Bicycle Shop Murder - Robert Burton Robinson (good beach reads .txt) 📗
- Author: Robert Burton Robinson
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Book online «Bicycle Shop Murder - Robert Burton Robinson (good beach reads .txt) 📗». Author Robert Burton Robinson
“No, no, that’s okay. But you never called me back, and I was worried. And then he called me.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“I hope you didn’t give him my name.”
“No. And don’t worry. He won’t even remember what happened last night. He never remembers anything from when he’s drunk.”
“Good.” Greg looked around to reassure himself that nobody was listening.
“But, Greg, since you’re on the jury I need to tell you something Troy said last night—”
“—wait. I can’t talk about the case.”
“This is not about the case. It’s about Troy. Last night, while he was still sober, he was saying things like,_ that black boy ought to be hung. The electric chair ain’t good enough for that scum_. I don’t know whether the man is guilty or not, but I don’t see how he can get a fair trial when a juror has already made up his mind before the trial even starts.”
Greg felt it welling up in his chest—righteous indignation.
“Don’t worry. This will be a fair trial. I will make sure of that.”
He looked up and saw Troy Blockerman standing right in front of him, and quickly ended the call, “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Hey, ain’t you that piano teacher?”
It was a simple question. But would the answer lead to a bloody nose?
“Yes, I teach piano, voice, guitar, and music theory.”
“Yeah, I thought so. My sister’s kid takes piano from you.”
“I don’t recall meeting you.” Surely Greg would have remembered this guy. He looked like an offensive tackle.
“No, I didn’t meet you. I just saw you standing in the doorway when I dropped her off.”
Troy leaned in close and Greg flinched.
“This trial should be over by the end of the day. This guy is toast.”
*
Jenny had completed her job and was headed back to Dallas. She turned off the blaring CD player, and made a phone call.
“Mission accomplished, Buford.”
She had once asked him why his parents named him ‘Buford’—not a popular name in 1969 when he was born. And why he didn’t use a nickname instead. He had told her it was his grandfather’s name. And people remembered the name because it was unusual. He liked that.
“So, we got Troy Blockerman and Greg Tenorly?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Okay. Great job, Jenny.”
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking—why was it so important to get those two men on the jury? I can understand why the defense would want Greg Tenorly. But why Troy Blockerman? He’s a redneck who’s obviously going to vote ‘Guilty.’”
“I don’t mind you asking, Dear. But, if you want an answer, you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”
Jenny wasn’t sure her curiosity was that strong.
The defendant, Kantrell Jamison, looked more like a young business professional than a murderer, dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and tie. His attorney, Kyle Serpentine, sat next to him. Behind them was Kantrell’s mother, Ella, and his 15-year-old sister, Jolee.
Angela Hammerly loved nothing more than hearing her own eloquent verbalizations. She spoke each sentence at the perfect tempo, each word with the ideal inflection. Everything she said or did in the courtroom, right down to a subtle raise of the eyebrow was rehearsed, repeatedly, until she had mastered a presentation that would produce the maximum dramatic impact.
“The State will prove beyond all reasonable doubt that the defendant entered Sam’s Bicycle Shop on the evening of April 1, 2006 with the intention of robbing the store. But once he got inside, something happened that caused him to become violent.
“Maybe Mr. Spokane tried to talk him out of the criminal act he was about to commit. Perhaps this made the defendant angry. Maybe there was an argument. We don’t know.
“However, what we do know is this: instead of just robbing Mr. Spokane, Kantrell Jamison brutally murdered him in cold blood. The evidence will show that the defendant strangled Sam Spokane to death with a bicycle chain and then cleaned out the cash register and Mr. Spokane’s wallet.”
If the D.A. could prove what she was saying, Greg Tenorly might be done by the end of the day. Then he could get back to teaching lessons, and making a living.
Kyle Serpentine could present himself as a polished speaker—a male version of Angela Hammerly. Or he could play the dumb lawyer who turns out to be brilliant. But in this small town, with this jury, he determined that ‘country boy lawyer’ would be most effective.
“You know, I’m just a country boy, and maybe I’m missing something here. But, I don’t know what this evidence is that the D.A. is talking about. She seems like a nice lady. And I know she’s just trying to do her job. But what she said about my client is just all wrong.
“And I can promise you this: you will not see the prosecutor presenting any physical evidence against my client. No fingerprints. No DNA. Nothing. And that’s because there ain’t none, folks. None whatsoever.
“And there are no credible witnesses. Unless you count the woman who was driving by, and saw some black man leaving the shop on a bike. A woman whose eyesight is so poor she probably shouldn’t even have a doggone driver’s license.”
“I object, Your Honor,” said Angela Hammerly.
“Objection sustained,” said Judge Ragsdale. “Mr. Serpentine—”
“—I apologize, Your Honor.”
Kyle went on. “Now, we all feel terrible about what happened to Mr. Spokane.” He glanced at Dorothy Spokane, who was sitting in her wheelchair at the back of the courtroom.
“I didn’t know him, but I understand that he was a wonderful man who was well-loved by his community. He sold bicycles, sure. So does Wal-Mart. But he also fixed bikes. And a lot of times he’d fix kids’ bikes for free while they waited.
