However, while Wiki had become accustomed to all that, he never got used to the idea that his folks had betrayed him to the crimps—the men who kidnapped sailors and sold them to the captains. Ever since his father had delivered him over to the mercies of his legal, childless, and extremely mortified wife, and then blithely sailed away, Wiki had been determined to work his way back to the Bay of Islands. His stepmother, who had been just as anxious to get rid of him as he had been to leave, had shipped him on her brother's whaleship Paths of Duty, and Wiki had stuck with the scruffy old tub just because the captain had plans to drop anchor in the Bay of Islands. Now, he refused to believe that after all his trouble his people didn't want him. So he was determined to stay with Kemble's brig and sail back to the bay so he could sort it out with his mother and his whole brood of uncles, aunts, half brothers, half sisters, and cousins and find out what had gone wrong.
Captain Kemble was happy about the idea of keeping him on for the return voyage because Wiki Coffin had turned out to be an excellent seaman who'd been taught well, even though by a set of rough Yankee whalemen. He also planned a quick turnaround, as he'd already organized a return freight. He was, however, fated to be foiled. No sooner had the brig dropped anchor off Fort Macquarie, than a constable came in a boat to hand him a subpoena for jury service in a murder trial, starting the very next day, which threw quite a hitch into the works.
This meant that the brig had to hang around in port until the captain was freed from his jury duties, which was a nuisance for Wiki, too, being so anxious to get back to the bay. He really didn't mind the delay, however, because it gave him a chance to look around and get acquainted with Sydney. He liked the enormous estuary and the brilliant colors of the scene—green growth, reddish stone, white beaches, glittering blue water. The grand convict-built buildings were surprisingly impressive, too, as was the elegance of Government House, complete with sentries and a sweeping lawn dotted with great trees. He was surprised, though, that the trial was expected to last more than a day. Sydney was definitely a penal settlement, with convicts in chain gangs trudging through the streets, and a convict colony was the very last place he would have expected a formal trial by jury to be staged. Instead, Wiki pictured quick decisions by harsh magistrates, followed by hasty hangings.
But it was not like that at all. The British custom of trial by jury was well established here, he learned, despite the definite difficulties. As Captain Kemble grumbled, respectable gentlemen who were not ex-felons, and therefore eligible for jury service, were so scarce in these parts that he'd been called up often, and he had no way of getting out of the summons now. Not only that, but it was a sensational business, with a crowd of spectators guaranteed, partly because the victim—a sharp moneylender by the name of Perkins—was generally hated, and the accused—Jim Stone, a young fellow who'd recently worked out his sentence and now had a small cutter with which he went fishing and eeling to support his growing family— was generally liked.
The time taken up by the evidence was very short. A policeman reported that on Saturday, July 14, in this year of the Lord 1831, the drowned body of the moneylender had been found facedown in the marsh at Grasscutter's Bay. And it had been a nasty sight, too, as he went on to complain, on account of the corpse had been trampled into the mud by his killer. Then a reasonably respectable tavernkeeper stepped up to say he'd seen Jim Stone and the moneylender quarreling outside the door of his establishment on Friday afternoon, late. An itinerant tinker then testified he'd seen Jim Stone crossing the fields from the direction of the marsh at eleven that same Friday night. He'd had a great wicker basket on his back, bruises on his face, and his clothes were all wet and smeared with mud.
When crossexamined, Jim Stone openly admitted he'd quarreled with Perkins. The moneylender had unexpectedly raised the interest on the money he'd loaned for the purchase of the cutter, and when they'd met in the street he had threatened to repossess the craft if Stone didn't buckle under and accept the new terms. After that unhappy little encounter, Jim Stone had gone to Grasscutter's Bay to empty out his eel traps. The catch was a bumper one, so that his wicker basket was filled to the gunwales with fine fat eels, and consequently very heavy. While heaving it up onto his back he'd lost his balance and fallen over, which accounted for his bruised and muddied state.
