THE ALTERNATE (Part 3 *The End)

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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 baseball cap that 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 

It was time to decide the fate of the accused. Prior to our being sent to deliberate, Judge Maxwell 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 was about to continue, but stopped mid-sentence, interrupted by a loud gurgling that sounded not unlike a cappuccino machine. The juror who’d unknowingly taken an overdose of laxatives suddenly rose from his seat, “Excuse me Your Honor,” he cried out pathetically. Without further explanation, he squeezed by those seated between himself and the aisle. He shuffled slowly, miserably, out the door. The bailiff looked to the judge for instruction.

“Go check on him, Brenda. Get one of the male deputies to look in on him and report back to me.”

“Yes, Judge,” Brenda replied. She wasn’t at all gruff when speaking to His Honor as she had been to me the day I showed up late to report for jury duty.

After a couple of minutes, she came back. “He’s no good to us, Your Honor.”

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

Turning his attention back to those of us remaining in the jury box, Judge Maxwell said, “Let’s begin again, shall we?” 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.

14

 And, just like that, Blake Allen’s fate was in our hands. The bailiff escorted us into a room that was nothing like what I imagined. I suppose that I had expected it to be hot, sweltering, with old, uncomfortable chairs. Like the room in the movie, Twelve Angry Men. I was pleasantly surprised to see our room more resembled a corporate boardroom, with hunter green carpet, elegant wooden wall paneling and wallpaper, a polished wooden tabletop, and swivel chairs.

I briefly considered volunteering to serve as jury foreman, but then thought better of it. I had my own agenda, and I didn’t need to add more to it. As it turned out, there was no shortage of volunteers, and in the end, we chose the music teacher, the fellow who looked like the Dallas Cowboys football coach. Not unexpectedly, he called for a vote before we did anything else, just, as he put it, “to see where we stand.”

Perhaps I was the only one not surprised when it tallied eleven Guilty, one Not Guilty. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” the skinny guy with the bad combover blurted. “There’s one in every crowd!” He looked around the room, “Who is it?”

“That would be me,” I said. “I’m not convinced beyond a reasonable doubt.” We deliberated. And voted. Deliberated again. Voted again. The results never changed. Toward the end of the day, the foreman sent a message to the judge. We were deadlocked.

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Throughout the deliberations up to this point, I had kept hammering on the lack of quality of the video, and how I was not convinced that it was in fact Blake Allen that was shoving the clerk, Harvey Wilson. Even if it was, a threat does not kill anyone. All it shows is that someone is angry enough to say they will kill the other person.

No one bought it. “How do you explain the dog feces on his shoe?” one would say.

“Or in his car?” another would add.

“And then there’s the shoe print in the pile of dog pooh!” the petite seventy-something lady with the penetrating eyes joined in. “It was a perfect match!”

I shook my head. “It was smeared. A little, anyway. I just feel that we’re missing something.”

And so it went, for hours on end. I have to admit they had me in a corner, but I held my ground. All I had to do was wear them down. Wait for an opportunity. Then, when the time was right, I would play my ace.

            The judge had us come back into the courtroom. We were joined by the attorneys for both sides. The judge got right to the point.

"Members of the Jury:

I ask that you continue your deliberations in an effort to reach agreement upon a verdict and dispose of this case. The trial has been expensive in time, effort, financial and emotional strain to both the defense and the prosecution. If you should fail to agree upon a verdict, the case will be left open and may have to be tried again, and there is no reason to believe that the case can be tried again by either side any better or more exhaustively than it has been tried before you.”

The foreman fidgeted, cast an angry glance my way.

             The judge said, “If a substantial majority of your number are in favor of a conviction, those of you who disagree should reconsider whether your doubt is a reasonable one since it appears to make no effective impression upon the minds of the others.”

            A couple of my fellow jurors were staring at me. I looked at them, shook my head. No. Not going to happen.

“If, on the other hand,” the judge said, “a majority or even a lesser number of you are in favor of an acquittal, the rest of you should ask yourselves again, and most thoughtfully, whether you should accept the weight and sufficiency of evidence which fails to convince your fellow jurors beyond a reasonable doubt.

