Fool Me Twice Read online

  It was a flaw in her story, at least until she explained it away with her sob story about not knowing whether it was rape at all. Still, Patterson could cross-examine as to why she didn’t tell the cops the whole story.

  McBain anticipated the question on cross-examination and defused it. “Ms. Baroso, you never told Sergeant Crawford that the defendant forced you to submit to sex, did you?”

  “No ...I couldn’t. I was so ashamed. I blamed myself for it. Maybe I should have fought back, but I was afraid Simmy would hear. I was afraid someone would get killed.”

  Josefina Baroso had spent four years on the sexual assault team in the state attorney’s office, and it showed. She knew what worked, and what didn’t, and when she spouted clichés, they sounded heartfelt.

  “Now, Ms. Baroso, what happened after the defendant forced you to submit to him?”

  “I was lying there crying, and Simmy came into the barn looking for me. Jake said something about wanting to thank him.”

  “Thank him?”

  “Yes. He turned to Simmy and smiled, a really vicious smile, and said, ‘Thanks, cowboy, for your money and your wife.”

  In the jury box, it looked like 12-0 for stringing me up right there.

  “Then what happened?” McBain asked.

  “I was crying, but somehow I told Simmy what happened. He stayed calm. He was breathing hard, and he told Jake to leave or he’d take him apart. Jake laughed and said, ‘Try it.’ Simmy came at him, I’m not going to deny that. He wanted to throw him out of there so he could take care of me. But Jake was on him so quickly, tossing him into the wall, hitting his head. Jake is very strong, and even though Simmy was big, he wasn’t quick enough.”

  Then she told the story, blow by blow, and it matched everything the jury had already heard. So warm and comforting for the finders of fact. They’d heard the story in McBain’s opening statement. They’d heard it again from the three police officers. Now, the eyewitness tells it one more time. Anticlimactic but reassuring. Lawyers like to say they tell jurors what they’re going to hear, then tell them, then tell them what they’ve told them. That’s what McBain was doing, and he’d recap it in closing argument.

  So I sat at the defense table, a miscreant with curved horns and hairy ears, as my hellish deeds were recounted. I heard how I slammed Simmy around, stabbed him with a pitchfork, laughed in the face of the bull whip, tackled him in the corncrib, and eventually put a nail through his head. I heard every agonizing, perjurious detail, hoping for inconsistencies, but there were none.

  She took the better part of the day, stopping several times to wipe the tears. As the afternoon wore on, the windowpanes of the courtroom shuddered with an approaching storm. Outside, the sky darkened, and snow cascaded from the sky. Inside, it was stuffy and the air so dry, the skin on my knuckles was splitting. I longed for the heat and humidity of home, for a gentle easterly, warm as a baby’s breath, as it crossed the Gulf Stream.

  What was I doing here? I fought the urge to stand and run, the courtroom door banging behind me. My arms tensed. Would the bailiff stop me? No, he was asleep, waiting for his Social Security check.

  Where would I go? An island, maybe. Barbados, Aruba, Curaçao. I yearned for sunny days and wide beaches, and most of all, freedom. How far would I get? They would hunt me down. They would compare me to Ted Bundy, who crawled out a window in this very courthouse, before going on a rampage of rape and murder in Florida.

  I’m not sure what my face showed, but Patterson put a calming hand on my shoulder. I forced myself to concentrate on a spot on the wall just above a line of old photographs of judges who presided here. And I thought about where we were and where we had to go.

  McBain had done his job, and Jo Jo had done hers. It was all wrapped up neatly and tied with a bow, an early Christmas present for the jury. I was jotting down notes as the prosecutor was winding down his questioning.

  “Ms. Baroso, please forgive me for asking this, but did you love your husband?”

  “So very much. It was an unconventional arrangement, I know, but it worked for us. He had his ranch and his dreams of buried treasure. He was out here, in the country he loved. I had my career, contributing to society in the best way I could. In my heart, I know we loved each other as much as any other couple.”

  “Did you intend the defendant to follow you to Colorado?”

