Bicycle Shop Murder - Robert Burton Robinson (good beach reads .txt) 📗
- Author: Robert Burton Robinson
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“Hope I don’t get picked.”
“Oh, you will. No doubt.”
“But I can’t make a living while I’m spending time on a jury.”
“I hate to tell you, Buddy, but they don’t care. Besides, you want to do your civic duty, right?” David laughed. He would hate taking time for jury duty.
“Yeah, right. But what makes you so sure I’ll be picked?”
“Think about it, Greg. They’ll ask if you can be fair—even though the defendant is black and the victim was white. You will say ‘Yes.’ They’ll want to know if you have any relatives or friends directly connected to the case. You will say ‘No.’ You’ll answer each question correctly just by being honest. So, if you don’t want to serve, you’ll have to lie. But you won’t.”
“Oh, man.”
Greg was overdue for some lunch. His first lesson was an hour away, so he locked up, and walked down the sidewalk to Jane’s Diner. He heard the usual ring of the bell and a ‘Hi’ from Jane as he walked in. He sat down in his favorite booth at the front window. He liked to watch the people come and go, around town square.
Things were so different here than in Longview, where he had lived for many years. Like stepping into the mid-1960s in many ways. It only seemed fitting that his car was a 1965 model.
As was often the case, Jane herself waited on him.
“Do you need a menu today, Greg?” She always asked, but he never needed one. He had only lived in Coreyville for about a year, but he ate at Jane’s nearly every day.
“No thanks, Jane. Just give me the turkey on wheat and a Diet Coke.” It was a delicious sandwich, piled high with extra thin turkey slices, fresh lettuce, dark red tomato from a local gardener, and mayo on toasted whole wheat bread. It came with a huge dill spear and potato chips on the side.
While Greg was waiting for his lunch, he overheard some men talking in the back of the restaurant.
“There’s no doubt he’s guilty. I don’t know why they’re wasting taxpayer money to try that piece of trash!”
Greg was beginning to realize how difficult it would be to find twelve impartial jurors for the trial. Then he heard the 1:30 train barreling through the outskirts of town. It felt like he was tied across those tracks. The murder trial was coming toward him like a locomotive.
Resistance was futile.
His appetite was gone.
Greg said goodbye to his last student at 8:15 PM, locked up the studio, and got into his car. He always looked forward to his evening rendezvous with Bonnie—his nickname for the Bonneville. He liked to put her top down, and drive her around town in the moonlight. Their route varied from night to night, but the ultimate destination was never in question.
“May I help you?”
The worn-out speaker was crackly, but he still recognized the particularly twangy East Texas voice of Fontana Fry.
Over his six years of vocal training, he had become acutely aware of accents. This is true of all classically trained singers. Great emphasis is placed on precise pronunciation and enunciation. It is mandatory that the singer’s repertoire include works written in English, Latin, Italian, German, and French.
So, by the time Greg finished his graduate degree, his accent had been all but eliminated. He sounded somewhat like a network news anchor instead of an East Texan.
“I would like a large—”
“—a large dipped cone, the usual. Right?”
The Dairy Queen drive-thru ordering station was located out in front of the restaurant, on the right side. He looked up, and saw the 19 year-old waving at him. She looked so cute in her little Dairy Queen outfit. Fontana was in her first year at Kilgore College. She planned to be an elementary teacher. He knew she would be a good one.
Greg had met Fontana a few months earlier when she brought her 13-year-old brother to the studio to enroll for guitar lessons. The boy was holding a U.S. made, 1968 Harmony acoustic guitar his uncle gave him. The body and the frets were badly worn, but the instrument still played beautifully. It looked somewhat like a large violin, with arched top and f-holes. That shape produces a more mellow sound than flattops. And the guitar’s age contributed additional warmth to the tone.
Hi, I’m Fontana, and this is my brother, Montana. Greg had almost snickered. As it turned out, Montana was musically gifted. He learned faster than Greg could teach him.
Fontana probably wondered why he never came inside to eat. He always opted for the drive-thru, and then parked behind the building, in the back corner of the parking lot.
She gave Greg a tall stack of napkins before he could ask. He parked, and began his nightly ritual—spreading out the napkins meticulously in layers across his lap. Drips would be contained. A chocolate stain on his shirt or pants would, of course, be upsetting. But the slightest drip or crumb on Bonnie’s pristine interior would be tantamount to desecration.
Just as he bit off the tip of the chocolate covered mountain, his cell phone rang.
Unknown Name. Unknown Number.
Greg figured it was some misdialing drunk. It could be handled quickly. His ice cream was already beginning to melt. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Hello?”
It was a woman whispering frantically. The sound was so distorted he couldn’t understand her at first, and was about to hang up.
“He’s doing it again.” She sounded terrified. “He hit me and threw me into the wall. I’m sorry, Greg, I shouldn’t be calling you, but—”
Greg heard a man shouting in the background, then a commotion. The phone went dead. He felt sick and helpless, like a kid who had just been spun on a merry-go-round at breakneck speed until he flew off. And the dizziness would not soon go away.
