Chapter 27

Tuesday, November 24, 1891

Judge Westcott reconvened court at nine o’clock.

So far, the prosecution had presented only tenuous circumstantial evidence linking the Webber twins to the bombing, arson, attempted murder, and murders for which they were charged as co-conspirators and accomplices.

First in the witness chair, that morning, was Miguel Obregon, K&ASR stationmaster at Romulus. He was followed by Emma Watts, the former stationmistress at Waypoint. She was followed, in turn, by Jonas LaGrange, Shepherd Creek’s stationmaster. Between them, the prosecutor was able to establish the presence and movement of the defendants in relation to the crimes. It was notable that there was a high coincidence of one or the other of the twins being in the vicinity of each occurrence.

The defense attorney, on the other hand, made the point that coincidence does not prove a cause-and-effect relationship. He asked, of each witness, if a baby had been born in each town on the day of the defendants’ visits, would that make his clients the cause of those births? Or, if a man got drunk in each town on the day of their visit, would the twins be responsible for those men being intoxicated?

Up to this point, the prosecution had established only the certainty that crimes had been committed and that one or the other of the twins had been somewhere within fifty miles of the crime scene or had had contact with one or the other of their alleged co-conspirators -- Stanislaus Ivanov and Chet Fisher -- within a day or two before or after those crimes.

It was at this juncture that Judge Westcott adjourned for lunch.

Malik had attended the court session with Schroeder, though Lonegan begged off to spend time in his office. They went there to see if he wanted to go to lunch. What they found was an envelope pinned to the door with “Marshal Malik” scrawled across the front. Inside was a note that read:

Back to the Springs. See you Thursday at dinner.

Malik observed, “It looks like Connor’s invited himself to our family’s Thanksgiving dinner. I wonder what’s going on down in the Springs?”

“Do you want to head down there? I don’t need you holding my hand, you know.”

Malik chuckled. “No, I figure if it was important, he’d have said so. And I’m not here to hold your hand. I have a personal interest in this trial. These two are part of a group that’s been trying to kill me for years.

“So, do you want to try the Officers’ Mess, again?”

Malik kept the lunch-time conversation light. He talked about his children and the precocious nature of his daughter.

But Schroeder focused elsewhere. “Not to be indelicate, but how do you manage to get along with three women?”

Malik smiled. “You’re looking at it wrong. I don’t ‘get along with three women.’ We all get along with each other. We’re a group, not three man-woman relationships nor one man and three women. Beyond that, they are extraordinary women, each with substantial, though varied, talents.

“And each one wants something different to feel comfortable with life. Beatrice wants a dependable base from which to operate. Wren wants, well, in keeping with her name, Wren wants a nest, a home and children to which she can tend. And Peng...,” he shook his head looking into the middle distance, “I think Peng wants me to free her from herself.”

“Huh? What does that mean?”

Malik brought his focus back to his lunch companion. “Uh, I’m not sure. I’ve never thought of that before.” He shook his head again. “And, to be truthful, I’m uncomfortable about saying more.”

Then he leaned back in his chair and observed, “Speaking of Thanksgiving, and assuming Judge Westcott wraps up this trial by tomorrow, it looks like you might be spending the holiday on a Santa Fe passenger train. If you’ve no other obligations, why not come down to Waypoint, have dinner with us? You can head home on Saturday.”

Schroeder, suppressing a smile, said, “I don’t know. The Harvey House has a pretty tasty turkey stuffing. Who makes yours?”

“Well, the family cooks are Andy’s wife, Christina, my Wren, and Maria Espinoza, the hacienda’s cook. All the breads and rolls are handled by Matilda Tsosie and her mother, who are professional bakers. My brother and I are in charge of eating, but we can always use more help.”

“Then if I can help you out, I’d be glad to come down.”

Court reconvened at one-thirty.

The prosecutor called his last witness, Franklin County Sheriff Peter Hanson.

