"He seemed to be."

"Was he, in fact, recuperating from injuries inflicted by Mr. Cimarron?"

"Yes, he was."

"A fight in which Mr. Cimarron was the aggressor?"

"That was Mr. Lassiter's position. It was not shared by Mr. Cimarron."

"And Ms. Baroso?"

"Mr. Lassiter wanted her to press charges against Mr. Cimarron. She declined. Frankly, I don't know who did what that night."

"But Mr. Lassiter suffered serious injuries?"

"I believe he broke his hand and had a number of bruises and scrapes, that sort of thing."

"You've known Jake Lassiter a long time. Have you ever known him to provoke violence?"

Socolow wrinkled his high forehead. He didn't want to answer. "I'm not sure what you mean. Once, in a trial, he provoked a witness into a fistfight, but it was a ploy, a strategy to show the violent streak of the witness."

"They must do things differently down in Miami," the judge said, and a couple of the jurors smirked.

H. T. Patterson had heard all he wanted on that subject and sat down. "Nothing further."

"Redirect?" the judge asked.

McBain stood and buttoned his suit coat. "Are you saying, Mr. Socolow, that you didn't take Mr. Lassiter's threats seriously?"

"No, sir."

"What are you saying?"

"I didn't take them literally. I didn't think he intended to shoot Mr. Cimarron in the kneecaps or tear his heart out."

"I suppose not," McBain said, already easing back into his chair. "I suppose he just intended to shoot a nail through the man's brain."

"Objection," Patterson yelped.

"Withdrawn," McBain said, sitting down.

The judge called for the noon recess, and not a moment too soon. Socolow walked by my table, clasped me on the shoulder, and left without a word. The jurors filed out, then the judge, and then the spectators. The prosecutor and his assistants hitched up their pants and walked out, too.

Patterson and I were alone.

"H.T., you look a tad peaked."

"What?"

"You look pale."

"That's impossible, I assure you."

"Okay, then you look stressed out. Hey, it's still the top of the first inning. We haven't been to bat yet."

He forced a smile, but his eyes were glazed over and distant.

"H.T., I think you need to drink some lunch."

"Demon rum won't cure what ails me."

"Counselor, you're a little rattled, that's all."

He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. "It's hell to represent a friend, Jake. It's so much easier to take a fat fee from a stranger and give it your best shot. You win, you lose, you go on. Hell, we're not paid to win, right, just to force the state to prove its case. But now, with you, I care. I want to win, but I don't know how. They've got us outflanked on self-defense, and there's no way to pin this on Jo Jo or anyone else. I lie awake at night trying to come up with theories and I don't have any. Oh, I can cross-examine until the snow melts, but once the state rests, we've got to put on a case, and there isn't a thought in my head."

"Okay, I get it. We need to brainstorm. Just tell me what can I do to help?"

His smile held more sadness than joy. "Fetch me my brown trousers, Fritz."

Sergeant Kimberly Crawford was assigned to something called the Spousal Abuse Unit. She took the third statement of the night from Josefina Baroso, driving her back to the station after Sheriff s Deputy Clayton Dobson and Detective Bernie Racklin did their work. Defense lawyers love to get prosecution witnesses on the record as many times as possible to ferret out contradictions. We had copies of all three statements, and there wasn't an inconsistency in the bunch.

Sergeant Crawford took photos of bruises on Jo Jo's thighs and ribs, and a shot of the face revealed a black eye. Jo Jo looked appropriately distraught, helpless, victimized.

Yes, Ms. Baroso was crying and moaning.

No, not about her injuries. Poor Simmy is dead. Poor Simmy is dead. That's what she kept repeating, rocking back and forth in a chair down in the station, right here in the basement of the courthouse.

The photos were passed out to the jurors, who appeared more upset with Josefina's black eye than Cimarron's gray matter splattered in the straw.

The woman cop was on and off the stand in fifteen minutes, and the judge asked the prosecutor to call his next witness. I thought McBain looked a little too smug when he sang out, "The state calls Josefina Baroso."

The bailiff hustled into the hallway and called her name. The jurors had been waiting for this. McBain was no dummy. Most prosecutors would have started their case with her. She could tell the story chronologically, and that always makes it easier for the jury. You also want to create a good first impression, and Jo Jo could surely do that. But if you're clever and subtle, it's a neat trick to save your star witness. Build the jurors' interest with hints and clues and let them wonder. Who is this woman who launched a thousand fists? What does she look like? Is she worth dying for?

Even before I saw her, I knew. "Ten to one, she's wearing black," I whispered to Patterson. In her own cases, Jo Jo dressed her witnesses for maximum sympathy. Pluck the jurors' heartstrings with a grieving widow and all the kids. When her witnesses gathered for lunch in the Justice Building cafeteria, it looked like an Italian funeral.

The heavy door swung open, and Josefina Jovita Baroso walked into the courtroom. She wore a flared black wool dress with gold buttons from its high neck to its hem, which stopped halfway down her black, knee-high crushed leather boots. The dress concealed her womanly curves and, combined with the sophisticated look of hair pulled straight back and a light dusting of makeup and lip gloss, spoke volumes of who she was, or rather, who she appeared to be. Her dark eyes were bright and intelligent and avoided mine as she strode on long legs to the witness stand. She nodded to the jurors, looked the clerk in the eye as she took the oath, smoothed her dress, and sat down.