“And the kids were crazy about him. They liked to hang around the shop with him. And over the years, quite a few of those kids worked for him when they were teenagers. He was a very special man, and will be sorely missed.”
He paused and seemed to be mourning Sam’s death.
“We all want to catch whoever did this horrible thing and prosecute them to the full extent of the law. But ladies and gentlemen, my client, Mr. Jamison, did not commit this despicable act.
“He was at home with his mother,” he pointed to Ella Jamison, “when the crime took place. Now, where I come from it’s plain and simple. Kyle Jamison is innocent of these charges. So, you’ve got to find him ‘Not Guilty.’”
The first witness for the prosecution was 83-year-old Arabeth Albertson. She walked to the witness stand with the aid of a cane. Considering how frail she looked, a wheelchair might have been more appropriate.
“Mrs. Albertson, we appreciate you being here today,” said Angela Hammerly in a gentle tone.
“Could you please tell us what you saw on the evening of April 1st as you were driving by Sam’s Bicycle Shop?”
“Yes, ma’am. I was on my way home from prayer group meeting. It was a little after 8:00. And when I was driving by Sam’s shop, I saw a black man run out the door, jump on a bicycle, and ride off. He looked like he was in a big hurry to get away from there.”
“The man you saw running out of Sam’s Bicycle Shop—is he here in the courtroom today?
“Yes. He’s sitting right over there.” Mrs. Albertson pointed directly at Kantrell Jamison. Kantrell’s mother recoiled slightly, and then contorted her face in anger.
After Angela Hammerly sat down, Kyle Serpentine slowly, thoughtfully stood up, and walked over to the witness stand.
“Now, Mrs. Albertson, you say you were coming home from your prayer group meeting?”
“That’s right,” she said with pride, “every Saturday night, from 5:00 to 8:00. We have a lovely dinner at Nancy’s house. Each lady brings a vegetable or salad or desert. Nancy provides the main course. Then we have prayer time, and then fellow ship.”
“That’s sounds wonderful.”
Kyle Serpentine acted as though she was the sweet grandmother, and he was the curious grandson. “How many years have you been attending this prayer group meeting?”
“Oh, I don’t know
probably 12 or 13 years I guess.”
“I bet you never miss it.”
“Hardly ever. Not unless I’m sick.”
“Do you go out any other nights of the week? You know—to restaurants or to the movies?”
Mrs. Albertson smiled. “No. Just for my prayer group.”
“Yes, I can understand that. ‘Cause it’s kinda hard to see at night, isn’t it?”
“Well—”
“—how many years has it been since your last eye exam, Mrs. Albertson?”
“Uh
I’m not sure
“
Angela Hammerly jumped to her feet. “Your Honor?”
“—your Honor, the defense would like to request that Mrs. Albertson be given an eye exam.”
“That seems reasonable, Mrs. Hammerly,” said Judge Ragsdale. “Let’s get Mrs. Albertson to the eye doctor this afternoon. We will adjourn until tomorrow at 9:00 AM”
Angela Hammerly did not think it was reasonable. But she knew better than to argue with Judge Rayburn Ragsdale.
It was only 11:30 AM, and the jury was done for the day. What would Greg do with a free afternoon? Free of money—since he had already cancelled all of his lessons. Maybe he’d drop by First State Bank, and visit a certain vice president. That could lead to banker gossip, though. Greg wondered whether banker gossip was as bad as church member gossip. He decided he didn’t care.
He could not get Cynthia Blockerman off his mind.
Greg ordered a turkey sandwich at Jane’s Diner and tried his best to block out all the conversation of the lunch crowd. Surely they knew Greg was on the jury. And they knew he was not supposed to be listening to anything about the trial. But they didn’t seem to care.
It was not so difficult to ignore them, as he thought about Cynthia. When he finished his lunch, he should have gone to his office, and taken care of some overdue bookkeeping.
Instead, he headed toward First State Bank.
Greg was on some kind of high as he walked toward the bank. It couldn’t be love. He barely knew her. Besides—she was married. But it can be intoxicating, to know you’re about to do something crazy, yet be determined to do it anyway.
As he entered the bank, he thought the guard looked at him with suspicion. He didn’t have an account at First State Bank and didn’t intend to open one. He tried to look like he knew what he was doing, and where he was going. That way, nobody would ask the dreaded question, ‘May I help you?’
He found a hallway of offices, and walked down it looking confident, he hoped. He checked the name on each door out of the corner of his eye. Where was her office? It had to be there. Unless he was in the wrong bank.
One of the bankers was standing in his doorway, saying goodbye to a client. Greg ignored them, and kept walking. There was one more office. If it wasn’t Cynthia’s, he would have to turn around. Then he might be asked the question for which he had no answer.
But there it was: Cynthia Blockerman, Vice President. The door was open. He peeked into her office.
“Hi, Cynthia. I need to talk to you.”
She seemed less than thrilled to see him. He knew she had been concerned about co-workers learning of the abuse. But, they would not have to know why Greg was there. He stepped in, and started to
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