He established that Hanson had arrested the Webbers at a boarding house in Shepherds Crossing and then, based on a federal warrant, had searched their rooms. Among other items of interest were an un-mailed letter, written by Yancy Webber to her father, and a journal, kept by Clancy Webber.

Those documents were entered into evidence over the largely-irrelevant objections of the prosecutor.

Sheriff Hanson was asked to read aloud selected passages from those documents.

The letter was, in effect, a report by Yancy to her father of their latest actions and immediate plans. It described their recent travel, their situation at the boarding house, Ivanov’s intent to proceed to Ranch Home from Waypoint, and their own plans to approach the ranch village on horseback from Shepherds Creek.

Clancy Webber’s journal revealed the plans of their father, Samuel Webber, and their aunt, Hazel McInerney, to kill Emil Malik in vengeance for the death of their cousin, Russel McInerney, or, failing that, to harm Emil Malik’s businesses, friends, or family in severe fashion. It described the political manipulations that had the Texas Rangers acting at their behest. It described Yancy’s seduction of Chet Fisher and the absurd misunderstanding that had Fisher blow up an unimportant irrigation diversion dam rather than the intended target, the Isabella Canyon dam.

The journal told how Stanislaus Ivanov had become an agent of the family and then a key member of the conspiracy, who developed and carried out several of the plans. One of those plans was the murder of Hiram Abernathy, a shady Texas attorney who had discovered the family’s machinations and had tried, unsuccessfully, to blackmail them, before heading off to Wichita to try to manipulate Malik.

The last passage that Pete Hanson read was of Clancy Webber’s own act of arson, in which he described, in considerable detail, his fire-setting technique, and his wily escape route, boasting of his ingenuity and audacity.

After Hanson’s readings, the prosecutor rested his case.

On cross-examination, the defense attorney asked Hanson to point out where either document had been signed by its author. Neither had a signature. Asked if he had found the Webbers’ rooms locked at the time of the search, Hanson had admitted that neither door had been locked. Asked how many people, including boarding house guests, lunch guests, and staff were in the house during the noon hour on that day, Hanson estimated the number had been between twenty and twenty-five. Finally, the defense attorney brought Hanson to the admission that literally dozens of people had access to those rooms and could have placed anything in them.

After Hanson stepped down, the defense attorney made a motion that the case be dismissed for lack of evidence. Judge Westcott denied the motion and then adjourned the court until the next morning.

Walking back to the K&ASR switchyard, Schroeder said, “It’s been my experience, and it’s pretty much the common wisdom of the Rangers, that most law-breakers tend more toward being slow-witted than toward being quick-witted.

“I mean, think about it. Right from the get-go, felonies are a bad bet. The penalties for breaking a law usually far exceed whatever benefit is gained in the crime. Take cattle rustling.

“Now, the Rangers figure that your average cattle rustler makes off with four head. Sure, some get more, but there’s plenty take only one. Let’s say those four steers are worth twenty dollars a head. So, you’ve stolen eighty dollars. But the penalty for that will likely be one to five years in prison.

“In Texas, even the poorest wrangler makes three hundred sixty dollars a year, plus found. Hell, a store clerk can earn better, and it’s indoor work. So, when you steal the cattle, you’re betting eighty dollars against three hundred sixty, maybe even against better than fifteen hundred dollars that you’ll lose by being in prison for one to five years.

“But, you know what? You’re average criminal doesn’t even think of that. And it’s not so much that he calculates he can get away with it, either. He really doesn’t give much thought at all to the possibility of getting caught. He considers that as much as he considers his supper, three weeks hence.

“So, the fact that these Webber twins wrote out their crimes and then left them where anyone could find them surprises me not at all.

“The only thing that surprises me is that they weren’t drunk when Sheriff Hanson picked them up, because liquor is the other common factor we’ve noticed. Seems like most crimes are committed by folks who are actively drinking liquor or who were drinking just before they committed the crime.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen that,” Malik said. “And I think you’ve pegged it with the low level of intelligence, too.”

