Cheyenne Jackson (The Case of the Hanged Harlot)

By Doug Welch

Combine an ornery horse, an arm full of law books, and a beautiful, stubborn woman, and you have Cheyenne Jackson, Criminal Defense Attorney.
She’s just landed the most important case of her short career and she’d better not screw it up, her dad’s counting on her. Unfortunately her potential client is someone she detests. Holding her nose, she plunges in anyway.
Someone hanged her client’s wife and the police suspect it’s his cousin...but hold on a moment...Is it true? Was she really murdered? Or was the cause of her death something else, something even more unspeakable? What about the seven other people present at the crime scene, could they have had something to do with it?
Cheyenne’s dad warned her about the potential hazards of becoming a lawyer, but did she listen? Apparently not, because determining the truth may cost her more than she ever imagined.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Doug Welch
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310732904

Doug Welch

Although I'm a retired community college instructor, I lived another life and acquired a wide range of experiences before my teaching and now author gig. I served the U.S. Navy and my country in Vietnam. I repaired robots and automated equipment in the aerospace industry. I was publicity chairman of the California Belly Dance Association for a while, actor in a motion picture, Manufacturing Engineer and Regional Chairman of the Society of Manufacturing Engineers, and finally Professor of Manufacturing Technology at a local community college. Name it, and I've likely done it.However, despite threatening to do so for many years, I'd never written a book. At least, until now. It's a lot of work. You really, really have to love it. Fortunately, (or unfortunately) I do love it and plan to continue it as long as I can type, scribble or speak.Stay tuned for more. (See my website,Facebook and my blog for new books.)

Book preview

Chapter 1

For what seemed the thousandth time in her short career, Cheyenne rose to address the judge. May we approach the bench, Your Honor?

Anticipating Brad Patterson might object, she glanced to the side toward the prosecutor’s table.

You may, he replied.

Maintaining an air of professional confidence, Cheyenne skirted the defendant’s table and strode over to the wooden judge’s bench.

Unlike modern law courts, nothing inside the nearly eighty year-old Albany County courtroom looked artificial except for the antique light fixtures dangling off the high ceiling and the large floor to ceiling windows at the rear entrance that let the sunlight in.

Her high heels echoed loud on the hard flooring of the almost empty room. The top of the ornate bench nearly matched the crown of her head, so she had to crane her neck to look Judge Cranston in the eye.

She took obligations to her clients as a sacred trust. Regardless of how often she’d defended them in court, the act of speaking to an audience always brought a flutter in her stomach. The shrinks called it performance anxiety but to her it was a simple case of nerves.

Her senses heightened, more conscious of the weight of her clothing and the perspiration that, despite the air conditioning, collected on her brow like dew.

She knew the tension resulted from carrying the fate of someone else’s life. Although at times uncomfortable, it kept her sharp and good at her job, ready to react to any adversary. She’d be worried only if it ever became commonplace.

She waited until Brad joined her and began her speech, surprised at the clarity and strength of her voice. I think the defense has just blown the prosecution’s case out of the water. We’ve proved his eye witness to be biased and unreliable. The rest of his case is based on flimsiest of circumstantial evidence. The defense moves for dismissal, Your Honor. She glanced at Patterson and added, And with prejudice.

Judge Cranston’s peered over the half-moon reading glasses he wore, and stared down his long aquiline nose. His eyes moved to Patterson, who after hearing Cheyenne speak, had avoided eye contact. Do you have anything to say, Mister Prosecutor?

Patterson looked at a sheaf of papers he held and mumbled something unintelligible.

What’s that? Cranston said. I didn’t hear you.

Patterson raised his head. The prosecution has no objection to a move to dismiss, he replied in a stronger voice. But we object to a dismissal with prejudice.

Does the prosecution anticipate introducing any more evidence? Cranston asked.

Well…no, Patterson replied, directing his gaze back to the paper.

I have to tell you, Mr. Patterson. If this is all the evidence you have, I’d rule for acquittal right now. Do you have anything else to say?

Looking back up at Judge Cranston, Patterson took a deep breath and spilled out his reply, No, Your Honor.

Very well, step back from the bench, Cranston said.

