Sundown, p.19
Sundown, page 19
Jeb scratched the back of his neck. “I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure?” What kind of an answer was that?
“I don’t know what adamant means.”
When a few spectators laughed, Wyatt almost felt sorry for Jeb. “Adamant means determined, firm.”
Jeb shrugged. “I was drunk. Meant nothing by it.”
Wyatt approached the witness stand. From just a few feet away, he could see Jeb’s hands trembling. He was nervous, scared maybe. “You described my brother as violent when he drank.”
“Sure.”
“He ever draw a gun on you?”
Jeb rubbed the back of his neck. “Not that I recall.”
“You ever draw a gun on him?”
“I might have.”
“By violent, you mean he’d get in fights, fist fights.”
Jeb nodded. “That’s what I meant.”
Wyatt believed him, but he wanted the jury to picture someone other than Travis shooting Thornton. “When I arrived in Sundown, you told me you couldn’t wait to see my brother hanged.”
“If you say so.”
“Did you shoot Silas Thornton?”
Jeb snapped forward in his chair, more surprised than angered by the question. “Why would I do that?”
“Just answer the question.”
Jeb’s face reddened. “No, hell no. I wasn’t in town when your brother shot the bounty hunter. I was home taking care of my Pa.”
Wyatt smiled at Hackett and returned to the defense table. “No further questions.”
“Call your next witness,” Judge Rawlings said. “The prosecution calls Sheriff Sawyer Black.” Wyatt could see the sheriff's unease when he took the witness stand. He'd sworn to uphold the law for years, yet the tightness around his mouth suggested he was wrestling with more than just the weight of his office. He was a steadfast guardian of the peace, of that there was no doubt, but he also bore the burden of being Travis’s good friend.
Hackett led Sheriff Black through the events of the night Silas Thornton was shot, starting with the argument Travis and Thornton had in the saloon.
“What was the argument about?”
The sheriff glanced at Travis and swallowed hard. “Thornton accused Travis of stealing Confederate gold coins from the South after escaping from Camp Martinsville prisoner of war camp in Louisiana.”
“What was Travis’s reaction?”
As Hackett pressed, the sheriff’s struggle continued. Wyatt could see the man was torn between his duty to uphold the law and his loyalty to his best friend. “Not good. He told Thornton to get out before he threw him out, and he meant Sundown. I had to get between them. Travis left before eight, I'd say. Thornton left a few minutes after that.”
“Were both men armed?”
“Both men wore holsters with Colt 45’s.”
Hackett stood in front of the jury when he asked the next question. “Would you describe the defendant’s state of mind when he left?”
“He was pissed.”
The spectators laughed, and Judge Rawlings banged the gavel.
“Sorry, your honor,” Sheriff Black said. “Travis was angry when he left.”
The sheriff looked away from Travis. He described how a half hour later, the hotel clerk, Tommy Garcia, burst into the saloon and shouted, “Someone’s been shot behind the hotel. I think he’s dead.”
“As soon as I heard a body had been discovered, I hightailed to the hotel.” The man's reluctance grew the longer he spoke. He described arriving at the crime scene, seeing the dead man and knew who it was right away, Silas Thornton, the bounty hunter from New Orleans. Preacher Taylor was there and told him about hearing Travis and Thornton arguing in the alley from inside the hotel. He ran out when he heard gunshots. He tried to provide aid, but the man was shot in the heart.
Wyatt glanced at his brother. Travis’s face was a mask of resignation and painful acceptance.
The sheriff described organizing a search for Travis, unsuccessful until dawn when he found Travis saddling his horse in the livery stable. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “By the time I found him, it was near dawn. He was in the livery stable putting a saddle on his mare and fixin’ to skedaddle out of town back to the ranch.”
Hackett took a step closer to the stand. “I can see this testimony is difficult for you.”
The sheriff glanced at Travis. “Can’t say I’m enjoyin’ it.”
“Would you describe your relationship with the defendant?”
“We’ve been friends for more than five years, good friends.”
