Gilmore paused in his presentation and looked pointedly toward Quentin, inviting everyone else to look as well.
“More importantly, my fellow citizens of Santa Clara, we knew him because Billy Ray was one of us. He was full of life, and I dare say that at one time or another his antics gave all of you something to laugh about, either with him—or at him. Oh, don’t misunderstand; I know Billy Ray wasn’t always a ‘hail fellow well met’ type person. I would be the first to admit that Billy Ray could be a bit of a rascal on occasion. He liked to drink, and when he was drunk, he could sometimes be somewhat overly rambunctious. And just as all of us laughed at and with him from time to time, I’m sure that all of us became angry with him just as often.
“But none of us ever got so angry at Billy Ray that we killed him.”
Gilmore pointed to Pearlie.
“No, sir. That bit of malevolence was left to be perpetrated by a stranger.”
Gilmore was quiet for a moment. Then he shouted the next sentence so loudly that it made some of the people in the jury jump. “This man!” he shouted. “This man, who will admit only to the name of Pearlie, came into our town and took one of our own from us!”
Again, he was quiet for a long moment. When he resumed speaking, his voice was much quieter and well modulated.
“Today, each one of you has been called upon to perform a solemn task. You are being asked to decide the fate of another human being. The decision you make here could mean that this man will be required to forfeit his life, and no decision you will ever make in your life will be graver or more awesome than this.
“But when you render your decision, I want you to consider something. You are not doing it alone. This murderer will have a lawyer to plead for him. This murder will have a jury to hear and weigh all the facts. And this murderer will have his sentence imposed by a judge, duly recognized by the state of Colorado. Compare this to the rash decision Pearlie made in the blink of an eye, which was all the time left to Billy Ray Quentin, after the defendant decided to kill him.
“After you hear this case, I am sure that you will bring in a verdict of guilty, and we will have justice when the town gathers around the gallows on Front Street to watch this murderer be hanged by the neck until he is dead.”
Gilmore stood silently before the jury for a long moment, letting the word “dead” hang in the air. Then, with a final nod toward the gentlemen of the jury, he returned to his table.
“Damn, he is good,” someone said from behind Smoke. “I had no idea Gilmore was that good.”
Murchison sat at his table for a long moment until, finally, the judge called upon him.
“Counselor for the defense, do you waive your opening remarks?”
“No, Your Honor, I will speak to the jury,” Murchison said.
Standing, he looked toward the jury.
“Mr. Gilmore was correct in saying that I would begin my remarks by addressing you as ‘gentlemen of the jury.’ I do so, with the highest respect for those of you who have been called upon to—as the prosecutor was also correct in saying—make the most awesome and the gravest decision of your lives.
“He was wrong, however, in saying that you would be addressed by a stranger. On the contrary, you are going to be addressed by someone you all knew, respected, and, I think I am safe in saying, someone you could call your friend. I will be mouthing the words, but the words will not be mine. The words will be those of Elmer Brandon, as he wrote them in his extra edition of the Santa Clara Chronicle, which he published last night.
“Ironically, they are the last words he ever wrote because as I’m sure most, if not all of you, know, this talented and courageous newspaper editor was murdered this morning.”
There were some in the gallery who did not yet know that Brandon had been murdered, and upon Murchison’s announcement, there were a few shocked responses.
Judge McCabe picked up his gavel, but rather than bring it down sharply, he gave the gallery a moment to let the shock sink in.
“I have no doubt but that he was murdered because he had the courage, and the sense of obligation, to write these very words I’m about to read to you.”
Murchison picked up the extra broadsheet, and began to read.
“For the first time in this newspaper’s history, the Chronicle has issued an extra edition to inform the citizens of Santa Clara of a true and unique opportunity. Tomorrow, the 17th of September, a young man, a visitor to our community who we know only as Pearlie, will be put on trial for his life.
“The opportunity that trial offers the citizens of Santa Clara is the prospect of resurrecting something that beats deep within the breast of all Americans, something which sets our nation apart from all the nations of Europe and the rest of the world, something that many in this town abandoned long ago, upon the altar of economic security. That something is Democracy.
“Though no one has yet spoken the words aloud, it is no secret to anyone that this town has, for many years now, been in the clutches of a true despot. That despot is Pogue Quentin, who, by skillful and perfidious, if not illegal manipulation, has managed to gain control of nearly all the ranch land surrounding our fair city. He has used that same means to acquire many of the businesses in town so that, by now a majority of our citizens are dependent upon him for their very existence. We may owe Pogue Quentin our livelihoods, but we do not owe him our souls, and by the words here written, your humble scribe is calling upon all to reclaim those souls, so nearly lost.
“How can you do that?
“By making certain that the inalienable rights of trial by jury and innocent until proven guilty are accorded the young man who now stands in peril of his life, due to the trial upcoming.
“Recently, Pogue Quentin’s son, Billy Ray, was killed in a shooting that occurred at the New York Saloon. Though some off-the-record testimony says that the shooting was justifiable, we, the citizens of Santa Clara, have, for the last week, had to suffer the unpleasant sight of a terrible instrument of death, a gallows, constructed in the middle of Front Street. This gallows was constructed, not by the city, or the county, or the state. It was a private construction, paid for by Pogue Quentin. It was constructed to facilitate the execution, by hanging, of a young man who has not yet had his day in court.
