The Invisible Cipher - A Jagged Journeys' Novella by Ida Smith
Rubens scrutinized Neil.
“Trust me. I had no idea who those people were.”
“So you didn’t know the Parsons were related to that man out there?”
“No.”
“So you expect me and the court to believe that your truck just happened to break down in front of their house?”
“It did.”
Rubens narrowed his eyes at Neil. “How can I be sure you’re not making this up?”
Neil sat in the hard wood chair and massaged his forehead. How could he prove his innocence all chained up? If he could just look at his truck in the daylight—“Leonard.”
“What?”
“A man came to visit me. His name’s Leonard Black. He said he’d look over my truck.”
“The police have it impounded.”
A guard brought a couple trays of food.
Neil shoveled a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “You know.” He swallowed. “He said something interesting.”
“Who? Charley or this Leonard Black?”
“Leonard. He said he wanted to see if the truck had been tampered with.”
Rubens pulled out his notebook. “How do I get in touch with this Leonard Black?”
***
Neil sat helplessly as the prosecution built its case against him. He had to admit, for someone who hadn’t been there the prosecution certainly made it sound like he was guilty.
Early in the afternoon of the second day the banker testified that Walter Parsons didn’t believe in keeping his money in the bank and that he’d cashed an eight-hundred dollar check that morning.
The prosecution then called the arresting officer. “When you arrested Mr. Gatlin, what was he driving?”
“The Parsons’ 1960 Plymouth.”
“What was his condition?”
“He had blood on his hands and clothes.”
“I show you exhibit B.” The prosecutor held up a bundle of money. “Do you recognize it?”
The officer took the wad of money and looked it over. “Yes.”
“Can you tell the court where you found it?”
“One of my deputies found it stuffed under the front seat of the Parsons’ car.”
There was a gasp from those watching.
“What was the condition of the money when you found it?”
“It had blood on it.”
Neil glanced back at Sunshine. She stared at her hands and shook her head back and forth ever so slightly. He regretted ever leaving home to look for work.
“Can you tell the court how much money is there?”
“Eight-hundred dollars.”
Gasps, whispers, and shuffling filled the court. “Quiet,” ordered the Judge.
During cross examination Rubens paced before the witness stand. “Officer Tweed, you testified that there was blood on the money. Were there fingerprints?”
“No.”
“Were there drops of blood on the money?”
“No.”
“So how would you describe the appearance of the blood on the money?”
“Bloody smudge marks.”
“How large were these smudge marks?”
“About an inch each.”
“Would you say they are about the size of fingertips?”
“Sort of?”
“Maybe gloved fingertips?”
“Objection.”
“Overruled.”
“Would you say the smudge marks were the size of a gloved fingertip?” Rubens repeated.
“Yes.”
“Where was it you caught Mr. Gatlin?”
“Just outside of town.”
“Outside of Cleavemont?”
“Yes.”
“What direction was he headed?”
The officer looked down at his shoes. “West,” he mumbled.
“I didn’t hear you, can you repeat that?”
“West.”
“West. Back to town?”
“Yes.”
“And why did you pull him over?”
“He was driving the Parsons’ car.”
“Is it not true that a call had come in about a possible murder at the Parsons’ place?”
“Yes.”
“So you were looking for the Parsons’ car?”
“We had a road block set up and were searching all vehicles.”
“Why would you set up a road block so near to town?”
“In case the killer came back to town.”
“Weren’t you concerned that the killer might go the other direction?”
“We were and had contacted the police in Dusky and Sanger to set up road blocks.”
“Thank you, that will be all,” Rubens said. “Your Honor, I would like to continue this line of questioning with a different witness.”
The prosecutor stood. “Your Honor, I object. I fail to see any value in this line of questioning.”
“Your Honor, I believe it will be clear shortly.”
The judge scowled at both lawyers, his jowls red from heat. “If you can do so quickly.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Rubens turned to the courtroom. “I’d like to call Miss Janice Sims.”
A woman in her early forties dressed in a green spotted, short-sleeved dress took the oath.
“Miss Sims, could you please state your occupation?”
“I am a switchboard operator.”
“How long have you been a switchboard operator?”
She thought a moment, “Nineteen, twenty years.”
“Have you always worked here in Cleavemont?”
“Yes, sir.”
“After that long of time, do you recognize people’s voices?”
She glanced into the spectators and licked her thin, red lips. “Sometimes,” she said, drawing the word out.
Rubens nodded. “Were you working the night of the murder?”
“I was.”
“At what time did you receive a call about a possible murder at the Parsons’ residence?”
“At twenty-six minutes past eight.”
“And what did the caller say?”
“That they were talking with Mrs. Parsons on the phone when she screamed, ‘No, don’t hurt us,’ and then the line went dead.”
