AHMM, July-August 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I'm talking about my name being drawn for jury duty next week in criminal court,” said Beaumont. “That's the only lottery I've ever won in my entire life."

  "Oh,” said Yarnell, “well, you ought to be able to get out of that pretty easy. All you got to do is say you know the defendant or one of the cops and it would be tough for you to render an unbiased verdict."

  "Can't do that."

  Yarnell waved a twenty at the bartender. Seemed like it took money to get the attention of most people these days.

  "Sure you can. Just last year, my street psychiatrist, Lester Formlick, told the judge that if the prosecutor thought he had enough evidence to bring the case to trial, then that was good enough for Lester as a juror to find the guilty party guilty. Judge cut Lester loose that same morning and made sure he wasn't on any more jury panels for that session."

  "Lester got off for the whole six-month session?"

  "That's what he told me. And, you can do it too."

  Beaumont shook his head. “Wouldn't feel right to duck out when my country calls on me to do my civic duty. Let's face it, Yarnell, democracy depends upon the assistance of its citizens, otherwise we wouldn't have all these rights we do now."

  Yarnell dropped his hand with the twenty in it down to the table and turned fully back into the conversation.

  "Beaumont, you and I are burglars. We steal from the rich and give to the poor, but we aren't exactly Robin Hood types because the poor we give to is you and me, so society doesn't necessarily look at us as examples of good citizens. Next time someone from our government comes calling, it'll probably be to read us our rights."

  "That's what I mean,” replied Beaumont, “think about it. If we lived in some dictatorship and the police thought we was criminals, they wouldn't even bother to give us a fair trial. They'd just kick the front door and haul us off to the gulags to do hard labor for the rest of our lives."

  Yarnell had to contemplate that word for a while. He wasn't sure what one of them things was. “Gulag?"

  "Yeah, you know, like a penitentiary run by some dictator who needs a place to imprison people he don't like."

  "Oh, a prison. Gotcha.” Yarnell bobbed his head in understanding. “You know, my cousin Harvey got himself incinerated up in the state pen a few years ago."

  Now it was Beaumont's turn to think about things. “Your cousin got burned up in prison?"

  "Well,” replied Yarnell, “to be true, he was actually steamed about the whole situation long before he got sent away."

  "Huh?"

  "Yeah, the cops charged him with stealing a car, but the judge didn't buy Harvey's alibi that he was only along for a ride."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Well, Harvey told the judge he was merely hitchhiking at the side of the road and this guy in a Chevy picked him up, but then the police started after them in what ended up as a high-speed pursuit and the guy jumped out at a corner, so naturally Harvey had to grab the steering wheel to keep from crashing and that's how the cops found Harvey behind the wheel of a stolen car. It really burned him up that nobody believed him."

  Yarnell turned back toward the bartender and raised his twenty again.

  Beaumont's mouth dropped slightly. He stared at Yarnell's back until it came to him. “You mean incarcerated."

  "What?"

  "You mean your cousin got incarcerated in prison."

  "Yeah, that's what I said."

  Beaumont decided maybe it was safer to go back to his original subject.

  "So, anyway, July Fourth is coming up and it's a good reminder for me to do my patriotic duty. That's why I made up my mind to go ahead and serve."

  "Just remember to leave your lock-picking tools at home,” was Yarnell's last words of advice on the subject of jury duty. He tried waving his twenty more vigorously.

  * * * *

  And that's how, three days later, Beaumont found himself, shoes in hand, waiting to get through the metal detector in the lobby of the county courthouse. Walking through the upright rectangle when it was his turn, he immediately set off the alarm and had to be wanded by a uniformed guard with one of them hand-held things. Beaumont's jacket pockets quickly gave up a handful of quarters he intended to use in various vending machines for sustenance to keep his portly body nourished throughout the day, three nails from a do-it-yourself home project, and two watches which hadn't made it to the pawnshop yet, plus he was asked to hand over his narrow belt with the small metal buckle. Temporary loss of the latter meant he then had to shuffle around with only one hand free to retrieve his shoes and belongings, while the other hand was tightly occupied with keeping a firm grip on his trousers’ waistband which kept trying to migrate south. His only mental compensation for ensuing troubles at this point was the thought that duty sometimes required individual sacrifice.