“Drinking buddies?”
“That’s right.”
“You both enjoyed entertaining ladies.”
“Still do.”
The spectators laughed. Even Hackett managed a smile. “In spite of your friendship, what you’ve testified is the truth.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hackett wore a satisfied expression as he turned to Wyatt. “Your witness, counselor.”
Wyatt rose and approached the witness stand. “A few minutes ago, you used the word skedaddle. That’s an interesting word. What in your way of thinking does skedaddle mean?”
Sheriff Black seemed uncomfortable with Wyatt’s forceful questioning. “It means Travis was fixin’ to hightail it out of town.”
“Fleeing a crime scene.”
“Exactly.”
“Travis had been in town all night. It was dawn. Is it possible that he wasn’t fixin’ to skedaddle out of there or flee a crime scene; instead, he was a tired man who was about to go home to attend to his ranch?”
“No. I mean, sure it’s possible.” He scratched the back of his head. “I can only testify to what I saw. I believe he was trying to get away from a crime scene.”
“Yet, if your theory is right and the defendant shot Thornton, he didn’t immediately leave the alley and head to the livery stable and skedaddle out of there, did he?”
“He did not.” The sheriff’s face reddened.
“Where was the defendant from the time Silas Thornton was shot and the time you saw Travis in the livery stable?”
The sheriff’s voice rose in anger. “I don’t know where Travis was all night and he won’t tell me, or you.”
Another murmur swept through the spectators. “In the livery stable, did Travis appear to be in a hurry to get out of town?”
Sheriff Black gazed across the room as if to remember the events of that night or preparing to choose his words carefully. “I wouldn’t say Travis looked to be in a hurry.”
“From what you saw, Travis was behaving like you knew him to behave.”
Sheriff Black twisted the end of his mustache. “I guess he didn’t act like he’d just killed a man a few hours earlier, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”
That’s exactly what Wyatt was getting at. “What did Travis tell you in the livery stable?”
“He told me about running into the bounty hunter in the alley behind the hotel and getting into a fight and exchanging blows. Travis said he left the man lying on his back, knocked cold, with a cut on his lip.” Wyatt rubbed his forehead. “So, he told you the truth about that night.”
“Travis told the truth, just not the whole truth.” Sam Hampton was trying to get Wyatt's attention. “If I may have a moment, Your Honor.” Wyatt walked to the defense table.
Hampton whispered, “The jury’s not buying what you’re selling.”
Beside him, Travis nodded in agreement.
Wyatt thought he’d made the sheriff look uncertain and indecisive, but most folks in town liked the man. He returned to the witness stand and changed his approach. “You testified about your friendship with the defendant. Would you say that in the years you’ve known him, Travis is a man of his word?”
“Travis McCrea has always been known for his honesty and integrity in our community.”
From the corner of his eye, Wyatt saw several jurors nodding their heads in agreement.
Wyatt glanced at his brother. “He goes to church. Is an active member of Reverend Taylor’s congregation.”
“He is.”
“Has a Bible in the jail cell.”
“He does.”
“In the five years you’ve been friends, has Travis ever lied to you?”
Sheriff Black rubbed his chin as if trying to remember. “Just about the size of the fish he’s caught and maybe his abilities with the ladies.”
More laughter, until the judge banged his gavel. Travis and Sam Hampton were smiling. Behind them so were Sadie and Emma. Wyatt risked a quick glance at Ellie in the corner who was rubbing her temples as if her head was throbbing.
“No further questions, your honor.” Wyatt could sense a shift in the atmosphere of the court-room. As he took a seat at the defense table, a flicker of hope sparked within him. The battle for his brother’s innocence was far from over.
CHAPTER 28
Wyatt would have preferred testimony end for the day after his cross-examination of Sheriff Black, but Clint Hackett quickly called Reverend Ezekiel Taylor to the stand.
The reverend approached the witness stand, his face a ghastly white. He took an uncomfortable glance at Travis like the proverbial shepherd gazing at one of his flock.
