Page 116 of Charlotte's Reckoning
“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.
