Chapter 29
A Fool for a Client
Sheriff for such a short time, and on the trail of fugitives more often than not, Seth had never been to the Laramie courthouse before.
The imposing red brick building provided a stark contrast to the predominantly wooden houses, shops, and tents that were still prevalent in the growing town.
The courtroom’s interior featured high ceilings, gleaming wood floors, and tall windows, which cast shafts of dusty sunlight.
Benches lined the room for spectators, today filled with curious townsfolk whispering among themselves while waiting for the proceedings to begin.
From the front row, Seth watched Quentin Sneed stride in.
A smirk played on his lips as he passed and took his seat at a table up front—alone.
Seth glanced back at the doors, expecting to see his counsel, but seconds ticked by, and he saw no one.
Having plotted to eliminate his competition, Sneed was so confident of victory that he planned to represent himself.
Clearly, he had never heard the adage, he who represents himself has a fool for a client .
Seth eagerly awaited the moment Sneed’s confidence crumbled under the weight of his surprises.
Right on time, the rear doors opened, revealing surprise number one. Sneed paled and shifted uncomfortably as one of his hired guns limped in on his uninjured leg, supported by two of Seth’s deputies.
Once he was settled on an empty bench so he could stretch out his bandaged leg, surprise number two walked in.
In a stunning purple gown, Charlotte commanded attention as she seemed to glide down the center aisle next to her attorney.
Although a vision of beauty and grace, the determined set of her jaw spoke volumes about her inner strength.
She pointedly ignored Sneed, treating him as if he were nothing more than a speck of dust as she took her seat.
Seth knew she was shaking inside, but her composure didn’t waver, filling him with pride.
He glanced at Sneed’s reaction—deathly pale, beads of sweat clinging to his forehead, a look of panic etched on his face. His chair scraped the floor as he jumped up and strode toward the door. Expecting he’d pull something, Seth signaled to his deputies, who cut off his escape.
“All rise for Judge Simpson,” the bailiff announced as an older man in a dusty coat, gray stubble on his jaw, entered carrying a stack of papers and a wooden gavel.
Seth had heard he was unconventional, but his rumpled appearance surprised him, as if he’d rolled out of bed and straight into court. He had a hunch that things were about to get interesting.
“Let’s begin. I have a busy day ahead,” he said, settling into his seat at the tall bench up front. The court officer then asked everyone to stand and raise their right hands, swearing them all in.
“Mr. Bennett, you’re up first,” the judge prompted once everyone was seated.
“Good morning, Your Honor. We’re here to settle a dispute over the estate of the late Fenton Sneed, specifically the Red Eye Saloon, and two accounts held at the First National Bank of Laramie.”
“Sneed is dead?” the judge asked in surprise. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Shot dead by one of his patrons while trying to settle a squabble over a card game.”
“Hmph,” he grunted as he put on his eyeglasses and perused a paper in front of him. “That’s a shame. He ran a clean business, which is a rarity on Sixth Street. Are the claimants here?”
“I’m representing Miss Charlotte, the co-owner of the Red Eye for the past ten years,” Bennett advised. “You can thank her for the clean business as well, Your Honor.”
He peered over his glasses at her, without reaction, then his gaze slid to the other table. “State your name and interest in this.”
He wriggled free of his snug chair, puffing a bit. “I’m Quentin Sneed, the late Mr. Sneed’s older brother, Your Honor.”
“That is also in dispute, Judge,” Bennett interjected.
“How so?”
“Sheriff Walker contacted law enforcement in New Orleans, where Mr. Fenton Sneed was born and raised. We have the telegrams that state Mr. Fenton Sneed was an only child. Signed affidavits are on their way by courier, of course.”
“This is preposterous,” Quentin exclaimed.
“Be quiet. You’ll get your turn,” the judge ordered. He asked Bennett, “Who makes these claims?”
“A childhood neighbor of Fenton Sneed who is now a judge himself—the honorable Thomas Southerland. I believe you know him.”
“Old Tom.” Judge Simpson smiled as he leaned back in his chair. “I haven’t heard his name in years. We went to law school together.”
“I object!”
“Object to what?” Simpson demanded.
Quentin’s eyes darted around, clearly searching for an answer, then he spouted, “Conflict of interest.”
“On what grounds?” the judge asked, as if he’d heard nothing more absurd.
“Nepotism,” Sneed shot back.
“Overruled,” he grunted, which was close to a snarl. “Who is the second affidavit from?”
