Turnbull: Based on a True Story Read online



  Turnbull

  Based on a True Story

  By Jonathan C. Jackson

 

  ©Copyright 2013 Jonathan Jackson

  “….In the name of God. Do your duty.”

  -Atticus Finch, To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (1960)

  Part I

  “I can do this.”

  “Come on in. Don’t lag! Get in here and let’s get this over with.”

  Throughout the pursuit of my education, especially in the graduate school realm, I have encountered people who feel that their own time should be more valuable to the rest of the world than the breath they take. This occasion was no exception but this particular invitation turned out to be a real life changer, for two usually stubborn and unyielding individuals – myself and my host.

  When we talk of history, we talk of facts and momentous remembrances, but we almost always forget the Human side of everything. We don’t consider that the man who just drove his car across the Bonneville Salt Flats to set a speed record in 1941 had a head cold and a sneeze that snuck up on him almost resulted in a catastrophic crash. We don’t consider that the boy who just delivered the newspaper by throwing it up onto the top of a shrub will come back the next day and aim for another spot just as inconvenient. We especially don’t think about things like the black and white photograph of the man with arms thrown wide to stretch and yawn on a New York City sidewalk – the same man just stepped off the elevator in the building behind him and left a great deal of gas for the next passenger to enjoy.

  Let’s keep it all in perspective. We read of crimes and trials in the newspapers and it’s simply a recitation of fact, supposition, conjecture and hopefully true revelations of actions. We don’t consider hidden biases of jurors, or that the judge may be playing Sudoku on his bench where no one can see. We don’t consider the defense attorney who knows without doubt that his client is guilty but is obligated to give him adequate representation. We don’t consider that the State’s case is weak and barely passes the threshold for proof beyond a reasonable doubt to convict. To us, it’s just black and white news print and none of the human element. Never mind the mother of the man being convicted is standing in the back of the court room sobbing and experiencing heart palpitations. Let’s keep it all in perspective.

  That’s how the interview went for me. This significant meeting became a benchmark for pretty much everything I would do for several years. Please don’t misunderstand the purpose of what you’re reading. This isn’t at all about me. I just happen to be the one fortunate enough to grasp hold of a small sliver of information to allow it to reveal itself as a drama that in a different social circle, or a different time frame, could have reached global importance.

  Having once romanticized the idea of being a writer, I imagined it would be entertaining to enroll in a creative writing class in lieu of an undergraduate literature class that I had been putting off for three years. My ACT scores were high enough to get me into college, but unlike many of my friends, weren’t high enough to exempt me from the drudgery of “core curriculum prison”. I had already completed a couple of English Comp and Lit classes but the last one was like a pendulous weight hanging over me. I had to take it now, so I could graduate in the fall. Seriously though, just how hard could a writing class be?

  That first day of class, I strolled into creative writing with my book bag over my shoulder and my coffee in hand, ready to start my William Sidney Porter phase of life, (that’s O’Henry to most of y’all). By the shock I received entering that class; I realized that I was wrong about a lot of things. I heard sitar music playing softly from a tape player on the desk and the shades were drawn. Was it nap time? I wasn’t even the first to arrive and I am always twenty minutes early everywhere I go.

  There was no cardigan-wearing, pipe smoking, and mustachioed, grand-fatherly professor that I’ve seen around campus. I was hoping for a Samuel Clemmons aka Mark Twain as I was taking on the role of O’Henry. Instead there was a really cute, if not barely-in-her-twenties, woman dressed as you would expect a half-hearted hippie from the late 1960s. She had long braided hair with a silk scarf tied around it. She was dressed in flowing dress and blouse with a dozen huge bracelets around her wrists. Despite all of the bangles, I just had to consider, “since when were college professors allowed to be good looking? Isn’t there some rule that says if they don’t look like academics, they should be crones or New York cab driver types?”

