Six Months Later
Rudy took the stand wearing a V-neck sweater and a collared shirt. The tip of a long and jagged surgical scar crept out from beneath his hairline, but otherwise he appeared fully recovered. Beauchamp sat beside his lawyer at the defendant’s table, doodling in a legal pad. Jim couldn’t say what made him more uncomfortable: having to keep his gaze on Rudy, the man who’d slept with his wife, for however long this cross examination would take; sitting just a few yards away from Beauchamp, the man who’d murdered his wife; or spending day after day sandwiched between his in-laws, who barely spoke to him.
The prosecutor had finished tossing softball questions at Rudy, and now it was the defense’s turn. John Cotzee, Beauchamp’s public defender, stood and scanned the jury, then stepped forward. He and his client were a study in contrasts. Beauchamp looked like Paul Bunyan stuffed into a double-breasted suit, while Cotzee was maybe five nine and weighed no more than 150 pounds. Beauchamp, in his late forties, still had a full head of wiry red hair; Cotzee, barely thirty, shaved his head to the bone. Beauchamp struggled to make eye contact and always appeared on the verge of blushing; Cotzee looked like the kid who was picked last for every team sport, but he had a sharp tongue and had already made several of the state’s expert witnesses seem like stammering amateurs. Rudy was visibly rattled.
“Mr. Manuel,” Cotzee started, “let’s cut straight to the chase: you’d been drinking on the night you were shot and Mrs. Hood was killed, isn’t that right?”
“I’d had a nightcap,” Rudy said.
Cotzee gave a theatrical double-take.
“A nightcap?” he repeated. “I’ve read your medical records, Mr. Manuel. You had several DUIs worth of alcohol in your blood when the paramedics found you.”
“Maybe it was more than one.”
“You see, that worries me, Mr. Manuel. If you can’t remember that much, how can we expect you to remember anything at all?”
“I remember just fine,” Rudy said.
“We’ll see. Why don’t you start by walking us through that evening. What had you been drinking? And where? And with whom?”
Rudy cleared his throat, wiped a line of sweat from his upper lip.
“Whiskey,” he said. “I’d been drinking whiskey at the Camp Nelson Saloon.”
“With?”
“Bonn…Mrs. Hood.”
Cotzee turned and pointed at Jim.
“In other words,” he said, “you were on a date with this man’s wife.”
Jim did his best not to react.
“No,” Rudy said. “It wasn’t like that.”
Cotzee raised one eyebrow.
“What was it like then?” he asked.
“I worked for Mrs. Hood. I was the property’s caretaker. We’d been having trouble at the bar.”
“Trouble?”
Rudy described the small gang of unruly bikers, focusing in particular on the beer their leader had dropped at Bonnie’s feet.
“Was that the only incident with these bikers?” Cotzee asked.
“No,” Rudy said. “There were others.”
“In fact, Mrs. Hood had been receiving death threats for some time, all delivered on identical sheets of pale-blue paper. Isn’t that right?”
Rudy nodded.
“One of these threats was wrapped around a brick and thrown through the windshield of her Jeep, isn’t that also correct?”
“It is.”
“And up until her death, you’d assumed it was this band of disgruntled bikers who’d been sending the threats?”
“Yes.”
“A reasonable assumption. Mrs. Hood, in their view, was an outsider who sought to disrupt, if not outright destroy, their social hub. Camp Nelson Saloon had been their watering hole for a long, long time. Mrs. Hood wanted them gone. She wanted to replace them with Silicon Valley types. People with better manners and deeper pockets. Am I wrong?”
Rudy hesitated. There was more to the story, and the yes-or-no question left him flustered.
“She wanted to make the saloon part of the lodge,” he said. “She wanted it to be for the guests.”
“So she did want the locals gone?” Cotzee asked.
“Maybe, but—”
“Let’s revisit your relationship with Mrs. Hood,” Cotzee interrupted. “She was more than your employer, wasn’t she?”