  Finally, after a crowded elevator ride and wandering down various hallways, he came to an open door marked jury panels. Inside the room, a man in a rumpled suit sat behind a metal desk at the front wall. Stacks of paperwork covered most of the industrial gray desktop.

  "I'm here for jury duty,” said Beaumont.

  "Good for you,” replied the rumpled suit without looking up.

  Somehow, it didn't sound like a compliment to Beaumont.

  "Sign in there—” One arm of the suit motioned toward a form attached to a clipboard. “—and take a seat over there.” Now the same arm of the suit motioned in the opposite direction.

  Beaumont signed and sat.

  An hour later, a tall man entered the room and read several names off the clipboard. Beaumont watched as about three dozen people stood up and marched out of the room behind the guy. Looked easy enough so far.

  Ten minutes afterward, a short stocky lady with all the demeanor of a prison warden entered with her own clipboard. When she left, Beaumont found himself in tow, down the corridor, around the corner, and into a high-ceilinged courtroom where he took a seat in the spectator section behind the low double-hinged gate. The bailiff immediately called twelve names and those people straggled through the gate and over to the jury box.

  The judge, who seemed to be in a hurry, quickly explained this was a case involving burglary and intent to defraud an insurance company.

  "Right up my alley,” Beaumont thought to himself. “At least it's something I know about."

  The judge then mentioned the names of the defendants . . .

  Nobody Beaumont recognized.

  . . . the names of the police involved . . .

  No cops who had ever hauled Beaumont in for questioning, but then it was a big city with lots of vice detectives in various precincts. Obviously, there was no way he had met them all, especially if he did his job right.

  . . . and inquired if any of the potential jurors knew them.

  Nobody raised their hand.

  Now the attorneys commenced with voir dire. Beaumont had no idea what the word voir meant, but he had been in dire straits a couple of times during burgle jobs, so he knew those three pinstriped suits at two opposing tables were getting down to serious business, asking pointed questions of the potential jurors.

  And then it started. Three people weaseled out with lame excuses. Beaumont felt a certain disappointment in his fellow citizens, but maybe they had no concept of what they stood to lose in the long run.

  The bailiff called three more names to replace those dismissed. Out of these, the first two people were seated and accepted by both sides of lawyers without argument. The last potential jurist called, a bone-skinny young woman in a floral print dress, gave out a moan and held her stomach as she walked toward the jury box.

  "Are you okay?” inquired the judge.

  "My stomach is really upset right now,” said the anorexic woman in answer. She moaned louder this time.

  "Maybe you'll feel better after you sit down for a while,” offered the judge.

  "Don't think so,” she replied. “See, I'm trying to kick this cocaine habit, and I think the doc
tor gave me the wrong drugs."

  Good one, thought Beaumont, reflecting that not even Lester, the street psychiatrist, could have come up with that dodge.

  Beaumont was the final name to be called for duty.

  "I see,” said the prosecutor as Beaumont took his chair at the end of the jury box, “that on the potential juror questionnaire you list your employment as an environmentalist."

  "That's right,” replied Beaumont.

  "Tell me, sir, what exactly do you do as an environmentalist?"

  "I'm in the recycling end of the business."

  "Recycling?"

  "Correct. I take other people's stuff and recycle it for money.” And, as far as Beaumont was concerned, that was exactly what he and Yarnell did as burglars.

  "An admirable occupation,” commented the prosecutor. He then turned to the judge. “This panel is fine by me, your Honor."

  Both defense attorneys stood and spoke separately. “We also accept this panel, your Honor."

  "Very well,” barked the judge, “the remaining potential jurors may leave, and if everybody is ready, we will commence with the trial."

