Welcome featured author for September, 2014 - Robert G. Polans of Chillicothe, Ohio
A short story by Rob Polans
The courtroom is packed,
the case has been covered extensively in the newspapers, television and
radio. They do make news up, that is add their bias to it if they can hide that as facts. The jury has been
sequestered for six days.
It's now three p.m. and they've reached a verdict. The jury is now filing in. The judge's gavel banged
three times and the buzz in the room subsided.
"Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"
A balding man in his fifties, suit somewhat rumpled and his eyeglasses perched low on his nose stands up holding a sheath of papers in both hands.
"We have your honor.”
The judge speaks, "Will the defendant please rise?"
The defense attorney Jack Stern and the defendant John Faller both rose. Mr. Stern, with a pad in one hand and a pen poised in the other. John Faller is a young man in his early twenties. Combed hair, dressed very neatly in a suit, white shirt and tie. It had to be his lawyer's idea. Standing erect, hands clasped behind his back, the color drained from his face.
The prosecuter, Sam Williams is thirty eight years old and ruggedly handsome. His hair mussed
from nervously running his hands through it quite vigorously. He placed both his hands on the table and
pushed himself to a standing position. He was exhausted, the trial had taken five solid weeks. The
constant harangue from different media reporters after each day. Their insipid questions repeated every
day so that they could meet their deadlines. Quotes and misquotes, fodder for their respective media,
they loved it. It was done daily, as though the world depended upon it. Sam thought 'Well maybe theirs
does. Now the moment of truth. I hope like hell they convict, I'd like to see this scum put away. Maybe
I should have plea bargained as Stern suggested.' Then pictures of the dead girl flashed through his
mind. The grotesque manner in which her body lay. One arm bent under the body which lay in full
view of anyone who walked past where the canal met the park. The back of her skull crushed, eyes
hanging loosely from veins or arteries and the surrounding grass stained with her blood. He shivered in
disgust. NO WAY!
The bailiff took the sheaf of papers from the jury foreman and handed them to the judge. He glanced
through them and handed them back to the bailiff.
"Will you please read the verdict."
The foreman reached out and took the papers from the bailiff.
"On the count of unlawful detainment, guilty!"
The courtroom erupted with shouts and applause. The judge repeatedly banging his gavel until the
courtroom quieted.
Then he spoke, "I'm going to caution all of you for the last time. I will not permit this courtroom to be turned into a circus arena. This is not a play or ball game. Restrain yourselves and act
like adult people." Peering over to the jury, "Please continue Mr. Foreman."
“On the count of aggravated assault, guilty! And on the count of forceable rape, guilty!”
Again the courtroom buzzed. Again the gavel banged, but only once this time.
The foreman continued, “On the count of murder in the first degree, guilty!”
The courtroom erupted, shouts of approval and more applause was heard. Reporters hurrying out to
relay the news. The gavel banged repeatedly again, but to no avail. Finally the judge spoke again.
“Bailiffs, clear the courtroom.”
Four beefy, uniformed bailiffs began ushering then shoving people through the huge oak paneled doors. Finally, the courtroom was cleared except for three people. A man and woman who sat behind the prosecutor's table. Mr. and Mrs. Cranston, the dead girl's parents had sat there mute through the entire trial. The woman now wept openly and the man, leaned forward with his face in his hands fighting back tears. Behind the defense table sat John Jiller's father. Staring straight ahead stoicly. You could almost tell from his immaculate appearance and demeanor that this was a man of substance and power. He was after all C.E.O. of one of the largest manufacturing conglomerates in the country.
The judge leaned forward. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I thank you for your patience and the decorum you exhibited through this long trial. I appreciate the hardships you all endured financially, physically and mentally. I commend you.” Turning to the courtroom, “Bail is rescinded! The defendant is remanded. I will set sentencing on November fourth.” Looking to the defense table,
“Mr. Stern, you have five days for any motions. Good day!” He gathered his paperwork and walked off the bench.
Williams walked through the gate to the parents. Mrs. Cranston stood and kissed him. “Thank you, thank you,” was all she could murmur. Her husband took William's hand in both of his, Thanks
Mr. Williams, perhaps we'll be able to sleep now. You did a wonderful job.” Williams put each of his arms around one of them.
“I know your wounds will never completely heal, but I hope in time the pain will be bearable. Try to focus only on the beauty and happiness she brought you.”
radio. They do make news up, that is add their bias to it if they can hide that as facts. The jury has been
sequestered for six days.
It's now three p.m. and they've reached a verdict. The jury is now filing in. The judge's gavel banged
three times and the buzz in the room subsided.
"Ladies and gentlemen, have you reached a verdict?"
A balding man in his fifties, suit somewhat rumpled and his eyeglasses perched low on his nose stands up holding a sheath of papers in both hands.
"We have your honor.”
The judge speaks, "Will the defendant please rise?"
The defense attorney Jack Stern and the defendant John Faller both rose. Mr. Stern, with a pad in one hand and a pen poised in the other. John Faller is a young man in his early twenties. Combed hair, dressed very neatly in a suit, white shirt and tie. It had to be his lawyer's idea. Standing erect, hands clasped behind his back, the color drained from his face.