“Did the caller identify him or herself?”
“No, sir.”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“Objection.”
The judge looked down from his bench. “Mr. Rubens. Where are you going with this line of questioning?”
“Your Honor. I’m trying to establish how the crime, having been committed in a rural location, was discovered so quickly.”
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said. “I fail to see what impact this has on the case.”
“Your Honor, I hope to show that the real murderer alerted the police and framed my client.”
“That is preposterous,” said the prosecutor.
“I believe there’s enough questionable evidence to hear him out,” said the judge. “Carry on.”
“Miss Sims,” Rubens continued. “Was the caller a man or a woman?”
The woman fidgeted. “A man.”
“Did you recognize the voice?”
She glanced about the court. “Well, um.”
“Just answer the question.”
“It’s hard to say.”
“Miss Sims, I remind you that you are under oath,” Rubens said. “Did you recognize the voice?”
She looked at someone behind the prosecutor and licked her lips again.
The judge’s voice boomed from the bench. “The witness will answer the question.”
She nodded at him. “Well, sometimes voices sound like one person when it’s really someone else.” Her own voice had raised an octave and faltered.
“Who do you think it sounded like?” Rubens asked.
“Objection. Speculation on the part of the witness.”
“Sustained.”
Rubens mopped his brow with a handkerchief.
“Your Honor, it’s clear the witness is withholding information and protecting someone,” Rubens said.
“Still calls for speculation on the part of the witness. Objection sustained.”
Rubens toyed with his thick mustache. “I’m through for now, but I’d like to reserve the right to recall this witness at a later date.”
“The witness may step down.”
Scotty, who Neil had played pool with, testified that Neil had mentioned he was on the run, in need of money, and had a pregnant girl he was eager to see in Indiana.
Neil leaned over to Rubens, “I never mentioned Sunshine to anyone and never would have said I was on the run. In fact I told them I was headed for Chicago.”
“The story he’s sharing was reported in several papers,” Rubens said.
“What was Mr. Gatlin’s state of mind?” The prosecutor asked.
“He seemed angry and desperate,” Scotty said.
“How much alcohol did he consume?”
“I’m not sure, mind you he’d been drinking before he joined us and he had another four to six beers while we played pool.”
“I did not,” Neil whispered. “I had maybe three all together.”
Rubens motioned with his hand for Neil to be quiet and made a notation on his pad.
***
At the end of the third day Rubens called Leonard Black to the witness stand. There were muffled whispers as the tall, medium-built man approached.
“Mr. Black, what do you do for a living?”
“I own a farm equipment store.”
“Would you say you’re familiar with the workings of machines?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Including automobiles?”
“Yes.”
“Have you examined Mr. Gatlin’s truck?”
“I have.”
“And what did you find?”
“That the fan belt was missing.”
Several of the men in the jury box leaned forward.
“Mr. Black, what would be the result of a missing fan belt?”
“The engine would overheat.”
“Preventing the vehicle from continuing on?”
“Yes, sir.”
“My client claims that he attempted to determine what caused the truck to overheat but couldn’t get his flashlight to work. Did you have an opportunity to examine the flashlight?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What did you find?”
“That the batteries had been removed.”
“Thank you.”
The judge looked toward the prosecutor. “Would the prosecution like to cross examine the witness?”
“Not at this present time, Your Honor. It is getting late and I would like to confer with my associates about this new evidence.”
The judge banged his gavel. “Court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”
As Leonard stepped down from the witness stand, Willis ducked out of the courtroom.
***
That night Leonard brought Sunshine to the jail. She wept as she sat across from Neil. Neil couldn’t look enough at her pale cheeks and soft lips. But at the same time he abhorred the pain he caused her—a pain so strong he sometimes wanted to turn away.
“I’m so sorry, Sunshine. I don’t know how this happened.”
She looked at him with red, puffy eyes, her lips pressed tight.
He knew she was trying to be so strong, trying to hold back the tears.
“I didn’t do it. Please know, I would never kill anyone.”
Sunshine glanced at the table.
“Do you believe me?”
She inhaled. “I’m…I’m trying to. I know you. But what they say—it’s so convincing.”
Neil tapped the table, his eyes no longer on her.
“Why?” She paused. “Why do they make it sound, well, like you did it?”
“Because they can. With my bad luck I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and somebody took advantage of that and framed me.” He looked at her. “If I had it to do over again I’d never have left home.”
She smiled. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too. Where are you staying?”
“With Mr. Black and his wife. They have been so kind. His wife has even bought a few things for the baby.”
“How are you feeling?”
Sunshine rubbed her belly that protruded under her bright floral print dress. “It’s going to be soon. I sometimes have contractions.”
Neil turned his head and squeezed back the tears. “I hope I’m out in time.”