  “No. I didn’t even tell him I was coming here. He admitted to me he broke into my house and listened to my answering machine to find me.” A look of sadness for the pathetic, obsessed stalker seemed to cross her face. “I thought he had gotten over me, but once he began representing my brother again, something happened. It started all over again, and he began pursuing me.”

  The poor woman. How could anyone blame her for all this?

  “So, in summary, Ms. Baroso, the defendant followed you to Colorado without your knowledge or consent, confronted you in the barn on your husband’s property, struck you and forced you to submit to sexual intercourse ...”

  I tugged at my lawyer’s sleeve, but he waved me off.

  “...and when your husband found you, disheveled and beaten, the defendant taunted him, beat him, and finally shot a nail through his brain, killing him?”

  “Objection, leading,” Patterson said, quietly.

  “Granted. The jury will disregard the question ...”

  It didn’t matter if they disregarded the question. They already knew the answer.

  “Mr. McBain,” the judge said, “do you have anything further, because the bailiff tells me the weather is deteriorating, and I believe I’m going to let these good folks go home early today.”

  “Just about finished, Your Honor.”

  “Ms. Baroso, is there anything else you wish to say, anything you’ve left out?”

  She didn’t even have to think about it. You don’t have to when you’ve rehearsed the closing line. “If only you could have known him,” she said, turning toward the jury. “Such a fine, decent man, so full of life. I loved him, and I miss him so.”

  The judge cleared his throat and banged his gavel, telling everyone to be back at nine in the morning.

  My eyes were still on Josefina Jovita Baroso, as she walked gallantly out of the courtroom. I thought about what Kip had said this morning, that nobody would believe her. My lovable nephew was wrong.

  I can read their faces, Kipper. I can read their minds.

  They believed her and were ready to convict. Hell, if I’d been on the jury, I would have convicted me, too.

  CHAPTER 26

  A-THOUSAND-ONE, A-THOUSAND-TWO

  I didn’t go to Barbados, Aruba, or Curacao. Instead, I said good-bye to Patterson, slogged through the snow, and got my rental car from the garage at the foot of Galena Street. There were no beaches or bikinied lasses along the way. There were boots and gloves, scarves pulled tight against the cold. Before coming here, the last time I saw a ski mask, it was being introduced into evidence against my client who wore it when pointing an Uzi at a convenience store clerk in Hialeah.

  My car yawked and hawked and sputtered like an old codger clearing his throat. I nearly flooded the carburetor but finally got it to turn over and cough itself to life. I pulled onto Main Street and turned left, for no good reason, it could just as well have been right. Clouds hung low, shrouding the town in a gray mist, obscuring the surrounding mountains. There was no wind, and the snow fell straight and hard, as if dumped from a celestial truck. I used to ski on days like this, the visibility so poor you had to guess where the next mogul would pop up. But then, I windsurf in thunderstorms, too.

  I drove slowly, politely yielding the right of way a couple of times. Traffic was heavy, the Volvos and Jeeps, Range Rovers and Land Cruisers heading home, ski racks laden with equipment. Hey, fun seekers, I envy you, muscles stretched and lungs expanded. Load up with complex carbs tonight, stretch out with someone you love—or at least like—in a hot tub, and be back at it in the fresh powder tomorrow. Me, I think I’ll just
visit the courthouse and let them call me a rapist and murderer all day.

  I drove aimlessly and found myself heading east out of town. I turned left and started up a gentle rise on the lower slopes of what was probably Smuggler Mountain. I was lost, but what did it matter? I had nowhere to go and lots of time to get there. Suddenly, from behind, a black Dodge Turbo Ram pickup with dual rear wheels pulled out and passed me, its oversize tires chomping through the fresh snow. Through its steamy rear window, I caught sight of a long spill of dark hair. I squinted at the personalized Colorado plate as the truck sped on. “Aurum.” I didn’t have to call Doc Riggs for the translation. I remembered it from high school chemistry, right along with dropping a dissected frog down Joan Wooldridge’s blouse.

  Aurum is gold.

  She was driving Cimarron’s truck. Hers now, I supposed. I gave the rental some gas and followed the taillights up the hill. She turned right, and so did I. She turned left, and I followed. Hey, this was fun. We went about a mile, made a couple more turns, and she slowed. I hung back, watching, waiting.