Along with her opponent, Cheyenne took a step back and waited for the judge’s decision. Her client was a minor who’d been charged with accessory to armed robbery so there was no jury. Cranston, although a tyrant in his courtroom when it came to attorneys, especially female attorneys, was a fair judge, but there was always a chance he’d decide against her.

He hammered his gavel on the sounding block. Motion is denied in favor of a directed verdict. The defendant is judged innocent of all charges and is therefore free to go.

Cheyenne expelled the breath she’d been holding and turned to congratulate her client. She paused upon hearing Judge Cranston speak and turned back.

Just a minute Mister Patterson. The court is displeased with having its time wasted. Before bringing another case before this court, be better prepared.

Patterson nodded and cast his eyes aside, looking anywhere but at Cranston. Yes, Your Honor.

Cheyenne hid a grin of triumph and continued to the defendant’s table.

Smiling with nervous relief, her client, Jesus Perez, waited for her. His mother leaned over the railing and hugged him. As soon as Cheyenne was within reach, Mrs. Perez threw her arms around her. Thank you Ms. Jackson. I’ve been so worried.

She indulged in one brief hug before swinging on her young client. In the future, Jesus, keep away from those worthless friends of yours. They’re the ones who got you in trouble in the first place.

He’d been an innocent bystander in the attempted robbery of a liquor store. It was a case of being at the wrong place at the wrong time, but the County Attorney had insisted on bringing the matter to trial. She’d destroyed their case before it ever got off the ground.

Embarrassed to make eye contact, his eyes fell to the table. I will, Ms. Jackson, I promise — and thank you for helping me.

He looked back up. You know something?

Cheyenne waited for him to speak.

I wanna be a lawyer just like you when I graduate from high school.

She grinned. You’d be better off as an investment banker. That’s where the money is. Lawyers, especially in a small town like Laramie, made less than most people thought.

She gathered her notes and court documents, stuffing them into her briefcase.

After a few more rounds of congratulations, she opened the railing gate and walked out of the old courtroom into the outside corridor.

She headed towards the entrance of the art-deco Albany County courthouse, her high heels clicking upon the marble floor.

My feet are killing me, she thought.

Eager to discard the painful shoes and ditch the pantsuit Cranston insisted upon in court (what she referred to as her lawyer’s suit) she increased her pace.

Hearing hurried footsteps echo in the hallway behind her, and anticipating who they belonged to, she slowed.

Wait up, Cheyenne, Patterson called.

Cheyenne swung around and tapped her foot. She watched as the wary Assistant County Attorney approached.

Well? she said.

Patterson stopped a careful arm’s length away from her. You haven’t returned my calls. He combed back a lock of his carefully coiffed blond hair with his fingers.

Cheyenne’s eyebrows crept up her forehead. No man stands me up twice in a row, Brad. I deserve better.

Patterson’s blue eyes rolled to the ceiling. I tried to explain, he said. It was my father. He was trying to hook me up with one of his rich friend’s daughters.

She picked the mental scab, letting it bleed, remembering her call to Brad’s house and the shock of being rejected by his father.

She examined the dark reddish-brown skin of her hands. Her body seemed to house a piece of every race on the planet. She didn’t know how many, but the combination seemed to attract men like honey-water drew humming birds. She’d eventually figure it out, but she was still shopping, trying them on, to see if they’d fit.

In city as thinly populated as Laramie, Wyoming, she was well known and the fact her adoptive father was an ex-judge had up to now, shielded her from racial prejudice.

She hadn’t been prepared to encounter it from Brad’s family. The snub had hurt more than her pride allowed her to admit.

I also can’t abide a wimp who can’t stand up to his bigoted father.

Patterson pouted. Is that why you embarrassed me in court? I don’t think I deserved it.

Yes you did, she said. It was a shit case and you knew it.

It was Cotter, he protested. I knew better, but he insisted on bringing it to trial,

Cheyenne knew how it worked. The County Attorney, Herman Cotter, was running for re-election and wanted as many check marks in the ‘win’ column of the win/loss spreadsheet as he could accumulate.

He wouldn’t be happy about this one.

Well there you go, Brad, if you can’t stand up to your father or your boss, I’m not interested.

She’d started dating only in the past year, after her employees and father had nagged her into it. During four years in high school as an academic recluse, a law degree and a busy legal practice, she hadn’t had time for men and their confusing needs.

