“Mr. Jack,” the judge continued. “This is a respectable court of law, not a parlor. We are not interested in parlor tricks. However, I’m willing to allow you an explanation before I sustain the DA’s objection due to this being so extraordinarily unusual.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. I’m afraid I can’t give you a full explanation right now, but I assure you what I'm doing with this witness is fully relevant to my defense. If you would bear with me, I promise you will soon see where this is going.”
The judge let out a sigh. I could see the cogs and wheels turning in his mind as he debated with himself about what he should do with this odd set of circumstances.
“Okay,” the judge finally said. “The objection is overruled. Uh, the DA’s objection that is. You may continue, Mr. Jack. But you had best proceed carefully and get to your point quickly.”
“Yes, thank you, Your Honor.”
The DA shifted uneasily in his seat. He was obviously unhappy with the judge’s decision. He rested his chin in one hand and drummed the fingers of his other hand silently on the table.
Zeblon said, “Mr. Stephenson, you testified earlier that when you arrived at the professor’s house you were several minutes late for your appointment. You decided to walk around to the professor’s window to see if he was sitting in his office before you knocked on the front door. Do you stand by that testimony?”
“Of course, I stand by it. That’s what happened.”
“I see,” Zeblon said doubtfully.
“How did you get to the professor’s house that night?”
Conner looked a bit confused, “I drove.”
“You drove?”
Conner’s face took on an inquisitive look. He had no idea what Zeblon had in mind with those questions. He wasn’t alone. I had no idea either. I was more convinced than ever that Zeblon had decided his original plan of defense was flawed. It seemed clear to me he was grasping at straws.
“Yes, I drove,” Conner said.
“Where did you park? In the driveway?”
“Yes, I parked in the driveway.”
The DA couldn’t take it anymore, “Your Honor, Please. I must object.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Keep it on track, Mr. Jack.”
Zeblon walked a slow circle and cleared his throat, “You also testified that when you looked into the professor’s window you saw him sitting at his desk. You said the back of his desk chair was right near the window. That would put him no more than four feet or so away from where you were standing outside the window. Obviously, his back would have been to you. Remind us, what was the professor doing at his desk?”
Zeblon walked toward the evidence table just after asking the question.
“He was reading,” Conner said.
“A newspaper, a student’s file…what was he reading?”
“A book.”
“You’re certain it was a book?”
“Yes, I could see it plain as day. It was definitely a book.”
“What kind of book was he reading?” Zeblon asked.
Conner rubbed his chin, “Well, it was somewhat of a thick book, and I’m pretty sure it was a hardback, but I couldn’t tell what was written in it. He was definitely reading it though. I could see him turning the pages and everything.”
Zeblon said suddenly and forcefully, “What color was Professor Joelson’s mailbox?”
Conner looked confused. “I don’t kno—”
“Objection.”
“Sustained.”
I’m certain everyone in the courtroom was utterly confused about that question as well. I couldn’t say for sure, though, because I myself was too confused to notice.
Zeblon turned and faced the defense table to hide a smile from the judge. He put on his serious face and spun back around dramatically.
“Mr. Stephenson,” he said loudly in a deep, authoritative tone, “you have no doubt whatsoever that the professor was reading a book at his desk?”
“None at all. I’m one hundred percent certain of it.”
“Very well. You said you saw him turning pages in the book. Could you demonstrate that for us with the book you’re holding?”
The DA rose to object, but the judge stuck a hand out in his direction to prevent him from speaking. He seemed curious about where Zeblon was going with his line of questioning.
Conner looked unsure what to do. He looked down at the book he was holding. Then with his left hand he turned the page on the right side of the book over to the left. Then he repeated the process to simulate reading the book.
The judge paid close attention.
The DA sprang to his feet, “Your Honor, please. What is the point counsel wishes to make?”
Zeblon spoke up, “That’ll be enough, Mr. Stephenson. You’re absolutely certain that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you have just given us an accurate demonstration of how the professor was turning the pages?”
“Of course, I’m certain of it.”
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt?”
“Beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Conner said dramatically trying to match Zeblon's authoritative tone.
“Thank you,” Zeblon said. “That’s all Mr. Stephenson.”