“I can also reliably report, having attended the cemetery interment of Billy Ray Quentin and been a witness to the outrageous actions of Pogue Quentin, that he interrupted the sacred burial rites to demand, under penalty of economic pressure, that any citizen who may be called upon for jury duty find Pearlie guilty. He makes this demand before the first piece of evidence is presented, before the first witness is heard, before the opening arguments are made.
“I say no, a thousand times no, to this demand. I say to all our citizens, and especially to whoever may be selected to serve upon this jury, that you remember your obligation to uphold the principles upon which our nation was founded, the rights for which, in the recent Civil War, so many brave young men, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, ‘gave their last full measure of devotion.’
“Whether this young visitor to our town is found guilty or innocent, let it be by a fair trial, decided upon by men of honor and character. It is time for us to reclaim our rights, to lay possession to the civil liberties that are granted to all men by the grace of a just and merciful God, and preserved by the noble efforts of men. Let us walk the streets of Santa Clara with our heads held high and proclaim to one and all that we are Americans!”
When Murchison finished the article, someone in the galley started clapping. Soon another joined, and another still, until the entire gallery was applauding.
Judge McCabe was so taken aback by this sudden and unexpected event that for a moment he sat there in shocked silence. Then he picked up the gavel and banged it, calling for order in the court until the applause subsided.
“I—I will not allow another demonstration like this,” he said.
Murchison noticed as he sat down, however, that t
he judge’s words, though chastising, were not harsh. It was as if he understood the natural outpouring of emotion the citizens of the town had at hearing the last words ever written by the editor of their newspaper.
Chapter Twenty-two
Gilmore had three witnesses for the prosecution, all of whom worked for Pogue Quentin, and all of whom claimed that Pearlie started the fight by hitting Billy Ray over the head. Jerry Kelly claimed that when Billy Ray came in through the door carrying the shotgun, Pearlie shot at him first.
Murchison countered with half a dozen witnesses. Doc Patterson testified that it was Billy Ray who got angry first and drew his gun on Pearlie.
“Pearlie could have shot him right then if he had wanted to,” Doc said. “But instead of shooting him, he hit him over the head and took away his pistol.”
Deckert substantiated Doc’s account, then went on to say that Billy Ray had charged back into the saloon brandishing a shotgun.
“Billy Ray saw Pearlie standing at the bar and he just opened up on him without so much as a by-your-leave. I swear to you, I don’t know how Pearlie managed to escape getting killed,” Deckert said.
The testimonies of Evans, Lenny, and Mary Lou concurred with Deckert’s account. All said that Pearlie did not shoot back until it was obvious that Billy Ray was about to shoot the other barrel.
“And he wouldn’t have missed this time,” Lenny said.
Gilmore’s questioning of Doc, Deckert, Evans, and Lenny was perfunctory. It wasn’t until Mary Lou took the stand that his questions became more intense.
“Miss Culpepper, do you expect the court to believe that you were in the saloon at the time of the shooting?” Gilmore asked during his cross examination.
“Yes, I expect the court to believe I was there because I was,” Mary Lou replied.
“But you are a woman, Miss Culpepper. What on earth would you be doing in the saloon? The New York Saloon is not a place normally habituated by women, is it?”
“I was working in the saloon,” Mary Lou said. “I was serving drinks.”
“You were serving drinks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What else did you do?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Oh, I’m sure you do understand.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Isn’t it true, Miss Culpepper, that you are a whore?”
“Objection, Your Honor, the question is irrelevant,” Murchison called out.
“Your Honor, goes to character,” Gilmore replied. “If this woman is a whore, then her entire character can be questioned. For example, can she be trusted to tell the truth?”
“Witness will answer the question.”
“Are you a whore?”
“Am I a whore?”
“That’s my question.”
Mary Lou stared directly into Gilmore’s eyes before she answered.
“No,” she said resolutely.
Gilmore had turned toward the jury, but hearing her answer, he spun back toward her. “You are under oath, Miss Culpepper. Now, I will ask you again. Are you a whore?”
“No.”
“Miss Culpepper,” Gilmore started, but he was interrupted by Murchison.
“Objection, Your Honor, question was asked and answered.”
“Sustained. Get on with your cross-examination, Counselor,” McCabe said.
“Miss Culpepper, there is a scar on your nose and though it has nearly cleared up, it is obvious that both of your eyes were recently blackened. How did you get those injuries?”
“Billy Ray hit me.”
“Why did he hit you?”
Mary Lou didn’t answer.
“Your Honor, please instruct the witness to respond.”
“Answer the question, Miss Culpepper,” McCabe said.
“He hit me because I wouldn’t go upstairs with him.”
“Did he have a reasonable expectation that you would go upstairs with him? My question is, did you sometimes go upstairs with others?”
“Sometimes I went upstairs with others,” Mary Lou replied.
“So you are a whore?”
“No, I am not a whore.”
