Cooper By The Gross (All 144 Cooper Stories In One Volume)

by Bill Bernico

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “I forgot.”

  The ambulance attendants secured the gurney in the back of their vehicle and then returned to where I stood on the sidewalk. “All right, sir,” one of them told me. “You’re next. Come with us. You have to have that wound taken care of.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Gloria said and wouldn’t listen to any arguments from either attendant. The two of us stepped up into the back of the ambulance. The doors closed and we sped off toward the hospital. I was out of there in two hours. I had my wound cleaned up and closed with twenty-three stitches. My left arm hung in a sling but at least I was able to walk out of the hospital under my own power. That was more than I could say for that poor woman who took the direct hit from that rifle.

  Lieutenant Anderson caught up with me as I was leaving the hospital. He stopped me at the front door and shifted his gaze to my shoulder. “How’s the wing, kid?”

  I patted it lightly with my right hand. “I won’t be doing any pushups for the next couple of months, but it looks like I’ll live.”

  Eric directed me and Gloria back inside and the three of us took seats in the waiting area. He turned to Gloria. “That was some mighty fast thinking,” he told her. “You probably saved a few lives on the street with that one shot.”

  “Thanks,” she told Eric. “I guess I was just in the right place at the right time, but that poor woman on the sidewalk. Talk about the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Not exactly,” Eric said.

  “But if not her, it would have been some other poor schmuck,” I said.

  “I don’t think so,” Eric explained. “She was the target. Everyone thought the shooter was trying to hit the congressman.”

  “Wasn’t he?” Gloria said.

  “No,” Eric said. “Congressman Johnson was just a good excuse for the shooter.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Let me fill you in,” Eric said. “The victim’s name was Donna Price. She and her husband, Tim were in the middle of a nasty divorce and she was going to take him to the cleaners.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” Gloria said.

  “Hold on,” Eric explained. “Let me finish. The husband was not about to stand by and let his ex-wife clean him out.”

  “So he hired the shooter,” I said.

  Eric shook his head. “He was the shooter. Everyone was suppose to think that the woman was just collateral damage from a botched assassination attempt on the congressman. No, he hit what he was aiming at.” Eric gestured at my shoulder. “It looks like you were the collateral damage, Elliott. You were just standing too close to Donna Price at the wrong time.”

  “What do they say about fate being the hunter?” I said.

  “Life can turn on a dime,” Gloria added. “I guess we have to make the most of it while we’re here.” Her face went blank and she stared off into space.

  “What is it, Gloria?” I said.

  Gloria blinked and turned toward me. “I think that’s what Dad was trying to tell me with that stupid story about the guy who went over Niagara Falls in the barrel.”

  “What’s all this about a barrel?” Eric said.

  Gloria relayed her father’s story about Bobby Leach and his successful trip over the falls only to die from slipping on an orange peel years later. “Poor Bobby couldn’t have known that his end would come from slipping on that orange peel. I guess he should have made the most of his life while he had the chance and that’s what Dad wanted me to figure out for myself.”

  “He probably could have picked a better example,” Eric told her.

  “I suppose,” Gloria said. “But at least this won’t be a lose end hanging over me anymore.”

  The three of us left the hospital and exited to the parking lot. Eric started to walk toward his patrol car while Gloria and I turned and walked in the other direction. It took us only a second to realize that we didn’t come here in our own car. We stopped and turned back to Eric, who was already standing with the back door to his cruiser open. “Can I give you folks a lift?” he said.

  When we got home Matt was waiting in the living room with Olivia and our six-year-old German Shepherd, Stretch. Olivia came running when she saw us come through the kitchen door. She stopped short when she saw my arm hanging in the sling.

  “Dad,” she said, “What happened to your arm?”

  By now Matt had come into the kitchen and I could tell by the look on his face that he was shook up.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” I explained. “Just a couple of stitches. I’ll be good as new in no time at all.” I laid my right hand on Matt’s shoulder. “Could we hold off a couple of days before you show me the apartment you wanted?”

