"Get back," he ordered, brandishing a pistol. "This is a hold up. You all don't move and nobody gets hurt."
The other man carried a large bore shotgun. It had a surprisingly short barrel, England thought.
He was scared, standing there in the face of such danger holding onto a cellophane wrapped package of red licorice. He hoped nobody acted foolishly. These guys should want to get the money and run. He had about twenty dollars in his wallet. Funny, in this precarious situation, he wondered how he would get the cigarettes and licorice if they took all his money.
"Open the till," Shotgun commanded.
"Sorry, man, they don't leave us with much money at night. You can have what there is." The clerk opened the cash register and began pulling out bills.
Good, thought England, he's not going to try being a hero for a few dollars. He's probably been told exactly that by a responsible boss.
England could hear the sounds of cars passing outside. He hoped no one turned into the parking lot. It looked like anything might set these guys off.
"Come on," Shotgun was saying to the clerk, "that sign on the door is bullshit." He waved the shotgun in the clerk's direction. "Get the money from the back."
"And the rest of you empty your pockets up here on the counter," said Pistol, pointing with the nickel plated revolver he held.
Then something happened. England wasn't sure exactly what or why. The clerk was insisting that there wasn't any other money when the shotgun went off. The explosion filled the room, ringing in England's ears. The clerk’s face turned to red pulp as he stood there and then slumped behind the counter.
Then the lady in front of England took a shotgun blast full in the stomach. She died standing, then dropped to the floor in front of England, leaving him staring at Shotgun. The man stared back. All England could see were his eyes. They were green, but not just green. His eyes were light green, the color of jade. They were dull and looked almost marbled, like jade. They had no life. They had no sparkle. Dead eyes, thought England.. He had never seen eyes like them before.
He also was face to face with the business end of the shotgun, a twelve gauge. The last things he saw were those lifeless green eyes, the menacing barrel of the shotgun and the blinding blast when it went off.
The man with the bags was cowered against the shelves. He still held the bags.
"Hey, Asshole," Pistol walked over and put the barrel of the revolver against his forehead. "Bye, bye," he said.
Pistol dropped his weapon to his side and smiled. "Bye, bye," he said again and headed for the door.
The man dropped his bags.
Shotgun was picking up the few bills the clerk had put on the counter.
"Come on," said Pistol.
"Can't leave this." Shotgun looked at the man carrying the pistol.
Pistol nodded.
In a moment, they were gone out the door. Tires screeched in the parking lot.
The customers stood there stunned, saying nothing. Eventually, the man in the John Deere cap walked slowly to the telephone. The man with the bags and the teenager didn't move.
Marquard read the newspaper article again. "THREE SHOT IN HOLDUP," the headline announced. The article cryptically described the bloody scene at The Neighborhood Store in Middlebury. The clerk, Jeffrey Daniels and two customers, Mrs. Nora Johnson of Webster Groves, and Mr. Robert England of Middlebury, were killed. The police had no clues. The weapon used was a shotgun and offered no ballistics information, one of the detectives said. He was quoted as saying ballistics probably wouldn't be of much help anyway in this type of random holdup/shooting, but they didn't even have that.
It wasn't until the early morning television news shows and the newspaper, that the names of the victims had been made public. Last night's ten o'clock news carried live coverage of the scene as the police were there. There were interviews with police detectives and some very nervous customers who had survived the ordeal.
There were the usual shots of the parking lot, the storefront, police cars with flashing lights and lots of yellow tape marking the crime scene.
That morning Marquard placed a call to the England home. As he suspected, a strange voice answered. "England residence."
The voice explained that he was a friend and neighbor. Marquard identified himself and left a message for Mary England that the people at Cherokee were thinking of her and her family.
Alice came in. She saw the newspaper on the desk.
"It's the worst kind of senseless tragedy," he told her. "Those poor people were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Alice nodded. She didn't say anything. Her eyes were moist.
"Make sure we send plenty of flowers to the funeral...from here and R & D," he said. "Let's make sure there's a good crowd from Cherokee at that funeral too."
Alice nodded and started to leave the room.
"Oh, and get me George Lawton. I think we should try to do something for Bob's family."
The Lawtons were very generous. Although Bob England had only a small pension built up at Cherokee, the company assured Mary England that her family would be adequately provided for. She would be paid what Bob would have received if he had worked until retirement age, and receive Bob's full pension. Both kids would be given a college scholarship for a four year program at any of the campuses of the University of Missouri.
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"Ready to come about?"
"Ready!"
"Here we go!"
Jake stood in the cockpit of the old wooden sloop with one hand on the tiller and one on the lifelines to steady himself. With his last command, he pushed the tiller across to the low side of the heeling boat. The boat immediately began to straighten as the bow turned sharply into the wind, the large jib flapping as it crossed in front of the mast coming over to the starboard side.
Jake’s crew, an Ojibway Indian who was Jake’s age, pulled feverishly on the starboard jib sheet until the sail was drawn in tight. The sloop heeled over to starboard, against her hard chines until it was stable. The crew, Pete Cadotte, cleated the jib sheet as Jake steered a course close-hauled to the wind.
