A Reasonable Doubt by Susan Sloan (free novels .txt) 📕

smiled, more than a few in the gallery tittered, and Grace Pelletier barely managed to stop herself from laughing.  Billy looked surprised.  He hadn’t realized he was being funny.

“Billy,” Lily said, “please tell the jury how you know Jason Lightfoot.”

“Known him from the docks since he was sixteen,” the barkeeper replied.  “Come to work for me after Barney Cosgrove blew himself and his boat to smithereens."  Most of those in the courtroom remembered the Seaworthy and her explosive end and they nodded as Billy spoke.  “Barney been like a father to him, so how could I be less?  His real dad was gone, and his mother wasn’t much use, and I figured the boy needed an anchor -- you know, someplace where he knew he could always come to be safe.”

“And how would you describe Jason to someone who didn’t know him?”

Billy thought about that for a moment.  “Quiet, respectful, real good worker, and minds his own business,” he said finally.

“How many times have you seen Jason drunk?”

“You’d be better askin’ how many times I seen him sober,” the barkeeper replied with a shake of his head.  “He’s been drinkin’ himself to sleep every night since I know him.”

“Do you know why?”

“I know what Jason says -- says it quiets his mind.”

“Do you know what that means?”

“No, not really.  Jason don’t talk much about himself.”

“Does he have a chip on his shoulder about anything?” Lily asked.

“Not that I ever saw.”

“Does he blame anyone for his lot in life?”

Billy shook his head.  “He don’t blame nobody for nothin’.  His life is the one he chose and he knows that, and he seems all right with it.  He don’t cuss, he don’t argue, he don’t fight.  Folks that know him like him.”

“The night of Detective Scott’s death, can you tell the jury what you observed about Jason?”

“He come in to work a little after nine o’clock, just like always on Sundays.  We had a little grease fire in the kitchen, and that took a bit of time to clean up.  So it was almost ten-thirty before he had ate his supper and sat down at the bar.  It was about ten past eleven by the time all the stragglers were gone, and then he mopped up, washed up, had a last drink, took out the garbage, and went home.”

“Home?”

“Home to him,” the barkeeper explained.  “He had a box out back.”

“Was the bar crowded that night?”

“We had an okay crowd.” Billy said, allowing a little pride to creep into his voice.  “And there are always the regulars -- guys who are tryin’ to squeeze the last drop out of Sunday before they have to face up to Monday.”

“How many drinks did Jason have that night?” Lily asked.

“Poured him seven shots of rum,” Billy replied.  “That’s what he drinks -- rum, and he takes it neat.”

“And what time did he leave the bar?”

“I’d say, by the time he was done cleanin’ up everything, eatin’ and drinkin’, it was maybe ten, fifteen minutes before midnight.”

“Would you say that Jason is reliable?”

“Like the sun comin’ up in the mornin’.”

“Would you say he’s conscientious?”

“Never had no complaint.”

“Even when he’s been drinking?”

“He’s a sneak-up drunk,” Billy said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means you never know how it’s affectin’ him until all of a sudden, it just does.  And that’s when his day is done.”

“Billy, did you know Detective Scott?” Lily asked.

“Sure did,” the barkeeper declared.

“How did you know him?”

“He used to come around a lot before he was a detective, when he was on patrol.  He’d come lookin’ for someone he could roust.”

“And how would he do that?”

“He’d hang around outside, waitin’ for someone who’d had maybe a couple too many to leave, and then he’d jump all over ’em.”

“Objection, Your Honor,” John Henry said.  “The man is dead.  He can’t defend himself against such hearsay.”

“Sustained,” Grace Pelletier said.

“All right, never mind what he did,” Lily said smoothly.  “Where would Officer Scott be on those nights he came looking for drunks?”

“Hangin’ around out front, mostly,” Billy replied.

“Out front?  Not out back?  Not in the alley?”

“No,” Billy said.  “Not unless he was specifically lookin’ to bust Jason.  Otherwise, no one else uses the alley.  Everyone comes and goes through the front door.”

“Including you?”

“Includin’ me.”

“Can you think of any reason for Detective Scott to have been in the alley that night?”

“Nope, ’specially considerin’ that once he got hisself promoted, he wasn’t even on the prowl for drunks no more.”

“Did you see Detective Scott that night?’

“Nope.  He used to come in maybe once a month or so, have a beer and leave, but not that night.”

“That night,” Lily inquired, “what time did you leave the bar?”

“I locked up right behind Jason, so it was a few minutes before midnight,” Billy told her.

“And where did you go?”

“I went home.”

“Did you go out the front door or the back?”

“The front.  I keep my car in the lot across the street.”

“Did you hear anything as you went across the street?”

“You mean, did I hear a ruckus comin’ from out back?  No, I didn’t hear nothin’.  That is, nothin’ other than normal noise -- just people on their way home on a Sunday night.”

“Thank you,” Lily said.

. . .

“Would it be fair to say you like Jason Lightfoot?” Tom Lickliter asked on cross-examination.

“It sure would,” Billy said.

“In fact, you sort of see him as a son, don’t you?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Do you have a son, Mr. Fugate?”

“Yep.  Got two.”

“And if one of them was in trouble, real trouble, you’d do your best to help, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d go to the ends of the earth for my boys,” Billy assured him.  “That’s what fathers do.”

“So, if you see the defendant as a son,” the deputy prosecuting attorney pressed, “and he was in trouble, you’d do whatever you could to help him, wouldn’t you?”

“You tryin’ to say somethin’, fella?” Billy asked.  “Why don’tcha just say it out straight?  You askin’ if I would get up here and swear to tell the truth and then lie to