Greg Tenorly Suspense Series Boxed Set

by Robert Burton Robinson

  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. We’ve used all of our peremptory strikes. And the D.A. has used all of hers. Greg Tenorly will be third in line today, so there’s no way we can miss. The D.A. will like him. And even if she doesn’t, there won’t be any legitimate reason to strike him for cause. Believe me, I’ve done my homework.”

  Jenny was smart and spunky and blonde and sexy. And almost always right. She was the best jury consultant Buford had ever used. Now if she would only succumb to his advances. He always had his way with the hot babes. It was just a matter of time before she would come around.

  “I’m counting on you, Jenny. Call me later.”

  Buford hung up and directed his attention across his massive mahogany desk to the skinny man sitting quietly in a chair. Marty Crumb must have been plagued with horrible acne as a teenager, because his face looked like oatmeal. His 53-year-old voice sounded like ninety years worth of smoking and hard liquor. Buford felt slimy just being in the same room with him.

  “Let’s make it quick,” said Buford. “Have you taken care of Cynthia Blockerman?”

  Marty started to talk, but instead coughed…and coughed. At least he was covering his mouth. Covering it with hands that had strangled, beat and executed untold numbers of innocent people. He sounded like he might cough up a lung. Then he cleared his throat. Buford prayed he wouldn’t spit on the carpet. Instead, Marty swallowed it, which was no better.

  “Mrs. Blockerman is being cooperative. Apparently, she loves her mother and wants her to go on living.”

  “Fine. But, that’s more than I wanted to know.”

  Marty flashed an evil smile, revealing decaying teeth.

  “Just make sure the jury does the right thing. If you want to stay out of prison.”

  Marty stood up and gave Buford a bone-chilling stare that lasted several long seconds. He didn’t have a gun or a knife. There were guards in the lobby. And metal detectors. But Marty didn’t need a gun or a knife. He could kill you seventeen different ways.

  Just when Buford thought he was about to soil himself, Marty slowly turned, and walked out of the office, leaving the door wide open.

  Buford leaned back in his chair, trying to regain his composure, and control over his bladder. He wished he didn’t have to deal with someone such as Marty. But his future had been threatened.

  Buford’s first job had been at Sam’s Bicycle Shop, and Sam had been like a father to him. But Sam knew what would happen if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It was unfortunate, but sometimes sacrifices must be made.

  Nobody would stand in the way of Buford Bellowin.

  5 - THE D.A.

  Angela Hammerly dedicated her life to becoming District Attorney. At 42, she had never been married, or even seriously dated. All she could think about, night and day, was her ultimate goal. And her dream finally came true, thanks to the death of 74-year-old Porter Strickley.

  She could not deny that she had learned the job well, working for that old pain-in-the-butt. He was 57 when she interviewed for the position of Assistant District Attorney. At the time, she thought he was 70.

  Two months ago, she had become the District Attorney. She loved seeing her name on the door. And she felt a rush of adrenaline every time a judge referred to her as ‘The District Attorney’ in open court. The D.A.’s office would be better than ever—now that she was running the show.

  There was a soft knock, and Andrea Newly opened the door just enough to peek in.

  “Come in, Andrea.” Angela sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake two weeks ago when she hired this timid young lady as her assistant. Angela had been impressed with her resume. But in person, Andrea was quiet, and seemed to be rather intimidated by Angela.

  But Andrea was enthralled with every word Angela spoke. And the new D.A. couldn’t resist the prospect of being god to her assistant. She had hired her on the spot, even though she knew Andrea would stress her patience.

  But Angela was confident the 25-year-old could be molded into her mentor’s image. And thereby, become a powerful force for justice in the D.A.’s office.

  Andrea took a chair across from the D.A. The furniture in the District Attorney’s office was similar to that found in most old government offices—largely unchanged since the 1950s. Yet the hardwood chairs and desks were of such good quality that an exact replacement would be cost prohibitive in today’s market. Angela planned to upsize her diminutive desk as soon as possible, even if the money came out of her own pocket.

  “I talked to a couple of old friends in Longview this morning,” said Angela. “One works in the D.A.’s office, and the other is an ambulance chaser. We went to law school together. Neither of them had any idea why Kyle Serpentine would take Kantrell Jamison’s case pro bono.

  “Usually when he does a freebee, he’s hoping to boost his reputation. I don’t see that happening with this case. Especially if he loses. And he will surely lose. So, what’s his motivation?” She was talking to herself more than to Andrea.

  “Maybe he just wants to help this poor black family. That’s what pro bono is supposed to be for. To help people who can’t afford an attorney.”

  “Oh, Andrea…you’re so naive. With a scummy lawyer like Serpentine, it’s always about helping himself.”

  The phone on her desk rang three times before Angela bothered to pick up.

  “Yes? …Hi, Sheriff…oh, really…” Angela’s cold face slowly melted into a smile—an evil smile. “Yes, Sheriff, that information may be very helpful to the case…thank you, good-bye.

