Coach, Walt Sautter [ereader for android .TXT] 📗

conversation with my client, Mr. White on the first day of his incarceration, when I ask about his presence on the day of the murder, he told me he was at home listening to the game. Then, he proceeded to tell every last detail in an hour-long ramble. It was almost as if I was listening to it on the radio myself.
I was amazed at his power of recall. I was sure that he must have been at the top of his class in school. Not so! It appears that Mr. White reserves his exceptional memory for Brown’s football.
Once hearing this, I was sure that he could not have been at Coach Carter’s house at that time, which was the time Dr. Fink has testified the murder took place.
I could think of only one way in which to establish that fact. It was to have someone who surely knew all the details of the game to verify my client’s account of it. When I called the Brown’s office they told me that no recording of the game had been made and only a few thirty second film clips had been filmed for Movie Tone newsreels, containing hardly enough information to verify Mr. White’s having listened to the game.
I then explained the circumstances of the case and that a boy’s life was on the line. I asked if anyone was available to testify as to the details of the contest as described by my client.
Several hours after, I received a call from Mr. Brown indicating his concern and his willingness to help clear my client’s name.
‘I know that small country town justice is sometimes not that just, especially when comes to colored folks. I’ll be there as soon as I can’ he said.
Once hearing this I offered to pay his travel expenses to Highburg out of my own pocket. He declined and provided his own transportation to be here and ensure justice being done.
You’ve heard his testimony and verification of Mr. White actions on the day of Coach’s murder.
Every one in Highburg loved and respected Coach Carter, that is certainly a fact, but to convict an innocent Mr. White of his murder will do nothing to help honor the memory of Coach. Instead it will serve to sully the town of Highburg as a place of unjustified vengeance against the guiltless.
Find my client innocent and retain Coach’s honor and the good name of Highburg.
Thank you” and with that Gerity ended.
“Mr. Hartly, your final rebuttal please” asked Somers.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.
“Mr. White’s hat was found at the scene. How did it get there?
Mr. White left it there while lost in a frenzy after killing Coach Carter. How else could it have been there?
Did Mr. Marvich lie about picking him up just after the murder?
Why would he? What was he to gain by lying?
Nothing!
Mr. White went to Coach Carter’s house to retrieve the hat he so cherished and lost on Mischief Night. When he encountered the Coach an argument ensued and Mr. White strangled Coach Carter. It’s that simple.
Again I say, you must find him guilty as charged and thereby allow our beloved Coach to rest in eternal peace.
Grant justice to him and our town of Highburg I implore you all.
Thank you” concluded Hartly, passionately.
That was it. The trial was over, except of course, for the verdict.
“It is late and I am quite sure the jury will not reach a conclusion this evening so court is adjourned until at which time a decision is reached. When that occurs the jury foreman will submit it to me in a sealed envelope and it will be read when court reconvenes a six o’clock of that day.
A posting as to whether a decision has been reached will be placed in the police headquarters window and will be available by phone if you call Chief Simpson’s office.
Court is now adjourned” and Somers slammed the gavel.
The jurors filed, grime faced out of the room to begin their deliberation and the sound of crowd’s banter steadily rose. The crowd started to slowly stream out of the firehouse in an almost hesitant fashion. Many were disappointed that the show had ended that evening without the final act being staged. For that they would have to wait.
Outside, a mob of people awaited Jimmy Brown’s exit from the firehouse door. Most all were clutching a pencil, a pen, a scrap of paper or a football that they had sent someone scurrying home to get before the trial session ended. When the door finally opened the throng rushed forward almost as if a gang tackle was in progress. Brown courteously signed paper after paper and ball after ball.
The sight cheered me. Maybe Ricky had a better chance than I thought.
On the other side of the firehouse, reporters from the local paper eagerly solicited opinions and prognostications.
“That boy’s as guilty as Judas” one was heard to say.
“Only thing that surprised me is that Coach got choked. Those black kids are pretty good with a knife, the way I hear it!” spouted another.
“Can’t be guilty. He hadda be listenin’ to that football game when Coach was killed. That football player from Cleveland kinda convinced me of that,” answered an old lady.
“If Jimmy Brown says he aint guilty, he aint guilty,” responded a boy of about thirteen wearing a Browns jersey.
After the assembly in front of the firehouse dissipated, I started the slow walk home, trying to forecast the jury’s verdict for myself.
Two days passed. I walked to the police station every day both before and after school to see if the notice had been posted. On the morning of the third day, there it was.
“Court will be in session at six o’clock this evening” is all it said.
During that day at school, rumors filled the halls.
“I heard – guilty!”
“Twenty five years at the least!”
“Not guilty is what I heard!”