  “No problem, Dad,” Matt said. “They gave me a week to decide. We can go look at it some other time. You just take care of that arm.”

  “Thanks, Matt,” I said. “I promise I’ll go with you to see it in a couple of days, okay?”

  “How about Monday night?” Matt said. “I’ll be starting my new job Monday morning but I’ll be home by five-thirty. Does that work for you?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You’ll be in uniform Monday, won’t you?”

  Matt just smiled, obviously proud of the uniform he’d be wearing.

  Matt,” I said, reaching into my pocket and withdrawing a small scrap of paper. I found a pen in my shirt pocket and scribbled something down on the paper and handed it to Matt.

  Matt took it, looked at it and then looked at me. “What’s this?” he said.

  “My license plate number,” I explained. “Keep this on you so you’ll know enough not to ticket my car if the meter runs out.”

  Matt looked at me out of the corner of his eye and sighed. “I can’t ignore an obvious violation,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a handful of nickels. “But there’s no law says I can’t put a nickel in a meter if I want to.”

  I turned to Gloria. “See, we’re getting perks with Matt’s new job already.

  Gloria looked at the handful of nickels and then at Matt. She threw her head back and laughed. “Now all we have to do is get Olivia a job at a movie theater and our entertainment needs will also be met.”

  “Why settle for a free movie?” Olivia said. “Get me trained in safe cracking and we can really live it up.”

  I had to stifle that laugh. Sure, it was funny, but Olivia didn’t need to know that.

  120 - The Marks Brothers

  Jose stood back to study his handiwork. His brother, Jorge put the finishing touches on his part of the creation and joined Jose to get a better perspective of the art they had just created. “This is one of our best,” Jose said. “Too bad we can’t sell this in some art museum.

  “How are you going to sell our work anywhere?” Jorge said. “In the first place, we don’t own the canvas. In the second place, even if we could sell it to someone, how would they get it home? And in the third place, what we’re doing isn’t exactly legal, you know what I mean?”

  “But it’s still art,” Jose said. Even though the establishment would call it graffiti.”

  Just then Jorge slapped Jose on his arm. “Let’s get out of here,” he yelled as he started to run for the end of the alley with Jose hot on his heels. In pursuit of the two brothers were two foot patrolmen, their whistles blowing and their night sticks waving overhead. The two teenagers were able to easily outpace the overweight, out of shape cops and in less than a minute they were out of sight, leaving the middle aged policemen panting for breath.

  “Gees, those kids can run,” the first cop, Officer Nunley said, his hands on his knees.

  The second cop, a man named Brent, held his hand over his heart, hoping it wouldn’t explode. “You recognize either of ‘em?”

  Nunley shook his head. “Couldn’t get a good look at either one. Come on, maybe we’ll recognize something in their work that’ll give ‘em away.” He and Brent took a moment to catch their breat
hs and then walked back to the east wall of Troller’s Hardware Store. The two cops stood back, taking in the entire work of art. Nunley bent over and took a closer look at the bottom right corner of the creation. He noticed three letters, TMB, in black paint. He stood erect again and turned to Brent. “It’s them again. Look.”

  “TMB?” Brent said.

  “The Marks Brothers,” Nunley explained. “They made so many marks on so many buildings that people just started calling them that. They must have liked the label and kept it, even signing their work with the three initials.”

  “But does anyone know their real names or where they live?” Brent asked.

  “They’re mysterious. They come and go without interacting with anyone. Almost like the Lone Ranger and his faithful Indian companion.”

  *****

  When I came home from the office on Friday, Gloria was waiting for me, a drink in her hand. It was for me. I took the glass from her, took several large gulps and wiped my upper lip. “Boy, I needed that,” I said, setting the glass of chocolate milk on the kitchen counter. “But what’s up, Gloria? You don’t usually meet me at the door with a drink.

