The Talisman - Crisscross

by Shaunna Gonzales

Trish turned her back to Quinn, looking at Judge Fairbanks. She studied Judge Fairbanks, trying to decide just how far she would have to walk this dangerous path to prove who had murdered Albert. She found his expression stoical, without a hint of positive assumptions.

  She wanted to turn away but couldn't afford for anyone, not the jury and especially not Quinn, to read her expression. He might interpret the look in her eyes as a request that he lie for her. And lying for her, he must not do. She would move forward with her plan. Even if it cost her her life. She approached the bench.

  "Judge, in the interest of getting at the truth, would you care to interrogate the witness on this matter?" she asked.

  "I prefer to listen objectively. If you skirt the facts, I'll ask the questions, but it will go far with this court if you are thorough in your questioning."

  Trish nodded, appreciating Judge Fairbanks's apparent interest in fair play. If she asked the questions, she could feasibly guide the answers in a manner that might prove less incriminating.

  Trish took a deep breath before turning back to face Quinn. She must hide her feelings deep.

  "Quinn, how long have you been acquainted with me?"

  "A few weeks or so. If ya count the time ya been gone."

  "Would you tell the court of the first time we met?"

  Quinn shifted on his feet. "I found ya up Pass Creek a bit when I came through that way."

  "Go on."

  For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. Her throat went dry. He had to tell the truth. "You were in need of assistance. I stepped in between you and what I thought might harm ya. We came down the canyon the next mornin'."

  Trish allowed her gaze to linger on his expression. He apparently had no intentions of throwing her guilt in front of the court, nor his. She rubbed her temple as if in thought. In truth, she needed to stall to find another way to throw only one of them under the wheels of justice. It had been her plan to reveal the truth of Old Curly's death. Now it didn't look like that would happen. She must resort to the other plan, the plan that could cost her the ultimate price. She swished her saliva over her teeth, swallowing her apprehension with it.

  "Have we had occasion to associate since that time?"

  "Yes, on several occasions."

  "Would you say that on the night you found me, or since, that I have behaved as a less than reputable woman?" Some of the cowboys scoffed.

  "If a woman ain't to be judged by what she wears as Judge Fairbanks has said, that would cut out your singing and entertainin' at Pierre's saloon. So just once, other than that."

  "And when was that?"

  "That day at Moore's saloon."

  "Would you care to tell the court of that afternoon?"

  Quinn accurately related the events that took place up until they had left the saloon but didn't mention the details of why such plans had been made.

  "What happened when we left the saloon? I will remind you that you are under oath. There is no place here to spare the sensitivities of the women present, including myself."

  "I drove ya to my place and we talked. Then ya left."

  "We talked. Nothing more? Are you absolutely sure?"

  "Yes, we talked… maybe argued, but nothin' else, I'm sure."

  "Did you infer, by direct means, or hint… at bedding me?"

  Quinn dropped his gaze. When he looked up, Trish noticed the pain etched there.

  "Yes, I did invite ya to my bed."

  "For money?" Trish ignored the murmurs and pushed on before her resolve faded.

  "No." His features wore a tentative apprehension. Lucinda gasped.

  "Didn't you indicate that you would make it 'worth my trip'?"

  "Yes, but it was a ploy to cover your actions," he defended.

  Judge Fairbanks shifted in his chair.

  "Is this a ploy now?" she asked.

  "I don't think so, no."

  Trish wanted to press him further but her wanting to know how deep his feelings for her ran had nothing to do with this trial.

  "Thank you, Quinn. Your Honor, I am through questioning this witness but request that I have the right to recall him."

  "Mister Jackson, you may be seated." Judge Fairbanks sounded impressed. She wanted to believe that it was because of her courtroom manner.

  Trish turned her attention back to Milton Moore, ignoring Tuckett who still stood at his side.

  "Mr. Moore, that is a very nice vest that you wear."

  "Thank you, my wife makes most of my clothes." Moore's pride in his fashionable appearance, although homemade, seemed to outweigh his previous discomfort.

  "Your wife? She must be a very competent seamstress. Forgive me, I know she is here, but could you point her out to me so I can give her my compliments?" Trish knew where the portly woman sat. Her earlier outburst had given her away. Trish cast her eyes about the courtroom as if in search of the seamstress. This needed to appear spontaneous on her part. She gave a start as her eyes fell on a familiar face. What would she be doing here?

  "She is there." Moore pointed at his portly wife on the back row.

  Trish turned back to him and reached to touch the vest. "May I?"

  Moore nodded, somewhat uncomfortably.

  "Oh my, this feels like satin brocade. Is it?" She now had her fingers over the edge of the fabric.

  "You'd have to ask my wife."

  "May I examine it more closely?" Trish did her best to seem to have lost her focus, the vest becoming the center of her attention. "Please, humor a woman who finds such skill a matter to be praised and admired."

  "Uh … sure." Moore, although appearing surprised by her attention, seemed flattered that, she would notice his apparel even if he had a marked distaste for her. Trish's own attire spoke of a woman of eastern fashion, thanks to her mother's able seamstress abilities. He removed his coat and handed it to Tuckett before unbuttoning his vest, removing it and handing it to her.