They watched the water and waves ahead as they crossed the West Channel between Hermit Island and Red Cliff Point on the mainland.
"So you have your big city, big buck private practice partnership all lined up?" Pete Cadotte grinned at his friend. "gonna be one of the supergrad hires who makes partner in two years?"
"Not hardly," Jake answered. "I’m just going to go and try to do well enough in the profession that will pay me enough that I can get back here when I want and as much as I can."
"Ah, it does sound good. I wish I could go after a graduate degree and a profession, but I still have time to serve. A couple of more years before the army lets go of me.
"I thought you wanted to go into the Army. Fight for your country and all that."
"Your country, you mean." Pete grinned. "My people are right here, thank you." He extended an arm in a sweeping gesture indicating the surrounding islands, water and mainland.
"Right," said Jake. "I wish just this were my country, sometimes. This is sure where I want to be."
"Well, me too, Jake, but we all have to grow up and work for a while. That's what your Grampa used to say, right here on this boat. I’ll be back when the Army’s done with me. And I think the Army may further educate me, too."
"Grad school?"
"Maybe," said Pete. "Possible shot at law school and the Judge Advocate General Corps." He smiled. "Now that my tour in Nam is done, I might even stay in if they will pay for school. Law school sounds good for me, too."
They sailed on toward Oak Island, dreaming of the future, wondering what it would bring and enjoying their day in the Apostle Islands they knew as paradise itself.
PART TWO: THE LAWYER
CHAPTER SIX
"Vincent Harvey Johnson," the amplified voice carried the name of each graduate throughout the auditorium.
John and Martha Kingsley sat in the dimly lit seating area of Northrup Auditorium watching the graduates parade across the illuminated stage. The Dean of the University of Minnesota Law School greeted each member of the Class of 1974 with a handshake, a warm smile of congratulations and a Juris Doctor diploma. The huge auditorium was nearly full of friends, relatives and graduates. The school officials and faculty were on the stage each attired in cap and gown.
The line of graduating seniors extended from the steps on the right side of the stage back up the aisle of the auditorium. As each name was called, the graduate at the top of the steps walked across the stage, pausing to receive a greeting and a diploma from Dean Rockwell, and continued on across the stage in front of the seated faculty and on to join the others as members of the legal profession.
"James Peter Jones." A young man in cap and gown adjusted his glasses and began his walk across the stage, extending his hand to the Dean.
Martha Kingsley reached for her husband's hand.
"Stephanie Marie Kimball." As the young lady started across the stage, a tall thin young man stepped up to the edge of the stage.
"Jacob Reynolds Kingsley," said the voice on the loudspeaker.
John Kingsley felt his chest swell with pride. His wife squeezed his hand as their son Jake strode across the stage to meet Dean Rockwell. They shook hands. The Dean smiled and said something to Jake. Jake nodded, said something to the Dean, took his diploma and continued across the stage.
A large imposing figure rose from the seated faculty and approached Jake, hand extended. The Professor put his left hand on Jake's shoulder and pumped his right hand vigorously. A broad smile showed beneath an enormous mustache. With a pat on the back the professor sent Jake along his way and returned to his faculty seat, still smiling broadly.
"Timothy Warren Lehman," the voice went on. Another graduate started across the stage. It was Friday, June 7, 1974. After four years of college and three years of law school Jake Kingsley was done. He was a lawyer. Of course there was more studying and the bar exam in a month, but for the moment there was definitely reason to celebrate.
After the last graduate, the faculty and class mingled with the audience. Jake found his parents in the audience. His mother raised her arms to her son. Jake engulfed her in a giant hug.
"Oh, Jakey, congratulations," she pressed against him and squeezed. "We're so proud of you."
John Kingsley tapped his son on the shoulder as if cutting in at a dance. "Me too, Jake," he said.
"Thanks to you both for putting up with me." Jake looked at his parents, "I know sometimes I wasn't always the easiest to put up with . . . a little argumentative I guess."
"And I'll take some of the responsibility for that." The large mustachioed professor who had greeted Jake on stage came through the crowd, still smiling broadly beneath his horn-rimmed glasses and imposing mustache. He removed his mortar board and stood before them.
Jake made introductions.
"Mom and Pop, you remember my talking about Professor Stanton. I'd like you to meet him. Professor, these are my parents, Martha and John Kingsley.
The professor bowed slightly and took Martha's slender hand in both of his beefy mitts.
"I'm so pleased to meet you both." He turned and shook John Kingsley's hand vigorously. "Please meet my wife, Mildred," The professor rested a large hand on the shoulder of the small, prim, dark-haired woman beside him.
"Best student I ever had." He nodded at Jake. "I'll miss him, but he'll make a fine lawyer. You have a right to be very proud."
"We are," said Martha. "I hear we have you to thank for a great deal."
The professor dropped his glance in feigned modesty.
Mildred Stanton took Martha's hand. "I have never seen him so excited about a student as your Jake," she said. "He is very proud of him."
"We've been hearing about you for three years," said John, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you and to thank you. Jake says you've accepted our invitation to dinner."