“Objection, Your Honor, your ruling has already closed this line of questioning.”
“Sustained.”
Gilmore was obviously frustrated, but he went on. “You did not care much for Billy Ray Quentin, did you?”
“No. He was mean and brutal.”
“So, if someone killed Billy Ray, you wouldn’t mind seeing him get off, would you?”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Redirect?”
“Yes, your honor. Miss Culpepper, the prosecutor asked you several times if you are a whore. Now the operative word here is ‘are.’ Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever been a—I think the more genteel term is—‘soiled dove’?”
“I was, yes.”
“But no more?”
“No more.”
“What do you do now?”
“I work for Mrs. York.”
“Thank you. No further questions, Your Honor.”
Closing arguments were short. Murchison pointed out that Doc Patterson and Deckert concurred in their testimony as to how the fight started, with Billy Ray attempting to draw his gun on Pearlie. He also reminded the jury that Deckert, Evans, Lenny, and Mary Lou gave nearly identical accounts as to how Billy Ray came bursting back into the saloon, firing his shotgun without warning.
“The burden of proof is with the prosecution. That means that normally the guiding principle in a trial like this is that you cannot find a defendant guilty unless you are convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he is guilty, and in his charge to the jury, the judge will, no doubt, so instruct you. But in this case, I believe that even if that standard were reversed, if the burden of proof, beyond a shadow of a doubt, was with the defense, you would still have no recourse but to find Pearlie innocent of this charge,” Murchison said in his closing.
In his closing remarks, Gilmore again reminded the jury that Pearlie was a stranger, an itinerant wanderer who came into town and while there, for no reason other than his own innate evil, gunned down a local man.
“Billy Ray walked and talked with us, he laughed with us, he participated in the town’s celebration of the Fourth of July with us, he played cards with us. That in itself is enough to require that we demand justice be meted out to his murderer, but Billy Ray wasn’t just any local man. He was the son of the leading citizen of our town, a man to whom more than half of our citizens are beholden for their livelihood. And now, Billy Ray’s bones lie in the cemetery, at the edge of town.”
Gilmore pointed in the direction of the cemetery; then he put his hand to his ear. “Listen,” he said. “Listen closely, because if you do, you can hear in the very wind, the cry of the mournful soul of one of us—our friend—our brother, calling to us from his grave, demanding that we give him justice.”
The jury had only been out fourteen minutes when they came tramping back into the saloon turned courtroom and took their seats.
“Have you selected a foreman?” Judge McCabe asked.
“We have, Your Honor. My name is Greg Paul.”
“Mr. Paul, has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have.”
“Would you publish the verdict, please?”
“We find the defendant, Pearlie, not guilty.”
“No!” Quentin shouted angrily. He stood up so quickly that the chair tumbled over behind him, and he pointed at Pearlie, who was already receiving a congratulatory hug from Sally.
“You son of a bitch, you’ll pay for this!”
Judge McCabe slammed his gavel down. “Marshal Dawson, escort that man out of this courtroom!” he demanded.
“Come on, Pogue,” Dawson said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Pogue glared a moment longer t
oward Pearlie and the others; then he, Marshal Dawson, and Snake Cates left the saloon.
The townspeople gathered around Pearlie, congratulating him, and several offered to buy him a drink as soon as the bar reopened.
“I just wish Mr. Brandon could have been here for this,” Lenny said.
“He was here,” Doc said. “At least his words were. Mr. Murchison, thanks for reading them. You read the words beautifully, and he would have been very proud.”
“Mrs. York,” Mary Lou said.
“Mary Lou, dear, please, call me Kathleen.”
“Kathleen, if you don’t mind, I think I would like to go over to the kitchen and make an apple pie. We can have it later in celebration.”
“Can you bake an apple pie?” Lenny asked. “That’s my favorite.”
Mary Lou smiled. “Mine, too,” she said. “It’s a recipe my mama taught me.”
“Well, of course you can, dear,” Kathleen said. “Do you need my help?”
For the next several minutes, Smoke, Sally, Pearlie, and the others engaged the townspeople in conversation. Many in the town had heard of Smoke, and they were taking this opportunity to get close to someone who was already famous.
“Mr. Jensen?” someone said.
Looking up, Smoke saw a big bearded man with a wandering eye.
“Yes?”
“I’m Cole Mathers,” the man said.
“What do you want, Mathers?” Doc asked in a tone of voice that wasn’t too friendly. “Mathers is Quentin’s foreman,” he said to the others.
“I ain’t his foreman anymore,” Cole said.
“Did he fire you?” Doc asked.
“No, sir, he didn’t fire me. I quit. I couldn’t go along with what he’s plannin’ now.”
“What is he planning now?”
“Well, for one thing, he’s got the whore,” Cole said.
“What?” Lenny asked.
“The whore,” Cole said. “He’s got her and he says he’s goin’ to kill her if Pearlie don’t come out and face his man, Snake Cates.”
“I need a gun,” Pearlie said.
“No, wait,” Smoke said. “We’ve just got you through one trial. There’s no sense in getting you mixed up in another one. I’ll go out.”
Savagery of The Mountain Man Page 23
