The Talisman - Crisscross

by Shaunna Gonzales

Quinn's apprehensive gaze searched the courtroom for a friendly face as Sheriff Tuckett escorted him into the courtroom. For a moment, he believed he'd located Trish seated near the aisle until the woman turned her gentle face toward him. She and Trish could have been sisters. He chided himself. What right did he have to hope for her to be here?

  Still, he searched faces, whether in full morning light or shadow. The courtroom boasted large windows on either side to the east and west. The windows allowed a sharp glare on the gallery this morning. The west windows would mirror the same effect mid-afternoon plus a generous amount of heat. The judge's podium appeared well-polished even though in shadow to the north. The jury box wasn't yet finished but chairs had been lined up in two rows.

  Just before he reached his appointed seat, he found her. His heart beat faster. Trish sat on the front row of the gallery. She appeared very different than he expected. The black of her skirt and fitted jacket complimented her in an austere way, seeming to make her untouchable and even deadly in a mystical way. It suited her even more than the blues of Zelda's clothing that she'd worn the last time he'd seen her.

  He turned his attention from her to the matter at hand. He was an accused killer and although innocent of the crimes currently accused of, he wasn't so naive as to believe his past crimes would never catch up to him. One man's death or another's. Did it really matter which one he stood guilty of? Sheriff Tuckett may be a poor brawler, but Quinn knew he stood little chance in a court of law when Tuckett had his uncle at his back. Fairbanks had a reputation for being fair, but the family always, under any and all circumstances, protected each other's backs.

  Quinn exhaled, waiting to catch Trish's eye one more time. When he did, he gave her an approving smile as he considered the woman he found himself in love with. She was an independent woman on every count. She rode alone and usually without a saddle. She fought for herself, scorning the assistance she proved unnecessary. She emulated a damsel in distress for some things while proving herself more than able in others. There was also a wanton display of the burlesque side of her nature as well as one firm in moral code. And now she exhibited the refinement of a lady as she smoothed her skirts. Could he, in all his wild imaginations, credibly conceive such a complex creature? He didn't know anyone even remotely like her.

  She smiled at him in the unscripted moments before the bailiff called the trial to order. The jury filed in, taking their seats. Twelve men in their Sunday best settled themselves into composed, expressionless listeners. Wearing handcuffs, Quinn occupied his seat with a straight back at the small table in full view of the jury. Sheriff Tuckett gloated at his side, proud that he had his prisoner under control.

  "All arise, the Honorable Judge Willard Fairbanks presiding." Leslie Powell, a deputy, also serving as bailiff and recorder, spoke in a lofty voice. Quinn, with Sheriff Tuckett at his side, stood first, his movements silent. The occasional chair scraped the wood floor, long skirts rustled, and spurs jingled as the gallery of observers arose. A portly man with graying hair combed across a generous balding head and rosy cheeks entered the room from a door behind the judges' bench. He wore glasses and the musty wrinkled black robes of a judge. The chair squeaked several times as he seated his bulk.

  "You may be seated." The courtroom filled with a muffled rumble as seats were taken once again.

  "This court of the great state of Idaho is now in session." Judge Fairbanks brought his gavel down. "Sheriff Tuckett, what say you?"

  "Oh for crimes sake Unc'. Can we just forget all of the high flute'n words and get on with it?"

  "Get on with it, then." Judge Fairbanks nodded his acceptance.

  "Albert Jackson was killed. His brother, Quinn musta' done it."

  "Do you have any proof?"

  "Proof! Ya always taught me to follow the money an' Quinn here gambled all Albert's land the same day he killed him. Ain't that proof enough?"

  Quinn shook his head. Tuckett hadn't changed in four years. How could a man of Tuckett's caliber survive for very long as the sheriff? Of course, the family had its social appearances as legal aficionados to maintain. Obviously, no one else wanted the job of sheriff. Not that Tuckett did much in the way of solving crimes or keeping the peace.

  "The court's gotta have more than that, son," Judge Fairbanks reproved.

  Tuned into Trish even now, Quinn noticed her take a deep breath and let it out slowly. He sensed her determination rather than saw it. "Don't be stupid, Trish. Let Judge Fairbanks handle this," he muttered more to himself than anyone else.

  Trish stood with deliberate calm. "Your Honor, may I speak?"

  Quinn's throat went dry.

  "You got something to add to this trial, young lady?"

  "Yes, I do, if I may?"

  "By all means, a pretty lady would make my trip here worthwhile," Judge Fairbanks said with fatherly kindness.

  Trish smiled at the judge, carrying saddlebags to the narrow table just below his bench. "Your Honor, I believe that I can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Quinn did not murder his brother, Albert Jackson on May twenty-first."

  "Can you, now?" Judge Fairbanks leaned back in his chair and rested his arms on his ample middle.

  "Your Honor, if you will permit me, I have evidence to support what I have to say."

  "Tuckett, you haven't brought this evidence to the court. Why?" Judge Fairbanks raised his eyebrow at Tuckett.

  "She's a woman. You gonna take her word over mine?" Tuckett shook his head in a dismissive manner. Quinn bristled at Tuckett's innuendo, scowling angrily in his direction.

  "This is a court of law, son. Not a family arena for hypothetical situations. A man's life is at stake." Judge Fairbanks exhaled, sounding frustrated, before turning his attention to Trish. "Ma'am, let's do this right. Get her a Bible and swear her in."

  Leslie Powell, the baliff, carried a worn black Bible to her. She placed her right hand on it. "Do you swear to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

  "I do."

  "State your name, where you are from and then continue." Judge Fairbanks’s warmth toward Trish held an obvious contrast to his disapproval for his nephew.

  "My full name is Patricia Melissa Larsen, I am from . . ."

  Quinn held his breath. What would she say?

  Trish paused for a moment, "Arco, Idaho."

  Quinn couldn't help but wonder. Did she have proof? Assuming she did and daring to believe this a reality, had she lied to him all along? What of her amnesia?

  "Never heard of it." Judge Fairbanks dismissed her claim. "Now, tell me what you know. But mind you, I want facts, not ideas."

  "Yes, your Honor. On the evening in question, I was at the livery. It was I who found Albert Jackson." Audible gasps of surprise rippled through the courtroom. Quinn stared at her, unsure as to why she would reveal this. The scene played across his mind. A knot formed in the pit of his belly. The jury sat straighter in their chairs.

  "Do you have any proof?"

  "Yes." Another wave of surprised murmurs filled the courtroom, including Quinn's. Jurors appeared to analyze her in a different light.

  "Miss Larsen, are you aware that your admission could bring this court to further inquiry and possibly your trial for murder?"

  Quinn stared at her. Could she really be willing to put her own life on the line for him? He'd never understood women and knew this one had more secrets than she shared. Why else would she fight Curly off just to go to work in a saloon? According to Zelda, Trish had never turned a trick, instead entertaining the boys with songs. She traipsed into Moore's saloon under the guise of looking for work only to disappear. Now she returned to throw herself on the mercy of the court. What game could she possibly be playing?

 

 

  Chapter 42