I studied her. Now, here was a total woman. Here was a woman who had been assaulted, who had witnessed a savage crime, and who was ready to do what had to be done to right those wrongs. She was attractive without being seductive. She was purposeful without being pugnacious. She was here, not because she thirsted for vengeance, but because she sought justice. She was, in short, the perfect witness, which was precisely the image she had worked so hard to create.

Jo Jo recited her name, her address, and her profession.

"So you have the same job I have?" McBain asked.

"Yes," she said.

Bonding with the witness, telling the jury: If you like me, you'll like her.

McBain had her run through the life and times of Jo Jo Baroso, beginning with her family fleeing Castro's Communist island when she was still an infant. Her father lost everything in Cuba and never adjusted to life in the States. He turned to liquor and gambling and eventually left her mother who raised a son and daughter by herself. She met the defendant while she was still in college, and he was a pro football player.

Yes, she became romantically involved with the defendant. "I was so young then," Jo Jo said, almost shyly.

Making me sound like a cradle robber.

"How did the relationship end?" McBain asked.

"Rather badly," she said. "I always pushed Jake to be better, to make something of himself.

True, true.

"He went to law school, and I like to think I had something to do with that ..."

Okay already, you saved me from a life of selling insurance.

"But I always believed in public service. I wanted to repay this country for what it gave me, a home, freedom ..."

Arroz con pollo in every pot. Talk about laying it on thick.

"And I don't think Jake could relate to that. He had so much, and everything came so easy to him."

Wait one gosh-darned second. I'm the one without a daddy or mommy.

"I wanted him to do something meaningful with his life, but he preferred hanging around with swindlers and con men, including, I am sorry to say, my brother, Luis, or Louis, as he preferred to call himself. They hatched schemes together, and Jake would defend him when things went bad. I was just devastated that my brother and my...my lover were involved in activities that ran counter to everything I believed in, so I cut myself off from both of them. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do."

"You terminated the relationship with the defendant?"

"Yes, I dropped him."

Hey, who dropped whom?

"Did you lose touch with the defendant?"

"Yes, for several years. Oh, I'd see him in the Justice Building once in a while, walking some three-time loser out of court, but we no longer had a relationship. Then, I ran into him when he was defending my brother in a fraud case. After the trial, I learned how they ingratiated themselves into Simmy's...Mr. Cimarron's venture."

"You're talking about Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc.?"

"Yes. It was Simmy's dream. Buried treasure. I know it sounds foolish, but it was part of his love of the old West. He knew most of the legends were just that, but he believed some were true, and he wanted to explore. He had studied the old maps and diaries, and he would talk about it for hours. It was my brother's idea to raise money through a public sale of stock. Unfortunately, he and Jake embezzled money from the cash Simmy put up."

"Objection!" Patterson thundered. "There's been no predicate laid for such a conclusion. The testimony is prejudicial and inflammatory and should be stricken."

"Sustained. The jury will disregard the last remark of the witness."

Sure. Just try.

"What did Mr. Cimarron tell you concerning the stock sale and Mr. Lassiter's involvement?"

"Objection, hearsay!"

"Not at all, Your Honor," McBain replied. "It's not coming in for the truth of the statement. Perhaps Mr. Cimarron was wrong about Mr. Lassiter. It doesn't matter. The statement is coming in to show what Mr. Cimarron believed, and once that belief was communicated to Mr. Lassiter, it is relevant to the issue of Mr. Lassiter's intent to commit the homicide."

"Respectfully, Your Honor," Patterson said, "Mr. Cimarron's state of mind is not at issue here. It doesn't matter what he-"

"Overruled. I'll give the state some leeway here."

"Simmy said that Jake stole seventy-five thousand dollars from him, but even worse, he helped my brother in the stock scam. They defrauded investors and threatened the existence of the company."

"Were you present at a conversation between Mr. Cimarron and Mr. Lassiter to that effect?"

"Yes. Last June, in my house in Miami."

If that was a "conversation," Ah versus Frazier was a tea party.

"And what transpired?"

"Simmy and Jake exchanged words ..."

To say nothing of fists.

"Simmy accused Jake of stealing. Jake hit Simmy, but Simmy is...that is, was...quite large and very strong. He got the best of Jake that time."

Her voice cracked on the last words, and her eyes teared.

Judge Witherspoon was looking at his watch, and McBain was thumbing through his notes. It was a few minutes before six and had been a long day, at least for me.

"Perhaps this would be a good place to recess," the judge said. "Your witness can resume at nine in the morning."

"Just one more question, Your Honor."

A lawyer promising to ask only one question is like a kid promising to eat only one jelly bean.

The judge nodded, and McBain came closer to the witness stand. "Ms. Baroso, I seem to have quite forgotten to ask something. What was your relationship with the deceased?"

Her voice was as soft as a fluttering snowflake. "He was my hus ..."

That's funny. For a second, I thought she said ole Kit was her...

"Please keep your voice up for the jury, ma'am."

"Kit Carson Cimarron was my husband," she said, in a strong, proud voice. "I am his widow."

CHAPTER 25.