  I later learned that many undergraduate courses were taught by graduate teaching assistants who weren’t “real professors” at all. They were that caste of slave labor that each collegiate department had that consisted of tuition paying students who had aspirations of actually being experts or professors in their fields. When the professor had a hangover or a golf game, or worse, a shopping excursion, that was who would teach their classes. Some, mine, were fortunate enough to have a complete class of their own. None the less, despite only being a GTA, she still leveraged a great deal of influence as she was going to be issuing a final grade to us.

  Also in my classroom were about two dozen other students. Each of them had the same lost look glazing their eyes. I don’t think, like me, any of them expected this either. I shared their pain. The instructor cheerfully invited me in and asked my name. After scanning a class roster on a clip board, she directed me to an assigned seat. Wonderful, a seating chart; back to grade school we will go. I don’t usually object to order and organization but I did hope to sit somewhere in an anonymous back corner of the room so I could goof off should the urge hit me.

  We were given our introduction and an immediate assignment to write three paragraphs about what was most pressing on our minds at that exact moment. Seriously, did she really want to read what I was thinking? Here I was experiencing a serious case of “teacher crush.” I didn’t want to write about politics or my most recent spiritual epiphany. I didn’t even want to write the lyrics to that ominous song about Iron Man that had been stuck in my head since seeing a bumper sticker at a red light that morning touting an old heavy metal rock group. It was creative writing after all, so I became creative and quickly drafted a short essay about my love of music of the Indian culture. Total malarkey, yes of course, but it was off-the-cuff and my appreciation for it wasn’t totally a fabrication.

  I learned over the course of a few weeks, that amid my other core classes, the creative writing was just as much of a hassle as any other. There was no great writing project with overtones of winning awards and scholarships. There was no romance, and no glamour. Well, almost; my imagination filled in a lot when she would lecture about rhythm and flow of a story.

  Midway through the semester we were given an unusual option for our class. We could stay in the classroom and continue to study the writings of other people and take tests or we could “innovate.” Innovate, as my teacher described it, was a gamble. We would leave class and not return until the day of the final exams. On that day, we would turn in one hundred pages of original, creative writing.

  The focus of the instructions was on the word, original. This was a creative writing class and the idea of copying someone else’s work never crossed my mind until the instructor brought it up. What’s the point? We’d heard horror stories from a variety of professors and instructors over the years about students who plagiarized their work. None of use wanted to end up in that never ending pit of academic despair.

  This assignment was valued at 90% of our final grade, should we be so brave, and we had until our next class meeting to decide. I think the instructor was hopin
g for an “out” so that she could take the rest of the semester off herself, but who was I to judge?

  I went to her after class, looking for the small print that goes with deals like this. I learned in high school economics that there was no such thing as a “free lunch” and also learned that the economic catch phrase also applied to most everything else in life – nothing was ever truly free.

  “What’s the catch? We can really write one project and get 90% of our grade?”

  “That’s it, simple as pie. You’ve already earned the equivalent to the first ten percent through class work, attendance, and assignments. That will all be averaged at the end of the semester and included in your score. It’s pretty simple actually. Were you expecting more, maybe angels playing harps?” She smiled at me and I’m sure she knew that I’d developed quite an oedipal crush on her over the last six weeks. If I looked as goofy and as awkward as I felt when I talked to her, how could she not?

  She went on to explain that in many collegiate courses, the material is actually too deep for simple classroom study to be thorough. That was part of the reason that some subjects spanned multiple semesters, but also required quite a bit of independent study. Creative writing is one of those subjects. You could learn all of the theory you want in a classroom and you could do all of the busy work and drills that you can stand, but it takes strenuous thought, organization, and a study of the written word to make a good creative writer. She said that the effort required to make what most would call a “great” creative writer may just be too intimidating for me to consider at my stage of the game.

  I was beginning to like the idea of being allowed to work on my own at somewhat my own pace. “What are the rules for this assignment? Are there any special formatting requirements?”

  “You must have been daydreaming when I explained this. I told you, one hundred pages due at the time of the final exam.”