It was such a poor excuse that it should have been an open-and-shut case—or so C. B. reported to Wiki, with whom he'd become quite friendly, after spending his liberty day at the courthouse in Elizabeth Street. The two lawyers certainly thought so, as the fellow charged with Jim Stone's defense muttered something about hopeless cases, and the prosecution made jokes about jellied eel pie, raising quite a laugh in the overcrowded gallery. The judge spoke briefly to the jury, saying he didn't need to sum up the case, as it was so plain and obvious, and all they had to take into consideration was the credibility of the witnesses. Then, after reminding them that the decision had to be unanimous, he sent the twelve men into a jury room.
Everyone had waited, expecting they'd return within minutes. However, three hours went by, and still the men did not emerge. Finally, the judge sent in a note asking what the devil was the holdup, and a note came back saying that one of the jurymen was not satisfied that Stone was guilty, and the arguments of the other eleven were having no effect. Infuriated, the judge sent them across the street to a hotel for supper, first informing them they'd be locked in the jury room all night, and every night after that, until they came to a decision. Or so C. B. reported to Wiki.
It felt odd to be on the anchored brig without the captain on board, but Wiki found he had to get accustomed to that too. Two days went by, then a week, and still one juryman doggedly refused to convict Jim Stone. The hung jury became even more of a cause célebre than the original case had been. Everywhere that Wiki went on his liberty day, he could hear the topic being hotly discussed, with lots of speculation about who the odd man out might be. Then the secret was leaked when the jury foreman tossed a note to a friend as the party crossed the street to the hotel for dinner one day—it was none other than Captain Kemble!
The lawyer for the prosecution demanded that Kemble be banned from the jury, as it had come to light that he owed a lot of money to Perkins, and so it was plain that he held a grudge against the murdered man. In fact, he snapped, suspicion might have fallen on Kemble himself if he hadn't sailed the same day as the murder. The judge looked tempted but then pointed out that just about every boat owner in Sydney owed money to the deceased, and anyway, Kemble should have been challenged before he took his place on the jury, not after.
Other stories leaked out—how the other jury members were trying to browbeat Kemble into changing his mind, first by arguing strenuously, then by casting insults on his intelligence. It was all a waste of time. As C. B. remarked to Wiki, anyone who'd sailed with the old man would know what a stubborn old beggar he was, as if it would bring him bad luck if he changed his mind.
They were leaning on the taffrail, enjoying the sight of gulls circling over the quiet harbor, and listening to the racket of the ever-busy town. “You've been sailing with him for a while?” Wiki asked.
C. B. shook his head. “He recruited us all at Otakau, after delivering a load of provisions to the whaling station there. His hands all left him to join the station, so he had to find a complete new set. I'd tried the whaling life, but hated it, so was glad to find a comfortable berth. But it don't take long to work out what he's like."
It certainly didn't, Wiki thoughtfully agreed, and they both wondered how long they'd be hanging about while old Kemble stuck to his guns. Then all at once it was over. A ship arrived with a man who testified that on that particular Friday night he'd seen the moneylender, Perkins, riding his horse along Maroo Track a good half hour after he'd spied Stone's cutter sailing away from Rushcutter's Bay. So it just wasn't possible that Jim Stone was the murderer. The judge thanked God they'd been spared a miscarriage of justice and dismissed both case and jury.
&nb
sp; * * * *
Captain Kemble seemed his usual self when he came back on board, but it was probably not surprising that he should fetch ill and be confined to his berth two days after leaving port. C. B. appointed Wiki second mate, and the two of them managed pretty well, though the devil's own weather brewed up. Then on the fifth day, the sea got up rugged, and the gale came in heavy, and as Wiki was struggling with the helm, Captain Kemble arrived alongside him, looking pale and urgent.
"We gotta wear ship and get her head round to south'ard,” he said. Wiki stared, surprised, because the gale, though strong, was fair.
The old man said, “I know this sea like my own backyard, and I know this wind is goin’ to shift.” Then, without waiting for Wiki to say anything or for C. B. to come hurrying up, he roared like the young man he used to be. "Sta-a-a-tions!”
