"Who knew bars were such cash cows,” Beaumont thought to himself. “Me and Yarnell have got to add them to our list of future prospects."
"Did Mr. Tillford seem to be in a hurry to get a copy of the police report on the burglary?” asked the prosecutor.
"Yes, sir,” replied the detective. “Said he wanted the police report so he could file his insurance claim right away. Something about needing money."
"I see,” said the prosecutor.
There were no questions.
Next came the insurance company's claim investigator, but he had nothing new to add, except to get Tillford's claim forms admitted into evidence.
"Break for lunch,” barked the judge.
"About time,” thought Beaumont. This jury stuff was hungry work, and he hadn't had a chance to hit the vending machines yet for something to tide him over.
Everybody stood, and the jury was led off into a back room. Beaumont found himself a seat at the head of a long table as the bailiff brought in a large box of sandwiches, chips, and soft drinks. After the first sandwich had settled in, his stomach finally quit rumbling, but just in case, he sleight-of-handed a couple of extra candy bars into his pockets for later. He was still chewing on the remains of someone else's obviously abandoned roast beef on rye with mustard, when the bailiff led them back into the court room.
The prosecutor stood.
"I would like to recall Detective DelGrasso to the stand."
"Very well,” said the judge.
"I believe,” began the prosecutor after consulting his notes, “that you also took a second signed statement, this one from Mr. James Montgomery, did you not?"
"I did,” said the detective.
The prosecutor approached the detective with another document.
"And what did Mr. Montgomery say in his statement?"
"Mr. Montgomery said that two weeks prior to the burglary he was approached by the bar owner, Mr. Tillford, with a scheme to burgle the Golden Fleece, so Tillford could collect on an insurance policy. Tillford would empty the lockers of their valuable contents prior to the break-in, and Montgomery was to make it look like a professional burglary. That way, Tillford had the goods from the lockers, plus the insurance money as profit. Montgomery's payment for the faked burglary was supposed to be the take from the cash register and the coin boxes."
Beaumont heard several gasps of astonishment from the jury box, but then on further contemplation he assumed that the other jurors had led quiet sheltered lives with little knowledge of all the duplicitous schemes dreamed up on the streets these days. It was getting to where a guy couldn't even trust his fellow criminal anymore.
"And,” continued the prosecutor, “I assume, as part of the scheme, that Mr. Tillford was supposed to have an alibi for the night of the burglary?"
"Correct,” replied the detective. “Tillford was to do his part in the afternoon, then leave the bar early that night and go upstate to visit his ailing mother in a nursing home, leaving one of the employees to lock up at closing time."
"How far away is this nursing home?"
"A two-hour drive, one way."
"And did you check out Mr. Tillford's alibi when he gave it after the burglary?"
"Yes, I did,” replied the detective. “Tillford signed in on the visitors’ log during early evening and out of the log at the exact same time the burglary was reported in progress."
"So he had what we call a perfect alibi for his physical location during the time of the burglary?"
"Yes."
"I see,” said the prosecutor, “very ingenuous.” He nodded his head. “No further questions."
"Detective DelGrasso, as you mentioned in your testimony,” said the gray suit popping up like a jack-in-the-box, “my client Tillford had an alibi which checked out?"
"Tillford did establish an alibi, yes."
Gray suit sat down.
Blue suit stood up.
"Detective DelGrasso, is it not also true that in Mr. Montgomery's statement, he said he turned down Tillford's scheme to burglarize the Golden Fleece Bar?"
"Yes sir, he said that."
"Thank you for your honesty, detective."
Blue suit sat down.
"Mr. Prosecutor?” inquired the judge.
"The prosecution rests,” said the prosecutor.
"Good,” Beaumont muttered to himself as he snuck one of the purloined candy bars out of his pocket. He tried to unwrap it without crinkling the paper or otherwise drawing attention to himself.
The judge looked at his watch. “Any defense witnesses?"
"None,” said the gray suit.
"I call James D. Montgomery to the stand,” said the blue suit.
Beaumont stopped in mid bite. Gentleman Jim was going to take the hot seat and testify? What was he thinking? The cops had him cold.
With preliminaries quickly out of the way, blue suit got right to the heart of the matter.
"Mr. Montgomery, were you in the Golden Fleece Bar on the night of the burglary?"
"I was."
"Why did you go there?"
"Tillford invited me. Said he was celebrating something and the drinks were on him."
"Did he say what he was celebrating?"
"No, he said it was a surprise and he'd explain everything later."
"Did he make sure you had several drinks?"
"He did."
"Then what happened?"
Gentleman Jim paused.
Beaumont noticed that several of the jurors on both sides of him leaned slightly forward to hear Jim's next words.
"I felt dizzy and wanted to lie down for a while. Tillford suggested I go downstairs and rest until I felt better. The way my head was swimming, I think he must've slipped a ‘roofie’ into one of my drinks."
"Objection,” screamed the gray suit.
"Sustained,” barked the judge. “The jury will disregard that ‘roofie’ statement. Now get on with it."
"So you ended up downstairs,” prompted the blue suit, “where Patrol-man Goldbloom found you several hours later?"
