Bicycle Shop Murder, Robert Burton Robinson [early reader books .TXT] 📗
- Author: Robert Burton Robinson
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“But why didn’t she drive on other nights of the week? Why not make a trip to the Dairy Queen, or to visit a friend or to buy groceries? We don’t know for sure. We didn’t get a chance to ask her that question. But I think it’s pretty easy to it figure out if you just use the common sense God gave you.
“So, what do we have here? On the one hand, we have a witness who probably saw a black man leaving Sam Spokane’s Bicycle Shop. We’re not sure whether it was actually Mr. Jamison or somebody else. And we have no way of knowing whether that black man, whoever he was, actually committed the murder.
“On the other hand, we have the testimony of Ella Jamison, Kantrell’s mother. She said Kantrell was at home all night, watching a movie with his mom and his little sister during the time of the murder.
“Now in my book, folks, you’ve got a ton of doubt here. And I’m telling you: if you swallow what the District Attorney is trying to feed you, it’s gonna leave a bad taste in your mouth. It may seem good when you first take a bite—but wait ‘til the aftertaste kicks in. There’s all kinds of reasonable doubt here. In fact, so much doggone doubt that it’s downright unreasonable to find my client ‘Guilty.’
“You’ll never be able to live with yourself if you go along with the D.A. This young man is innocent. And you must not take away his innocence and his future, based on evidence that’s flimsy, at best.
“I’d like to thank each one of you for your participation in this trial. I feel in my heart that you’ll do the right thing, and that justice will prevail.”
It made sense to Greg Tenorly. There was just too much doubt.
Alexander Littleton had no idea which way he would vote. He just wanted to be jury foreman. That would earn him some respect.
At 69, Nancy Olstead thought her eyesight was just fine. She had no problem seeing at night. She was not afraid to drive anywhere at any time of the day or night.
Ronnie Nalestorm was trying to listen carefully, but he kept worrying about his hardware store—and the truck driver he had just hired. The last guy did major damage to his truck and a load of lumber when he fell asleep at the wheel and went into a ditch. Fortunately, he had only suffered a few scratches and bruises. He hoped this new driver was the type of guy who went to bed at a decent hour.
Many in the courtroom may have noticed that one juror, 30-year-old William ‘Sparky’ Biscayne, was looking down much of the time. It appeared as if he was about to doze off. But he was listening as intently as anyone else on the jury. He just had to dig the rest of that grease and grime out from under his fingernails. The effort was pointless. As soon as the trial was over, he would be back at his auto repair shop, rebuilding the crud he was now removing. But he was proud it was Ford and Chevy crud. He refused to work on imports.
During Kyle Serpentine’s closing, Angela Hammerly had been steaming. But she would not let that second-rate ambulance chaser throw her off her game. “If you had walked into Sam’s Bicycle Shop on April 1, 2006 and found him murdered, what would you have done? You would have called the police. If you were driving by Sam’s shop and you saw someone looking suspicious and in a big hurry to get away—would you study their appearance carefully so you could identify them later if needed? Probably. If your son had committed a murder, would you lie to keep him out of prison? Quite possibly.
“So, you see, there is every reason to believe the defendant is guilty. Let’s not wait until he kills somebody else. Get him off the streets and put him where he belongs—in prison.”
Angela knew she had just undone all of Kyle Serpentine’s damage.
As the jury walked down the hallway and into the jury room, Greg Tenorly knew he could no longer avoid interaction with Troy Blockerman. What if, during the heat of an argument about the case, he stood up in front of the entire jury and declared Troy a wife beater. He deserved it. Back to reality.
Alexander Littleton quickly seized the chair at one end of the long table. He was a short, wiry fellow. A humorless little man. After 25 years in public utilities, he was finally ready to assert himself. It had been his childhood dream to become Mayor of Coreyville. He directed himself to push, prod, control and outsmart the others. He must start from a position of power. Maybe someday he would dominate the city council the same way he was about to dominate this jury. Before everyone had a chance to sit, he said, “Okay, first we need to elect a foreman.”
Mary McJohnson and Judy McPhearson were sitting next to each other. ‘The Macs’, as they would be remembered. They looked at each other as if to say: I don’t know who to nominate. They were both 40-year-old stay-at-home moms who seemed more interested in exchanging parenting tips than deciding a man’s fate.
Elsie Olstead didn’t hesitate. “I nominate Mr. Littleton as foreman.” The widow had served on a several juries during her 69 years. She knew the drill.
“I second the motion. All in favor raise your hand,” said John Nihmbor. He was sick of looking at four walls. He had just retired after 40-plus years as an accountant for an oil and gas exploration company. The only place he wanted to be was on the golf course. Instead, he was stuck in a stinky little room that wasn’t fit for a janitor’s closet.