  I tuned the radio to an oldies station and heard the Beatles longing for yesterday. Me, too. I listened to my wipers clackety-clacking and had a conversation with myself.

  Just what the hell was I doing?

  Following Jo Jo Baroso.

  Why?

  Because, like Everest, she’s there.

  What does that mean?

  It means I don’t know why. Maybe I want her to testify tomorrow that I’m still stalking her, turn up the heat some more. Maybe I’ll run her car into a ditch, grab her and make her eat a handful of snow. Or maybe I just want to know why she’s driving up Smuggler Mountain in the middle of a blizzard. Maybe I figure there’s an answer out here, because there sure as hell isn’t one anywhere else.

  Through the gray haze and falling snow, I didn’t see the fork in the road. She turned left smartly. I hit the brakes and tried to follow but spun out. I whipped the wheel back, let up on the brakes, then kissed them gently. The car straightened and came to a stop. I had missed the turn. I started up again, threw it into reverse, tires spinning, got back to the fork, and took the turn ever so slowly. The taillights were gone. Half a mile up the road was another fork. I took the low road and never saw the pickup again.

  I kept going because I had nothing better to do. I listened to the Rolling Stones complain about getting no satisfaction. I took another turn onto what seemed to be a gravel road, though under a cover of snow, you couldn’t tell. Then I figured out it wasn’t a road at all, but a private drive. I hit the brakes and slid to a stop in front of a black, wrought-iron fence. A cemetery. How appropriate.

  I got out of the car, tromped through the snow, opened a gate and walked in. The headstones were topped with snow and weathered from the years, but the vertical ones could be read. Many dated from the mining days. Beneath a marble figure of a child asleep on a pedestal, the inscription: “Mabel Garnett Asbell, December 12, 1888, one year and four days.”

  I thought about the winter of 1888 and the girl’s parents, burying their child, and it made me think of Kip and suddenly I was filled with sorrow. If I was sent away, what would become of him? What a strange thought. A year ago, I didn’t know of his existence. Now, my first thought about my future, or lack of it, was of him. So that’s what love is all about.

  Other questions plagued me. How long will Granny be around? Who will take care of her?

  A statue of a lamb guarded the grave of another child. “Our darling Mallory.” A white marble headstone, July 28, 1898, for “Little Dale, ten months and fifteen days.” Nearby, the headless statue of a woman in the Greek style stood guard over a grave surrounded by a rusty iron fence. The woman wore a flowing gown, and her right hand held a garland of granite flowers.

  I stood there, bareheaded in the falling snow, overcome with a sadness such as I’ve never known. Tears flowed down my cheeks. I turned and started to run, slipping in the snow and falling, legs splayed. I got to my feet and hurried to the car in a crablike crouch, a foolish figure of a man frozen to the core, not with cold, but with fear.

  ***

  The Jack Daniel’s warmed me, comforted me. The bottle sat between my legs under the steering wheel, and I’d already put a good dent in it. From the liquor store, I headed west out of town for the same reason I earlier had headed east: none.

  When I got to the turnoff to Red Butte, I swung right, fishtailing in the snow. I missed the road to Woody Creek, did a U-turn, barely avoiding a ditch concealed by snowdrifts, and slowly began climbing the hill past fenced fields covered with virgin snow. I knew the way, though I had been here only once before.

  The front gate was chained and padlocked, and the county sheriff had posted a no trespassing sign. Not enough to stop a man overcome with lust and greed, a man with a thirst for violence, or whatever McBain would say in closing argument.

  I was wearing my trial suit and a wool overcoat and felt out of place in the broad expanse of the frozen ranch. I climbed over the gate, my wing tips crunching into the snow of the driveway. I sunk to my knees with each step. It was a laborious walk, and I began sweating. Cold on the outside, steaming inside. Halfway up the road, I turned back to look at my tracks. I thought of an animal, chased across the fields by hunters.

  The house was quiet and dark, no cars outside. Wherever Josefina was staying, it wasn’t here. That was smart. She might have figured I’d come looking for her.

  But that wasn’t why I had come to the Red Canyon Ranch.

