Medicine Wheel (18 page)

Serena noted that Cam had not answered her question. She decided she would avoid asking Cam too many questions about his information sources. She would likely be well-advised not to know the answers.

They entered the sheriff’s office. A friendly young man was on duty and escorted them down the walkway between the cells to the end of the long hall. Serena didn’t notice any other occupants, so they should enjoy some privacy. Kirsten Cavelle was standing at the cell door, clothed in something that looked like baggy pajamas. Serena was struck by her unusual height, and it made her aware of her own diminutive stature. The woman’s pallid face was marred by a few scars and bruises, but she would “clean up good,” as her father used to say. Most men would find her quite attractive, but short of stunning, she thought.

The deputy unlocked the door. “I’ll get another chair from the next cell,” he said. “You need one, Cam?”

“No, I won’t be sticking around, but thanks.” He spoke to Kirsten. “This is the lawyer I was telling you about, Kirsten. I’m going to leave the two of you to talk. It’s kind of a mutual interview. When you’re done, Kirsten can let me know if she wants to bring on Serena as a lawyer, and Serena will decide if she wants to be involved in the case.”

Serena took a pace forward and offered her hand to Kirsten who clasped it so firmly, it stung. A cowgirl thing, she supposed. Cam and the deputy disappeared, leaving the cell door wide open. Evidently, Kirsten was not considered much of a flight risk.

Kirsten stepped aside and gestured for Serena to be seated at the table. “Welcome to my humble abode,” she said, her face expressionless.

They each slipped into a chair and faced each other across the table. Serena noticed that Kirsten’s eyes were studying her face intently. “What is it?” Serena asked.

“I’ve seen you before.”

“Perhaps a newspaper photograph?”

“That’s it . . . a photograph. It was a tintype on Doc’s wall.”

“I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“I’m sorry. I was in Thad Locke’s office and looked at a collection of tintypes on his wall. You were the subject of several, and I might add that the tintypes . . . and the subject . . . were stunningly beautiful. The subject and the photographer obviously had a special relationship. I’m sorry. I just had no idea the lawyer I would be meeting was the girl in the tintype. I’ll shut my mouth now.”

Serena returned a wistful smile, appreciating that Kirsten had quickly closed the subject. “We need to discuss your case. Together we should decide if I can be helpful. If you are not comfortable with my participation, then I board the train and return to Washington. If I conclude I cannot make a contribution, I take the same train. Let me say this: you are represented by a very fine lawyer, and he will fight for you with every tool at his disposal. He is not too proud to accept help if he thinks it might be useful in winning your case. I like him and respect him.”
 

“So, what do you need to know from me?”

To the point. Serena liked that. “Cam has told me about the facts of your case in some detail. I’ve viewed the tintypes Dr. Locke produced. You were brutalized by your husband. I failed to ask, though, were the beatings frequent occurrences?”

“No, he had only beaten me one other time . . . about two months earlier. That’s when I decided to see Cam Locke about a divorce. He threatened many other times over the past year, and after the beating, I told him to leave.”

“And what was his reaction?”

“He laughed and said I could leave. I reminded him I owned the place, which only made things worse, because this was always a point of contention between us. I do understand that to a man like Max this was a bitter pill. To him, a woman had her place, and it wasn’t running a ranch.”

“So it would be fair to say you didn’t love him?”

“Not since our first year. I can talk to you more easily about this than I can with Cam, I guess. Our attraction was pretty much all physical, and early on we about humped each other’s brains out. Then he seemed to tire of me and would be gone without explanation for several nights at a time and come home drunk. The drinking worsened, and I wasn’t naïve enough to think that a young male who was gone a few days and didn’t come home horny wasn’t fence jumping to other pastures. It stung, and I wouldn’t let myself believe it for a while. I had been thinking divorce for more than a year, but I couldn’t prove grounds until he beat me.”

The women spoke about the couple’s marital history at length, and Serena found herself feeling a kind of sadness for both of them. They were a mismatch for an enduring life together, having little in common beyond the initial passion of young love. “I want to talk about the night Maxwell died.” Serena said.

“Certainly, that’s why I’m sitting here.”