“Mrs. Lucinda Sneed, the late Mr. Sneed’s mother,” Bennett answered. “I think you’ll agree, Judge Simpson, she would know if she’d given birth to another son, especially one with the claimant’s, ahem, head circumference.”
When everyone turned to Quentin, the light streaming in from the tall windows shining on his disproportionately large, balding head, a ripple of laughter erupted from the audience. As the judge’s gavel echoed through the courtroom, Charlotte turned to Seth. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He leaned forward to answer. “The telegrams arrived late yesterday. I didn’t know myself until this morning.”
“Order!” the judge repeated, banging the gavel even louder.
When there was silence again, Judge Simpson skewered Quentin, or whoever he was, with a glare.
“So you lied, under oath, when you introduced yourself. Perjuring yourself right off the bat will not win any points with me, Mr. Snee—” In an instant, his glare turned into a glower.
“I want to know who you really are—for the record.”
Quentin heaved himself out of his chair. “I object to being condemned based on telegrams. I’d like to examine these alleged affidavits, which I contend are patently false.”
“Mmm...” the judge hummed, eyeing Quentin like a bug he’d just as soon squash. Seth didn’t know the man, but he seemed like a shrewd judge of character.
“I also have a witness who can corroborate the fact that the claimant is not who he says he is,” Mr. Bennett stated.
“Call him up. By all means,” the judge invited.
It took both deputies to assist Silas to the stand, complaining bitterly about his injured leg the entire way.
“You understand you’re under oath and perjury is a crime?” the judge asked him, glancing pointedly at Sneed who squirmed as much as he could in his seat.
“Got no reason to lie.”
“That’s refreshing,” the judge muttered.
Mr. Bennett approached. “State your name clearly.”
“Silas Boone.”
“Do you know the claimant?”
The witness looked perplexed and asked, “The what?”
“The man claiming ownership of the Red Eye Saloon,” the lawyer patiently explained.
Silas glanced at Quentin and nodded. “Me and my brother work for him. Or my brother did until last night.”
“What happened last night?” Bennett asked.
“The sheriff murdered him in cold blood!”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd before the courtroom erupted again. It took several minutes, with the judge pounding his gavel so hard Seth thought for sure it would break, until they settled again.
“I’ve got no time for nonsense. If the onlookers can’t be quiet, you can all get out.” Simpson’s voice rose steadily until he was close to shouting. “Is that clear?”
Not a peep came from the benches.
“Hmph,” the judge grunted. “Get on with it, Bennett.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Boone,” Charlotte’s attorney pressed, his voice sharp, “that at the time of the shooting, you and your brother were breaking into Miss Charlotte’s home?”
Silas glanced at Seth and mulishly clammed up.
“I can call the sheriff and Miss Charlotte to testify,” Mr. Bennett warned him.
“Fine, we were trying to break in.”
“To do what? Rob her? Scare her? Perhaps kill her so your boss would prevail in court today?” the lawyer accused.
“I object. He’s asking him to incriminate himself,” Sneed exclaimed. “You don’t have to do that, Silas. You have the right to remain silent!”
“Your Honor, Mr. Sneed is trying to coach my witness.”
“Not another word out of you,” the judge warned, pointing his gavel in Quentin’s direction. “You’ll have your turn after Bennett.”
“By then, it will be too late to save his lying ass,” someone called from the audience, which erupted in laughter.
“I will have order!” the judge roared, slamming his fist on the bench instead of his gavel. “Most of you have business before me today. Unless you’d like to be charged with contempt of court, pay a hefty fine, and wait until I’m back in town in a month, maybe two, I’d recommend you keep quiet.”
Once order reigned again, he banged the gavel and stated, “Mr. Bennett’s objection is sustained. Proceed, sir.”
“Mr. Boone, can you tell us how you and the alleged Mr. Sneed met?”
“It was a few weeks back, in Denver, through my brother Cleve. He worked for him on and off whenever he needed protection or someone to do his dirty work—” He stopped short, realizing what he said. “If he needed someone to do a job for him, I mean.”
“Why would he need protection?”
“He’s a gambler. The crooked ones often do.”
Sneed was on his feet again. For all his objections, Seth figured he should just remain standing.
“ I’m a businessman ,” he protested. “Your Honor, I don’t know this man. He has no knowledge of what I do.”
“I know him enough to say he’s a businessman who likes to gamble,” Silas replied. “That’s how he met Fenton Sneed. Playing poker on a train ride when the man had too much whiskey and got chatty. Leastwise, that’s what Quentin told us.”
“Chatty about what?” Bennet quickly countered.
“He doesn’t know,” Quentin exclaimed shrilly. “He wasn’t there.”