She knew she hadn’t yet acquired the emotional armor needed for serious dating. Still the world was full of men and she figured she’d learn, but definitely not with Brad. So far, she hadn’t discovered one male yet worth the effort. Even though Brad was a good looking man and they shared the same occupation, their short encounter had ended in disappointment and her humiliation.

If she wanted a serious relationship, she’d have to cast her net wider than just Laramie.

Please, Cheyenne, I’m sorry, he said. I just need more time.

Not wanting to commit herself and wary of burning professional connections she might need in the future, she said, I’ll think about it.

She turned away and without a backward glance, continued down the corridor to the front entrance.

Stepping out into the Wyoming sunshine, she breathed the unfiltered air and scent of pine trees. She found her car in the parking lot, keyed the door locks and drove home.

Chapter 2

Arriving at her father’s large ranch house, she trudged up the staircase, entered her room and kicked off the painful high heels.

Stripping off the stifling lawyer’s suit and white silk blouse, she dressed in worn jeans, her ‘Cowgirls Kick Butt’ tee-shirt and round-toe boots with soft leather uppers. Unlike most Wyoming residents, Cheyenne hated pointy toed boots because they hurt her feet. She liked going barefoot more often than not.

Clad more in keeping with her mood and a lot more comfortable, she descended the rear stairs and walked through the house to the back patio, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator along the way.

Opening the patio doors, she spied Sam reclining on a chaise lounge, sipping his favorite afternoon drink, a mint julep, and gazing at the tinkling backyard fountain.

How did it go in court today? he asked. Did you get the kid off?

She pulled up a spare lounge chair, dropped in it, and popped the top off the beer can. I buried Patterson. It was a crap case.

Sam’s brow wrinkled. I thought you two had a thing going. Has that changed? he asked.

Swallowing a long pull of her beverage of choice, she replied, I prefer males with a backbone and balls. Brad Patterson has neither.

At the rate you’re going through men, Cheyenne, he said. I’ll be dead before I have a grandchild.

She pointed to Sam’s drink. You keep throwing those babies back and it just might happen.

He studied the lines of condensation running down the outside of the glass. It’s my new attempt at self medication. I figure enough liquor and caffeine will kill anything.

Her stomach clenched at the mention of dying because Sam had come close to succumbing to cancer over a year ago. The last round of chemotherapy had almost killed him but the cancer was in remission and she hoped it stayed that way. He’d dropped forty pounds from his six foot frame and looked skinny and frail.

It felt wrong to see a robust sixty year old man waste away. She’d spent many nights in tears over it, but his normally bushy gray hair had grown back and his hazel eyes still held the spark of life. She hoped with a little TLC his health would eventually return.

Uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, she gazed out toward the lowering sun and the rolling ranch lands.

When he’d been healthy, the green fields had stretched to what seemed the horizon. Now there was enough grass, oats and alfalfa to feed the stable of horses they owned and no more. Currently a home for wildlife, the remainder of the acres lay fallow.

This is getting too maudlin for my tastes, she said. I’m going riding. You want to join me?

Sam reached across and patted her arm. You go ahead, Cheyenne, I’ll sit here and brood.

His attitude contrasted with the man she’d known for most of her life. He sounded like a man who’d called it quits and waited to die. His seeming acceptance filled her with dread.

In fact, so many of her worries warred with each other, she had trouble coping with it all. Her concern about Sam’s health was one, but her struggling law practice and career occupied the majority of her attention. Now to add her frustration at finding a man, one who might satisfy her burgeoning need for the romantic side of life, all combined to overwhelmed her.

She absolutely need some timeout with her thoughts. And in the past, whenever things seemed impossible to sort out, she found solace in riding her horse, Rambler, out on the open range.

Rambler was a white-faced sorrel, a little over fifteen hands high. A spirited horse, he and she had grown up together, eventually arriving at a meeting of minds that could only be described as a cease-fire. Most of the time, the compromise meant he wandered where he wanted to go, and she sat on his back for the ride.

Today, she wasn’t in the mood.

Entering the stable, she pulled her saddle and bridle off the rail and carried them over to his stall. Rambler refused to let anyone but her saddle him. Now a grand old gelding of fifteen years, Sam had bought him for her when they were both mere colts, her nine years old and Rambler a yearling. She’d gentled him by hand, gradually gaining his trust.

