THE ALTERNATE (Part 2)

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8

My mind wandered as we listened 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 knew the defendant was innocent. The important thing now was for me to come up with a way for me 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 eff’in’ 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.

Another 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 of the courtroom.

As I said, there was no doubt that 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. 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 an attractive woman a few years my senior. Lucy. I soon realized that 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 on the dolly up the steps 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 done it 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 some day.

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.

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.

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.

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