  Beaumont glanced at the prosecutor's table. One pinstriped suit and a gofer sat behind it, with a pitcher of water and some water glasses placed in front of them. The prosecutor kept extracting files from a manila accordion folder and spreading his paperwork all over the tabletop. Beaumont figured he was getting his case organized into some kind of shape.

  Behind the defense table sat two pinstriped suits, one blue and one gray. To the gray's right sat one of the defendants, a man in a brown sport coat with a bright red floral tie. Beaumont felt an immediate twinge of sympathy for the man's obvious lack of fashion.

  "Bailiff,” the judge barked again, “if our other defendant is finished with his personal necessities I would appreciate his presence in my courtroom."

  The bailiff spoke softly into his handheld radio. A couple of minutes later, a side door opened and three men entered. Two of those men in uniform stopped long enough to take handcuffs and belly chains off a third man wearing an orange jumpsuit. That man paused long enough to run his fingers like a comb through his well-styled brown hair, then brushed invisible lint off his orange sleeves.

  "For a criminal, he's a real amateur,” thought Beaumont. “No money saved up for bail, and evidently no property for collateral. This guy's definitely fitted for the prison duds he's wearing, a sad situation here.” He shook his head slightly.

  Both uniforms escorted the orange jumpsuit to the defense table, where he sat down beside the blue pinstriped suit and engaged in whispered conversation.

  Beaumont stared. There was something familiar about that second defendant as he had moved closer to the jury box. Then Beaumont's mind flashed, the guy should be wearing tailor-made clothes and Italian leather shoes. Orange jumpsuits just didn't suit the man's usual sense of style or color. And, when the judge had recited that list of witnesses and defendants, the name James D. Montgomery didn't mean anything to Beaumont, but there in the flesh at the defense table now sat . . . yep, it was Gentleman Jim himself, a fellow burglar. Beaumont started to raise his hand to disqualify himself, but the judge, glaring at the three attorneys, ignored the raising hand.

  "I will tolerate no nonsense or unnecessary delays in this courtroom,” emphasized the judge. “My court docket is backed up for months. Now let's get this trial moving. You've got five minutes each for opening statements."

  Beaumont swiveled his halfway raised hand into what now appeared to be a forehead scratching moment. Damn, the movement must have caught Jim's eye, because he was staring back at Beaumont.

  "I will prove,” said the prosecutor, “that Mr. Montgomery was apprehended in the act of burglarizing the Golden Fleece Bar. And, I will further prove that the bar owner, Mr. Tillford, arranged for that burglary to happen with the intent to defraud his own insurance company."

  "Doesn't sound good for you,” thought Beaumont as he locked eyes with Gentleman Jim.

  Realizing that Jim had also recognized him, Beaumont felt the sudden impulse to place his right index finger in front of his lips in a shhhh-ing gesture, but managed to restrain himself at the last second. Gentleman Jim nodded almost imperceptibly.

  "And I,” exclaimed the gray pinstripe in his turn, “tell you that my client, Mr. Tillford, is an innocent party whose place of business was burglarized by this Mr. Montgomery, and the insurance claims were legitimate."

  He sat down as the blue pinstripe stood up.

  "When we are all finished here,” said the blue pinstripe, “you members of the jury will then see that my client, Mr. Montgomery, is the real innocent party at this table."

  Beaumont was too busy analyzing his personal predicament to hear whatever else was said by the suits. His problem being, since it was against the Burglars’ Code to testify against a fellow burglar, it just made sense that if a burglar somehow ended up on a jury panel then he also shouldn't be responsible for sending a fellow member of the guild to prison just because that particular member got caught practicing his chosen profession. On the other hand, under the letter of the law, Beaumont did have a civic duty to put criminals in jail if proven guilty.

  "Call the first prosecution witness,” barked the judge.

  Patrolman Goldbloom was quickly sworn in, then provided his name, rank, and job duties.

  "On the night in question,” prompted the prosecutor, “did you answer to a radio call from your precinct?"