She grabbed her leather hat from the wood peg in her horse’s stall and jammed it on her head. Leading him out of the barn, she mounted him. She settled into the saddle, getting comfortable with her seat. Sensing his impatience to run she growled. Not today, Rambler. It’s my turn to drive.

She held him back in the stable yard for fear he’d step into one of the numerous rodent holes that had sprouted up since Sam’s illness. She planned to run him all right, but not in the corral or on the open range.

Reaching the gravel and dirt road that serviced the ranch, she gave him his head.

In a burst of power he leaped forward. The wind of their passage whipped Cheyenne’s hair in her face and she grabbed her hat. The feel of his pounding cadence between her legs was exhilarating, making some of her problems diminish into the background. Grinning, she let the hat fall, hanging down her back on the lanyard. She hugged Rambler’s mane and let him run.

Her horse still thought he was a yearling, and if she didn’t rein him in, he’d run until he was blown. She let him run for a while longer and then slowed him to a walk.

As Rambler plodded along the road, the only sounds were the clop of hooves and an occasional bird call. Her hips swayed in the saddle with the slow pace, giving her plenty of time to think.

By some miracle she’d lucked out in the lottery of life and managed to hook up with a wonderful man. He’d been a father, a friend, and a confidant. She’d grown up calling him by his first name because he refused to refer to himself as her father. In her child’s mind, the words ‘Sam’ and ‘father’ had become so synonymous she no longer distinguished them. He was her daddy regardless of what he chose to call himself.

She occasionally wondered how a single man had managed to adopt a female child, but not often. It didn’t matter. She’d never found a man yet that could match him. He was one-of-a-kind.

A flash of light caught her attention and she brought Rambler to a halt. It had been brief, like a gleam off a pool of water but she knew no still water existed in the direction it had come from. Shading her eyes from the afternoon sun, she gazed off into the distance to the intersecting road adjoining her father’s property.

Using a trick Sam had taught her, she let her eyes grow unfocused, trying to take the entire scene in as one. In a few moments she spied it, the outline of a car or truck hidden behind a screen of bushes.

Concerned about trespassers, she wondered if someone watched her. Maybe the occupants were lovers out for a tryst, but why the flash of light? The only sights to see were her and her horse.

People around Laramie had become more distrusting of intruders in the past few years ever since a young man had been tortured and let for dead not more than a few miles from where her horse stood. In her case a bout of paranoia could grow to extremes and she knew it, but she hadn’t experienced night terrors for almost fifteen years.

She couldn’t remember her early childhood. Sam said he’d found her wandering in a corn field just off the highway, close to the Montana and Wyoming border. At the time she’d been too little and confused to tell anyone her name so he’d given her one.

According to him, he’d thought of naming her Montana, but the crude sign hanging around her neck read ‘Cheyenne Wyoming’. Cheyenne sounded more like a girl’s name and Wyoming was out of the question, so he’d christened her Cheyenne Jackson.

However he did have one obsession, a determination to find the identity of her birth parents. Cheyenne didn’t care. She figured anyone who dumped a little girl in a cornfield was someone easy to ignore.

The lowering sun made the shadows lengthen. Shaking off the feeling someone observed her, she goaded Rambler back into a walk.

Reaching a stand of trees, she turned off the road and entered a gully that echoed with the sound of flowing water. The glade sheltered a small stream that ran all year even during high summer.

Rambler stepped carefully over the rocks littering the ground and wound through the pine trees. Finally pausing at the water, he bent his head to drink. Dismounting, Cheyenne removed a cloth and brush from her saddle bag.

She removed the bridle from his muzzle, and draped it on a tree limb. Using the cloth, she wiped the lather off his back and chest. She groomed him, removing brambles and burrs from his coat. As she worked, she reflected upon the fact she took better care of her horse than she did of her life.

Satisfied she’d taken care of his needs, at least for now, she watched him crop the grass growing by the water.

Finding a comfortable place by one of the trees, she dropped to think, listening to the gurgle of water as it passed over rocks in the stream bed.