  “Yes and…?” I was beginning to get really frustrated. I’ve never been patient or good with people who I see as trying to talk in circles or those who feel the need to prove they have greater intellect than I. It didn’t put me in my place. In fact, it made me rather angry. Sigmund Freud wouldn’t have remained healthy around me for long.

  “That’s all. You create, organize and write one hundred pages on something you choose and turn it in to me on the day of the final exam. There are no rules to follow. I’m not even going to check your grammar usage – spelling, yes, but grammar, no. Remember, this is Creative Writing class, not Report Writing class. Be bold, daring, or risqué if you must but by all means, you use your mind and create something original.”

  I wasn’t convinced there wasn’t some small print attached to this but I thanked her profusely knowing that this would be a slam dunk for me. It could mean a really easy “A” and boost my GPA significantly to make up for a seriously sloppy freshman year. One hundred pages was nothing! I could do this in my sleep, well maybe not completely asleep but in a drowsy state for sure.

  Her parting words to me as I left the classroom, expecting not to go back for many weeks, were like a dagger in the back, “Have fun, but don’t let that arrogance get in the way.”

  She did smile when I looked back, stunned. Was she really that intuitive?

  Three weeks later, I sat alone in a booth at a local coffee shop, Al’s. Yes the name is cliché but the guy who owns it really is named Al. He was a good-hearted guy who did his best to keep a business running all the while helping struggling college students have nutritious meals. By this time, I did have a notepad full of partial story topics but not a shred of printable material. Are you kidding me? I was inconsolable. Me, the guy with the deepest imagination in the whole state, unable to come up with a theme to fill one hundred measly pages of paper for what should be the easiest grade I’d ever try to earn. It wasn’t that I couldn’t find something to write about; that part was easy. I couldn’t find a way to get started. Every time I would come up with an intro, I would reject it for being too flowery, or cute or cheesy. It was like a champion race horse with the world’s best jockey, ready to race, but the starting gate won’t open. I wanted to impress the teacher but not be so obvious in intellectual flirting just in case it failed miserably, which was what I really expected.

  The gentleman who sat at the booth beside me had left his newspaper on the seat after he finished his breakfast. I assumed his intention was for the next patron to pick it up for a good read. Being that I was desperate for some sort of stimulation, other than Biology, History, or Spanish, I picked it up to take grateful advantage of his generosity.

  I assumed the newspaper would be one of our many college publications. I had missed a few installments of a local political satire and wanted to get caught up. It was, however, from a small town I’d never heard of. The guts of the paper consisted of an alarming number of coupons and sales flyers. It was a cornucopia of hours of entertaining clipping and sorting for those thrifty shoppers who resided in the community. They greatly outnumbered the printed news pages, but I put them aside. Not to be bothered with the price of Boston Butt Roast, I still needed the stimulation and thinking that at worst case it may be good for a laugh. I thumbed through it while absently picking at my cooling and hardening bagel.

  Despite the church happenings, the local gossip, and the “who got arrested last Friday” reporting, it was a fairly boring edition. Everything was “submitted for” or written by “staff.” I’d be willing to bet the paper didn’t have single “real” reporter other than an editor and sports photographer who did the field work as well. I can’t believe people actually pay fifty cents for this thing.

  However, one section did seem interesting. One of the small-type headlines read: “Mule gets stuck in mud hole and farmer breaks his leg in the rescue.” It was dated from sometime around 1918 and was just a look back on their community history. I chuckled.

  Oh, don’t get mad at me. I didn’t think it was amusing his leg was broken. My funny bone was tweaked by the way it was written. Did the farmer break his leg or the mule’s in the rescue? Did the reporter commit a grave writing error, or did he bend the rules to provoke thought in his reader? I never would know but I kept reading the other sidelines hoping for more light-hearted humor.

  I’m no pro writer, not by a long shot. Remember, I’m just a fifth year college senior in my only writing class but even I could comment about stuff like that. Anyway, I’ve spent way too much time discussing my lead up to what direction this is all going. Like I said, it’s not about me at all.