  She handed me the business-sized envelope and waited for some sort of response. “Well, aren’t you going to open it?” she said impatiently. “It’s from city hall.”

  I set the envelope down next to my chocolate milk and said, “Maybe later. What’s for supper?”

  Gloria slapped my arm. “Open it now,” she insisted. “My curiosity has been burning all day. Come on, Elliott, open it.”

  I gave my wife a half-smile and picked up the envelope again. I slowly peeled part of the flap away and then stopped, holding the envelope up to the light. “I wonder what could be in there,” I said, examining the envelope front and back and holding it up to the light again. I continued peeling the back flap slower than before.

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Gloria yanked the envelope out of my hands and ripped it open, pulling the letter out and unfolding it before handing it to me. “What’s it say?”

  I read the contents to myself, mumbling an occasional word here and there, ending with, “Hmmmpf, imagine that.”

  Gloria ripped the letter from my hands and read it. A few seconds later she rolled her eyes. “Is that all? You’ve been called for jury duty. Here I thought it was something important.” She threw the letter on the kitchen counter. “What would you like for supper?”

  I picked up the letter again and looked at the trial date. It was exactly three weeks from yesterday. That would put the trial at the third week in July. “Oh no,” I said, realizing that I’d already made reservations for Gloria and me at Big Bear Lake. Our deposits were non-refundable and we were locked in for that week.

  “What is it, Elliott?” Gloria said.

  “This trial starts the same week as our vacation,” I explained. “There’s no way I can do both.”

  Gloria took the letter from me and reread it. “What are you going to do? If they pick you, you have to serve.”

  I thought for a moment and then said, “I’ll just have to make sure they don’t pick me, that’s all.”

  “And how can you be sure they won’t pick you?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “By the time I’m through with the weeding out process, neither side will want me as a juror.”

  “Elliott,” Gloria said, gesturing with her chin toward the living room.

  I turned and saw my fourteen-year-old daughter, Olivia giving me a strange look. Gloria and I exchanged glances before I turned back to Olivia. “Hello,” I said, forcing a smile. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to be ashamed of you, Dad,” she said. “It’s your civic duty to report, and if they choose you, your vote could either free someone or send them to prison. Doesn’t that kind of responsibility mean anything to you?”

  I crooked a finger at her. “Come here, Olivia,” I said, trying to soften my voice. “Let me explain another subject you may study someday—economics. Like I was telling your mother just now, I gave the manager at Big Bear Lake a nine hundred dollar deposit on a cabin—a non-refundable deposit. If I have to serve on a jury, I’ll lose the entire nine hundred dollars and your mother and I won’t get to go on the vacation we’ve been planning for three months.”

  Olivia sighed. “Come on Dad, there’s more to this than you’re letting on. What is it?”

  “Sit down,” I said, gesturing toward one of the kitchen chairs. “I understand how important it is to sit on a jury, believe me. And if I didn’t already have this vacation planned, I’d be thrilled to do my civic duty, but you see how it is, don’t you?”

  “Sure, Dad,” Olivia said. “You’re trying to squirm out of it.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Normally I’d be more than happy to debate this with you, but for now, just let it go. I have to try to get out of jury duty this time, but I promise you that the very next time I’m called, I’ll go without complaining. Okay?”

  “Okay, Dad,” Olivia said, rising from her chair and returning to the living room.

  I turned back to Gloria. Now she was giving me a strange look. “Not you, too,” I said.

  Gloria held both palms up toward me. “You’ll get no complaint from me. I want, no, I need this vacation just as much as you do.”

  “Thank you,” I said and finished the rest of my chocolate milk.

  I couldn’t enjoy what was left of my weekend, what with this summons hanging over my head. By the time Monday morning rolled around I was feeling so low that I had to reach up to touch bottom. Gloria would go in to the office and keep an eye on the business while I drove downtown to report for the jury selection process. I’d never served on a jury before and had no idea how the process worked. All I knew was that they had to pick twelve jurors and a handful or alternates. How long could that take? I figured I could be out of there in an hour, two tops. Boy, was I wrong.