Rambler’s nose nudged her shoulder and she opened the pouch hanging on her belt. She removed a carrot and shoved it in his muzzle. I only have a few, you glutton, so go easy on them.

Relaxing at last, her mind turned to her career. Sam was related to other of the Jackson clans in Wyoming and the law, like blood, flowed through their veins, so he’d encouraged her to study the subject in college. She’d finished law school at light speed, passed the bar exams and hung out a shingle, choosing to become a defense lawyer.

It had been a fast paced, focused existence, first law school and then her profession. In all that time she’d consciously ignored the personal side of life. Only recently had she thought about dating.

Startled from her thoughts by an intruding sound, she heard the clatter of rocks and a splash. It seemed to have come some distance up the stream from her. Rising and now curious more than apprehensive, she dusted her jeans off and made her way up the stream bed.

She had no reason to leave home. It had been, and still was, a place of warmth and comfort, a place where she could feel safe. In addition, although she knew Sam would care for Rambler, she was reluctant to strike out on her own, leaving him to the kindness of someone else. Still she could sense the time coming in which she might seek something more, but her whole life so far had been about preparing.

She spied an obstruction and stepped over a tree root that hung out in the water. She continued on while making as little noise as possible.

As she moved, her mind drifted. It had been hard at first, taking any minor case that came her way. If it hadn’t been for Sam’s financial support, she’d have failed the first year.

But of late her confidence had returned. The cases had become more lucrative and important and her reputation as a defense lawyer who’d never lost a case, however unwarranted, had grown.

Self doubts still plagued her, but not as much as they had before. Her career was important to her. It made her as someone to be recognized as a force in the world someone who made a difference. Still she’d never defended a major crime so far and it made her wonder. Could she do it? Would this be her life until it ran out? A small-time lawyer in a small city? She hungered for more but would it ever happen?

The crack of snapping wood froze her in her tracks. It had come from somewhere close by.

Hello? Is someone there? No one answered. A chill ran down her back. Her mind urged her to run and started the adrenalin flowing. Stop it Cheyenne. She hadn’t had a panic attack in years, not since as a child, Sam took her to see a shrink. Why now?

Something gripped her waist and she yelped. Whirling to face her attacker, she recognized him. Her fear faded away like a retreating wave.

Rambler stood behind her, looking like a beggar asking for a hand out. How he’d come so close without her hearing him, she didn’t know.

Now a little embarrassed at her reaction, she reached into her pouch and drew out the remaining carrots, shoving them in his muzzle. You damn near gave me a heart attack, horse

The sun hung above the horizon and she’d run out of carrots, so she decided to ride back in time for supper.

Before Sam took sick, the ranch had employed a few hands, but during his bout with the big C he’d let them go. In their place he’d hired Grace, a live-in cook and house-keeper. Afterward, Cheyenne seldom missed a meal.

After replacing his bridle, she mounted Rambler and guided him back to the road. Reaching it, she put the sun at her back, relaxed the reins, and allowed him to trot back to the ranch. As she rode she felt a tickle between her shoulder blades. She glanced back to make sure no one followed her, but she couldn’t shake the sensation.

She often wondered why Grace stayed with them. She could get a job in most good restaurants in Laramie if she wanted to. Sam’s mood could get temperamental at times and it took a special woman to gentle him. She often wondered if the relationship between Sam and Grace was more than it appeared, but she’d been reluctant to pry. It was their business, not hers. Whatever the relationship, Cheyenne had never met a kinder woman. Grace treated her like a daughter.

Far way she heard the sound of a car starting. She turned in the saddle and rose on her stirrups to get a better view. A cloud of dust streamed off in the direction away from the ranch. It vanished in the distance.

She hadn’t imagined it. Someone had been observing her, but who or why?

Chapter 3

At the barn, she removed Rambler’s saddle and bridle, again using the towel and brush to groom him.

Loading his trough with fodder and making sure he had fresh water, she left him swishing his tail and happily munching on the hay.

She thought about telling Sam about the trespasser, but figured he’d only get stressed at the news. In his condition it wouldn’t be a good idea.

In the house she smelled Grace’s cooking and made her way to the kitchen. Although the ranch house had a formal dining room, they seldom used it. Meals were an intimate affair, just her, Sam and Grace at the kitchen table.

She sat and helped herself to a bowl full