“I read a collection of magazine articles a few months ago, tories about an English private detective,” Schroeder said.

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Yeah, Sherlock Holmes. You read that?”

“I did. One of our railroad police inspectors told me about it.”

“All of the criminals in those stories were cunning and resourceful, developing elaborate plans and obscuring their involvement with so-called red herrings. But ninety-nine percent of real criminals are not like that at all, and I’m not even willing to concede the one percent, without real proof. I think they’re mostly idiots who don’t realize there’s more than one dam on a river and that they are each talking about a different one. Their major problem is that they don’t know how dumb they are, but, like the Webber twins, they revel in their presumed superiority.”

Schroeder’s pace slowed and he fell silent, looking down toward the ground and shaking his head. Then he said, “Just like the Texas Rangers.”

Malik said, “Just like any collection of men who have some measure of power.” He matched Schroeder’s slower pace. “It’s like that everywhere. There are a couple Arenoso State Bailiff’s who keep coming after me, convinced that I’m the head of some manner of criminal enterprise. I’ve been the victim of several crimes, and they treat me like I did it to myself.”

“State bailiff’s?”

They’re our state police. Like the Texas Rangers, but with snazzy uniforms and shield-shaped badges. When the Inn burned down, they were ready to arrest me for insurance fraud. Otherwise, they’re pretty good coppers.”

Malik stopped before they reached the coach. “So, have you come to any conclusions about the Rangers?”

Schroeder kicked a rock and it clanked off a rail. “If I didn’t give a good goddamn, the choice would be simple. The problem is, I didn’t anticipate a career digging latrines so others could fill them with their crap.” He shook his head. “I’m going to resign.”

Malik said nothing. Schroeder jammed his hands in his pockets and looked off down the siding.

At one point, Schroeder sniffed and Malik immediately said, “Let’s go see what Mister Wu has made us for supper,” and he stepped off toward the coach, without waiting for the Ranger.

Schroeder said, “But what possible defense can they offer?”

Wu had prepared Malik’s favorite Chinese recipe, egg fu- yung. It was the first time Long Hand and Schroeder had sampled Chinese food.

“This is really tasty. What is it?” Schroeder asked,

Wu said, “Omelet with chopped meat and vegetables.”

“Really? It tastes so much ... heartier than omelets I’ve had.”

“Fold eggs while cooking, Add Chinese spices.”

Malik said, “What really makes it good is dousing it in tomato ketchup. Do we have any ketchup, Mister Wu?”

Wu was leaned over his plate, muttering darkly in Chinese.

Malik said, “I’m joking, Mister Wu. You know this dish is one of my favorites. I’d sooner put ketchup in my coffee.”

Schroeder said, “Maybe not ketchup, but what a bout a spicy chili sauce, Mister Wu?”

Wu’s head came up, and he looked at Schroeder speculatively. “Perhaps, yes. Szechuan chili, very spicy, very good. And black bean. Yes. Next time.”

Long Hand said, “You need to share this recipe with the three sisters, Mister Wu.”

“He’s right,” Malik added. “This would fit in perfectly with their menu, especially if you have a spicy version with beans.”

“Three sisters?” Schroeder asked.

“It’s a food stall on the plaza in Dorado Springs. Worth stopping at, if you get the chance.”

“It’s run by three sisters?”

“No, actually. It’s run by four sisters,” Malik replied, “but three operate the food stall while the fourth watches the children, though I think it’s the grandchildren they must be watching, since their daughters have their own business.”

Long Hand looked up and, with a wink to Malik, he said to Schroeder, “If you do ever get there, make sure to try the snew.”

“Snew? What’s snew?

Malik and Long Hand said, together, “Not much. What’s new with you?”

Then Long Hand started laughing, Wu looked puzzled, and Schroeder, grinning and shaking his head, said, “You might not want to do that to a man wearing a revolver.”