Wyatt suspected the limp wasn’t the only reason he walked so slowly. His face showed the same reluctance as the sheriff. Nevertheless, he raised his right hand to take the oath. His eyes never left Travis’s as he swore on a Bible to tell the truth. After taking a moment to breathe deeply, he sat on the witness stand. As Hackett began with his questions, the Reverend didn’t sound like he did in church, gone was the oratory skills, replaced by a quiet but steady voice.
“I was at the hotel speaking to one of the guests who asked about Sundown church services. Around eight o’clock, there’s a clock in the lobby, I heard arguing out back.”
Wyatt listened intently. Preacher Taylor’s words were nearly identical to the account he told Wyatt in the church. He braced himself for the impact on the jury.
“I recognized one of the voices as Travis’s because he’s a member of my congregation. It sounded like trouble, so I excused myself from the guest and hurried to the back door where I heard gunshots, two gunshots.”
“How long from the time you heard Travis and another man arguing from the lobby to when you heard gunshots?”
Preacher Taylor steepled his hands as if I prayer. “Couldn’t have been more than two minutes.”
“That’s impossible,” Travis whispered to Wyatt. “I would have heard. I wasn’t there.”
The reverend’s time estimate didn’t fit with Travis’s account.
“Then what did you do?” Hackett asked.
“I didn’t stop to think I might be endangering myself. I just stepped into the alley.”
“What did you see, Reverend?”
“A man lying on his back, the stranger who’d been in town harassing Travis about stolen Confederate gold. As I bent down to offer aid to the victim, I heard footsteps, a man running away.”
Clint Hackett stepped toward the jury and studied their faces as he asked the next question. “Who did you see running from the scene of the crime?”
Preacher Taylor took a deep breath and blew it out. “Travis McCrea.”
The murmur of the spectators swept through the courthouse. The judge banged the gavel and quieted them.
Travis gripped Wyatt’s arm, “I never ran from the alley. He must have seen someone else.”
A smile of satisfaction spread across Hackett’s face. “Your witness.”
Wyatt began to rise, then stopped himself. The Reverend’s testimony, as he feared it would be, was devastating, but he wasn’t sure how to proceed with cross-examination. If he asked the wrong question, Preacher Taylor’s responses might reinforce Travis’s guilt to the jury. “No questions at this time, but the defense reserves the right to recall the witness at another time.”
The judge glanced at the clock. “Mr. Hackett, I believe we have time for one more witness today.”
“The prosecution calls… Grace Parker.”
Wyatt tried to hide his shock. What could she possibly testify about? What facts could his former schoolmate have that would be relevant. He got to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The defense objects to Miss Parker’s testimony.”
Again, Judge Rawlings’ face showed his irritation. “On what grounds?”
“Relevancy.”
The judge flashed a condescending smile. “Let’s see what questions Mr. Hackett asks. If you feel a question is irrelevant to this case, you may state your objection at that time.”
Feeling like the first-year lawyer he was, Wyatt slumped down into his chair.
Grace looked more like a schoolgirl than a saloon girl when she took the stand wearing a simple yellow cotton dress and not even a hint of makeup.
“Miss Parker, what is your occupation?” “I’m a… hostess at the Purple Sage Saloon.” “Hostess… I see. Do you know the defendant?”
She flashed a friendly smile. “Everyone knows Travis.”
Hackett glanced at the defense table, “Did Travis ever tell you he was in possession of Confederate gold?”
If the sheriff and Preacher Taylor were reluctant to testify against Travis, Grace was practically defiant.
She sat silently with her arms crossed.
The judge intervened. “Please answer the question, Miss Parker.”
“Okay, he did, but he was drunk. Men lie when they’re drunk. Travis used to drink until a couple of years ago when he got religion.”
“Miss Parker, where did this conversation take place?”
“I’m… I’m not sure.”
Travis dropped his eyes. His face grew white.
Wyatt didn’t like unexpected witnesses.
Hackett went back to the prosecutor’s desk and picked up a piece of paper. “Perhaps if I called some of your friends who also work as hostesses at the Purple Sage, they may refresh your memory.”
