevator. It didn’t mean anything, nothing at all.
“You also own a ranch in this county?”
“Yes, my family owns the Black Knife Ranch.”
“Are you a resident of that ranch?”
“No, I live in LA. I visit the ranch several times a year.”
“Were you visiting on January the 6th of this year?” The lawyer approached the witness stand.
“Yes.”
“Can you tell the jury what happened during that visit?”
“I flew into Burnt Hickory that morning and drove out to the ranch. As I pulled into the drive I saw the security gate was open. As I neared the barn I saw a silver pickup truck parked in front of the house. The truck didn’t belong there. It didn’t have the ranch logo on the door. I used my cell phone to report a possible burglary in progress to the sheriff.”
“What did you do next?”
“I parked my truck behind the barn and entered my house.”
She liked the spare and unemotional way he spoke. Carrie had spent most of her adolescence and adulthood surrounded by show business people who were emotional vampires and drama queens. The quiet honesty in his voice was soothing.
“You entered your house?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“I surprised three men in the process of stealing various items from the house.”
“Do you see one of those men in the courtroom today?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Can you point him out for the jury?”
The big dark man on the witness stand pointed to the defendant.
“Your Honor can the record indicate Dr. Ferguson identified the defendant Willie Carl Shorter?” the prosecutor asked.
“Yes,” the judge replied.
“Now Dr. Ferguson, will you tell the jury what happened when you surprised the men in your house?”
“I subdued them until the police arrived.” It was another stoic statement.
“That’s all I have for this witness, Your Honor.” The prosecuting lawyer sat down. Taking his time the defendant’s attorney gathered up his pads and lists and walked slowly to the podium.
“Good Morning Dr. Ferguson.” He made the greeting sound like an accusation.
Unruffled the man on the witness stand replied, “Good Morning.”
“Dr. Ferguson, can you tell us how you knew the gentlemen in your house were robbing you? On a spread the size of The Black Knife cowhands are hired on a fairly regular basis, I imagine. You stated that you only visited the ranch a few times a year. Couldn’t you have mistaken a new employee for a burglar?” He whipped his coat tails back and jammed his hands in his back pockets. It was an aggressive move intended to rattle the witness. It didn’t work.
“I hire and fire every employee on The Black Knife. I run it. I know who works for me.”
“So you run one of the biggest ranches in Montana long distance from your beach front home in California?” The tone was both sneering and unbelieving.
“I do.” There was more than a hint of steel in the answer.
“What made you so sure those young men were stealing? Couldn’t they have been visiting your mother or your sister? I’ll bet it gets awfully lonely for two single women all by themselves out there on your ranch.”
Carrie watched as the man in the witness stand stiffened ever so slightly. A muscle jumped convulsively along his jaw. Yet his voice was still deep and even when he replied.
“Neither my mother nor my sister was at home. They were in Paris that week.”
“Doing a little after Christmas bargain hunting were they?” the defense attorney prodded.
“Objection,” the prosecuting attorney barked. “Your Honor, the shopping habits of the witness’s family are of no import in these proceedings.”
“Agreed,” answered the judge firmly. “Mr. Barker, confine your questions to the matter at hand.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” the defense attorney nodded before continuing. “Dr. Ferguson, according to you, these men were in the process of stealing property from your house correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you, what was the word you used, ah yes,” he rocked back on the heels of his fancy boots. “You said you subdued them?”
“Yes.”
“One man ‘subdued’ three others?” He mocked the man sitting in the witness box. Ferguson’s response was a long neutral stare.
“The deputy’s report reads that in the process of ‘subduing’ these so called intruders, one man suffered a broken wrist. One man had to have 15 stitches in his scalp. And Mr. Shorter.” He stopped and pointed to his client. “Mr. Shorter somehow broke his nose. But you were unharmed, just how do you explain that Dr. Ferguson?”
Carrie actually caught her breath when a slow, hard smile appeared on the witness’s face. It was criminal what that smile did for an already nearly perfect face. It was several seconds before he answered the question. And then he answered only after being prompted.
“Dr. Ferguson, how do you explain the fact that every one of the men you claim burglarized your home, and these are your words, not mine, was injured as you ‘subdued’ them. But you came away without a scratch?”
“They don’t follow directions well?” he said this with a totally straight face. The whole courtroom erupted in laughter. Harvey Beasley in particular brayed like a mule.
“They don’t follow directions well?” the attorney said skeptically.
“Counselor, if I asked you to put down my computer, stop disassembling my entertainment system, and get your hands out of my mother’s jewelry chest, I’m sure you would follow those simple directions. Unfortunately they didn’t,” Ferguson explained.
The people in the courtroom found that hilarious too. The judge slammed his gavel down four times before the raucous noises subsided. The defense attorney then continued.