After that, he brought his brig round as gently as a mother with a child, and just as she got the wind on her quarter and her mainyard braced sharp, a mighty squall came from the north with a roar like the end of the earth, striking them right aft.
"Steady as you go!” the old man shouted, and no sooner was the squall over than he collapsed in a heap.
Wiki handed over the wheel, gathered up the captain, and carried him down to his berth. The old body felt so light and frail in his arms he was surprised when Kemble stirred as he laid him on the bunk.
"I've done all I can,” the old man whispered. “I've brung her through. Now it's up to you and C. B."
Wiki covered him up and gave him water to sip, but it was plain that he didn't have long, so he said, “Captain, will you tell me something?"
Kemble's eyelids fluttered, and then one eye peered at Wiki with startling shrewdness. “You want to know what you're doin’ on my brig, boy?"
"Aye, sir,” said Wiki, “because I don't believe my people didn't want me."
"They did it to save your life, son. Your ma treasures you a lot, on account of she's uncommon fond of your father. She was scared you'd join Te Tera and be killed in battle, so she asked me the favor of taking you away, to make sure it didn't happen."
"Save my life?” Wiki echoed. When he'd arrived in the bay he'd watched the canoes gather, but the battle they were headed for had no meaning for him. He'd left for America before he'd had a chance to learn about ancient insults.
"I never wanted to be a warrior,” he said, astonished.
"Then you sure is a different kind of Maori.” Kemble tried to laugh, but he coughed instead, and dribbled when Wiki gave him more water. “I brung the ship through,” he muttered. “And I'm headed for home, I reckon. Anythin’ else you want to know before I go?"
Wiki said, “Well . . ."
"Ask away, my boy, while you still got a chance."
"It was you who killed that moneylender, wasn't it? Because he was dunning you for more money, too, and threatened to repossess the brig."
Kemble's eyes jerked open again. “You're right about the money, and his confounded demands,” he exclaimed, “but I swear Perkins fell off his horse by hisself, and knocked hisself senseless.” Then he coughed, and fetched a long sigh. “But I held him facedown in the mud instead of helping him up—so aye, I did kill him, I reckon."
"And you hung onto that not guilty verdict because you didn't want to see Jim Stone take the blame for what you, yourself, had done."
Kemble closed his eyes and nodded. “You're brighter than even I reckoned, boy. But how did you guess?"
"The lawyer got close when he said that if you hadn't sailed the same day as the murder, suspicion could have fallen on you. What he didn't know is that it was impossible for you to have sailed that day."
The body had been discovered on a Saturday, and the murder had happened the day before. A Friday. “No seaman would willingly leave port on a Friday,” Wiki went on. “And certainly never a seaman as superstitious as you. The obvious conclusion was that you didn't sail until Saturday—the day after the murder."
Wiki waited, but received no answer. There was a wry smile on Captain Kemble's face, but the old man's spirit had fled.
Copyright © 2010 Joan Druett
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Fiction: RING TOSS: A JOHN CEEPAK MYSTERY by Chris Grabenstein
Some men have a code they live by.
Other men? Not so much.
My partner, John Ceepak, has a very strict, very rigid moral code that guides every single decision he makes, all day, every day.
Me? I'm a little more loosey-goosey. Then again, I'm twenty-five, he's pushing forty.
It's the middle of July. We're on the job with the Sea Haven Police Department, working the late shift in a Jersey shore resort town. This particular Saturday night, we're working a tip on the Sea Haven Boardwalk. We're there to bust the new owner/operator of The Lord Of The Rings Toss booth. Any connection to the wildly popular movie franchise is purely intentional, I'm sure, though not officially licensed or paid for. The old ring toss boss just hired some local sign painter to rip off Bilbo, Gandalf, and that elf with the arrows and then bought a can of gold spray paint to spritz his plastic rings so they'd be the same color as Frodo's.
But copyright infringement isn't why we're here.