“Okay, the conversation took place in my room upstairs above the saloon.”
“That’s where you live.”
“That’s right, Clint. I know you're familiar with the saloon girls’ rooms.”
The spectators, even Judge Rawlings, laughed. “Was that the only time Travis McCrea visited you in your room?”
Mr. Hampton nudged Wyatt, who jumped to his feet. “Objection, your honor. This testimony is not relevant to the charges against my client.”
Judge Rawlings didn’t hesitate. “Overruled. I believe the jury can decide whether the testimony is relevant.”
“Your honor…”
The judge banged his gavel. “Mr. McCrea, I don’t know how they do things in California courts, but in Wyoming, when a judge issues a ruling, the lawyers don’t argue. Now sit down.”
Wyatt felt like an ineffective dolt as he slumped into his chair.
Hackett continued. “Were you in love with Mr. McCrea?”
“Travis?”
Grace’s answer hung in the air of the court-room like an autumn leaf on a gentle breeze.
Hackett furrowed his brow, as if he wasn’t prepared for what she’d just implied. “Yes, Travis McCrea.”
“No, Travis and I were… just having fun.”
“Did you recently invite the defendant’s counsel, Wyatt McCrea, to your room?”
Wyatt jumped to his feet. “Objection.”
Wyatt could feel Sadie’s glare on his back as he remained standing.
The judge’s eyes narrowed. “Overruled. Sit down!” With a look of regret, Grace stared at Wyatt. “Yes, I invited Wyatt to my room.”
“What time did he leave?”
Grace twisted her hands. “Just… just before dawn.”
“Are you in love with Wyatt McCrea?”
“I’ve…” Grace stared at her hands. “I’ve been in love with Wyatt since I was sixteen years old.”
Clint Hackett’s eyes locked on Wyatt. He walked back to the prosecutor’s table and whispered to his associate, who shrugged. He took another brief glance at Wyatt and returned to the witness stand. “Do you often invite men up to your room?”
“No, what kind of a girl do you think I am?” Several spectators chuckled eliciting a withering glare from Grace.
Grace's revelation struck Wyatt with the force of a lightning bolt. The court-room doors swung open, and he caught sight of Sadie dashing out like a frightened rabbit, leaving all propriety behind. Grace's embarrassing testimony about his transgression was more than a mere personal humiliation, it was a troublesome cloud hovering over his professional standing. But more pressing than his own discomfort was the dire need to shield the jury from any adverse notions about Travis. In a town where opinions sprouted faster than dandelions in spring, he knew he had to put a stop to any such foolishness. The last thing he desired was for the good folks of the jury to form a hasty judgment, as quick and fickle as a summer storm.
As a buzz swept through the spectators, Sam Hampton rose, “Your honor, may we approach the bench?”
The judge sighed and then waved them forward as the spectators began to talk among themselves. Wyatt forced himself not to look at Grace as he and Hampton joined Clint Hackett in front of the judge’s bench.
The judge leaned forward and lowered his voice so only the attorneys could hear. “Mr. McCrea, did you have physical relations with a witness?”
“I didn’t know she was going to be a witness.”
The judge glared at Wyatt and then turned to the prosecutor. “Did you know?”
“I certainly did not. I didn’t even suspect until I asked the witness if she was in love with Travis.”
“Do you have any more questions of the witness?” the judge asked.
With an uncomfortable glance at Wyatt, Hackett stuffed his hands into his pants pocket. “No, Your Honor.”
“Your honor, if I may,” Hampton spoke up. “If you’re concerned that Wyatt McCrea may have committed judicial misconduct, there are appropriate legal avenues to address those concerns, particularly, the territorial bar association, not a court-room where he’s defending his brother on a murder charge.”
The judge expelled a breath of resignation, and Hampton continued. “We ask that you instruct the jury to disregard the last answer. If you allow testimony about a defense attorney to stand, I… we will file an immediate motion for a mistrial.”
