David Alexander: Felony Stupid

“I appreciate your taking the time to talk with me, Commissioner.”

“It’s my pleasure, Ambassador. Actually, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’ll be retiring in a few weeks, and the truth is. they don’t give me much to do now that they’re breaking in the new man, well, the new woman actually.”

“We’re two of a kind then. These days my title is purely honorary. I’m a full time scholar now at your excellent university. Which brings me to my reason for calling on you. As I mentioned in my message, I’m studying the history of the revolutionary changes in your criminal law and I thought you might be able to give me your personal perspective.”

“Well, Ambassador—”

“Call me Luden, please.”

The commissioner nodded politely to his guest, then continued.

“It’s difficult, of course, from our perspective to truly understand what it must have been like in those olden days, but my family has been in law enforcement for over a thousand years. I like to feel that that gives me some perspective on this topic.”

“As I’m sure it does.”

“In fact, in preparation for your visit today, Luden, I’ve called up from my family’s personal archives a vid record from the very beginning of that period.”

“Really? An original record? An execution?”

“Oh no, nothing like that. In those days the lawyers often disposed of cases right there in the courtroom before the judge made his appearance.”

“How medieval!”

“Yes, that was my reaction as well. In any event, the courtrooms were equipped with security cameras that were constantly in operation. Apparently, at some point in the process there was a disagreement over this particular ‘disposition’ they called it, that I’m going to show you, and the video record was copicd and made part of the file. One of my ancestors was the government’s representative, a deputy district attorney I believe was the proper title, and for reasons of his own he saved a copy of the sequence.”

“Commissioner, I’m overwhelmed. Can we view it now?”

“Of course. It’s a flat-pic, naturally, but my predecessors have enhanced it to the limit of our technology and the quality’s quite good. I’ll key it up for us over there.” The commissioner gestured to the wall on the far side of the room which flickered through a spangle of colors then a moving picture snapped into sharp focus. The initial image was of two men in ancient formal garb, each seated at the front of separate but adjacent wooden tables with a third man positioned at the far end of the second table. Unlike the first two, this man was dressed in plain blue work clothes and manacled at wrist and ankle.

“Those two are the lawyers, then?” the ambassador suggested, waving at the screen. “Which one is your ancestor?”

“The one on the right; the man dressed in the dark gray costume. The other lawyer, his name is Eddie Man-ion, is the defense attorney, and, of course, the criminal, Willard Weeks, is the man in restraints. Listen now, it’s beginning.”

“Yes, he’s a moron, but not that much of a moron,” Eddie Manion insisted with a whining edge to his voice.

“Oh, I don’t know,” the deputy district attorney said as he slowly looked the accused up and down. “It says here that he wrote the holdup note on the back of one of his deposit slips.”

“Yes, but it was an outdated deposit slip. It didn’t have his current address on it.”

“It had his right name though, didn’t it?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“He’d left a forwarding address, hadn’t he?” the DA suggested, guessing.

“Not exactly. Not with the post office.”

“But he had told his landlady and his old roommate where he was moving?”

“Perhaps, but—”

“Eddie, give me a break.”

“Bob, can’t we make a deal?”

The commissioner’s ancestor, Robert LaTureene, took a second, longer look at the defendant, a bedraggled, puffy young man with thinning, straw-colored hair, protruding ears, a receding chin, and a sheen of oily perspiration glistening from his forehead and cheeks.

“Mr. Weeks,” the DA said sharply, “How much money did you think you were going to get from the robbery?”

“Uh, Mr. Manion, can I—?”

“No use as to guilt or innocence of the underlying charge, right, Bob?”

“Fine.”

“It’s OK, Willard, you can answer Mr. LaTureene s questions.”

Willard Weeks shifted uneasily in his chair, glanced down at the floor, then raised his eyes to stare at the DA at an oblique angle.

“Uh, I don’t know. Two or three hundred dollars I figured.”

“What were you going to do with the money?”

“You mean after lunch?”

“Excuse me?”

“First I was going to buy lunch, a real nice one at the Sizzler.”

“Yes, what were you going to do with the rest of the money, after lunch.”

“Well, I guess I was going to, you know, get some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Oh, you know, some jeans and sunglasses, and maybe find a girl, go out on a date.”

“You were going to use the money to buy a hooker?”

“No sir. That wouldn’t be right. 1 seen lots of real pretty women down there by the park, you know, roller skating. I figured I’d meet one of them.”

“Do you have a pair of skates?”

“No, not yet.”

“Let me get this straight. You were going to buy a pair of roller skates with the money from the robbery?”

“I thought I might.”

“Did you know how to skate? Had you ever done it?”

“No sir, but it looked pretty easy. I figured I could learn as soon as I got me a pair of skates.”

“Why didn’t you just rent them?”

“What?”

“Roller Blades cost well over a hundred dollars. Why didn’t you just rent a pair and see how it worked out?”

Weeks stared blankly at the wall for several seconds while he considered the DA’s question. Finally, he gave a small nod.

“You know, I never thought of that. That would’ve been cheaper than buying them, then?”

LaTureene shook his head slowly then turned back to Willard Weeks.

“Mr. Weeks, one more thing. About the note you gave the teller at the bank—”

“Yes sir.”

“Why did you write that on the back of one of your old deposit slips?”

“Well, you see, I used to have a checking account, but they closed it because I kept running out of money, so I had all these old checks and things. I figured that if I went into the bank with a checkbook and then started writing in it, it would look real normal like. So, I turned over one of the old checks and wrote the note there at the desk, just like I had real business in the bank.”

“Did you forget that the checks all had your name and address on them?”

“No, but it wasn’t my right address. Besides, it was on the other side from the note. I just figured that I’d take the note back with the: money.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, when she started scooping up all those bills, I mean it was a lot more than the two or three hundred dollars I had figured on, so I thought, ‘Whooee, this is my lucky day!’ and I got so excited I guess I forget to take it with me. Then, when I got halfway out the door, I remembered it, but it was too late to go back for it.”

“Because the teller had sounded the alarm?”

“No sir, but there was a man there at the window, you know the next person in line, and I couldn’t just cut in front of him and I sure couldn’t start again at the end of the line, so I just left with the money and hoped they wouldn’t pay any attention to the other side of the paper I wrote the note on.” Weeks paused for a second, then said sadly, “But I guess they did, though,” then he frowned, and looked back down at the floor.