  One of the bold-typed headlines gave me pause; just enough to stop eating my bagel. I actually read it twice trying to grasp its substance or “wrap my head around it” as my philosophy teacher would say. The three line article was dated from 1944, the author unidentified: “Murderer of Colored Doctor Sentenced to 99 Years in State Penitentiary.”

  I wasn’t raised during the times of the Civil Rights Movements which were in the 1960s but I was pretty sure that I’d never heard of a Black Doctor, especially back during the 1940s. I’m sure there were many; I just never had a need to consider it. I do remember thinking, “That must have been a really special guy to have his murderer sentenced to 99 years in the pen in 1944.” It was a pretty deep thought for a country boy turned soon-to-be college graduate. I’ll accept some applause on this particular point.

  The South, during that time frame, wasn’t very well known for the advancement of minorities, much less the extraction of justice on their behalf. I learned this in the sociology and political science classes I was required to take as a part of my degree program. I was intrigued. From this point forward, all I can say is “God bless the information age.”

  Something really nice happened to me that day in that little café. The diner changed in nature from a diner to a café that day because diners don’t i
nspire, cafés do! I can’t exactly explain what it was but it’s as if a light switch was flipped on in my brain and wouldn’t shut off. I found an energy and excitement within me that was both alarming and hopeful.

  In the light of that switch charging my brain, I was able to come up with a topic for my project, “Billy the Kidd had Bad Acne.” It was a comedy and I was able to write the one hundred pages, plus about twenty, over a really busy weekend. I expected to earn the A for the class easily enough. The words just flowed from my mind, down through my fingers, into my keyboard with very little effort.

  I showed up to the next writing class, surprising the instructor. She apparently assumed that I’d given up on the innovation project and was going to beg permission to come back to the lecture. I’m not so sure she would have let me, but she assumed wrong and that was perfectly fine with me. I had bigger things in mind.

  There were only three students sitting in the class and I’m sure she was disappointed the entire class didn’t take her up on the innovation project. Don’t you know she was miffed at 3 out of 27 students causing her to have to show up that early in the morning? I’d hate to take their exams! They say that “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” but what about college instructors?

  When the class ended, I presented her with my finished project, bound in a nice folder that I bought at an office supply, with a title page and all.

  “You have three more weeks before you have to turn this in. Don’t you think you should use your time more wisely to revise and edit this work? This is for a final grade, you know.”

  “No thank you. I am confident it’s “A” material. I had too much fun writing it.”

  She looked at the folder really skeptically, cocked eyebrow and all, and then back at me. “You’re sure?”

  “I am.” I paused, not sure how to approach what was really gnawing at me. I really was excited about the new project I had created for myself and I did want to gain her assistance.

  “I have another project I want to pursue, with your help, of course. I had to get this out of the way.”

  “I hardly think my generous assignment is ‘in the way’ as you would put it. Also, you realize that whatever it is you want to work on won’t be for class credit.”

  “Oh, of course,” I say. “This is just something I found that I feel drawn to pursue.”

  I realized that I had just offended the one person who would be giving me the grade and ultimately affecting my graduation in a few months, so I offered my explanation and told her about the three sentence article I read, without giving away too many details. I didn’t want her to take my idea, after all. I explained to her about me feeling charged and how I couldn’t sleep and I certainly couldn’t think about anything without obsessing about that article.

  Seeming excited, she gave me a knowing smile. “You’ve obviously found your muse.”

  “My what?” I asked.

  “Your muse, it’s mythology. I should have you go to the library and look it up but I’ll tell you anyway.”

  She sat on the corner of the classroom instructor’s desk. Her frumpy sweater fell open, revealing a sorority t-shirt. Something about seeing that shirt really bothered me but I listened anyway. It was as if the sorority shirt diminished her credibility with me. I know it was a very ignorant thing to think considering how many women participate in them. I was in a fraternity myself. Who was I to judge?

