The Alternate (Part Two)

The Alternate (Part Two)

Copyright Wayne Baker writing as Austin Jett

7

It wasn’t all that difficult to become one of the fourteen chosen to sit in the jury box. Not twelve. Fourteen. As it was explained to us, in order to cover unforeseen circumstances, such as sickness, death, inappropriate behavior, et cetera, it is common to choose a couple of alternate jurors. All fourteen of us would listen to the case as if we would be deciding it. Once the jury went to deliberate the case, any remaining alternates would be dismissed. If a problem arose after that with a sick juror, or whatever, those remaining would be charged with coming up with the verdict. The idea, I suppose, is that once deliberations have begun, it only muddies the water to bring in someone who has not been a part of that deliberation from the beginning. Makes sense.

I was the second alternate. If I was going to be of any help in preventing an innocent man from going to prison for many years, I had to come up with a plan, find a way to get not one, but two jurors out of the way sometime before the end of the trial.

8

My mind wandered as the prosecuting attorney presented the state’s case against Blake Allen. It wasn’t really all that important that I take it all in. After all, I already knew the defendant was innocent. The important thing was for me to come up with a way to get rid of two jurors.

When I say get rid of, I don’t mean dispatch them like I did Harvey Wilson. No, I had punched his ticket to Hell for a just cause. The world was a little bit safer now that he was gone. I likened it to a story I’d read once about sheep, the sheep dog, and the wolf. Basically, most people are like sheep, unable or unwilling to protect themselves or their loved ones from the wolf, the evil ones. Then there are sheepdogs, those who risk their own welfare to defend the flock. I suppose you could say I’m a sheepdog.

9

There were five witnesses who testified that they had seen Mr. Allen shove Harvey Wilson and heard him threaten his life. The details, such as the exact wording of the threat (“I’m gonna effin’ kill you, you mothereff’er” vs. “You mess with my kid, you’re eff’in’ dead,” whether he shoved him with the left or right hand, or both, things like that) varied slightly from one individual to another, but the theme was common and left little doubt that threats were made, even though the defense acted like it was a big deal. One detail that they all agreed on, though, was that Blake Allen did in fact say “eff’in’” rather than the genuine Queen Mother of all swear words. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I found that amusing.

One witness, a little old lady who was in the habit of monitoring the comings and goings in the neighborhood, confidently pointed out the defendant as the man that she had seen walking toward Harvey Wilson’s house on the night of the murder. She kept looking at me, which was quite unnerving. No doubt, the prying old bitty had seen me on numerous occasions. I could tell that she was itching to say something, but the prosecutor kept his questions to a minimum, and the defense attorney kept focusing on the subjects of her eyesight and her memory. Unfortunately for him, she had no trouble at all reading an eye chart that he had brought in, even when the judge granted him permission to have the lights dimmed. As for her memory, well, she was sharper than most people I know. I was glad to see her step down from the stand. I looked down, as if studying my notes, but I could still feel her icy stare as she made her way out the courtroom.

As I said, there was no doubt in my mind the old lady had seen me before. Once I had committed myself to the task of bringing Harvey Wilson to justice, I began looking for an apartment in the general area where he lived. In the process I found something even better. One day, sitting at an outdoor table at a local coffee shop, perusing the classifieds, I struck up a conversation with Lucy, an attractive woman a few years my senior. I soon realized it could work to my advantage to befriend her. So, I did. Saved me the trouble of finding a place, putting down a deposit, moving. I would drop by Lucy’s place once or twice a week, and we’d go for coffee or lunch, occasionally a movie. One thing led to another.

I never moved in with Lucy, but I did spend a lot of time at her place, if you get my meaning. I made a point of driving past Harvey Wilson’s house on my way to and from Lucy’s, doing drive-by surveillance. I was able to learn when he came and went. From that minimal information, I learned what time to be in position to intercept him and follow him to and from work, and his route, which rarely varied. Good things to know if you are planning an ambush, but then I needed more detail on his neighborhood. How to get in and get out unnoticed. For that, I needed to find a way to spend time doing a more thorough reconnaissance.

I found the perfect solution at the animal shelter. I surprised Lucy with a Labrador puppy for her birthday. By this time, most nights, Lucy would cook my supper, so I’d come over early and take the puppy for a walk. Three or four times a week we would go by Harvey Wilson’s home. I established my presence in the neighborhood, never stopping to talk, just nodding and saying “hello” only when I had to, careful not to give anyone a good look under my wide-brimmed hat. The only time I stopped was when Oscar — the name Lucy had given the pup — needed to do his business. I always made sure to carry a plastic bag to clean up after him. Almost always. There was the one time when I forgot.

10

The first day of the trial came and went. That night, I barely slept at all. My back was hurting, still protesting from my encounter with the washing machine over the weekend. On top of that, I was worried about the outcome of the trial, how an innocent man could go to prison for something that I did. Some sheepdog I was. Blake Allen’s kid not only suffered at the hands of Harvey Wilson, but now might lose a father as well.

Not that Mr. Allen wouldn’t or couldn’t have committed murder himself, given enough time and opportunity. I had just gotten there first. The fact that he had murder in his heart was not enough for me to let him do time for me. But, hell, I didn’t want to go to prison either. How was I going to get myself in on the deliberation? If I didn’t get some sleep, there was a very real chance that I could be removed from the jury myself if I couldn’t stay awake during the trial.