“I’ve been told about the beatings and how he drug you into the bedroom and savagely attacked you there. I’ve seen the tintypes, and it will be difficult for anyone to deny the harm he did to you. Cam was very wise to arrange for the photographs so quickly, and they are very persuasive.”

Kirsten replied, “Good photographer, don’t you think?”

Serena looked at her. Kirsten had a straight face, but her eyes were teasing Serena a bit. She ignored the question. “There are several things I want to explore with you. First, there is a little segment of time no one has been able to fill me in on that seems very important to me. But before we talk about it, can we agree that I am one of your attorneys for the duration of our meeting? This is necessary to ensure confidentiality of our conversation.”

“You’re on the payroll. Dun me for your time.”

“The segment of time I’m interested in is the period between the assault in your bed and the time you sent your dog for your hired man.”

“Chet.”

“Yes, Chet. I believe Chet will testify that you told him Max had ‘died.’ That seems a strange way to state it. ‘He died.’ It sounds like he died of a disease or a heart attack or some natural cause.”

“Well, I knew he was dead.”

“How did you know?”

“I just knew.”

“Did you know he had been shot?”

“Not at that time.”

“You’re confusing me. Are you saying you didn’t kill your husband?”

“I’m saying I don’t remember it. I assume I did. I was the only one there. Who else could have done it? I remember wanting to kill him.”

“You don’t recall pulling a gun from a holster and taking it into the bedroom and pulling the trigger and shooting your husband?”

“I’m sure I did it. I just don’t remember it.”

“I’ll have to think about that. There is another item I want to discuss with you. Cam has explained that you cannot be forced to testify at the trial?”

“Yes. I’ve left that decision to him. He hasn’t said what he’s going to do.”

“Are you afraid to testify?”

“No. I’d just tell the truth, but Cam says it’s very risky.”

“It can also be risky not to in a case like yours. You are the only witness who was there when it all happened. If you don’t testify, you allow everybody to use their imaginations. Much of the jury’s decision depends upon how believable you would be . . . frankly, how much the jury would like you. I’ll be blunt, Cam says you can talk somewhat on the rough side on occasion, that you show some temper.”

“He’s worried I’ll cuss up a storm.”

“He’d like to see you appear less independent, more conciliatory.”

“More like a helpless woman?”

Serena smiled. “Stinks, doesn’t it?”

“Have you heard me cuss today?”

“No.”

“I was raised with six brothers. Talk was on the profane side sometimes when we worked cattle. But my dad saw that I was taught appropriateness . . . not to swear in front of children or in social situations. My instincts guide me pretty well. You may assure Cam I won’t embarrass him in the courtroom. I’ll behave like a lady . . . I’ll even dress like one if they’ll let me.”

“They’ll let you. Cam will see to that. Kirsten . . . it’s okay if I call you ‘Kirsten’?”

“Of course.”

“And I’m Serena. I’m going to inform Cam that I’m willing to assist with your case. You can think about it and let Cam know if you want me to help defend you.”

“No need to wait. I want you to represent me. I very much want you to.”

Serena reached her hand across the table. Kirsten extended hers and they sealed the deal with a handshake.

“One final thing,” Kirsten said. “I’m trying to be brave about this . . . stiff upper lip and that sort of thing. But I’m absolutely scared shitless.”
 

39

V
EDETTE
J
OLIET
HANDLED
the reins as the one-horse buggy bounced over the rocky road that carved its way north through the Flint Hills. Serena relaxed beside her, savoring the soft breeze that caressed her face and taking in the limestone-sprinkled hills that were cloaked with tallgrass prairie just starting to awaken from a winter’s slumber.

After visiting with Kirsten, Serena had stopped at the Locke office to inform Cam she was on the defense team. She had been mildly surprised to find his reaction ecstatic. She had wondered earlier if his seeking her out had been born more from a sense of client obligation than a desire to share the stage. He did not seem like a man who easily surrendered the leading role. On the other hand, she admitted, she did not so easily reject public attention herself. There might be some friendly competition between them, but that could be fun, and, channeled properly, it could work to their client’s advantage.