  “Every great artist throughout history had a muse to inspire him or her to do great work. It was someone, or something, which forced you to achieve high potentials and motivated you to seek greater artistry. Some claimed Heavenly intervention. Others drew motivation from their children or tragedies or lofty personal goals.”

  Laughing I said, “That figures. My muse is a small town newspaper with a guy that’s been dead for almost seventy years. I really would prefer a cute, curly haired, red head in a toga.” Realizing I had more or less just described my teacher in a Toga, I flushed.

  “A muse is a muse,” she said, un-phased.

  Once I got over the idea that the person I was putting so much hope in was just another student, I relaxed some. We were able to spend about three hours that afternoon going over my pending investigations and what I needed to do to start researching this story.

  “What are you going to do with this once you get it all together?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

  She cautioned me that since I was dealing with real people, real events and certainly historical fact, I had an obligation to be as accurate as I could, no matter what the project turned out to be. My list included state archives, internet resources, local records, court house records, and trying to go meet people in this town that may have first-hand knowledge. Because the information would be so old and the people I would meet would have few details, she did seem buoyed by the idea that I will have to use my newly acquired creative writing skills to go along with the research.

  She pressed for details of the article often, but got nowhere with me. I wasn’t letting go of this tiger I was holding by the tail. I satisfied her by promising to let her see my work first if it amounted to anything.

  I got really lucky though. Somehow, through a very small and uninteresting internet reference to an old courthouse record which led me to a state archive record, I was able to locate the attorney that represented the man convicted of the murder. Unfortunately, the attorney was long retired, having passed the “torch” of keeping the law business going to his now middle-aged child. I tried calling the office, but got the ever present “busy,” “occupied,” or “with a client” excuse that my calls would go unanswered.

  Refusing to be put off, I plugged the address of the law office into my GPS on my so-called smart phone and took a 146 mile road trip, one way. Classes for the day would have to wait. I had some motivation as well as enthusiasm for what I thought would be a great project. Expending some effort to look in to it was a no-brainer.

  When I entered the city limits of that small town, I had to slam on my brakes. The whole town just screamed “speed trap.” I located the law office but I circled the court square three times, gaining suspicious looks from local police. The office was wedged between a small diner and a laundry service offering “Martenizing” (whatever that is) and same day delivery.

  Unfortunate for my great deal of impatience, I had arrived at lunch time and there was a sign hanging on the door handle that said “out to lunch.” I didn’t know people still used signs like that. Passing about ten minutes parked in my car and bored with waiting, I went to the diner. My energy and excitement was really eroding my patience. I ordered the special of the day. Their old fashioned Reuben sandwich is not what you’d call what I found placed in front of me.

  While people-watching, which I love to do, I did notice a well-dressed woman enjoying a cup of coffee and a slice of pie. She looked like something carved out of marble—very cold, yet very warm at the same time. I watched her finish her dessert and then followed her out the door with my eyes. When I realized that she had turned next door to the law office I knew she was who I was waiting for.

  “Yes! Here we go!” I must have said out loud as I drew a weird look from the waitress holding a pot of coffee.

  I deduced she must be the secretary and would know when the attorney I needed to speak to would return. Quickly finishing my sandwich and overly sweetened iced tea, I paid and went next door. One word of caution as a side note about tea in the south, if you don’t already know; it’s usually already sweetened when you get it. Be sure to taste if first before you add sugar.

  Without knocking, I entered the small lobby of the law office. It was very nice, completed in dark hardwoods and elegant marble table tops. A lace doily covered a small table in the
corner holding several seemingly current magazines. I bet there was a lot of history in these walls. The brass bell that tinkled above my head when I entered startled me but it also alerted the lady that I knew to have entered the office.

  “May I help you?” She asked, coming out of a side office with a file folder in her hand.

  “I hope so,” I said. “I’m a college student and I’m trying to research an old criminal case that was handled by this office a long time ago. Will Mr. Leonard be in today so that I may talk to him?”

  Her expression became shadowed for a moment and she told me that Mr. Leonard had passed away more than a year ago.

