Ouch. I had committed the cardinal sin on cross, one question too many. It was the equivalent of the "why" that will always burn you with a smart, hostile witness. Time to move on.

"Mrs. Cimarron, what were the terms of your late husband's will?"

"Objection," McBain said, still standing at the prosecution table. "Irrelevant."

"He wouldn't say that if I was the beneficiary," I told the judge. "Relevant to the issue of who wanted the decedent dead."

Motive, motive, motive.

"Overruled, but move it along, Mr. Lassiter."

"Simmy left no will," Jo Jo said. "He died intestate."

"So as the surviving spouse, you receive one hundred percent of the estate, free and clear of all federal taxes?"

"I really don't know the law in that area."

"Oh come now, Mrs. Cimarron, you're a lawyer."

"I've spent my entire career prosecuting criminals, not writing wills."

Gonna wing it now. "But surely you have retained probate counsel and have prepared to file the appropriate papers with the state."

Her eyes flickered almost imperceptibly. "Yes, I've retained a local probate lawyer."

"Who explained to you that you were the sole beneficiary and would receive one hundred percent of the estate, free and clear of federal taxes?"

"I believe it was mentioned."

"So the ranch goes to you?"

"Yes."

"And all personal property?"

"Yes."

"And the mining claims, the treasure maps, the artifacts and products of Mr. Cimarron's years of work?"

"Yes."

"Life insurance?"

"No."

"But there is a policy, isn't there, with two million in death benefits?''

"I believe my brother is the beneficiary, just as Simmy was the beneficiary of Luis's policy."

"Ah yes, your brother. Where is he?"

"Nobody knows."

"When did you see him last?"

She studied me a moment before answering. The jurors were watching her, so I risked a little smirk. What does he know? "In June, just before he disappeared."

"And you're sure you haven't seen him since?"

"Objection, repetitious as well as irrelevant." McBain didn't have the slightest idea where I was going, but he would soon.

"Your Honor, I'll tie it up shortly."

"All right, overruled."

"I'm sure I haven't seen him," she answered.

I paused to make a note on my legal pad as if this was testimony of great import, and of course, it was. Then I told the witness to take us through the events that night, and she did it all again, starting with my tearing off her clothes, and ending with my plugging Cimarron.

"Was anyone else in the barn besides your husband, you, and me?"

"Yes, the boy, your nephew, but he ran out when the fighting began. I've already testified to that."

"No one else?"

"No, Mr. Lassiter. No one else."

"My nephew. What did he have with him?"

"What do you mean?" A look of uncertainty in her eyes.

"Did he have a video camera?"

She paused a moment. What does he know? "Yes, he did."

I went to the defense table and pulled opened the paper sack. "This camera?"

"I don't know. It could be."

"Your Honor, I've taken the liberty of asking the bailiff to bring up a video monitor from downstairs. It's in the corridor and can be brought in now. At this time, I'd ask that this videotape be marked for identification, and then I'd like to ask Mrs. Cimarron some questions about its contents."

The judge glanced toward the prosecution table. "Counsel?"

"We object, of course. We've had no notice."

"It's impeachment material," I responded, "and no notice is required."

At the word "impeachment," I thought I saw Jo Jo flinch. The judge overruled the objection, the clerk tagged the tape, and the bailiff wheeled in the monitor.

"Now, Mrs. Cimarron. I've cued the tape to what we might call Round Two. Mr. Cimarron and I are struggling on the ground floor. You recall that?"

McBain was on his feet again. "Your Honor, we request that the tape start at the beginning so that the jury gets the full picture."

"Denied. You can do it on redirect. I don't like to fuss with lawyers on cross."

I was starting to like Judge Witherspoon. He came from the diminishing number of judges who let lawyers try their cases.

"Mrs. Cimarron, just sit back a moment," I told her gently. "Let's close our eyes and listen."

Jo Jo's eyes remained open. Wide open.

The television flicked on with the sight of out-of-focus straw. The first sound was the whinny of a horse, then hoof beats.

"Simmy! Simmy, he raped me! Are you going to let him go?"