  Trish examined the article, seeming to become enthralled by the smooth yet intricate design and workmanship as she walked down the aisle toward Mrs. Moore. Behind her, she heard what she assumed was Mr. Moore retrieving his coat.

  "Is this satin brocade?" Trish asked again, making sure her voice carried to Judge Fairbanks and the jury.

  "Yes, yes, it is. It came from New York," Mrs. Moore boasted.

  "You do all of the sewing and mending for your family, or do you send it to a neighbor to be done?"

  "It's just Milton and me. I do it." Mrs. Moore's tone held a distinct dislike for Trish, but she, just as her husband, sounded proud of their apparel.

  "Nice, very nice." Trish ran her fingers over the fabric and spoke as she returned to the front of the courtroom. But she didn't return to Mr. Moore. She felt genuinely impressed. The hand sewing appeared intricate, the stitches small and even. "Mr. Moore, you should be proud of your wife's abilities."

  Judge Fairbanks took his time before reminding her to return to the case before them, his tone brusque. "Miss Larsen, this is a court of law, not a seamstress shop."

  Trish glanced up to catch a glimpse of his admiration at her nimble manipulation of the witness. She allowed a smile to tug at the corner of her mouth but otherwise pretended not to notice.

  "Oh my, it is lined in a nice brown satin too." The courtroom broke into laughter at her apparent rapture.

  "Give me my vest." Moore's concern exploded across his features.

  She exchanged a knowing look with Judge Fairbanks.

  "I'll have my vest now, you whore." Moore reached for Trish and the vest in her hands. His coat nearly fell to the floor.

  "Tuckett, do your job and keep that man in line." Judge Fairbanks seemed unruffled at Moore's abrupt change in demeanor.

  Judge Fairbanks lifted his hand to look at what lay beneath it. He nodded slightly at Trish.

  "Oh, Judge, you really should look at this more closely." Trish spoke as a woman still lost to the art of the workmanship in her hands.

  Judge Fairbanks exa
mined the vest that Trish placed before him on the bench, raising his brow. He moved the gavel aside.

  "Notice that this button--" Trish indicated the top button on the vest. "Is a slightly different color than the others, but the button, Your Honor, matches perfectly." Judge Fairbanks lifted his hand and set the button on the vest.

  "And what do you make of these spots? They aren't on the rest of the vest, just here in this area." He indicated the area with his finger.

  "Blood spatter, your Honor."

  "Show the jury what you have shown me."

  Trish carried the vest with the button resting on it to present to the jury. She moved slowly, allowing each man to compare the buttons.

  "Sheriff, hand me Mr. Moore's coat." Sheriff Tuckett retrieved the coat from Moore's unwilling hands and handed it to Judge Fairbanks. Fairbanks examined the coat, turning it this way and that to see it more clearly.

  "There isn't any blood on his coat," Judge Fairbanks said, as the last two jurors looked at the buttons and vest.

  "The blood spatter was probably so heavy on the coat that it had to be destroyed or used as a chore coat." She knew that in the future, court would be adjourned until a search for the coat was made.

  "But maybe there wasn't very much blood." Judge Fairbanks sounded skeptical.

  "Your Honor, there was plenty of blood. It is my understanding that fatal head wounds bleed profusely before death occurs, I could be more specific, but there are ladies present. Let it suffice that it is not a pretty scene."

  "You can prove that?"

  Trish reached for the saddlebags, retrieving its contents. She placed the skirt on the table and began to unfold it. "Your Honor, this clothing is what I was wearing on the day of the murder." She held the skirt and blouse in her arms and showed them to the jury. A woman seated near Lucinda on the second row swooned.

  Judge Fairbanks looked at the stains. "Hand me that skirt."

  Trish handed him the skirt and he examined it, looking at both sides of the stiffened fabric.

  Trish caught sight of Lucinda burying her head between her hands in her peripheral vision.

  "You were wearing this when you found the deceased?"

  "He was still alive when I found him." A sob escaped Lucinda's lips.

  "Tuckett, do your job and arrest Mr. Moore." Judge Fairbanks issued the order.

  Trish noticed Mr. Moore's subtle inching toward the door.

  "What the hell?" Moore roared as loud as his tenor voice would allow. "But I'm not guilty. She lies. I didn't do it. You heard her. He was alive. She is the one who killed him. She came here to do it."

  Trish turned to Judge Fairbanks. Her stomach dropped. The amicable facade had evaporated. In its place settled the practiced consideration of his position. Trish had sat in too many courtrooms to not recognize the stoical manner. She knew Judge Fairbanks weighed the matter before him, as did the jury. They had listened attentively. They must now deliberate over the guilt of three suspects, one with nothing more than an accusation against him, one with bloody evidence, and the other having admitted being at the scene.

  A life lay in the balance. Judge Fairbanks dropped the gavel, decimating Trish's confidence.

  *****