"Correct,” said Gentleman Jim.
"Why did you have the crowbar in your hand?"
"I don't know,” replied Jim, “when I woke up, it was well after closing time and the crowbar was already in my hand. Then I heard loud noises coming down the stairs and thought maybe it was a good thing for me to have a weapon in hand for self defense just in case it was a break-in or some sort of robbery. You never know what you're going to run into these days."
Blue suit nodded his head as if this were sage advice.
"And, as it turned out, the person coming down the stairs was armed, was he not?"
"He was definitely armed,” emphasized Jim.
"Wise choice on your part to have your own weapon,” said blue suit. He sat down. “Your honor, the defense rests."
Up popped the prosecutor. “Judge, the man coming down the stairs was a police officer in the course of his duties. Naturally he was armed."
"I know that,” replied the judge. “And in the interests of time, we will consider your last statement to be your cross examination.” He glanced at both tables. “You have five minutes for closing statements."
Beaumont didn't hear anything new in closing, just a recitation of the facts that favored each of the three different sides in the case. After that, the judge read out instructions to the jury, and Beaumont followed the bailiff back into the jury room. He quickly regained his old seat at the head of the table and waited for another box of sandwiches and soft drinks to show up. This jury stuff was definitely hungry work.
* * * *
Two days later, Beaumont was once again ensconced in his favorite booth inside his favorite bar and sipping on his usual drink. This time, Yarnell was waving a fifty dollar bill trying to get the bartender's attention so he could get served.
"You know,” said Beaumont, “it really was a good experience after all."
"What was?” inquired Yarnell, who now stuck two fing
ers in his mouth and tried a shrill whistle at the busy bartender.
"Being on jury duty."
"That's nice,” replied Yarnell without turning around. “So what happened?"
"Nobody wanted to be jury foreman,” answered Beaumont, “but since I was already sitting at the head of the table, the rest of them quickly voted me in as the most likely person for the job."
Now Yarnell turned back to the conversation.
"You were the jury foreman?"
Beaumont nodded.
"Did you hang the guilty S.O.B. who was on trial?"
"Yes and no,” said Beaumont.
As that answer sank in, Yarnell temporarily gave up his quest for a drink and lowered his arm.
"Remember Gentleman Jim?” inquired Beaumont.
Now it was Yarnell's turn to nod.
"Well, he was one of the defendants."
"Who was the second?” asked Yarnell.
"Some bar owner who double-crossed Jim in an agreement to burgle his bar."
Yarnell shook his head. “If you can't trust a fellow criminal these days, then who can you trust?"
"My thoughts exactly."
"So how did it all come out?"
"Well, I had to steer things a little, but the bar owner, Tillford, that part was easy. We all found him guilty on the first vote."
"Rightly so,” replied Yarnell. “Our profession is difficult enough as it is with all those ambitious cops looking to get promotions, desperate prosecutors running for reelection, drum thumping mayors with their get-tough-on-crime programs, and even our own fences trying to low-dollar us on the goods we bring them at great risk to ourselves. Hard times. Crime almost doesn't pay anymore."
"I agree,” said Beaumont.
"We definitely don't need double-crossers in the business,” continued Yarnell. He paused for a moment. “But what did you do about Jim?"
"That part was more complicated,” answered Beaumont. “If I know Gentleman Jim, he was definitely in that scheme all the way up to his salon-styled hair. I liked his alibi, showed good creativity under pressure, but only half the jurors were buying it. The vote split six and six."
Yarnell grinned. “So the jury got hung instead of the guilty defendant."
"You could say that. But I also knew a hung jury meant a second trial for Jim."
"And a second trial might not come out well for his side,” Yarnell added.
"Exactly. So as foreman, I focused on what would the other jurors do if they woke up with a noisy intruder in their house who he was coming toward them right then."
"Explaining away the crowbar in Jim's hand,” said Yarnell. “Good thinking. What about the fingerprint thing?"
"Turned out most of the jurors watched CSI or other cop shows at night, so I pointed out the lack of fingerprints on the coin boxes and cash register, yet Jim's turned up on the crowbar. So I asked them if Jim was the burglar, then why didn't he still have gloves on? And, when was the last time they saw a cop show where the burglar wasn't wearing gloves?"
"We always wear gloves,” said Yarnell.
"The next vote came up nine to three,” continued Beaumont. “I was down to my last argument."
By now, Yarnell was caught up in the drama and had temporarily forgotten about obtaining the bartender's attention.
"Go on."
"I pulled my own handful of quarters out of my coat pockets and dropped them on the jury table, explaining that I carried them around for snack vending machines and maybe that's why Jim had all them quarters in his pockets, too, assuming that the already guilty Tillford hadn't planted the coins on Jim in the first place as part of a frame-up."
"You're still carrying quarters around from our A&P Grocery job? That was two months ago."
Beaumont ignored the reference and went on.
"That brought the vote down to eleven against one."
"You still had a hung jury,” commented Yarnell. He turned back in the bartender's direction and waved the fifty again.
"That's why it took us another day to come up with a verdict,” said Beaumont.
Yarnell swiveled his head back around, but he kept the fifty waving in the air.