After they calmed down, Malik said, “To answer your question, Dick, I think the only thing the defense can do is to go after those written documents. The rest of our testimony wouldn’t stand up to a heavy breeze. It built a box, maybe, but it was an empty box -- until Pete read those passages. The twins said what they did and the rest of us testified that they could easily have done it, even if we didn’t see them do it. So I figure he has to burn those written accounts.”

(Tuesday, November 24, 1891)

Wednesday, November 25, 1891

“Doctor Pawley,” the defense attorney said to the man with the long gray beard seated in the witness chair, “the prosecutor has agreed to you qualification as an expert witness without voir dire. In other words, he waived his right to ask about your seven years of advanced education at three major universities as well as--”

“Objection, your honor. The witness’s qualifications have already been acknowledged without necessitating their further recitation.”

“Objection sustained. Please move along, counselor,” Judge Westcott instructed.

Ephraim Pawley, PhD, was the second witness of the morning. The first had been Sheriff Manley Odem, of Lago Seco County, Texas. His testimony qualified an exhibit the defense wanted to enter into evidence, namely, two handwritten sheets of paper purported to be from the twins’ bedrooms. The exhibit was accompanied by an affidavit of authenticity signed by the Roman Catholic Bishop of San Antonio as well as by the chief justice of the Texas Supreme Court. The pages, samples of the twins’ handwriting, were admitted without objection, though the prosecutor reserved his right to cross-examine the Sheriff Odem later.

Ephraim Pawley was a legitimate academic who happened to be a graphologist, an expert in handwriting.

“Very well, your honor,” the defense counselor said. “Doctor Pawley, if I showed you two samples of the normal handwriting of an individual that had been written ten years apart, could you qualify them as being written by the same person?”

“Yes, with a high degree of certainty.”

“What do you mean, a high degree of certainty?”

“It’s impossible to be one hundred percent certain. No, please let me qualify that. It is possible to believe or to claim to be one hundred percent certain, but the scientific proofs will not support that. At the very best, one might be ninety-five percent certain.”

“So, you’re saying that, if I laid out one hundred pennies -- your honor, with your permission, to clarify the point?”

“Go ahead, counselor, but keep it brief.”

“Thank you your honor.”

The defense attorney spread one hundred pennies in a disordered single layer on the wide, flat top the rail that was in front of the jury box.

“So, Doctor Pawley, you’re saying that your certainty would be,” the attorney removed five pennies and left them in a stack a few inches away, “equal to this portion of one hundred pennies, compared to these five.”

“Yes, sir, that’s one way to describe it.”

“What if I showed you two samples of handwriting written by two different people, ten years apart. What kind of certainty would you have in determining if they were written by different people?”

“Well, again, not perfect certainty, but possibly as high as ninety-eight percent.”

The defense attorney took three pennies from the stack and added them to those spread on top the rail.

“Like that, Doctor?”

“That would be ninety-eight percent, yes.”

The defense attorney walked to the exhibits table and lifted two sheets of paper. He walked to the witness box and said, “I realize this is the first time you’ve seen these, Doctor Pawley, but I think this will be simple enough. I want you to answer only one question. Can you say, with any certainty at all, that these were written by the same person, namely Clancy Webber?”

After only a cursory glance, the witness said, “No, there is no way to say that with any certainty.”

“Then, Doctor, I ask you to examine these two pages. Can you certify, to any degree, that they were written by Yancy Webber?”

Again, a brief examination was enough for the expert witness to say, “No, they really can’t be compared.”

“And yet, two of these sheets, those brought from Texas by Sheriff Odem, are certified as coming from the personal papers of the--”

“Objection, your honor. Defense counsel is making statements.”

“Sustained. Confine yourself to asking questions, counselor.”

“Thank you your honor. I have no more questions of this witness.”

Judge Westcott asked, “Mister Prosecutor, do you wish to cross-examine?”

“Your honor, I have no questions at this time, but reserve the right to recall the witness.”

“Very well. Please call your next witness, counselor.”

“Your honor, the defense rests, and, with the debunking of the prosecution’s exhibits, we once again move for a dismissal.”