I kind of liked that as an opening line. On direct examination, she never mentioned goading him. She had said she tried to stop us from fighting. Out of little inconsistencies does cross-examination grow.

The sound of the bullwhip, a whistle and crack of the leather sharp as a bee sting. The sound of feet shuffling again, close to the microphone, my hand scraping the wall, coming off with the bridle and bit, smashing Cimarron in the mouth, then a gasp and gagging-mine-as he kicked me in the gut.

The jurors strained to listen. If you hadn't been there, you couldn't tell who was doing what to whom. That's okay. At the end, I hoped, it would all be clear. For now, so strange, listening to my own labored breathing, remembering the pain and the fear.

"Don't move, lawyer, or I'll nail you to the barn wall."

The words stabbed me, even now, recalling the terror.

I heard myself calling out to Jo Jo to tell him the truth. Again, she accused me of raping her and egged him on.

I heard the first whomp, the nail hitting at my feet. Another that buried itself in the wall. The click of the empty gun.

"Damn. Josefina, there's a full clip over by the sawhorse."

I stopped the tape. "Let's pause here for a moment. Did you reload the stud gun?"

She thought about it before answering. Surely, she knew there would be more sounds of the nails thunking into wood. "Yes, I believe I did."

"Once or more than once."

"Just once."

"With a clip of ten bullets? I believe Mr. Russo testified each clip had ten ,27-caliber bullets."

"Yes, that's right."

"And after you reloaded, Mr. Cimarron continued to fire nails at me, didn't he?"

"Not at you, near you. He just wanted to frighten you, to teach you a lesson. You wanted to kill him, and you did."

"How did I manage to get the stud gun away from him?"

She didn't want to answer. Get her off the script, she isn't ready. "It's all so confusing now, and listening to this, hearing his voice, it's all so very upsetting." Tears welled in her eyes.

"Your Honor," McBain said. "It might be a propitious time for a recess."

"No, Your Honor! It's a propitious time for the prosecutor to coach the witness."

McBain puffed out his chest. "I resent that, Mr. Lassiter. We don't insult lawyers like that in Pitkin County."

"In Miami," I told him, "that'd be considered a compliment."

"All right, you two, that's enough." Judge Witherspoon was pointing at me and glaring at McBain, an evenhanded way of getting order, sort of like throwing a flag for unsportsmanlike conduct on both teams. "I don't like to interrupt the flow of a lawyer's cross-examination. Let's proceed."

"Now, Mrs. Cimarron, so that the jury is clear on this issue, you only loaded one clip into the stud gun?"

"Yes, I just said that."

"Did Mr. Cimarron ever reload?"

"No."

"Did I?"

"No."

"Okay, I'm going to start the tape again, and this time, let's count. Each time we hear a nail shot, I'm going to keep track right here." I positioned a blackboard in front of the jury, grabbed a piece of chalk, and nodded to Patterson, who hit the play button.

"Bang," said the voice of Kit Carson Cimarron. The jury looked puzzled, but I remembered his taunt, pretending to shoot me while pointing at my heart.

Whomp, a pause, and whomp again. I put two vertical lines on the chalkboard, and on the tape, the sound of the corn crashing onto me. A moment passed. Indistinguishable sounds. I heard myself grunt. Cimarron had dragged me out of the corncrib and was sitting on my chest. He jammed the stud gun along my neck, and I felt a chill now, remembering . . .

Whomp. A nail pinned my sweatshirt to the floor.

"Maybe the lawyer needs a haircut." Another shot skimming my head. Another I remembered just below my crotch, and I winced now with the sound of it. Now, I had four vertical lines and a diagonal one crossing them.

Another shot by my kneecap, one by my foot, one alongside each temple, as he outlined me, like the silhouette of a body at a homicide scene. Then one last nail between the fingers of my hand. Five more lines. I stopped the tape.

"How many shots is that?"

"I counted ten."

"Ah, our numbers coincide. I guess the gun is out of bullets, is it not?"

She knew where I was going. "You must have reloaded."

"I must have? A moment ago, you said I didn't. You told this jury that no one reloaded."

"I must have been wrong."

"Let's see what else you were wrong about. Now who was shooting at whom in the little exchange we just heard?"