"What settled it?"
"The food."
"Huh?"
"All them leftover sandwiches. I ate pretty good because most of the jurors didn't like what the bailiff was bringing us from the restaurant across the street. Our one holdout finally realized he might starve to death, unless he changed his vote to not guilty."
"Good for you,” said Yarnell.
This time, Beaumont figured, those same words sounded more like a compliment than they had from the rumpled suit in the jury panel room.
"And you upheld the Burglars’ Code when you gave Gentleman Jim his independence,” finished Yarnell.
"Well, I did that too,” muttered Beaumont.
"What do you mean?"
"Some of that testimony was pretty dry during the trial, so I had plenty of time to think. Seems Gentleman Jim was down on his luck several months ago. I loaned him some money and he promised to pay me back real soon. He had a prospective job coming up, not his usual stuff, but he'd do it to square up with me on the loan. Then he disappeared and I thought he'd stiffed me."
Yarnell dropped his hand with the fifty back down to the table.
"Gentleman Jim always pays his debts. That's one thing a guy in our business can count on."
"I agree. That's why when I heard details on the Golden Fleece burglary, I knew that wasn't Jim's usual type of job. He only took it to pay me back, and got throwed in jail for several months awaiting trial after he got double-crossed."
"It's a good thing you made him a free man with your not guilty verdict."
"That's the other part, Yarnell. If Jim was off to the gray-bar hotel upstate for several years, then he wouldn't be able to pay me back for quite a while. And, right now, I'm running a little short on cash myself."
"We got a recession going here,” said Yarnell. “Tough times in our profession."
Beaumont tipped up his glass and drained the last of his drink.
"You said it, partner. That's why we got to look out for each other in this business."
Then, he reached over and grabbed Yarnell's fifty dollar bill.
"Here, let me show you how to get a couple of drinks in this place."
Copyright © 2010 R. T. Lawton
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: TRUE LITERATURE by Ivan Oñate
* * * *
Art by Hank Blaustein
* * * *
Translated from Spanish by Kenneth Wishnia.
* * * *
"We've been watching you,” said the guard, grabbing his arm as he left the supermarket.
"What are you talking about?” said Loza, turning pale.
"Don't play dumb,” said the guard, getting tough. “Get moving, the boss is waiting!"
Terrified, Loza looked around and saw nothing but strange, twisted masks instead of faces. None of them showed any pity for him.
"Fine,” he said, looking at the ground. “Let's go."
He squeezed the shopping bag in his arms, and when he took a step, he was shocked to feel the ground giving way beneath his feet, as if he had suddenly discovered another level beneath this one, deceptively hidden from the rest of life.
"This way,” said the guard, leading him to a black door.
What waited behind the door was blacker still. A disorderly storehouse that smelled of vomit and decay. Thousands of bottles lay on their sides, with a long passageway running between them leading to an office. If I could only go back, thought Loza, the humming of the refrigerators reminding him of the domestic duties that had caused this nightmare: “Don't forget to stop by the supermarket,” his wife had reminded him from the kitchen. “Yes, I know,” he answered, annoyed, walking out the door without looking up from the lecture notes he was preparing for his class, The Absurd in Literature.
He drove to work, his arms and legs ind
ifferent to the task, while his brain went about mechanically organizing his ideas. Ten years of routine labor had blunted, if not completely wiped away, his drive to provoke and inspire.
Loza saw that it was getting dark outside the classroom's large windows, and he couldn't suppress the vague shiver that this other routine occurrence—the end of another day—always caused him to feel. He kept talking as he walked toward the window, then he pressed his forehead against the glass and fell silent. Behind him, the students’ murmurs grew louder. So, as if he had just remembered something, he turned back to the students and began speaking aloud, his voice a bit shaky, about Camus's novel The Stranger. With his face becoming red with excitement, which a distracted student mistook for anger, he described the scene where the Arab pulls a knife. And Mersault, overcome with sweat, fatigue, and futility, squeezes the trigger four times as if he were pounding four times on the gates of his own destruction. With his eyes closed, he tried to come up with the line where Mersault says that he shattered the silence and threw the whole day off balance, but he couldn't remember it and once again he resolved to buy another copy of the book and reread it if he wanted to remain true to what he was teaching. True to literature.
"That's all for today,” he said, gathering his notes from the table. “We'll continue next class."
As he left the administrative offices after signing out for the day, he found a couple of students, a boy and a girl, waiting for him. He could tell from their bright faces that they wanted to invite him to a café and talk about his lecture, as they had done many times before.
"I have an appointment,” he said, before they could open their mouths. And after a few steps: “We'll talk some other time."
Worried that he'd get to the supermarket late, Loza tried to drive around the other cars and ended up stuck in a traffic jam blocking the intersection. He stuck his head out the window several times and confirmed that the noise and chaos had beaten him.
"And to think I dreamed of a life full of risks.” He smiled at the irony of it, comparing himself to others just like him who were sticking their heads out of their windows (perhaps believing that repeating this gesture enough times would free them from the annoying hell of rush hour). Resigned, he leaned his elbows on the steering wheel and rubbed his temples.
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