Blackjack

53

The following day in the courtroom was a hot one. By ten in the morning it was sweltering. After Judge Callison got settled and the trial got under way, the prosecutor, Dickie Simmons, wasted no time. He called a man by the name of Lawrence LaCroix to the stand.

LaCroix was a medium-build fellow in his forties. He was fairly nice-looking, with a strong face and wide bright blue eyes. He was lean and muscular, and his skin was tanned from the sun. His clothes were British military, made of khaki, and he carried a straw hat in one hand and a flat object covered with a cloth in the other. After he took the stand and was sworn in, Dickie Simmons went after him like a thirsty dog.

“Mr. LaCroix, do you know that man over there?”

Dickie pointed to Boston Bill.

“I do not,” LaCroix said.

LaCroix was, in fact, a Brit, but his manner did not in any way give him the air of affluence. There was nothing smug or superior about him. In fact, he seemed completely pleasant and unassuming.

“Have you seen him before?”

“I have.”

“Where did you see him?”

“At the Bloom’s Inn near the South Platte River in Denver, Colorado.”

“Bullshit,” Black said as he rose from his chair until Juniper pulled him back into his seat.

Judge Callison banged his gavel and Juniper stood quickly before Callison said anything.

“Won’t happen again, Your Honor,” Juniper said, and then sat back and looked at Black, shaking his head.

“See that it doesn’t,” Callison said.

Black was red-faced and his eyes were steaming mad as he leaned in close to Juniper and mouthed Bullshit as he shook his head. Bullshit.

Callison turned in his chair and looked behind him, then looked to the bailiff.

“What is that noise?” he said.

“Your Honor?”

“What?” Judge Callison said.

“I... I don’t hear anything, Your Honor.”

Callison turned back and looked out at the courtroom, staring blankly. He was very calm looking out as everyone remained looking at him, waiting for him to say something. Then Callison turned in his chair and looked out the window to his right. Everyone in the room followed his look, as if he were focused on something that we should see, but there was only the side of the adjoining building across the way. Callison remained looking, as if he were lost in thought. Whispering conversations could be heard, but Callison did not respond to them, he just kept looking toward the window.

“What in the hell is the ol’ boy up to?” Valentine said quietly to Virgil and me.

Virgil didn’t answer Valentine as he watched the judge.

“Your Honor?” Simmons said.

Callison tuned and looked to Simmons.

“Yes,” Callison said.

“May I proceed?” Simmons said.

Callison looked at him for a moment, then, as if he were back in the room after a brief journey beyond, he nodded.

“You may proceed, Mr. Simmons.”

There were murmurs in the room.

Callison rapped his gavel a bit.

“Quiet,” he said, then nodded to Simmons.

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Simmons said, then turned his attention to the stand.

“When did you see him?” Simmons said to LaCroix.

“I saw him there, at Bloom’s Inn a few times.”

Black shook his head dramatically from side to side and wanted desperately to get to his feet again, but Juniper kept him seated.

“Were you staying at the inn?” Simmons said.

“No,” he said.

“Why did you see him? Let me phrase that differently. How was it that you had seen him there at Bloom’s Inn on numerous occasions?”

“I’m a painter,” LaCroix said.

“You were there painting the Bloom’s Inn building?”

“No,” he said with a smile. “Well... yes, I was, in part, painting the building.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Juniper said. “Let’s get to it... either he was painting the inn or he was not painting the inn. Obviously Mr. LaCroix has no clue.”

“Sit down, Mr. Jones,” Judge Callison said to Juniper with a stern expression on his face. Then he looked back to Dickie. “You may continue, Mr. Simmons.”

Dickie smiled, and for dramatic purposes he looked to the ground and paced a bit before he spoke. Then he said, “Go on, Mr. LaCroix. Please explain for the court what you were doing there at Bloom’s Inn, where Mr. Black was residing.”

“As I said, I was painting... I paint landscapes.”

“You paint landscapes?”

“Objection,” Juniper said.

“Overruled,” the judge said. “Continue, Mr. Simmons, and Mr. Jones, let’s let him get on with this business here.”

The judge nodded to Dickie.

“Please,” Dickie said. “You were saying?”

LaCroix nodded.

“Bloom’s Inn,” LaCroix said, “was the subject of one of my paintings.”

“Your Honor,” Dickie said. “I would like to place into evidence the painting of which Mr. LaCroix is referencing here.”

“Objection,” Juniper said.

“Overruled,” Callison said.

Dickie turned back to LaCroix. “May I?”

“Oh, sure,” LaCroix said, and unwrapped the covering from a painting.

“Is this the painting?” Dickie said. “The painting of Bloom’s Inn, the residence of Bill Black?”

“Yes,” LaCroix said.

Dickie showed the painting to the jurors. He walked slowly by each one of the jurors, letting them have a good look at the painting. Then he presented it out to us in the courtroom. It was a side-angle-view painting of Bloom’s Inn with the South Platt River in the background. The sign in front of the Inn clearly spelled out Bloom’s Inn.

“I call this painting Bloom Where You Are Planted,” LaCroix said proudly.

The courtroom reacted with laughter.

“Objection,” Juniper said. “The name of this painting has no significance, no credibility to—”

“Oh, on the contrary,” Dickie said, interrupting Juniper. “The very fact this painting says Bloom’s Inn, right here.” Dickie pointed to the sign in the painting. “Gives this painting credibility as to Mr. LaCroix’s whereabouts the evening Ruth Ann Messenger was brutally murdered by Bill Black.”

“Objection,” Juniper said. “Mr. Simmons is trying to lead the jury and the people of this court to believe this painting has bearing on the fate on my client’s future. Well, it has no credence in this case whatsoever. This painting could be any number of inns. And though I am not at all suggesting that, I will give Mr. LaCroix his due, but there is nothing substantial—”

“Overruled, Mr. Jones,” the judge said. “Continue, Mr. Simmons, but get to the point.”

Dickie smiled, then took his time as he homed in on Lawrence LaCroix.

“Tell the jurors and this court the last time you saw this man, Bill Black,” Dickie said, pointing over to Black without looking at him.

“Well, as you can see, the painting is an evening rendition and I painted this painting, Bloom Where You Are Planted,” he said, “over a number of evenings and... well, I set up my easel at the same spot every evening, and on this particular evening I saw Mr. Black...”

LaCroix stopped and looked to the judge.

“Go on,” Judge Callison said.

“I saw Bill Black dragging Ruth Ann Messenger down the path directly in front of me toward the South Platte River.”