Rudy looked around the courtroom as though he’d written the answer somewhere on the walls.
“It’s not a trick question, Mr. Manuel.”
“We were friendly,” Rudy said. “We liked each other.”
“A little more than friendly,” Cotzee sniggered. “You were sleeping with her, weren’t you? In fact, the two of you had sex less than an hour before she was killed.”
Murmurs broke out all around the courtroom. Rudy turned crimson.
“No,” he said. “That’s not right.”
“So the police reports are wrong? You weren’t found lying in your underpants on Mrs. Hood’s bedroom floor?”
“Yes, but…” He sputtered out. Beauchamp lifted his head from the legal pad, looked surprised for the first time since the trial began. Jim didn’t know who to root for.
“But what, Mr. Manuel?” Cotzee pressed.
Rudy looked down at his hands.
“I heard a noise. I came running.”
“From where?”
“I was staying in the cabin next door. In case something happened.”
Cotzee’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. There was more rumbling across the room. The judge issued a stern warning.
“So you weren’t having an affair with Mrs. Hood?” Cotzee continued. “Is that what you’re saying?”
Rudy squared his shoulders, leaned closer to the small microphone.
“We were friends. We both cared about the property. That’s all.”
“But that isn’t what you told police,” Cotzee said.
“I’d just been shot. Everything was fuzzy. I was confused.”
“About whether or not you were sleeping with your very attractive and very wealthy boss?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I wanted it to be true. Maybe my mind was playing tricks.”
“Because you’d been shot in the head?”
“Yes. But now—”
“Let’s recap, Mr. Manuel,” Cotzee said. “You came here today to testify against Mr. Beauchamp, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you think your testimony is going so far?”
The prosecutor objected. The judge sustained.
“Withdrawn,” Cotzee said. “But the fact remains, Mr. Manuel, that you’ve reversed your story on more than one key point, and there’s more than ample reason to doubt your memory. First, you told the police it was dark that night and you couldn’t see more than the assailant’s silhouette. Earlier today, you told this court that you have no doubt it was Mr. Beauchamp standing in that room with the gun in his hand. Which is it?”
“It was him,” Rudy said. “I’m sure it was him.”
“Because you’re one of those rare people whose memory improves with time and trauma?”
“I’m healed now. It all came back to me.”
“I see. Still, it was dark that night, you were drunk, and then you were shot in the head. Isn’t it at least possible that your memory of the shooting remains faulty?”
“I know what happened,” Rudy said.
“Maybe. Do me a favor, would you? Give us a physical description of Mr. Beauchamp.”
Rudy looked confused.
“That’s him sitting right there,” he said, pointing.
“Yes I know, but pretend he isn’t there. Pretend I’m a sketch artist. What words would you use to describe Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Well, he’s tall.”
“Taller than six feet?”
“Yes.”
“What else? What about his physique?”
“I’d say he’s stocky. Big boned.”
“Excellent. And how old would you say he is?”
“Between forty-five and fifty.”
“Now, Mr. Manuel, how would you describe the customer who dropped his beer at Mrs. Hood’s feet? A suspect you yourself introduced to this court.”
Cotzee had done his homework. Rudy felt himself shrinking on the stand.
“I didn’t say he was—”
“Please just answer the question. Was this man also taller than six feet?”
“Yes.”
“Was he also big boned and stocky?”
“Yes.”
“And would you say that he was also somewhere between forty-five and fifty?”
“Could be.”
“Late at night, in the pitch dark and under the influence of a great deal of alcohol, mightn’t it be difficult to tell them apart?”
“I guess, but—”
“At least as difficult as determining whether or not you’d been sleeping with the woman he murdered?”
“You’re twisting my words. I—”
“Just be glad that I’m not allowed to discuss your own extensive arrest record, Mr. Manuel.”
This time the prosecutor jumped to his feet.
“Withdrawn,” Cotzee said. “I have nothing further for this witness.”
Jim looked over at Beauchamp, caught the faintest hint of a grin.