The prosecuter, Sam Williams is thirty eight years old and ruggedly handsome. His hair mussed
from nervously running his hands through it quite vigorously. He placed both his hands on the table and
pushed himself to a standing position. He was exhausted, the trial had taken five solid weeks. The
constant harangue from different media reporters after each day. Their insipid questions repeated every
day so that they could meet their deadlines. Quotes and misquotes, fodder for their respective media,
they loved it. It was done daily, as though the world depended upon it. Sam thought 'Well maybe theirs
does. Now the moment of truth. I hope like hell they convict, I'd like to see this scum put away. Maybe
I should have plea bargained as Stern suggested.' Then pictures of the dead girl flashed through his
mind. The grotesque manner in which her body lay. One arm bent under the body which lay in full
view of anyone who walked past where the canal met the park. The back of her skull crushed, eyes
hanging loosely from veins or arteries and the surrounding grass stained with her blood. He shivered in
disgust. NO WAY!
The bailiff took the sheaf of papers from the jury foreman and handed them to the judge. He glanced
through them and handed them back to the bailiff.
"Will you please read the verdict."
The foreman reached out and took the papers from the bailiff.
"On the count of unlawful detainment, guilty!"
The courtroom erupted with shouts and applause. The judge repeatedly banging his gavel until the
courtroom quieted.
Then he spoke, "I'm going to caution all of you for the last time. I will not permit this courtroom to be turned into a circus arena. This is not a play or ball game. Restrain yourselves and act
like adult people." Peering over to the jury, "Please continue Mr. Foreman."
“On the count of aggravated assault, guilty! And on the count of forceable rape, guilty!”
Again the courtroom buzzed. Again the gavel banged, but only once this time.
The foreman continued, “On the count of murder in the first degree, guilty!”
The courtroom erupted, shouts of approval and more applause was heard. Reporters hurrying out to
relay the news. The gavel banged repeatedly again, but to no avail. Finally the judge spoke again.
“Bailiffs, clear the courtroom.”
Four beefy, uniformed bailiffs began ushering then shoving people through the huge oak paneled doors. Finally, the courtroom was cleared except for three people. A man and woman who sat behind the prosecutor's table. Mr. and Mrs. Cranston, the dead girl's parents had sat there mute through the entire trial. The woman now wept openly and the man, leaned forward with his face in his hands fighting back tears. Behind the defense table sat John Jiller's father. Staring straight ahead stoicly. You could almost tell from his immaculate appearance and demeanor that this was a man of substance and power. He was after all C.E.O. of one of the largest manufacturing conglomerates in the country.
The judge leaned forward. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I thank you for your patience and the decorum you exhibited through this long trial. I appreciate the hardships you all endured financially, physically and mentally. I commend you.” Turning to the courtroom, “Bail is rescinded! The defendant is remanded. I will set sentencing on November fourth.” Looking to the defense table,
“Mr. Stern, you have five days for any motions. Good day!” He gathered his paperwork and walked off the bench.
Williams walked through the gate to the parents. Mrs. Cranston stood and kissed him. “Thank you, thank you,” was all she could murmur. Her husband took William's hand in both of his, Thanks
Mr. Williams, perhaps we'll be able to sleep now. You did a wonderful job.” Williams put each of his arms around one of them.
“I know your wounds will never completely heal, but I hope in time the pain will be bearable. Try to focus only on the beauty and happiness she brought you.”
Story by Robert G. Polans
Bio: Born June 26, 1950
The family moved quite a bit to many places in the US, but mostly settled in Brooklyn, NY then L.I. NY.
Schools: High school was JFK High School graduated in 1969 from there I went to Nassau Community College at night until about 1976.
Work: I worked in furniture manufacturing, setting up factories with my dad until he died in 1993. I was VP and Assoc. Ass't. On the factory floor, I had my own work space. I was in charge of cutting the fabric for the operators to sew. Once I could, I became a writer full-time.
I think I began writing crime to understand what we did in real life and to some extent I do. Also an editor. I suppose I can blog, but have never had the desire to.
I have been married for sixteen years, writing since 1986. Most of my "stuff" was on disks from an old word processor that one day decided to start formatting (deleting) everything. I've recently started putting it on computer. I have an unfinished (as of yet) crime drama series, the first book Calla's Curse is finished, now for the others. There might be a fourth, during a bout of writers' block I wrote a story one year in the future. Considering that the stories begin in the late 60s to early 70s, there are really three to ten year intervals between them.
The family moved quite a bit to many places in the US, but mostly settled in Brooklyn, NY then L.I. NY.
Schools: High school was JFK High School graduated in 1969 from there I went to Nassau Community College at night until about 1976.
Work: I worked in furniture manufacturing, setting up factories with my dad until he died in 1993. I was VP and Assoc. Ass't. On the factory floor, I had my own work space. I was in charge of cutting the fabric for the operators to sew. Once I could, I became a writer full-time.
I think I began writing crime to understand what we did in real life and to some extent I do. Also an editor. I suppose I can blog, but have never had the desire to.
I have been married for sixteen years, writing since 1986. Most of my "stuff" was on disks from an old word processor that one day decided to start formatting (deleting) everything. I've recently started putting it on computer. I have an unfinished (as of yet) crime drama series, the first book Calla's Curse is finished, now for the others. There might be a fourth, during a bout of writers' block I wrote a story one year in the future. Considering that the stories begin in the late 60s to early 70s, there are really three to ten year intervals between them.
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