“I heard they couldn’t decide whether he did it or didn’t!”
“I heard a bunch of guys are goin’ get him even if he aint found guilty!”
Everybody had a story and they were all different. Six o’clock couldn’t come fast enough for me. No matter what happened at least the anxiety would be released.

Chapter 12
The court session began and the jury marched in just as grim faced as when they left three days ago. Not a smile, not a smirk, was to be seen. They all stared straight forward like automations. When seated, they descended to their chairs in unison as if purposely rehearsed.
“Have you reached a verdict?” queried the judge.
“We have Your Honor,” announced the foreman.
It was passed to Somers by one of the state cops. He opened it and quickly perused it contents.
“Please read the verdict aloud,” he commanded the foreman who was again handed the paper slip.
A silence prevailed. Not a cough, not sniff, hardly even a breathe could be heard.
“Not guilty!”
The throng erupted.
“Not guilty! No fuckin’ way. What is the matter with you people?” shouted a man as he stood and started to lunge towards the jury.
Two cops quickly pulled him to the floor and struggled to cuff his hands behind him. They then lifted him and dragged him from the room as he bellowed profanities and attempted to wrestle free from their grasp.
Several others who had stood in response to the jury’s announcement, upon seeing this, quietly reseated themselves.
Ricky’s mother and father rushed to their son, hugged him tightly and then euphorically shook Gerity’s hand.
The jury filed out of the room, Somers cracked down the gavel for the final time and the trial was over.
As the crowd subsided, I stayed behind. I walked up to Ricky and eagerly congratulated him in the most heartfelt words that I could muster.
“Hey man, I knew all along that they couldn’t find you guilty” I said as I grasped his hand and soundly patted him on the back.
I was lying of course. Had he been found guilty I knew it would have been unjust but not surprising.
“Thanks for stickin’ with me, man” he replied appreciatively.
“I’ll see you in school tomorrow then” I answered.
“Sure” came the soft, timid reply.
I left the firehouse overjoyed, naively anticipating a return to things the way they had always been.
I hadn’t seen him for two days straight. When I entered school on the morning of third day, Mr. Robertson approached me as I stood by my locker.
“How are you this morning?” he inquired courteously and then proceeded to unlock the locker next to mine, Ricky’s. He took all the books from it, along with some odds and ends and placed everything into a shopping bag.
“Have a good day son” and he relocked Ricky’s locker, turned and walked towards the office carrying the bag.
I stood, staring as he left, confused.
As soon as school got out I hopped on my thumb and got a ride over to Ricky’s house. It looked like no one was home but I went up and rang the bell anyway.
The side curtain adjacent to the window parted slightly with an eye peering through the break. It was Ricky’s sister. She unlocked the door and let me in.
“What’s goin’ on Beamy?” she asked as I entered.
“I’m here to ask Ricky just that! He hasn’t been in school and I saw the principal cleaning out his locker today”, I replied.
“He aint here” she answered.
“Well, were is he?”
“He’s gone. He went and joined the Marines right after the trial.”
“The Marines! Why in hell did he do that?” I asked dumbfounded.
She was silent for a moment.
“He had lots of people sayin’ that he really did it and they were gonna get him for it. He got some real nasty notes in the mailbox sayin’ they were gonna shoot him. Somebody even threw blood all over our front steps one night.
So, him and my dad decided the best thing would be to join the Marines and get outta here. The recruiter man told him he could finish school in the Marines so he signed up and left two days ago.”
“Man!” that was all I could say. It was the only response I could muster.
“Thanks!”
I left and thumbed my way back home not realizing that the day of the trial was the last day that I would ever see Ricky.
Two more school years passed. Graduation day came and went. When September approached, I left for college. My parents moved to Florida soon after I left and I never again returned to Highburg.
“Hey Honey, here’s a letter from Janice Moore. Who’s Janice Moore?” my wife Sally asked.
I took the letter from her and looked at the return address. I opened it.
“I hope this note finds you well. Believe it or not it has been twenty years since our graduation from Highburg High School.
We will be holding our twentieth class reunion on August 17th, at six o’clock, at the Highburg Hotel and hope that you will attend. Please return the enclosed form and check to assure your attendance.
Hope to see you there.
Janice Moore (Janice Stickle)”
“It’s from Janice Stickle. I graduated high school with her. It’s about our twentieth class reunion” I replied to Sally.
“You never went before. Are you going this time?” she asked.
“I think so. I think so.” I answered thoughtfully.
August seventeenth and I set out for the hundred and fifty mile drive to Highburg. The last time I was there was twenty years ago and I was eager to see what and who had changed. My mind raced as I drove, recalling all the times and friends that I