"It is our distinct pleasure," The professor beamed. "Graduating seniors usually have close family celebrations on this night. They'll all be together after the general university graduation tomorrow night and party themselves into oblivion. Some rite of passage for which I almost feel too old, but to which I'm no longer invited, I fear. I'm certainly honored to join you."
"We're going to The Chandler House," said Jake. "When they took me to dinner after college graduation, I promised to buy them dinner when I graduated from law school if they let me keep living with them.
"Of course, he had to borrow the money for dinner." John Kingsley grinned at the Stantons.
"Shall we go, then?" Jake gestured toward the crowded aisle sloping up toward the auditorium's rear exits.
The professor led the way. His bulk effectively cut a trail through the crowd of black robed graduates and the multi-colored attires of their friends and relatives.
As they emerged from Northrup and started down the wide steps toward the grassy mall, Jake said to Professor Stanton, "We're parked in the lot behind the law school. Are you there?"
"Using your law review pass to the last minute, I see." Stanton winked at Mildred and the elder Kingsleys and said to them, "You've seen how small the lot is. We're forever chasing students out of there so we can park ourselves."
"I know the new editors already have their parking passes, but I doubt they're there tonight," Jake said, "Besides, you get used to certain perks. You wouldn't want me to park where I did before I was a senior, would you?"
"Perish the thought," Stanton grinned.
They followed the concrete walk along the west side of the mall past Johnston Hall, turning before Walter Library and crossing the street to the law school. Jake led the way through the school to the rear parking lot.
As they opened their car doors, Stanton called across the lot, "See you at The Chandler House in a few minutes."
Jake drove. His parents sat close together in the back seat. He followed the River Road north until he could cut over to pass by Folwell Hall and leave the campus traveling north on Fifteenth Avenue.
As he maneuvered in traffic, he kept an eye on the rear view mirror to see the Stantons following. A few times he caught glimpses of his parents’ faces. His father looked proud and pleased. His mother was radiant, her mouth almost smiling, her eyes moist. They were both proud of their son's accomplishment this night.
Jake turned on Como Avenue and drove east to Highway No. 280, then north to Highway 36. The Chandler House was south of 36 on Lexington.
The restaurant was filled with Friday night revelers. The Kingsley "party of five" was seated at a table near the rear of the large dining room. Many different sounds were heard at once, bits of conversations, banging of dishes and glasses and the loudspeaker calling waiting diners to their tables. The room smelled of a mixture of meat and dishes being served and tobacco smoke, coffee and liqueurs from those who were finishing their meal.
Drinks were served. White wine for Martha Kingsley and Mildred Stanton, scotch and soda for John Kingsley, a dry martini for the professor and a beer for Jake.
"Please let me propose a toast." Professor Stanton raised his glass. "To the culmination of three years of outstanding performance in law school and the beginning of what I'm sure will be a long and illustrious career as a trial lawyer." He held his glass out to the others.
"To Jake," said John Kingsley, clicking his glass with the professor's.
"To Jake," echoed Martha Kingsley. She touched their glasses with her stemmed wine glass and smiled at Jake.
"To Jacob Kingsley, Attorney at Law," said Mildred Stanton, holding her glass up.
They enjoyed an elegantly served meal. The Chandler House was famous for its prime rib, popovers and excellent service. That reputation was in no way tarnished by the Kingsley party's experience on graduation night.
The professor regaled the elder Kingsleys with stories from law school and war stories of trials he'd been involved in be
fore teaching or acting as a consultant after he began teaching. The law school stories were often humorous anecdotes about Jake.
In turn, the Kingsleys told the Stantons stories about Jake's childhood.
Jake knew he would have to take a certain amount of this friendly abuse.
Finally, he interrupted. "The professor and I are going to Raspberry Bay after the bar exam next month."
"Oh, that's a perfect time to go," Martha Kingsley said to Professor Stanton.
"Yeah," agreed John Kingsley. "After about the tenth of July, the black flies aren't so bad and the westerly winds make the weather just great."
"You'll like the Apostles, Professor. Do you sail?" Martha Kingsley asked with interest.
"Jake tells me we should start." Charles Stanton smiled.
"What about you, Mildred?" she asked.
"Oh, I’m not going," said Mildred Stanton. "I am teaching summer classes in the second summer session. Charles will be pretty much on his own for a few weeks."
"That's too bad," said John Kingsley to Mildred Stanton. "You would enjoy the area."
"Another time," said Mildred.
"Martha and I grew up there, summers," said John Kingsley, "and so did Jake. It's a wonderful place."
"I'm looking forward to seeing it," said Stanton. "What do you think of my guide?"
"The absolute best." Jake's mother beamed. "No one loves the Apostles like our Jake."
During the next few weeks, Jake concentrated on studying for the bar exam. It was given at the law school on Monday and Tuesday, the eighth and ninth of July. There were four sessions of four hours each. At the beginning of each session, test questions and blank bluebooks for the answers were handed out to the students. There were four questions for each session. Sixteen hours ---sixteen questions.
When the exam was over, Tuesday afternoon, Jake's writing hand and his brain were exhausted. He was ready for the trip with Professor Stanton.
They left Thursday morning.
The Ultimate Resolution Page 6