Cam had chided himself for not having previously uncovered Kirsten’s possible absence of memory regarding Max’s actual killing. He was skeptical of their client’s claim. Serena was inclined to believe her. Regardless, Serena had pointed out Kirsten’s testimony was the only way to raise the issue. And would Kirsten’s story make a difference in the outcome, especially when weighed against the risk of putting her on the witness stand? And was the story just a bit too convenient? They had agreed they would meet Sunday afternoon to review the jury pool list with Myles and to further discuss strategy.

She turned to Vedette, “I’m sorry, I haven’t been very good company . . . lost in thought, I guess.”

“That’s quite alright, dear,” Vedette replied. “Myles and I are quiet people. Sometimes we’re in the sitting room for several hours at a time reading or visiting someplace in our minds before one of us breaks the silence. I just draw on the comfort of his nearness.”

“You really love him, don’t you?”

“More than life.”
 

“How long have you been together?”

“Nearly twenty-three years now. I was almost thirty years old when I arrived in Kansas. It was in the middle of the War of Rebellion. I was raised in Louisiana. My father was a former slave who had purchased his freedom . . . you could do that near New Orleans. My mother’s family were free Negroes who had owned land for several generations and were quite well to do by standards of the colored community.” She smiled and shook her head from side to side. “There was some debate in the family about whether we were really white folks, since under the old French law, if you were an octoroon . . . only one-eighth Negro . . . you were really white. Our blood was so mixed up with Indians and French and Spaniards and English, we didn’t know what we were. It was very complicated.”

“You were purebred mongrels. That’s what someone told me once about mixed blooded people.”

Vedette laughed. “That sounds like something Myles would say. I suppose we were that. But enough of the Negro showed through on my skin, I had to be careful because I’d be a suspected slave. There were some who were known to capture free Negroes and take them to slave auctions in other parts of the state or Mississippi or Alabama. Anyway, my father died a half dozen years before the war, and my mother sold their small land holdings for gold coin. I lived with her, teaching at free Negro schools . . . it was against the law to teach slaves to read, of course . . . and was well on my way to becoming a spinster school teacher when the war came along. My mother was always a frail woman, and she suffered from some kind of breathing ailment that finally took her after the war started. In the days before she died she insisted that when she was gone, I should find my way to a free state. She said it was too dangerous for me to stay there without the protection of family . . . and she was the last of mine. So when she passed, I decided Kansas was the safest, shortest journey to safety for me.”

“And how did you meet Myles Locke?”

“Well, when I arrived in Kansas, I didn’t have any teaching credentials or anything to prove I could read or write. It likely wouldn’t have mattered much. While the Free Staters were anti-slavery, many had their notions of where colored folks belonged in society . . . maids, tenant farmers, laborers and the like. I didn’t take it as a malicious thing . . . mostly ignorance. I’m sure you’ve had to deal with that.”

“Yes, and I usually just shrug it off to that . . . ignorance. That allows me to laugh about it on occasion, but not always.”

“Anyway, I bought the town paper and saw an advertisement for a live-in housekeeper. I thought, well now, that would solve two of my problems . . . a job and a roof over my head. I went to Myles’s office and presented myself. He was instantly easy to talk to. I learned he was a widower whose two small children were being primarily raised by his late wife’s sister, but they were also frequently a part of his household. Since I had been a schoolteacher, I didn’t find that too intimidating. He struck me as a kind man. I was a little wary about living in a house with a single man . . . maybe I was just wary of me. He had grown sons who were off to war . . . one on each side, strangely . . . so he was some years older than I, but he was not quite fifty, and I thought him very vital and handsome.”

“And he offered you the job on the spot?”

“Yes. And our relationship was very chaste and proper for over a year . . . or on the surface it was. But I was in love with him most of that year, crying myself to sleep some nights, thinking this was a man I could never have, whose life I could never share. Evenings, when he came home from work, he made me feel welcome in the sitting room . . . the house didn’t have a housekeeper’s quarters other than my separate bedroom. We sat and read like we do now, but sometimes we talked and gradually shared our histories and began telling each other things we’d never told anyone else. You understand what I’m saying?”