Zeblon turned to the judge, “Your Honor, I would like to recall Professor Jim Schwarzman to the stand.”
Zeblon didn’t waste any time beginning his questioning of Professor Schwarzman.
“Professor Schwartzman, what is the primary subject you teach at the college?”
“I primarily teach ancient Hebrew. I’ve taught it there for decades.”
“Then I would assume you’re very knowledgeable about that particular language and can read it fluently?”
“Naturally,” the professor said cordially with a nod and a smile—and maybe just a hint of pride.
Zeblon handed him the copy of THE DEATH BOOK found on the floor next to Professor Joelson’s body.
“Professor, would you please turn to page thirty-eight of this book and read the last paragraph and then continue to the next page? Please translate it to us as you read it aloud.”
The professor looked up at the judge. The judge nodded his assent. The professor shrugged and began to read beginning where Zeblon had indicated. He finished the page and then turned the page to continue reading.
“Stop!” Zeblon exclaimed. Everyone in the room jumped. The professor cringed and looked up at Zeblon.
Zeblon said, “Could you do that again, please?”
“Read the paragraph again?” the professor asked.
“No, turn the page back and then turn it again as if you were reading.”
The professor did so.
Zeblon said, “Professor, are you sure you’re reading that book correctly? I noticed when you turned to the next page you didn’t flip the page on your right over to the left. Instead, you flipped the page on your left over to the right.”
The professor smiled knowingly, “Yes, young man. You see, the Hebrew language is written down opposite from the way we write our modern English. It’s written in reverse.”
Zeblon switched into dramatic mode again, “You mean to tell me that when someone reads a book written in Hebrew he would not begin at the place us English-speaking people recognize as the front of the book? He would begin at the place we would recognize as the back of the book and flip through the pages in the opposite direction than we would flip them when reading a book written in English?”
The professor smiled. “Yes, that’s exactly right.”
The judge looked as if a light bulb had just gone off in his head. The DA shifted nervously in his seat and buried his face in his hands.
Zeblon wasn’t content. He decided to drive his point home with a show of flare. In his resonant booming voice, he said, “Your Honor, Conner Stephenson affirmed he was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Professor Joelson turned the pages of his book from right to left just as one would do when reading a book written in English. However, we know for certain that P
rofessor Joelson was holding the very book Professor Schwartzman just read from when he was shot. A book written in ancient Hebrew. Professor Joelson would not have turned the pages from right to left as Mr. Stephenson testified. He would have turned the pages from left to right.
“I affirm to you that Conner Stephenson did not witness the murder of Professor Jessie Joelson. I have thoroughly discredited his testimony in this hearing. Furthermore, without Conner Stephenson’s testimony, the DA doesn’t have one shred of evidence that would place the defendant, Mr. Clay Brown, at the scene of the crime. The locker room at the football field stays wide open. I submit to you that anyone could have entered it unnoticed and planted that gun in the defendant’s locker. According to Officer Gray’s testimony earlier, there were no fingerprints found on the gun. It had been wiped clean. District Attorney Pruitt has nothing to offer that could definitively connect Clay Brown to that gun.”
When he finished speaking, Zeblon stood there as if he was posing for a picture on the front of an important executive magazine—proud as a peacock.
The judge had a look of utter shock on his face. He sat silent for a few moments. Every person in the courtroom had their eyes glued on him. Silence hung thick in the air. He dispelled the silence when he brought his gavel down on its block and declared in his most authoritative voice, “Case dismissed. Mr. Brown, you are free to go with the apologies of this court.”
Fifteen
ZEBLON AND I WERE lounging in the living room of our apartment later that evening. We weren’t watching TV because there was no TV in the place to watch. Zeblon hated television, and that suited me just fine. Instead, classical music was playing in the background at a very low and comfortable level.
I said, “I’m curious.”
“Curious about what?”
“For one, I’m curious about who murdered Professor Joelson.”
“Oh, that’s right. You couldn’t have known who it was. I failed to give you all the information you needed.”
“What information do I lack?”
“Do you remember the motive the DA suggested as to why he believed Clay Brown might have murdered the professor?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was because the professor reported him to the dean of students for getting into a scuffle in the hallway. As punishment, Clay had to sit on the bench during the next football game. That was devastating to him because a scout was supposed to attend the game that night. Clay hoped the pros would consider recruiting him.”