  "I did,” replied Goldbloom. “Our dispatcher had received an anonymous telephone call about a burglary in progress at the Golden Fleece Bar. I responded right away."

  "And what did you find when you got there?"

  "The front door to the bar had been jimmied open, so I drew my service weapon and waited for backup."

  "What did you do when backup arrived?"

  "I and the other patrolmen entered the bar and fanned out to search the premises."

  "What did you observe inside the premises?"

  Officer Goldbloom rolled his eyes upward and creased his forehead in concentration as if he were trying to read a script written on the back side of his eyelids.

  "On the main floor of the bar, I observed that the coin boxes to the pool tables and the jukebox had all been broken into, and the cash register drawer was open and empty."

  The prosecutor consulted his notes.

  "And did you also go down into the basement?"

  "Oh yeah, thanks,” replied Patrolman Goldbloom. “When I went downstairs, I also observed several storage lockers. Their door locks had been busted and the lockers were empty."

  "And then?” prompted the prosecutor.

  "Yeah, right, that's when I apprehended Mr. Montgomery, the defendant who is sitting over there in the orange jumpsuit behind the defense table.” Goldbloom pointed in the general direction. “At the time of the burglary however, he was standing in the basement with a crowbar in his hand. When I searched him subject to arrest, I found several quarters in his pockets."

  "Quarters from the coin boxes?” asked the prosecutor.

  "That's what I think,” replied Patrolman Goldbloom.

  "I see,” said the prosecutor

  "Objection,” roared the blue suit.

  "Sustained,” said the judge. “The jury will disregard."

  Beaumont didn't know how he was supposed to disregard that question and the witness's answer. He'd already heard the words and now the condemning image of the bar's looted quarters being found in Gentleman Jim's pockets was stuck in his head. Then he immediately thought about all the quarters he'd brought along in his own pockets for vending machine snacks. Okay, maybe. After all, it was best to be prepared when operating in a new environment when you weren't totally sure what circumstances you might run into. Maybe Jim had thought so too.

  The prosecutor turned toward the defense table. “Your witness."

  "No questions,” said the gray suit.

  Blue suit stood. “Officer Goldbloom, did
my client say why he was in the bar after closing time?"

  "Yes, he said he must have been overserved in the bar, wandered downstairs to rest, and then fallen asleep."

  "But you chose not to listen to his rational excuse, did you?"

  "Nope, the man had a crowbar in his hand."

  "And you had a gun in yours. No further questions."

  "Next witness,” ordered the judge.

  The police department's forensic expert was on and off in a matter of minutes. No fingerprints were found on the coin boxes or cash register. The only relevant prints found were Mr. Montgomery's on the crowbar. No further questions.

  By now, Beaumont's stomach had acquired a low rumble. He looked at the clock on the wall. Still an hour until lunch.

  "The prosecution calls Detective DelGrasso to the stand."

  During the oath and establishment of the detective's bona fides, Beaumont snuck a questioning glance in the direction of the orange jumpsuit. Gentleman Jim barely shrugged his shoulders in response.

  "Detective DelGrasso, did Mr. Tillford, the owner of the Golden Fleece, give you a signed statement about the burglary?"

  "Yes, he did."

  The prosecutor handed a sheet of paper to the detective.

  "And is this document his statement?"

  "It is."

  "Tell the jury what the statement says."

  DelGrasso turned toward the jury. Beaumont felt a moment's panic under those bore-right-through-you cop eyes, then remembered this guy didn't have anything on him. He, Beaumont, was one of the good guys right now, just doing his civic duty. He tried to relax, but it was tough being on this side of the law. How the heck did all these civilians do it?

  "Mr. Tillford,” began the detective, “told me that he had lost over eight thousand dollars from the cash register. This was the night's take at the bar, and he was waiting until the next day to put the money in his bank account. He also estimated the coin boxes to have had no more than two hundred dollars in them. But the big loss from the burglary came from the contents of the lockers downstairs. That was about fifty thousand worth of jewelry, furs, and electronic goods."