  “He was my brother, but I’m the lawyer of the family. I kept my maiden name for professional reasons.” I didn’t see a wedding ring on her finger. She must be divorced, I thought.

  I was embarrassed and reminded by an image of my mother shaking her finger at me that assuming anything can get you in a bad fix. I pushed forward, apologizing of course.

  “I’ll introduce you to my father. I did tell him you called about the case,” She paused thoughtfully, ”but I’ll warn you, he’s not easy to talk to, and even less easy to get along with.”

  She picked up a telephone from the secretary’s desk and dialed. An old fashioned ringer sounded from an office behind a closed door off of the hallway. I heard a gruff exclamation, a desk drawer slam, and a muffled curse as the phone was answered and dropped.

  “Ms. Leonard, I can come back if it’s a bad time.”

  “Nonsense,” she said waving a hand. “He’s probably asleep in his chair in there.” Her attention returned to the telephone. “Papa, that young man is here about the Blakely murder. No, he didn’t have an appointment.”

  She shook her head a few times and said, “Ok,” hanging up the receiver.

  “He said to make an appointment and to come back another time.”

  I stood there with my mouth partly open. “I drove two and a half hours to get here. Is there no one else I can talk to?” This was a mistake on my part. You can tell, I’m sure, that I come from an era of high expectation of superior customer service and with that goes the expectation to be able to loudly complain when it does not meet my satisfaction. Fortunately for me, this limited “confrontation” was largely ignored.

  During my dismay, an elderly woman came in and took her seat behind the secretary’s desk. She had an air of “I’m in charge” whether she really was or not. As she wrapped her sweater around her shoulders she commented on my expression, noticing I looked as if I’d swallowed something distasteful.

  Ms. Leonard explained what was going on. She told how I’d driven so far to get there and my aspirations as they relate to the case. She, the secretary who I later found out was named Mrs. Barton, smiled warmly at me.

  “Oh I remember that family. They were such nice people.”

  Giving her a wink, Ms. Leonard then also told about the Senior Leonard refusing to see me. Their relationship seemed to be such that I had a hard time grasping who worked for whom.

  “Oh he did, did he? We’ll just see about that!” She stood from behind the desk and marched toward the closed office door, her thick high heels hammering and echoing on the hardwood floor.

  “It’s not as if he has a single thing pressing, at all, this month.” I think I would learn to dread the sound of her heels if I ever worked here. They provoked images from horror movies that said, “I’m coming to get you little boy.”

  Ms. Leonard looked at me out of the corner of her eye and then nodded, smiling, toward the motivated octogenarian, “Just watch this. I’m predicting less than 30 seconds.”

  The office door closed behind her and we could hear a scolding taking place, all of it coming from Mrs. Barton toward the elder attorney.

  “She’s worked for him for more than fifty years. She gets away with stuff like that.”

  The secretary came back out, adjusted her sweater and returned to her desk with a, “Harrumph.”

  “He’ll see you shortly.” She told me. “Have a seat, please.”

  Ms. Leonard looked at her watch. “48 seconds! I was so close that time.”

  A few minutes later as I thumbed absently through a copy of a golf magazine, the door to the office opened, causing distress in me that only arises when visiting cemeteries after dark. I expected fog and a ghoulish skeletonized hand to beckon me inside. Instead, an elderly gentleman stood in the doorway, wearing a dark suit with shiny shoes, silhouetted from a dim desk lamp bulb. He stared at me.

  I stand up.

  “Can you read?” he demanded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I asked you if you could read. Are you deaf and dumb?”

  “Papa!” the daughter exclaimed. He glanced at her quickly and then back at me.

  “Do you have thirty five dollars?”

  “I can read. I am not deaf or dumb and I do have thirty five dollars.”

  “Good.”

  On saying that, he slung a paperback book at me which I managed to catch and not rip the cover off of.

  “Read that. There’s a hotel across the square. Rooms are thirty five dollars for a night. Read that book tonight and meet me back here tomorrow at six a.m.”

