do I have at least your partial attention?”
The edge of impatience in the judge’s voice snapped Boone Walker back to the here and now. He shifted his gaze from the woman seated beside his lawyer to the matter at hand.
“Beg pardon, Your Honor.” From his seat on the elevated defendant’s chair, Boone tried to direct his full attention to the proceedings but it wasn’t easy with the piano player on the other side of the thin wall practicing the tunes he, no doubt, intended to perform this evening.
To Boone’s mind it sounded jarring and cheap. Even though he’d lived a tawdry life on the run from the law, he didn’t care for the irritating sound.
“Keep in mind that we are determining your future,” the judge declared, glaring at him from under bushy gray brows. “The decisions made here might grant you your freedom.”
He doubted that. Even if Judge Mathers personally handed him the keys to his prison cell, he couldn’t imagine that he would ever really be free.
Public opinion had branded him an outlaw and that stigma would follow him forever; a dirty shadow that the brightest day would not diminish.
A gust of October wind blew a hail of yellow and red leaves past the courthouse window. Public opinion or not, he wouldn’t mind having these cuffs off his wrists so that he could gather a pile of autumn’s glory, toss it up and watch the leaves fly where they might and land where they pleased.
In spite of the judge’s admonition, his attention returned to the woman. The public at large had not been admitted to this hearing. Other than a few curious faces peeking through the dust-smeared window, there was only him, an armed guard, his tenderfoot lawyer and the lady.
And she was clearly a lady, as pretty as they came. She leaned forward in her chair, watching intently while Stanley Smythe paced and presented his case. Her eyes crinkled in concentration, a fine line creased her forehead nearly to her hairline. But it was the slight parting of her lips that intrigued him and kept his attention returning to her when it should be on the outcome of these proceedings.
Why was she here? He was certain he didn’t know her. The women he had been acquainted with his whole life had not been ladies—beginning with the wife of the man he had shot all those years ago.
“Let me present to you a boy, Your Honor.” His lawyer, Stanley Smythe, swept his arm dramatically toward Boone. The little man stood as proudly as his five-foot-and-about-three-inch frame would allow. “Imagine, if you will, the boy Boone Lantree used to be before he crossed paths with a certain kind of woman. What chance did he have against that cunning taker of innocence? A scarlet woman to the core? And she, along with a vagrant known to be intoxicated at the time, the only witnesses to the presumed crime, other than the defendant’s brother.”
“I’ve read your letter, Mr. Smythe, and might I point out that Mr. Walker is no longer a defendant but a convicted murderer?”
“Wrongly convicted, as you will see once I have presented the facts.”
The woman bobbed her head vigorously in agreement. A dislodged curl at her temple bounced with her nodding. Apparently the pretty stranger was aware of Smythe’s facts. He couldn’t imagine why she would be, though.
Couldn’t imagine why the young lawyer had taken a shine to his case, either.
He’d never even met the man until yesterday. But five months ago, the one-year anniversary of his conviction, he’d received a letter from Smythe asking to represent him in having his verdict overturned.
Since then they had corresponded by mail and he’d learned that the fellow wanted to make a name for himself.
Didn’t explain who the woman was, though. The lawyer’s wife maybe, but trying to picture them together...well, it didn’t seem likely.
“Let’s get on with it, then.” Judge Mathers waived his hand to the empty room. “I’ve got a jury trial coming up at one o’clock and I could use my noon meal before I get into it.”
“Yes, indeed,” Smythe agreed with curt a nod. “Picture, then, our young innocent, his pockets full of earnings from his first payday working as a janitor for the general store. A meager amount to be sure, but the boy’s own for the spending. Now imagine a grown woman with her rouged cheeks and swaying hips seeing the boy and figuring him for an easy mark. She flirts with him, his eager young heart takes a tumble.”
As he recalled the event, it wasn’t his heart that reacted so much as his—but after a few moments of Martha Mantry’s flirting, it was true that he had fallen under her spell. And it had to be said that he had not known Martha was married.
“Our boy believes the woman has taken a shine to him just as he has to her. So he follows her to her room, full of eager innocence—a lamb to the slaughter, if you will—unaware that Elliot Mantry, the deceiver’s husband and partner in crime is hiding in the closet, waiting to steal every cent the boy worked so hard to earn.”
The lawyer did put a nice spin on things. Boone’s money had been hard-earned—it was just that he’d meant to give it to Martha after she had relieved him of his virginity. He wouldn’t have minded his empty pocket in that event, but having the money stolen rankled even after all these years.
Harlan Mathers yawned while glancing at the clock. This was not a good sign. Boone would feel more encouraged had the judge appeared to be interested in his case.
“Put yourself in young Boone’s place, Your Honor. We have all been that age at one time.”
This line of argument seemed to intrigue the woman. Her lips parted another half inch while her blue eyes blinked wide. She glanced back and forth between Smythe and Mathers.
“Let’s get to the hammer and nails of the subject, shall we?” Mathers drummed his fingers on his desk. “My noon meal won’t stay warm forever.”
Lunch didn’t seem a half-bad idea to Boone, either.
“I’m merely setting the scene.” Stanley Smythe smoothed his tweed vest with trim, slender fingers and squared his shoulders. “So the events that followed will be in perspective.”
“It’s clear enough, Mr. Smythe. A boy who had no business bringing his money to town lost it to a pair of con artists, got drunk and challenged one of them to a gun fight. Elliot Mantry, who was also drunk, may or may not have been reaching for his gun. His widow, watching from the window, says that he was not. The facts were confirmed by a fellow who could barely stand or speak.”
“That is the story that convicted my client. But as you know, the woman did not testify to this in court because she was serving time for continuing her treachery against other children. Boys who ought to have grown to be the pillars of society, the rocks upon which law and order depend. But instead, because of Mrs. Mantry, they were led down the path of depravity. Like young Boone, here, they have been forced into a life they would not have chosen.”
Being caught up in Smythe’s story, some of it true and some far-fetched, he nearly forgot the woman with Smythe until she sniffled and dashed a tear from her eye.
“May I speak, Your Honor?” she asked.
All of a sudden the judge didn’t look so bored. His face lit up and he was all smiles, and she, pretty dimples flashing, smiled back.
With