Ceepak's adopted stepson, T. J. Lapscynski-Ceepak (yeah, the kid's name sounds like a disease with a telethon), used to work in this same boardwalk arcade a couple summers ago. Now he's getting ready for college: the Naval Academy at Annapolis. His stepdad used to be an Army man before he became a cop—ending his career as an M.P. over in Baghdad during Operation Iraqi Freedom. Although Ceepak never attended the Army Academy at West Point, he went ahead and adopted their cadet honor code as his personal credo: He will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.
Makes it hard for my partner to stroll past the brightly lit boardwalk amusements. Wheel Of Fortune, Basketball Hoops, Frog Bog, The Dog Pounder, Squirt-The-Clown, The Claw Crane. They're all basically legalized cheats; a chance to spend fifty bucks to win your girlfriend a ten-dollar purple gorilla the size of a couch just so you can lug it around for her all night.
Me? I figure everybody knows the games along the boards are basically rip-offs. You play for laughs. Or to impress your date. Or because you hate clowns.
Like I said, my own code is a little less stringent than Ceepak's.
"Six rings for one dollar,” says the scrawny guy working the ring toss booth. He's wearing a head mic so we can all hear how bored he is with his job, maybe his life. “Six rings for a buck, six rings to test your luck."
"Look carefully at the bottles, Danny,” whispers Ceepak. “T. J. has advised me that the new management of this booth is engaging in what the New Jersey Legalized Games of Chance Control Commission would label deceptive, misleading, or fraudulent activity intended to reduce a customer's chance of winning."
Yep, here in the Garden State, we have an agency to regulate boardwalk games. The LGCCC. They also handle bingo and church raffles.
"Show your lady your stuff, win a Shrek filled with fluff.” The ring toss barker keeps droning on, unaware that he's about to be busted. “Step right up, gents. Win a Scooby-Doo for your cutie-poo. Take home a Tweetie for your sweetie."
Behind him, I see glass bottles arranged in a tight square. A few already have golden plastic rings looped around their necks.
"They do that to make it look like someone else has already won,” says Professor Ceepak.
I nod.
They also put the bottles very close to the front of the booth to make it look soooo easy to win. Heck, you feel like you can just reach out and drop the ring right on top of a bottle. But you can't.
And, even if you could, the plastic bracelet might bounce back off.
That's because, according to T. J., the joker running the ring toss enterprise this summer has slipped nearly invisible glass lips over eighty percent of the bottles, making it virtually impossible for the small rings to catch hold of the necks. Yep, young T. J. has been in the Ceepak household long enough to make
his stepdad's code his own. The young dude (who cut off all his dreadlocks, by the way, the night before his Annapolis interview) will not tolerate cheating. Or losing. I think he figured out the game was rigged last weekend, when this booth broke his world-record winning streak (the kid can nail the nipple on a squeeze bottle of ketchup with an onion ring).
Ceepak pulls a summons out of the thigh pocket of his cargo shorts. There's a three thousand dollar fine attached to rigging a boardwalk game of chance. I reflexively check my holster to make sure my Glock is still there. Three thousand dollar fines are never easily swallowed by carnies, who by law can only charge one dollar per player per game.
We're all set to step up and slap down our papers on the counter when both our radios start squawking.
"Unit A-12, 10-41. Mussel Beach Motel. See the man. Mr. Sean Ryan. Room 114."
In Sea Haven, 10-41 means “neighbor trouble.” In a motel, it usually means one room is making way too much noise and the “neighbors” are complaining.
Ceepak unclips the mic from his shoulder. “This is A-12. We're on our way."
He jams the summons back into his pants pocket.
A radio call trumps writing up a corrupt ring toss game every time.
* * * *
The Mussel Beach Motel over on Beach Lane is owned and operated by the parents of one of my best friends since forever, Becca Adkinson. This week Becca is running the place by herself: Her parents left our vacation paradise so they could go on a summer vacation of their own. Up to Canada. When you sell fun-in-the-sun, your idea of a break is a fireworks festival in Montreal.
AHMM, June 2010 Page 3