Bicycle Shop Murder by Robert Burton Robinson (parable of the sower read online .TXT) 📕
Greg heard a man shouting in the background, then a commotion. The phone went dead. He felt sick and helpless, like a kid who had just been spun on a merry-go-round at breakneck speed until he flew off. And the dizziness would not soon go away.
Greg wanted to call the police, but what would he tell them? And why did she call him instead of 911? He would call her back. No, he couldn't--he didn't have her number.
Then he felt something on his leg. The ice cream was melting beneath the chocolate shell, and it had collapsed under its own weight, and fallen onto the bed of napkins in his lap.
Still dazed, he sat for a full minute studying the ice cream as it dripped down the sides of the cone onto his hand and arm. Gradually the streams of white turned to pink, then to red-- running down Cynthia's face! A cold chill ripped through his body, and jolted him back to reality. He dropped the cone onto t
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Jenny was smart and spunky and blonde and sexy. And almost always right. She was the best jury consultant Buford had ever used. Now if she would only succumb to his advances. He always had his way with the hot babes. It was just a matter of time before she would come around.
“I’m counting on you, Jenny. Call me later.”
Buford hung up and directed his attention across his massive mahogany desk to the skinny man sitting quietly in a chair. Marty Crumb must have been plagued with horrible acne as a teenager, because his face looked like oatmeal. His 53-year-old voice sounded like ninety years worth of smoking and hard liquor. Buford felt slimy just being in the same room with him.
“Let’s make it quick,” said Buford. “Have you taken care of Cynthia Blockerman?”
Marty started to talk, but instead coughed
and coughed. At least he was covering his mouth. Covering it with hands that had strangled, beat and executed untold numbers of innocent people. He sounded like he might cough up a lung. Then he cleared his throat. Buford prayed he wouldn’t spit on the carpet. Instead, Marty swallowed it, which was no better.
“Mrs. Blockerman is being cooperative. Apparently, she loves her mother and wants her to go on living.”
“Fine. But, that’s more than I wanted to know.”
Marty flashed an evil smile, revealing decaying teeth.
“Just make sure the jury does the right thing. If you want to stay out of prison.”
Marty stood up and gave Buford a bone-chilling stare that lasted several long seconds. He didn’t have a gun or a knife. There were guards in the lobby. And metal detectors. But Marty didn’t need a gun or a knife. He could kill you seventeen different ways.
Just when Buford thought he was about to soil himself, Marty slowly turned, and walked out of the office, leaving the door wide open.
Buford leaned back in his chair, trying to regain his composure, and control over his bladder. He wished he didn’t have to deal with someone such as Marty. But his future had been threatened.
Buford’s first job had been at Sam’s Bicycle Shop, and Sam had been like a father to him. But Sam knew what would happen if he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. It was unfortunate, but sometimes sacrifices must be made.
Nobody would stand in the way of Buford Bellowin.
Angela Hammerly dedicated her life to becoming District Attorney. At 42, she had never been married, or even seriously dated. All she could think about, night and day, was her ultimate goal. And her dream finally came true, thanks to the death of 74-year-old Porter Strickley.
She could not deny that she had learned the job well, working for that old pain-in-the-butt. He was 57 when she interviewed for the position of Assistant District Attorney. At the time, she thought he was 70.
Two months ago, she had become the District Attorney. She loved seeing her name on the door. And she felt a rush of adrenaline every time a judge referred to her as ‘The District Attorney’ in open court. The D.A.‘s office would be better than ever—now that she was running the show.
There was a soft knock, and Andrea Newly opened the door just enough to peek in.
“Come in, Andrea.” Angela sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake two weeks ago when she hired this timid young lady as her assistant. Angela had been impressed with her resume. But in person, Andrea was quiet, and seemed to be rather intimidated by Angela.
But Andrea was enthralled with every word Angela spoke. And the new D.A. couldn’t resist the prospect of being god to her assistant. She had hired her on the spot, even though she knew Andrea would stress her patience.
But Angela was confident the 25-year-old could be molded into her mentor’s image. And thereby, become a powerful force for justice in the D.A.‘s office.
Andrea took a chair across from the D.A. The furniture in the District Attorney’s office was similar to that found in most old government offices-largely unchanged since the 1950s. Yet the hardwood chairs and desks were of such good quality that an exact replacement would be cost prohibitive in today’s market. Angela planned to upsize her diminutive desk as soon as possible, even if the money came out of her own pocket.
“I talked to a couple of old friends in Longview this morning,” said Angela. “One works in the D.A.‘s office, and the other is an ambulance chaser. We went to law school together. Neither of them had any idea why Kyle Serpentine would take Kantrell Jamison’s case pro bono.
“Usually when he does a freebee, he’s hoping to boost his reputation. I don’t see that happening with this case. Especially if he loses. And he will surely lose. So, what’s his motivation?” She was talking to herself more than to Andrea.
“Maybe he just wants to help this poor black family. That’s what pro bono is supposed to be for. To help people who can’t afford an attorney.”
“Oh, Andrea
you’re so naive. With a scummy lawyer like Serpentine, it’s always about helping himself.”