  I was reminded just how diverse Los Angeles is. Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Scandinavian, black, white and Hispanic were represented. Names like Lupinsky, Chin, Hernandez, Swanson and Washington were on the list. The people who showed up for the selection process ranged from young white college text-readers to obviously retired men and women. Books outnumbered smart phones as time-killing devices. Steven King was present in hardback.

  We were ordered to arrive at eight o’clock that Monday morning for the aggravated robbery jury selection. They neglected to mention the long lines of people who first had to pass through the metal detectors. I expected to see maybe thirty people showing up to do their duty. There had to be at least three hundred of us sitting in a large room, but no stadium seating for the thank-you-for-your-service video which started at eight-thirty. Then they started calling out our names. There were no audible groans, but I did hear some sibilant “ssshittt” sounds. Two groups of sixty people were given placards with numbers. I was Juror number thirteen. That was Wilt Chamberlain’s number, too, but he wasn’t there.

  Ol’ number thirteen and the other fifty-nine of us were marched single-file to the escalators which took us to the third-floor courtroom. We sat in our numerical order. We were told to hold up our signs whenever we spoke, for the live-action, as well as the video-replay.

  The judge spoke to us first. He was bald with crown of white hair circling the back of his head. He looked like he could have been picked right out of central casting. He explained some points of the procedure and told us what we could do, what we couldn’t do and what we must do. I think he was using a teleprompter. You’d think that someone like this who had to narrate instructions like these as often as he must have, would have memorized them by now.

  Realistically, I don’t think anyone wanted to be chosen. As the day wore on, the excuse-flimsiness ratio increased. It started with the physician who had a full schedule of patients to see. He managed to convince the judge that too many people would suffer if he wasn’t there to treat them. He was excused. The Hispanic and Chinese prospects suggested
that they were unable to fully understand the proceedings. Then there were the people who had been victims of crimes or were related to victims, or who were criminals themselves at some point during their lives. All of the people in this group could not conceive that they could fairly decide the guilt of the man accused of robbery involving violence. Several more of them were excused and the crowd was slowly dwindling.

  Now the prosecutor spoke. About this time, I decided to stop resenting my presence, and start paying attention. This guy was Jeff Foxworthy in a suit, all accent and southern charm. He was also condescending. This diverse crowd must require an “are you as smart as a fifth-grader?” approach. His associate was a young woman who had the tightest face I have ever seen. I thought she was trying to pop her eyeballs out of their sockets and across the room at us. She maintained a smile which looked like it took considerable effort. She never spoke aloud; only in whispered consults with Jeff.

  I actually thought I’d be on my way back to the office by ten or ten-thirty. But here it was creeping up on high noon. We were given a sixty minute lunch break and most of us used that time to visit the cafeteria in the lower level. After the lunch break, we heard from the attorney for the defense. He was a nice looking guy, and I had high hopes for him. Sadly he came across more like Andy Taylor of Mayberry, minus the charm and folksy wisdom. I got the impression that he wasn’t on anyone’s short list of lawyers to call in a pinch. I also guess that he didn’t get to charge very much for his services.

  Both attorneys asked us questions in the area of “can you consider?” a punishment of ninety-nine years or life for this crime, or as mild as probation? There were dozens who said ‘no way’ to probation for aggravated robbery.

  They sent us out to the hallway for an indefinite time. Jurors were recalled individually, perhaps twenty of them. ”Sssshittt” was again heard and echoed in the hallways. When we were all recalled, we were asked to sit in our original seats. They started to name the jury members. Now, I got the impression that these lawyers were as lazy as anyone else, and they took the first twelve people that they could stomach. That’s why seven of the twelve taken were sitting in the front row, which had been randomly assigned. There were sixteen people in the first row and seven of those were selected to serve on the jury, including the young men to my immediate left and right. Neither one said “Shit.”