“Dr. Ferguson, perhaps I can find the true reason why these men were so brutally injured in your home.” It was an oily suggestion. The man on the witness stand cocked his head as if challenging the attorney to confront him again. Carrie had seen the same look on her father’s face a thousand times. It was a look that said he welcomed a fight. That he relished it even.
“Isn’t it true that before you became a college professor you had another career?”
“Yes.” It was a bold statement of fact.
“Can you tell the jury what your former career was and what it entailed?”
“I was an Army Ranger.”
Now Carrie knew where that look came from. Yep, he looked like an older, more polished version of about a hundred young guys her Dad brought home on Saturday nights, back in the day, for a big meal. Lean, hungry, and predatory- her Dad had refused to let her date a single one of them. In hindsight, she now realized her Dad had been smarter than she’d ever given him credit for.
“You were in fact a Ranger officer and instructor, correct?”
“Correct.” He leane
d back in his chair and casually stretched one long leg out in front of him.
“You were in fact, an instructor at the School of the Americas at Fort Benning, Ga., correct?”
“I was,” he answered.
“Can you tell the jury what exactly the School of the Americas does?”
Carrie knew what he would say by heart. Her Dad had given this stock answer many times during his stint at Fort Benning. It was the weirdest coincidence that she should wind up on a jury listening to the testimony of a man who had worked at the School of the Americas just like her Dad. They were the most elite group of soldiers in the Army. A fact, her Dad loved to bring up around his other military buddies. And the instructors were a law unto themselves. She almost mouthed the words along with Ferguson as he answered.
“The functions of the US Army Ranger Courses are to develop the combat arms related functional skills of officer and enlisted volunteers who are eligible for assignment to units whose primary mission is to engage in close combat, direct fire battle.”
“Engage in close combat, direct fire battle?”
“That’s correct.” Neither man was backing down.
“What was your specific area of expertise, Dr. Ferguson?”
“I taught close combat skills.”
“So would I be correct in saying you used some of that expertise while ‘subduing’ the men whom you claim were stealing from you?”
“You would be absolutely correct.”
“And is it also true you were part of a two man team that won the title ’Ranger Of The Year’ early in your military career?
“Yes.”
“And is it also true you were part of a joint effort involving Navy SEALS, USAF CCT’s, and Rangers battling Taliban forces atop a mountain in Afghanistan? I believe the mountain is called Shakur Thar? And in the course of that battle you were part of a 20 man team sent to rescue the Navy SEALS, at their request? And that during the battle there were 7 Americans killed and 11 wounded?” He rocked back on his heels taunting.
“Yes,” Ferguson seemed unmoved.
“All those men were killed or wounded and yet you came out without a scratch. That’s amazing, Dr. Ferguson, truly amazing. What do you do, eat raw meat for breakfast?”
A nervous titter ran the length of the court room. The lawyer laughed at his own joke. But he stopped when he looked back at the silent man on the witness stand. The room got very quiet. The awkward stillness seemed to finally fluster the defense attorney. But he foolishly floundered on.
“18 men hurt or killed, but not you? That makes you the lone survivor.”
“No, there was one other.”
The lawyer consulted the paper in his hand. “Ah yes, I see. Matt Ellison, your partner in winning ‘Ranger of the Year’. You and he walked away from one of the worst battles of the war unscathed. Don’t you think that stretches the realm of credulity?”
“I don’t think of it at all,” was the sardonic reply.
The defense attorney ran a frustrated hand through his hair. He’d wanted to make the witness lose his temper, proving the point that his client could have been the innocent victim of an enraged and out of control ex-Army Ranger. The plan hadn’t worked. Ferguson was as unruffled as an old maid’s slip. And to top it all off, the attorney didn’t like the way the big man was staring at him. He’d bet his next month’s paycheck Ferguson already had figured out a way to make him pay for that crack about his mother and sister, and pay big time. Yes Sir, it was time to circle the wagons and call it a day. Willie Carl Shorter was as guilty as sin. The boy needed to spend some time in jail.
“That’s all I have for this witness, Your Honor.” He had lost and he knew it.
“You may step down Dr. Ferguson,” the judge said.
Chapter Two
“Amber quit trying to squirt your ketchup pack on Dylan.” Carrie was frustrated. She was in a small town elementary school. She was standing in the cafeteria to be precise. She was doling out mustard and ketchup to five year olds. It was certainly not what she had been doing on this same day four years earlier. Somehow the institutional smell of soy hot dogs couldn’t compete with the salty ocean breezes of Tahiti.
“Miss Smith, he was pushing me, and he called me a dog tail.” Carrie was beginning to wonder if some children came equipped from birth with a ‘whine mode’.
“It doesn’t matter if he was pushing you or not. And Amber, you know you are not a dog tail.” She adjusted her heavy glasses. She would be so glad to get home and take the dratted things off.