“Exactly,” Zeblon said without further comment.
I expected him to explain more, but he didn’t.
“I suppose the motive was no good after all.” I prompted.
“You would be wrong, my friend. The motive was right on target. It was the reason Professor Joelson lost his life.”
I cocked my head to one side, “Now, I’m really confused. You’re telling me it was Clay who murdered the professor after all?”
“No, no. Of course not. What I meant was the DA had the right motive, but he had the wrong person.”
“The wrong person?” I asked.
“Yes. After all, Clay wasn’t scuffling with himself in that hallway. He was scuffling with someone else.”
“Okay, I give up. Just tell me who the murderer was.”
“Clifford Keith,” Zeblon said dramatically.
I was surprised, and then I wasn’t. “Clifford Keith. Of course. I’ll bet he had high hopes of getting discovered by that scout too. He’s one of the best wide receivers in college football.”
“And,” Zeblon added, “his best friend was the DA’s star witness.”
“You don’t think Conner witnessed the murder at all?” I said.
“Don’t think? Weren’t you paying attention in court this morning? I know he didn’t witness the murder. I proved he wasn’t there. In fact, he’s never even been to the professor’s house. Otherwise, I’m certain he would have been able to tell me what color the professor’s mailbox was.”
Zeblon’s lighter-colored eye got two shades lighter. He said, “How about you? Can you tell me what color the professor’s mailbox was?”
It suddenly dawned on me why Zeblon had asked that seemingly offbeat question in court.
I said, “Of course, it was a bright metallic yellow. How could anybody miss that? It was three sizes bigger than the average mailbox, and the professor had a special pole with a bright fluorescent light beaming down on it. I’ll bet you could see that thing a mile away. I noticed it, and we didn’t even approach his house from the main street. We came in from the woods to the side of the house. So, that’s why you snuck that question in about the mailbox? You clever devil.”
“It’s also why I asked him about where he parked. If he drove to the Professor’s house and parked in his driveway like he said he did, there’s no way he could have missed seeing that mailbox. And if he had seen it, he most certainly would not have forgotten what it looked like.”
“Without a doubt,” I confirmed.
Zeblon pressed the tips of his fingers together, looked up toward the ceiling, and began to speak as if he were narrating a book, “Clay Brown and Clifford Keith were caught by the two professors scuffling in the hallway. Whether they were scuffling or just playing around is irrelevant as is the reason they were scuffling if it was a legitimate scuffle. Because of his scruples, Professor Joelson insisted on reporting them to the dean. That decision cost him his life. Clay was the only one who begged the professor not to turn them in. But Clifford was angry about the matter too.
“Later on, Clifford allowed his anger to get the best of him. He drove out to confront the professor. He took his gun with him. One thing led to another, and he ended up shooting and killing Professor Joelson.
“Not knowing what to do, he took his best friend into his confidence—”
“Conner Stephenson.” I inserted.
“Conner Stephenson. Clifford described the professor’s house and office to Conner the best he could. He also told Conner that the professor was reading a book when he entered the office. I’m sure he thought he was clever when he remembered specifically that it was a hardback book thinking that particular detail would add weight to his friend’s false testimony.
“Since he played football, Clifford had easy access to the locker room and Clay’s locker. He planted the gun with no trouble at all. The rest, as they say, is history.”
“It’s ironic isn’t it?” I said.
Zeblon looked baffled, “Ironic?”
“Yes, ironic. You proved that Conner couldn’t have been there to witness the murder because he insisted the professor was reading his book just like anyone would read a book written in English. If Clifford had taken one of the professor’s Hebrew classes, he wouldn’t have made that mistake, and he might be free right now with Clay poised to pay the penalty for the murder.”
Zeblon looked at me again. A perplexing gaze seized his face, and I loved it.
He said, “That’s right. So, where’s the irony?”
“The irony,” I said, “is that if Clifford had taken Hebrew, it would have served a very practical purpose for him in life. It would have prevented him from being pegged as the murderer.”
Zeblon looked at me knowingly. He got up from his chair and walked to his bedroom to retire. He shot back over his shoulder, “Yes, Samuel Hickson. We’re going to get along just fine.”
-The End
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