The phone on her desk rang three times before Angela bothered to pick up.
“Yes?
Hi, Sheriff
oh, really
” Angela’s cold face slowly melted into a smile—an evil smile. “Yes, Sheriff, that information may be very helpful to the case
thank you, goodbye.
“Kantrell Jamison’s been talking to his cellmates, one of which is a regular snitch working for the Sheriff. It seems the defendant is expecting to come into a small fortune after he gets off. He has a cousin in Shreveport he plans to move in with. And once he’s there, he will be buying a flashy new car. He’s not sure whether it will be a Cadillac or a Mercedes.”
“Where would he get that kind of money?”
“When we find out the answer to that question, Andrea, then I believe we will know why Mr. Serpentine took this case.”
“Do you think somebody is paying the defendant to keep quiet about something? Maybe he stole more from Sam Spokane than what we thought. And hid it somewhere.”
“Sam never kept much cash around, or anything else of value except his beloved bikes. No. My guess is Mr. Jamison was hired to kill Sam Spokane, and make it look like a robbery gone bad.”
“Wow.”
“Now it’s making sense. The person who wanted Sam dead has paid Kyle Serpentine, or scared him into trying this case. His life might even be at stake. No wonder he’s working so hard to get the jury he wants.”
Maybe the new D.A.‘s first murder trial was not going to be so boring after all, Angela mused, already salivating.
*
Kyle Serpentine pulled into the courthouse parking lot, flipped down the sun visor, and brushed his hair in the mirror. As he admired his handsome reflection, he couldn’t help but smile, thinking about how much fun it was to go up against two fine-looking ladies in court. He would mesmerize them with his irresistible, sexy charm while dealing them a devastating loss.
It was better than any drug—to simultaneously feel the power of his manliness while showing off his superior legal skills. Sure, Buford was counting on him to win this case. But, more important to Kyle Serpentine was adding another win to his ever-growing list of victories.
Little did he know that there was much more at stake than just his ego.
Greg stopped by the courthouse concession stand for a cup of coffee, even though he had already downed four cups at Jane’s Diner across the street. The old man behind the counter reached for Greg’s dollar with a noticeably shaky hand that looked as though it had held more cigarettes and booze than money in its lifetime.
He took his coffee and walked up the stairs to the second floor. There were about fifty people standing in the hallway outside the courtroom making small talk. He recognized a few of them, but was in no mood to start a conversation.
Only four more jurors and two alternates were needed. With a little luck, he would soon be sent on his way. The coffee tasted bitter, but he continued to sip on it anyway, just to occupy himself.
After a few minutes, a woman walked out of the courtroom and spoke to the crowd in monotone. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We are ready to get started. We did not get enough jurors yesterday for the criminal trial, so we are going to use part of today’s panel for that purpose. Those who are not selected for the criminal trial today must appear tomorrow at 8:00 AM for the civil trial jury selection.
“First, I will call the names of the jurors that have already been selected. When I call your name, please go into the courtroom and take your seat in the pews where you sat yesterday. Please sit in the order in which your names are called.”
“Alexander Littleton
Gail Silestone
” The crowd carefully analyzed each person as he walked through the group and into the courtroom. “Mary McJohnson
William Biscayne
Judy McPhearson
John Nihmbor
Nancy Novelle
and Troy Blockerman.”
Greg nearly choked on his coffee. Troy Blockerman! That’s Cynthia’s husband. His blood pressure shot up like a bottle rocket, exploding into a headache.
“And now I will call the names of a portion of today’s panel. Those whose names are not called will need to stay here in the courthouse since we might still need you today. I will let you know when you can go home. Again, please sit in the order in which your names are called. Elsie Olstead
Lory Lip-scomb
Greg Tenorly
“
Seventeen more names were called, but Greg didn’t hear any of them. His numb body didn’t feel the coldness or the hardness of the pew on which he sat. Nor did he notice the buzzing fluorescent light fixture located directly above his head.
He could only think about Cynthia’s husband. Apparently, Troy didn’t yet know the name of his wife’s mystery man. But surely it was just a matter of time before Greg’s identity was revealed to the big, mean drunk who was sitting a few feet away.
David Beachton had predicted it. The prosecutor and the defense attorney took their turns asking questions. Greg answered each question almost robotically. He would be selected. And there was nothing he or anyone else could do to stop it.
He began to come out of his haze when he heard the judge thanking those who had not been selected. There would be a 15-minute break, and then the trial would begin. Greg needed to use that time to call students and cancel lessons.
As he walked into the hallway, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and turned it on. It began to ring. It was an unknown caller. Probably a student canceling his lesson. Good. It would save him the trouble of calling them.
“Hello? This is Greg.”
“Greg, this is Cynthia Blockerman.”
Greg quickly surveyed the hallway. He couldn’t find Troy Blockerman. Maybe he had gone to the restroom, or down to the concession stand.
Greg whispered, “Cynthia, I got selected to serve on the jury for the murder trial. And your husband is on the jury too!”
“Oh, no.”
“Are you okay? How bad did he hurt you?”
“Yes, I’m
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