Most of the jurors raised their hands. Troy Blockerman had a better choice for foreman, but the majority had already spoken. The most important thing was to do it fast, and get out of there.
Alexander Littleton said, “Alright then. Why don’t we address each other by first names, if that is agreeable?”
“Fine with me, Alex.” Troy figured it would be over soon. He could pretend for a few minutes that this nerd reject actually mattered.
“I prefer ‘Alexander.’”
They were already having second thoughts about electing him foreman. He saw himself as Alexander the Great. They saw Alex the Geek.
Ronnie Nalestorm just wanted to get back to his hardware store. “Could we go ahead and take a vote to see—”
“—Let’s go ahead and take a vote to see where we stand,” Alexander said quickly, as though saying it faster would make everyone forget that Ronnie had just said it. “We each have slips of paper and a pen. We will vote by secret ballot, and then I will read the votes aloud.”
Each juror wrote down his vote and passed it to Alexander. Seven ‘Guilty,’ five ‘Not Guilty.’
Troy couldn’t believe five of the jurors were so stupid. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You know he did it!”
Sparky Biscayne chimed in. “That woman saw him leaving the scene of the crime. And he’s black. Probably in some gang.”
Greg couldn’t let that remark slide. “It doesn’t matter what color he is. And we don’t even have any gangs here in Coreyville.”
Troy said, “Look, he’s poor. He wanted some money for drugs, or to buy a car or whatever. It doesn’t matter. He waited until it was late, and Sam was there alone. Then he went in to rob the place, and he and Sam got into a fight. You know how stubborn Sam was—he wouldn’t have given up the money easily.
“So, the kid went off on Sam, and grabbed a bicycle chain, and strangled him with it. He’s going to prison. So, those of you who voted ‘Not Guilty’ might as well save us all a lot of time, and switch your vote right now.”
“I disagree.” Greg could see the fire in Troy’s eyes as Troy realized that he was one of the ‘bleeding-heart liberals’ who voted the wrong way. “Even if Mrs. Albertson did see Kantrell Jamison outside Sam’s shop that night, it still doesn’t prove he did it.”
“Yeah, right. He just happened to be out in front right after the murder.” Troy was ready to rumble. If he had a beer bottle in his hand, he would have cracked it across the edge of the table and
“And that might not have even been him. We don’t know how well she could see at night,” said Greg.
“Are you telling me you believe that story about him being at home with his momma and his sister?” Troy had a talent for sarcasm. “They’re a wonderful little family, and they were just watching a heart-warming family film together. And, oh yeah —the DVD had not yet been released, so, no problem—they just got a friend to illegally download it off the internet. And, oh, by the way, they can’t remember the name of that friend. And they just don’t know what happened to that DVD. Yeah. That’s believable.”
“Okay, I’ll admit: that story about the DVD did sound fishy. But that could just be a mother trying to protect her son. It doesn’t prove he killed Sam.”
“It does kinda make you wonder why she’s lying for him, though.” Gail Silestone was reconsidering her ‘Not Guilty’ vote. At 30, she was still single, and had not dated in years. Gail was considered by most to be a tomboy. Some thought she was gay. The truth was she liked being alone. Besides, she wasn’t really alone. Hundreds of people came to see her every day at the Post Office. She had worked for the U.S. Postal Service since she was 19, and had extensive knowledge of postal regulations, as well as eleven year’s worth of daily dirt from people who couldn’t keep secrets.
Mary McJohnson spoke up for the mothers of the world. “A mother’s most important job is to protect her children. Of course his mother lied. You can’t fault her for that.”
By the end of the day, after a considerable amount of discussion, everyone was eager to go home. The final vote for the day came in at: nine ‘Guilty,’ three ‘Not Guilty.’
But the day was not over for Greg. He hoped he could find enough energy to make it through choir rehearsal.
Choir rehearsal would begin in a few minutes. Greg’s office at the church was small, but well positioned, right off the choir room. There was an annoying rattle coming from his old computer; but he really loved the new 17-inch flat panel monitor on his desk. One of his choir members had donated it.
His Kimball upright piano was at least fifty years old, but still sounded great. There was a bookcase of solo music and textbooks behind him. In the corner were several boxes of sample choral pieces, which he had not yet reviewed.
Greg rushed to prepare the Order of Service for Sunday morning. Each week, Dr. Huff gave him the topic for the sermon, and Greg selected hymns, choruses, and choral music that would support the message.
Sometimes matching the choral music to the sermon was difficult, since he liked to rehearse a piece for at least three weeks before performing it on Sunday. Normally, the choir would rehearse six to seven pieces per week, since some of them were of greater difficulty.
Margery Allen knocked and poked her
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