“Remember at all times that no juror is expected to give up his or her honest belief as to the significance or effect of the evidence; but, after full deliberation and consideration of the evidence in the case, it is your duty to agree upon a verdict if you can do so.

“You must also remember that if the evidence in the case fails to establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, the Defendant should have your unanimous verdict of Not Guilty.”

I nodded approvingly, showing my complete agreement with the judges final words to us. I pretended not to hear the heavy sighs all around me in the jury box.

We were taken back into our now all-too-familiar deliberation chamber. The foreman called for another vote, no doubt in the hope that the judge’s intervention would change my way of thinking. Again, eleven to one.

The reactions were instantaneous, coming at me at once from every direction.

“For the love of God!—”

“I don’t know about you—,

“I’m losing two grand a day stuck in this—”

“—some kind of power trip—”

I have a life to get back—”

“—desperate cry for attention?”

I let them vent, get it all out. Then, it was my turn to talk. “Remember earlier, when I told you that I felt that we were missing something?” A few nodded. Some glared at me. Others showed that “thousand yard stare” that is common among soldiers suffering combat fatigue.

I had saved my best for last. Had I said it before, they would have dismissed it. Now, they were ready to listen. “It was the dog poop,” I said.

“What about it?” one demanded.

“That’s the proof right there!” the foreman said.

“I agree,” I said. “That is the proof!” I held up a hand. “Just hear me out.” The room went quiet. Not that anyone was really prepared to listen. I could tell by the way they were looking at their watches, at the door, the ceiling, anything but me, that they were thinking about how much longer they were going to be stuck with this lunatic. How much longer before we would be considered a hung jury and dismissed.

“Take a look again at the photograph of the dog poop on the sidewalk,” I directed them. No one moved. “I can wait as long as you can,” I said. There were exaggerated sighs, angry glares, all the things you’d expect under the circumstances. I didn’t care. I had to do this. “I am willing to concede that the defendant did in fact step in it.”

“Hallelujah!” the foreman shouted, jumping to his feet. “Let’s take one final vote and get out of here!”

I shook my head. “Not yet. I figured out what we’ve been missing.” Dull stares, silence. “Look at the direction that the shoe was pointed.” I paused a moment for effect. “It’s pointed toward the victim’s house!” I nearly choked on the word ‘victim’. That’s the last thing that Harvey Wilson was.

Skinny Combover shouted, “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

I pressed on, “If he stepped in it on the way in, why is there no dog poop inside the victim’s house?” You could have heard a pin drop.

“Well,” Skinny said, “that doesn’t prove anything. It only means that the defendant was in fact outside the house sometime that night.”

I said, “Here’s what I think may have happened. The defendant was probably the one doing the shoving and making the threats. I’ll concede that. He showed up that night, fully intending to kill the victim, then at the last minute, lost his nerve, or maybe he looked in the window and saw the dead body and panicked.”

“Or saw the real killer,” the seventy-something lady jumped in. I didn’t like the way she was looking at me. She reminded me of the neighbor lady who’d testified. The one person who might remember enough to send me away for a long time.

“That’s a real possibility,” I acknowledged. I knew I had them. “Then, he decides to leave. Doesn’t mean that he forgave the guy. Doesn’t mean he didn’t still intend to kill him . . .”

“Someone else beat him to it, you’re saying?” the foreman drew the conclusion for himself.

“Quite possibly. I think that is worth considering,” I nodded. “Harvey Wilson did have a lot of enemies.”

Skinny Combover even came on board, sort of, “And you think Mr. Allen stepped in the dog crap on the way in? And then changed his mind for whatever reason, and left without going inside the house?”

Uh, yeah, that’s what I said, I thought. To him, I said. “Yes sir, I do.”

“Well why couldn’t he just take off his shoes before he went into the house? You ever think of that?”

“No,” I honestly hadn’t, but it played right into my hand anyway, “but if he was that smart, wouldn’t he have not worn them in the car? And wouldn’t he have discarded them in a dumpster on the way home instead of in his own trash can?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Skinny Combover said. “I suppose it’s possible he didn’t do it, but I’ll lay odds . . . ten to one he did it!”

The foreman sighed, then said to Skinny Combover, “So, you admit that you do have a reasonable doubt . . .” He looked around the room at each member of the jury, lastly me, and nodded. “I think we need to vote again.”