I got up to go to the bathroom and decided to take some Tylenol PM. They would knock me out, and provided that I set a couple of alarm clocks, I’d feel better in the morning. I walked into the bathroom, plopped three tablets into my mouth, filled a glass at the sink and took a sip of water. Suddenly, I spit them out! I looked in the mirror and said, “That’s it!”

11

The second day of the trial began with even more damning testimony against Blake Allen. The entire shoving incident was caught on video surveillance, which the prosecutor presented as Exhibit # 1.

Harvey Wilson had worked at a convenience store, ironically the very one I’d stopped at on the way to report to jury duty. I’d been buying gas there lately, even though it was not the cheapest in town. Something about being in the place where Harvey Wilson had once been an established presence made me feel good, at peace with myself. I didn’t pretend to understand it. Maybe I need to talk to someone about that someday.

Nah.

Remember I told you earlier the defendant was a dumbass – I mean, come on! Is there anyone out there who does not know that all convenience stores have video surveillance? Duh!

The fellow sitting next to me in the jury box began to nod. After a while, his head would jerk up. Seconds later, he started the head bob routine again, and it wasn’t long before he leaned in on me. I flinched, perhaps a bit more dramatically than I would have normally, but my intent was to draw attention. I turned and placed a hand on his shoulder to shake him. “Whaaah?” he snorted, then sat upright, looking around, obviously dazed and confused. It wasn’t his fault, really. No one could be expected to remain alert after having four Tylenol PM ground up and sprinkled on their scrambled eggs at breakfast.

The judge called for a recess, during which time he met with Sleepy in his chambers, scolded him for sleeping during the trial. When Sleepy nodded off yet again— this time while listening to the judge—he was promptly dismissed from jury duty. Unfortunately, the judge appointed the other alternate, an older woman with a permanent scowl on her face, to take Sleepy’s place on the jury.

One down. One to go. I estimated it would be another hour or so before the next one began having problems with the laxatives I had provided.

12

The video showed someone who bore a strong resemblance to Blake Allen shoving and yelling at Harvey Wilson. A very strong resemblance, but – the video was grainy, and the subject was wearing a Rays baseball cap, which partially obscured his face. When combined with the eyewitness testimony, it wasn’t really much help. It did, however, clearly show that he’d used both hands to shove Harvey. For whatever that was worth.

And then, there was the dog shit.

On the night of the murder, or as I preferred to think of it, the night that justice was carried out, I had taken Oscar out for a walk. Lucy was working late and wouldn’t be back until around midnight. We were less than half a block away from Harvey’s house when Oscar decided it was time to take a huge dump. And I do mean huge. Oscar was still a puppy at heart, but he had grown to full size by then, and when he went, he went big.

I had been so focused on the task at hand – I knew this was going to be the night – that in my haste to get out the door, I’d forgotten to take along a plastic bag. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be coming back to this neighborhood again anyway. I got to Harvey’s house, dropped the leash and let Oscar find his own way home.

Well, it’s all in the details, isn’t it? When the police picked up Blake Allen, they found dog shit on his garage floor. They found dog shit on the floor of his car. And when they looked at the pair of sneakers he’d discarded in the trash, they found dog shit on the bottom of his right shoe. The fact that the shoe was a perfect match for the photograph of the print that was made in the steaming pile left by Oscar was –– I had to chuckle in spite of myself – Exhibit # 2!

Something about that grabbed my attention, though. And the wheels began to turn in my head. I felt a wave of relief, the left corner of my mouth turned up slightly as I suppressed a smile and nodded. I put my pen to paper, jotting down notes that could be significant later, if I could only manage to position myself on the jury come time for deliberation. Why hadn’t the laxatives kicked in yet?

13

The trial didn’t take long. Both sides had presented their cases and closing arguments. The judge turned to address the jury. I was certain this was the moment I would be dismissed. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, then abruptly stopped, interrupted by a loud gurgling not unlike a cappuccino machine.

The juror who’d unknowingly taken an overdose of laxatives suddenly rose from her seat, “Excuse me Your Honor,” she cried out pathetically. Without further explanation, she squeezed by those seated between herself and the aisle. She shuffled slowly, miserably, out the door.

The bailiff looked to the judge for instruction.

“Go check on her and report back to me.”

“Yes, Judge,” the bailiff replied.

After a couple of minutes, the bailiff came back. “She’s no good to us, Your Honor.”

“See to it she gets any help that she needs. Tell her she’s dismissed and thank her for serving. We’ll go with the remaining alternate juror.”

The judge sequestered us in a nearby hotel with instructions not to discuss the trial to anyone.

The next morning, we reconvened. It was time to decide the fate of the accused.

Prior to our being sent to deliberate, the judge told us, "Your verdict must represent the considered judgment of each juror. In order for you to return a verdict, it is necessary that each juror agree thereto. Your verdict must be unanimous.” He then proceeded to say that we were to consult with one another, but to vote as we honestly believed appropriate according to the evidence that had been presented, and not to allow others to coerce us to do otherwise.