“I do too. I keep thinking—”
A guard opened the door. “Visiting hours are over.” He grabbed Neil by the arm and forced him up. “Come on.”
“I love you, Sunshine.”
“I love you too.” Her face clouded.
Neil was pulled from the room before he could say or do anything.
***
The following morning the prosecutor recalled the detective, who testified they had indeed found the fan belt was missing from Neil’s truck.
Behind him, Neil heard Sunshine’s gasp. A faint breath of hope.
“Is it possible the fan belt broke as he drove?” The prosecutor asked.
“It is.”
“Did you attempt to find the fan belt?”
“We did. We searched the road between town and the Parsons’ place.”
“Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
A murmur spread throughout the courtroom.
“Where did you find it?”
“In a field across from the defendant’s truck. About fifty feet from the road. It’s as though he flung it.”
Neil stared in disbelief, his mouth agape.
“Objection.” Rubens was on his feet.
Whispers erupted.
“Enough.” The judge banged his gavel.
“Your Honor,” Rubens said. “The witness’s comment is purely speculation and opinion.”
The judge nodded. “Sustained. The jury shall disregard the witness’s last comment.”
Neil felt the glare of almost everyone in the room burning into his head, shoulders, and back. He couldn’t believe what had just transpired. His face fell forward into his hands. How he wished he’d awake from this horrible nightmare.
“How can you be sure this fan belt belonged to my client’s pickup?” Rubens asked during cross questioning.
“It is the same size that would fit the defendant’s pickup,” the detective said.
“We’re there fingerprints on it?”
“No.”
“Now isn’t that interesting. How do you account that my client’s fingerprints show up on a door knob but not on the fan belt of his own pickup?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, even though it is the same kind of fan belt, you can’t prove that it is the fan belt that came from my client’s pickup?”
The detective shifted his weight. “It was a used belt.”
“How many vehicles use that size of fan belt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your Honor.” the prosecutor rose. “Defense is grasping at straws.”
“Objection, Your Honor. I am making a valid point. Anyone could have thrown a fan belt into that field between Leonard Black’s testimony yesterday and the search yesterday evening.”
“I’m siding with the prosecution. I think this court has heard enough of these speculative theories. Do you have any further questions for the witness, Mr. Rubens?”
Rubens squinted at the judge, prosecutor, and detective. “No.” He returned to his seat next to Neil and muttered, “Some court of law.”
The judge addressed both lawyers. “Are there any more witnesses?”
“No.”
“Then prosecution will make its closing statement.”
The young prosecutor stood, straightened his suit, his leather patent shoes tapped against the court’s wood floor as he approached the jury.
“Men and women of the jury,” began the prosecutor. “In a community this size I’m sure many of you knew Walter and Harriet Parsons.”
Most of the jurors nodded.
“Their horrible and early deaths bring grief.” He paused. “But they also bring fear. Fear that the same horrific demise could befall any of us.”
More nods.
“Inside, we each desire safety. But safety can only come when there is justice.”
Each juror watched him, following his every move.
“Before your very eyes you have seen how Mr. Gatlin had motive and opportunity to commit the crime. He was found in the victims’ automobile, covered in their blood, with the money they had just been paid. In addition, his fingerprints and footprints were also found at the scene of the crime. Men and women of the jury, I promise you, it doesn’t get more obvious than this. All attempts to make it appear that there was another murderer are simply attempts by the defendant to cover his tracks.”
Neil saw the agreement on their faces.
“No, no,” Sunshine said, her voice hoarse.
Rubens reached across and gave Neil’s hand a fatherly squeeze, then rose.
The jury settled back in their seats. A large man crossed his arms.
“Like all of you, I too live in a small town and understand the anger when one of my neighbors is violated. In a small town we also know when there is an outsider in our midst and by the sheer fact that we don’t know them, we automatically distrust them.”
A couple jurors nodded their heads.
“On the other hand, we who live in small towns take for granted that we know each other and each other’s comings and goings. We know each other’s idiosyncrasies. There is a trust that is created in all this knowing. A trust that isn’t always earned.”
The large man glared at Rubens, his arms still crossed.
“I’m sure the banker is not the only one in town who knew Walter Parsons didn’t trust the bank.” He paused and surveyed every face, several gave looks that indicated they were among those who knew. “Anyone who was in the bank when Mr. Parsons cashed his check had opportunity to see all eight-hundred dollars counted out in tens and twenties, as you’ve heard testified.”
Neil liked Rubens’ logic. He hoped the jury would buy it.
“As an outsider, my client would have no way of knowing either Mr. or Mrs. Parsons, their distrust of banks, that Mr. Parsons possessed eight-hundred dollars, or where they lived. Neil Gatlin’s arrival at their door on the night of Friday, May 8, 1964, was purely to request assistance for his broken down truck.”