Greg wanted to call the police, but what would he tell them? And why did she call him instead of 911? He would call her back. No, he couldn’t—he didn’t have her number.
Then he felt something on his leg. The ice cream was melting beneath the chocolate shell, and it had collapsed under its own weight, and fallen onto the bed of napkins in his lap.
Still dazed, he sat for a full minute studying the ice cream as it dripped down the sides of the cone onto his hand and arm. Gradually the streams of white turned to pink, then to red— running down Cynthia’s face! A cold chill ripped through his body, and jolted him back to reality. He dropped the cone onto the gooey pile, bundled the entire mess, and threw it out of the car, as though it was toxic.
Suddenly Greg felt exposed sitting alone in the convertible, in the dark. He put the top up, locked it in place, and drove home as quickly as he could without attracting local law enforcement. There was nothing to tell the police.
Why had she come to him? He wished he had never met her. Yet he wanted to help her.
It was quiet on his street. Most of the neighbors were retirees, and were already in bed. He turned into his driveway, parked, and hurried toward his back porch. Just before he reached the door, his cell phone rang.
“Cynthia?”
A drunken man yelled back at him. “Who is this?”
Greg snapped the phone shut, and started to throw it into the woods behind his house. But throwing the phone away wouldn’t help. Fear began to flush through his veins, from head to toe.
Greg looked all around, and saw nothing but darkness. Then he thought he sensed movement in the distance. He fumbled with the keys. Why wasn’t the porch light on? Office keys, church keys, car keys. Where was the house key?
Finally, he got it opened, and darted in. He slammed the door, and double-locked it. The light switch was on. What a time for the bulb to burn out.
He moved quickly throughout the house, turning on every light, and all three TVs.
The electric bill was the least of his worries.
“So, Jenny tells me jury selection is going well,” said Buford, puffing small billows of Cuban cigar smoke into the phone with each syllable.
“Yes, I think so too.”
Kyle was speeding down FM-2208 in his new Lexus SC 430, headed toward Coreyville. He could barely make his lease payments, but he had to have that car. It screamed success— especially with the top down. His wavy head of hair would be easily restored to perfection with a few brush strokes.
“Well, you be sure to take her advice. She knows how to pick a jury.”
Buford figured some of Kyle’s attention would be focused on getting Jenny into bed, but he didn’t think it would jeopardize the case.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Bellowin, I will.”
At only 27, Kyle Serpentine had already developed a successful practice in Longview, defending every kind of crook. Some of them paid handsomely. He idolized Buford Bellowin. Buford had grown up in Coreyville and earned his Bachelor’s and Law degree at University of Texas, graduating near the top of his class.
Now he was a high-priced, infamous defense attorney headquartered in Dallas. Nicknamed ‘The Bell’, he had never lost a case. Even in law school, his mock trial team always won.
And Buford put on a show in the courtroom. So, the gallery was always packed with those who wanted to see The Bell in action. Occasionally, some hotshot would think he could outsmart him. But Buford was the teacher, and it was his classroom. Before the prosecutor knew what hit him, The Bell would ring, and school was out.
“The D.A. really thought she could get a jury out of that pool of forty, didn’t she? She thought this was gonna be a cakewalk. They don’t get many murder trials in Coreyville. That’s good for us. And she’ll make more mistakes. Mark my words.”
“I don’t know. She seems pretty sharp.”
“Just win this case for me and I promise I’ll remember you when I take residence in the Governor’s mansion in a few years.”
“I will do my best, Sir,” practically saluting.
“Now, Kyle, I’m sure you’re beginning to see there’s a lot of prejudice in that little town. The whites make up 72% of the population, and I’m afraid the old hatred and suspicion toward blacks is still right there under the surface. That boy on trial doesn’t stand much of a chance without a great defense. He would have been ‘dead in the water’ with a public defender. That’s why I asked you to take the case. You do your job, son, or he’s going down the toilet.”
“He will have an excellent defense, Sir. I’ve never lost a case,” said Kyle, with confidence.
“Call me when you’re done for the day.” Buford hung up, and was already dialing Jenny’s number before Kyle could respond.
“Hello?” Jenny Slidell answered in her low, mellow voice.
“Keep him in line, Jenny.”
“Good morning, Buford. Don’t worry. I’ll come through for you. As always.”
“Has he asked you why I’ve taken such an interest in this case?”
“No. I don’t think he wants to know what your motives are. Maybe he’s trying to maintain deniability in case something goes wrong.”
Sweet Jenny. She didn’t really know what Buford’s motives were either.
“Smart young man. He should go far in this business.” Buford laughed. “The most important thing is, we’ve got to have Greg Tenorly on that jury. I don’t care what you have to do, Jenny. Make it happen.”
“No problem.
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