  “Kantrell Jamison’s been talking to his cellmates, one of which is a regular snitch working for the Sheriff. It seems the defendant is expecting to come into a small fortune after he gets off. He has a cousin in Shreveport he plans to move in with. And once he’s there, he
will be buying a flashy new car. He’s not sure whether it will be a Cadillac or a Mercedes.”

  “Where would he get that kind of money?”

  “When we find out the answer to that question, Andrea, then I believe we will know why Mr. Serpentine took this case.”

  “Do you think somebody is paying the defendant to keep quiet about something? Maybe he stole more from Sam Spokane than what we thought. And hid it somewhere.”

  “Sam never kept much cash around, or anything else of value except his beloved bikes. No. My guess is Mr. Jamison was hired to kill Sam Spokane, and make it look like a robbery gone bad.”

  “Wow.”

  “Now it’s making sense. The person who wanted Sam dead has paid Kyle Serpentine, or scared him into trying this case. His life might even be at stake. No wonder he’s working so hard to get the jury he wants.”

  Maybe the new D.A.’s first murder trial was not going to be so boring after all, Angela mused, already salivating.

  **********

  Kyle Serpentine pulled into the courthouse parking lot, flipped down the sun visor, and brushed his hair in the mirror. As he admired his handsome reflection, he couldn’t help but smile, thinking about how much fun it was to go up against two fine-looking ladies in court. He would mesmerize them with his irresistible, sexy charm while dealing them a devastating loss.

  It was better than any drug—to simultaneously feel the power of his manliness while showing off his superior legal skills. Sure, Buford was counting on him to win this case. But, more important to Kyle Serpentine was adding another win to his ever-growing list of victories.

  Little did he know that there was much more at stake than just his ego.

  6 - JURY POOL

  Greg stopped by the courthouse concession stand for a cup of coffee, even though he had already downed four cups at Jane’s Diner across the street. The old man behind the counter reached for Greg’s dollar with a noticeably shaky hand that looked as though it had held more cigarettes and booze than money in its lifetime.

  He took his coffee and walked up the stairs to the second floor. There were about fifty people standing in the hallway outside the courtroom making small talk. He recognized a few of them, but was in no mood to start a conversation.

  Only four more jurors and two alternates were needed. With a little luck, he would soon be sent on his way. The coffee tasted bitter, but he continued to sip on it anyway, just to occupy himself.

  After a few minutes, a woman walked out of the courtroom and spoke to the crowd in monotone. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We are ready to get started. We did not get enough jurors yesterday for the criminal trial, so we are going to use part of today’s panel for that purpose. Those who are not selected for the criminal trial today must appear tomorrow at 8:00 AM for the civil trial jury selection.

  “First, I will call the names of the jurors that have already been selected. When I call your name, please go into the courtroom and take your seat in the pews where you sat yesterday. Please sit in the order in which your names are called.”

  “Alexander Littleton…Gail Silestone…” The crowd carefully analyzed each person as he walked through the group and into the courtroom. “Mary McJohnson…William Biscayne …Judy McPhearson…John Nihmbor…Nancy Novelle… and Troy Blockerman.”

  Greg nearly choked on his coffee. Troy Blockerman! That’s Cynthia’s husband. His blood pressure shot up like a bottle rocket, exploding into a headache.

  “And now I will call the names of a portion of today’s panel. Those whose names are not called will need to stay here in the courthouse since we might still need you today. I will let you know when you can go home. Again, please sit in the order in which your names are called. Elsie Olstead…Lory Lipscomb…Greg Tenorly…”

  Seventeen more names were called, but Greg didn’t hear any of them. His numb body didn’t feel the coldness or the hardness of the pew on which he sat. Nor did he notice the buzzing fluorescent light fixture located directly above his head.

  He could only think about Cynthia’s husband. Apparently, Troy didn’t yet know the name of his wife’s mystery man. But surely it was just a matter of time before Greg’s identity was revealed to the big, mean drunk who was sitting a few feet away.

  David Beachton had predicted it. The prosecutor and the defense attorney took their turns asking questions. Greg answered each question almost robotically. He would be selected. And there was nothing he or anyone else could do to stop it.

  He began to come out of his haze when he heard the judge thanking those who had not been selected. There would be a 15-minute break, and then the trial would begin. Greg needed to use that time to call students and cancel lessons.

  As he walked into the hallway, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and turned it on. It began to ring. It was an unknown caller. Probably a student canceling his lesson. Good. It would save him the trouble of calling them.

  “Hello? This is Greg.”

  “Greg, this is Cynthia Blockerman.”

  Greg quickly surveyed the hallway. He couldn’t find Troy Blockerman. Maybe he had gone to the restroom, or down to the concession stand.

  Greg whispered, “Cynthia, I got selected to serve on the jury for the murder trial. And your husband is on the jury too!”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Are you okay? How bad did he hurt you?”

  “Yes, I’m alright. Just a little bruised. Sorry about the call last night. I was really scared. But I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

  “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 do
n’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.

  7 - THE TRIAL BEGINS

  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.