  “But sir…”

  “If you haven’t read it, don’t come back to see me. Just leave my book at the desk and go away.” He slammed the door, dismissing me quite obviously. I looked at both of the women who were witness to the spectacle. They both shrugged as if to say, “What can you do?”

  In my hand was an incredibly worn and dog-eared copy of “To Kill a Mocking Bird” by Harper Lee. This was a book assigned to me in High School, that I bought some cheat notes for, learned for a test, and promptly forgot. Now I’m being assigned to read it in one night by an angry old man from whom all I want is to ask a few questions about a seventy- year-old court case.

  Still amazed, I nodded to the two ladies and left the office. Leaving my car parked where it was, I walked absently across the court square toward the ancient hotel, wandering through the historical war relics preserved on the small lawn. There sure were a lot of canons for such a small town, as if any town in modern day USA needed artillery.

  Finding an unoccupied bench, I sat down and looked back toward the law office. Had I not been already flustered, I would swear that I saw the old metal blinds in the front office snap shut as I looked up. Was he watching me? I got the distinct feeling that the old lawyer was making a fool of me and making me pay a price for his time at six a.m. if he actually showed up.

  “I do have his book though.” I said as I held it up gesturing toward the office with it, “But who meets at a law office at six in the morning?”

  Grumbling, I lean back, getting as comfortable as I can on a municipal bench. I open the cover to find an inscription, written probably with a fountain pen, in scratchy ink that is fading to a brown color:

  “Fascination, Bravado and Passion will only win just so much. Justice, Compassion, and Courage will finish the battle.”

  Could the author have written this or did someone else offer it as a gift? It seemed like a fairly wise and well-intended quotation. I turned the page.

  About an hour after opening the book and having absorbed twenty five pages or so, I rubbed my eyes and stretched my arms toward the setting sun. Behind me was the old hotel. The Handsome Hound Hotel signage was complete with a hound sitting on a chair, crossed legs and all, holding a tea cup to its lips. I gave it a moment’s inspection and decided I may as well settle in for the night.

  I was still unsure why I was willing to follow that old coot’s demands. Was my curiosity that great? I wouldn’t get college credit for this project. Shrugging and relenting, I admitted to myself that I
had no hot dates for the night and the best I could look forward to was television with my neighbor since his TV didn’t have an ex-roommate’s angry-at-a-football-game remote control sticking out of the screen.

  I rented the room and it was exactly thirty five dollars for the night, as Mr. Leonard said. I spent another buck fifty in an ancient vending machine for a soda and a bag of very stale potato chips.

  The room had no television which I suppose was ok since I was supposed to be reading this book anyway. The telephone looked as if it hadn’t worked in years, despite the guarantees of the desk clerk that it did and I had to dial nine to get out at fifty cents a minute. I kicked off my shoes and jumped backward onto the bed, preparing to settle in with the book. Once the bed bugs, dust mites, and whatever monster lived under the bed finished their imaginary protestations to my invasion, I drew the pillows behind my head and read for several more hours.

  As the morning hours grew larger and the horizon started getting lighter out of the dusty hotel window, I closed the completed book and napped fitfully. I set the alarm on my cell phone for five forty-five. It was obnoxious but worked well enough to wake me up with a jolt.

  Staggering to the bathroom, I rubbed cold water on my face and took care of my morning routine. Coffee was going to be desperately needed, right away.

  I wandered back across the square again after handing in my room key and surrendering my bed. The diner was open so early and it totally suited me. The waitress was chipper and quickly brought me some black coffee along with a fried egg and bacon sandwich. So I splurged a little. My arteries didn’t harden right away.

  I took an extra cup of coffee to go and waited by the door of the law office as I ate my sandwich. At six o’clock sharp the door opened behind me. I stood there with the book in my back pocket and a cup of coffee in each hand. The old lawyer stood poised as if ready to do battle.

  “Come on in. Don’t lag! Get in here and let’s get this over with.”