  I hadn’t known it while driving here, but I knew it now. I came because it was time to act more like a lawyer and less like a client. As a lawyer, I always visited the site, whether it was an auto accident or a murder scene. Sure, I used investigators, and in discovery, I’d get the state’s evidence. But there is no substitute for being there, even if you’ve been there before. After I hired H. T. Patterson, we came here under the watchful eyes of a police escort. I had walked him through it, but now, cold and alone, I would do it again. Instead of a briefcase, I carried a bottle of Jack Daniel’s.

  The barn door was unlocked. I flipped on the lights. The horses were still in their stalls, oats freshly poured. Muddy footprints led to the feed bags and back to the stalls. A neighboring rancher must have been helping out. I said hello to the horses, and one of them said something back, his breath visible in the cold.

  I retraced my steps of that night. The night in question, as lawyers like to say.

  Up the ladder to the loft. I remembered Jo Jo flicking on a lantern, the shadows creeping up the wall. What had she said?

  Oh, Jake, you shouldn’t have come. How true. What else? Think now. How did she look? Remember that face. She had seemed surprised Kip was with me. And upset about it.

  The boy shouldn’t be here.

  Why not?

  Because she didn’t want him, or anyone else to witness what would happen. Right, but how did she know what would happen? What was her plan? That I kill Cimarron? That he kill me? And why?

  Motive, motive, motive.

  I walked the circumference of the loft, making a trail in the straw. Snowflakes drifted through the wall where the plank had been removed. I looked around, but I didn’t know for what. I saw the railing, or what was left of it, where I had broken through before landing in a stall.

  I went down to the first floor, but this time took the slow route of the ladder. Accurately re-creating the scene has its limits. I opened the Appaloosa’s stall, walked inside, and my shoes squished in a steaming pile of what had been oats only a day before. The horse seemed to smile at me.

  I left the stall, straw sticking to my shoes. For a while, I fiddled around, tinkering with this and that, touching the rough wood planks, trying to divine some message that had to be there. I went into the corn crib, still overflowing with ears that had tumbled down the silo. I stepped out of the crib and wandered in a circle, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. I kicked at bales of hay and feed bags.

  What w
as missing? A saddle with an embedded nail, a plank from the wall with Cimarron’s hair embedded in it. The bridle and bit I had used to get Cimarron off me. The nail gun. Now all tagged and marked as state’s exhibits.

  I took a hit of the bourbon to fend off the chill and kept looking. There were no surprises. No revelations. No clues, at least none I could see. Just the crisp air and sweet smells of horse feed mixed with the musky tang of manure. Just a nondescript barn where a man had died a gruesome death.

  I pulled two blankets from a railing and put them around my shoulders. I sat down in the straw and made myself comfortable. I sneezed, maybe from the dust, or maybe from the cold. For medicinal purposes, I guzzled some more bourbon, liquid aurum to warm the throat. I leaned back and tried to concentrate on words like “evidence” and “proof’ and “reasonable doubt,” but my mind was a battery running out of juice. I couldn’t concentrate and after a while, I didn’t even try. I listened to the snorts of the horses and the shuffling of their hooves. Outside, an owl hooted. I hummed a song to myself and dug deeper into the straw, a babe in the manger, finally closing my eyes and burying myself under the warm velvet blanket of sleep.

  ***

  I don’t know if it was the morning sun or the cold that woke me. The sun slanted through the open slat in the wall and struck me squarely in the eyes. Dust motes floated in the light, and the cold bit through me to the bone. I tried to stand, but every joint was locked into place. I felt like the tin man in The Wizard of Oz. It took several moments to work out the knots and kinks in my back. I felt an urgent need to pee and a secondary need to brush my teeth. A cup of coffee and a Danish wouldn’t have hurt anything, either.

  I needed to get back to my apartment, shower and change for court. I started walking out when something caught my eye. The shaft of sunlight crossed the barn floor and ended barely two feet from where I had slept. There, in a depression I had made in the straw, the sunlight caught the reflection of a wedge of glass that twinkled back at me. I followed the sunlight four paces, bent down and dug into the straw. Up came Kip’s video camera, lens pointed to the sun.