“State your full name for the court.”
“Emma Eliza O’Toole.”
“And you were the fiancée of the deceased Billy John Carter?”
“Yes. We were planning to be married.”
“To your knowledge, had Mr. Carter ever been known to behave in a violent or threatening manner?”
“Oh, no. Billy John was the gentlest person I’ve ever known. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. Ask anybody who knew him.”
Walking to the evidence table, Hansen picked up the rust-streaked Colt .45 that lay there. “Do you recognize this weapon, Miss O’Toole?” he asked.
“Yes. It was Billy John’s.”
“And how did he come by it?”
“He found it in the mud behind a saloon. He meant to clean the gun and get it working so he could sell it for a little extra money, but he…never found the time.”
“So you’re saying he couldn’t have fired the gun in this condition?” Hansen displayed the mud-clogged cylinder.
“No. I doubt he could have so much as loaded it. Not even if he’d wanted to.”
“In other words, Billy John Carter was unarmed when the defendant shot him.”
“Objection!” Snedeger shouted. “Calls for a conclusion!”
“Sustained,” the judge thundered.
There were a few more questions from the prosecutor, none of them surprising. Emma answered them calmly, with dry eyes. Abel Hansen scowled at her in dismay.
Snedeger’s cross-examination was blessedly brief. “My condolences for your loss, Miss O’Toole. I have just one question. Did you witness the actual shooting?”
“No, I arrived after it happened.”
With that, Emma was excused to take her seat. Her pulse was racing, her skin clammy with sweat beneath her clothes. Her testimony, she realized, had established very little. Yes, she’d made it clear that Billy John’s gun was unusable…but did that matter if the other people in the saloon on that dreadful night hadn’t known the truth?
Over the course of the next hour, the prosecution called three more witnesses, one a firearms expert. Emma had expected the trial to be a simple matter—brisk testimony from a handful of people, then a guilty verdict followed by a speedy hanging. But no one seemed to be in a hurry. Emma’s fingers twisted the fringe on her shawl. Her empty belly was growling, her bladder threatening mutiny. She could only hope Logan Devereaux was suffering the torments of hell as he waited for the trial’s outcome.
“The defense calls Doctor Michael Kostandis.” Snedeger’s words galvanized Emma’s attention. Heads swiveled as the elderly dentist hobbled to the stand, leaning on a cane to aid his arthritic knees. Dressed in a rumpled gray suit, he was freshly shaven, his unruly silver hair slicked back from his face. The witness chair creaked under his weight.
“Doctor Kostandis,” Snedeger began, “you were playing poker with the defendant before the shooting took place. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“Please tell us everything you remember about what happened that night.”
The old man shifted in the chair. “There were four of us, playing five-card draw in the Crystal Queen—Devereaux, Tom Emery, Axel Thorson and myself. Devereaux had just won some cash and a pile of mining stock from Emery when this wild-eyed kid walked up to the table, threw down his poke and asked to play.”
“By ‘wild-eyed kid’ you mean the victim, Billy John Carter?”
“Yes, though victim is your word, not mine. Emery and Thorson were leaving, so Devereaux and I let him in the game.” The old man fished a clean handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “You could tell the kid wasn’t much of a player, but he got lucky and won a few hands. Had a nice little pile in front of him. I was hoping he’d be smart enough to take his winnings and go home but he stuck in there like a burr on a coyote.
“When I drew a fourth king, I decided to bet most of what I’d won that night, maybe teach the young whelp a lesson. The boy pushed everything he had to the middle of the table. I added enough to see his bet. Devereaux had folded, so I laid down my cards—four kings and a nine.
“By now, folks at the bar had turned to watch. The kid was as jittery as a June bug. You could tell something was up. He fumbled a little with his cards, then laid down four aces and a deuce.”
“And what did Mr. Devereaux do?”
“Didn’t say a word. Just turned over his hand—three sevens, a jack and the ace of clubs.”
A fifth ace! A murmur, like wind through winter wheat, swept through the courtroom. Emma felt sick. She hadn’t wanted to believe that Billy John had cheated, but she couldn’t doubt the old man’s story. And apparently, Billy John hadn’t just cheated, he’d cheated stupidly, slipping in an extra ace without bothering to account for whether one of the other players had the real card.
“The lad was scooping the pile into a sack when he saw his mistake,” the old man continued. “That was when he whipped that big old .45 out of his coat and held it to the side of my head. ‘My girl’s in a family way and I need this money,’ he said. ‘The old man’s coming outside with me. Don’t anybody try to stop us or I’ll shoot him.’
“I knew he wanted me to get up,” Kostandis said. “But with my bad knees, that takes some doing. The harder I tried, the crazier he got. He said he’d give me three seconds to get on my feet, and he started to count. One…two…” The old man was shaking, overcome by the memory.
“What happened on the count of three?” Snedeger asked gently.
“Devereaux drew his derringer and shot him.”
“Were you aware that Carter’s pistol wouldn’t fire?”
“Hell, no. I thought the young fool was going to blow my brains out. And I’m sure Logan Devereaux thought the same thing. When he pulled that trigger, we both believed he was saving my life.”
The jury deliberated less than two hours. Emma had passed the time in a quiet corner with a dry beef sandwich that some kind soul had thrust into her hands. The trial had drained her appetite, but her baby needed the nourishment. She took small bites, forcing herself to chew and swallow.
The judge had charged the jury to find on three counts—first degree murder, second degree murder and manslaughter. After hearing the old dentist’s testimony, Emma no longer felt confident of the “guilty” first degree murder verdict that would lead to a hanging. But at least she could hope the judge would send Logan Devereaux to prison for a very long time.
Now, as the jurors filed back into their seats, Emma’s chest tightened, almost choking off her breath. Her palms were clammy. Her pulse skittered.
“The defendant will please rise.”
Logan Devereaux rose to his feet. His head was high, his spine so rigid that it might have been braced with a ramrod. He stood in silence as the verdict was read.
“On the count of first degree murder, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”
A quiver rippled across his taut shoulders. At the very least, he wasn’t going to hang.
“On the count of second degree murder, we the jury find the defendant not guilty.”
Emma sagged in her seat. Heaven save her, was Billy John’s killer about to go free?
“On the count of manslaughter in the first degree,