“Putting your ketchup pack on the floor and stomping it to hit him is not appropriate behavior.” It didn’t matter that Carrie had fought the urge to do the same thing to the little freckled boy. She had to maintain some sort of order among her students. Otherwise, they might guess just how scared she was. Her biggest fear was she couldn’t keep their attention long enough to teach them anything. It kept her up some nights.
She sent Amber and Dylan both up to the ‘Silent Table’ and retrieved her bag lunch from the walk-in fride in the industrial kitchen behind the cafeteria line. Ah, sweet bliss, she would have almost twenty minutes of peace and quiet. The Teachers’ Table up on the stage in the cafeteria really wasn’t quiet. But at least she’d get to talk to adults.
Carrie pulled out a chair and plopped down. She laid her head on her crossed arms for a second, just a second. It felt so good not to be in charge for a few minutes.
“Uh-oh, I think we’re losing her,” a wry voice teased. Carrie picked up her head and gave a weak smile.
“What’s wrong, Carrie?” the same woman asked. She pushed a cellophane wrapped snack over. “Here, have a Ho-Ho. These babies will cure anything.”
Carrie looked in disgust at the marshmallow filled chocolate covered treats. She wanted to shout, “Do you know how many fat grams are in those things?”
But she didn’t because she remembered she didn’t have to count her fat grams anymore. It was a depressing thought. She snagged the little shiny package and ripped it open with gusto.
“Well, I’m glad to see you finally really eat something,” exclaimed a motherly teacher across the table. “We were beginning to think you were anorexic Carrie. All you ever bring for lunch is celery and tofu ice cream. That can’t be healthy.” She shook her head and jammed her fork into the enormous pile of French fries on her square blue plastic tray.
“Ruthie, have you ever wanted to kill a child?” Carrie asked bleakly.
“Every day darling, every single day,” Ruthie Middlebrooks answered smiling.
“I don’t want to actually kill him,” Carrie refined. “I just want to cover his mouth with a nice tight piece of duct tape.”
Both Ruthie and Patsy Willis, the older teacher, shook their heads and laughed.
“They’ll put you in jail for that kind of thing Carrie,” Patsy advised sagely.
“I know,” Carrie agreed glumly. “But if he says, ‘you know what?’ one more time, I’m going to have to try it.” She munched forlornly on the Ho-Ho. It sure beat tofu ice cream. She finished it and picked up the other one. It didn’t matter how much junk food she ate now. Nobody cared how she looked in a swimsuit anymore.
“Now here’s a sight to make a woman’s heart flutter.” Ruthie held up the front page of the newspaper she’d been reading. She began reading aloud.
“Local ranch owner, Dr. Gage Ferguson, testifies in recent court proceedings.”
Carrie saw a big black and white picture of the man from the elevator adorning a fourth of the front page. She quickly turned to look inside her lunch bag. She was not going to dwell on the fact that he had rejected her. Life was too complicated, her life especially, to lose time and energy thinking about a guy who wasn’t interested.
“Carrie, wasn’t this the trial you were on,” asked Patsy pointing to the article.
“It probably was,” Carrie mumbled.
“Then you got to see our local celebrity, up close and personal as they say,” teased R
uthie. “Is he as yummy in person as he is in the photos?”
“Ruthie Middlebrooks,” scolded Patsy. “You are a married woman.”
“Yeah, and so are you Patsy. But I know for a fact you were waving that magazine, he was in around this very same table four years ago,” Ruthie retorted.
“What magazine?” Carrie asked cautiously.
“You know the one that picks the hundred most beautiful people, and revealed Princess Di’s fashion secrets, that one,” Patsy answered.
Yeah, Carrie knew all about that magazine. She knew it intimately. She’d been on the cover almost as many times as the late Princess.
“So what was he?” Carrie joked. “Sexiest College Professor, that category couldn’t have been too hard to win?”
“No,” Patsy stopped to think. “No, wasn’t he the sexiest man in the Armed Forces Ruthie?”
“Yeah,” Ruthie grinned. “I love a man in uniform.”
“So, Carrie,” Patsy asked. “What’s he like in real life.”
“Well, he’s tall,” she hedged.
“And…” Ruthie coaxed.
“He’s got black hair and hazel eyes.”
“Gee Carrie, you sound like you’re giving a report to the police,” Patsy complained. “We want to know the interesting details. How did he fill out that jacket he’s wearing in the picture and did he smell really, really good?”
“Patsy I was sitting in a jury box all the way across the room. How do I know how he smelled?” Carrie was exasperated and annoyed because she did remember his piquant scent from the elevator. She’d spent twenty minutes sniffing all the spices in her kitchen trying to decide what had made him smell so great. She’d narrowed it down to cloves and cinnamon. But something else was still missing. She shook her head in disgust. She’d actually spent twenty minutes trying to recreate the scent of a man who had treated her like something a cat covered up in a litter box. She was sick… sick and sad, she scolded herself.
