He took his coffee and walked up the stairs to the second floor. There were about fifty people standing in the hallway out­side the courtroom making small talk. He recognized a few of them, but was in no mood to start a conversation.

Only four more jurors and two alternates were needed. With a little luck, he would soon be sent on his way. The cof­fee tasted bitter, but he continued to sip on it anyway, just to occupy himself.

After a few minutes, a woman walked out of the courtroom and spoke to the crowd in monotone. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. We are ready to get started. We did not get enough jurors yesterday for the criminal trial, so we are going to use part of today’s panel for that purpose. Those who are not selected for the criminal trial today must appear tomorrow at 8:00 AM for the civil trial jury selection.

“First, I will call the names of the jurors that have already been selected. When I call your name, please go into the court­room and take your seat in the pews where you sat yesterday. Please sit in the order in which your names are called.”

“Alexander Littleton…Gail Silestone…” The crowd carefully analyzed each person as he walked through the group and into the courtroom. “Mary McJohnson…William Biscayne …Judy McPhearson…John Nihmbor…Nancy Novelle… and Troy Block­erman.”

Greg nearly choked on his coffee. Troy Blockerman! That’s Cynthia’s husband. His blood pressure shot up like a bottle rocket, exploding into a headache.

“And now I will call the names of a portion of today’s panel. Those whose names are not called will need to stay here in the courthouse since we might still need you today. I will let you know when you can go home. Again, please sit in the order in which your names are called. Elsie Olstead…Lory Lipscomb…Greg Tenorly…”

Seventeen more names were called, but Greg didn’t hear any of them. His numb body didn’t feel the coldness or the hardness of the pew on which he sat. Nor did he notice the buzzing fluorescent light fixture located directly above his head.

He could only think about Cynthia’s husband. Apparently, Troy didn’t yet know the name of his wife’s mystery man. But surely it was just a matter of time before Greg’s identity was revealed to the big, mean drunk who was sitting a few feet away.

David Beachton had predicted it. The prosecutor and the defense attorney took their turns asking questions. Greg ans­wered each question almost robotically. He would be selected. And there was nothing he or anyone else could do to stop it.

He began to come out of his haze when he heard the judge thanking those who had not been selected. There would be a 15-minute break, and then the trial would begin. Greg needed to use that time to call students and cancel lessons.

As he walked into the hallway, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, and turned it on. It began to ring. It was an unknown caller. Probably a student canceling his lesson. Good. It would save him the trouble of calling them.

“Hello? This is Greg.”

“Greg, this is Cynthia Blockerman.”

Greg quickly surveyed the hallway. He couldn’t find Troy Blockerman. Maybe he had gone to the restroom, or down to the concession stand.

Greg whispered, “Cynthia, I got selected to serve on the jury for the murder trial. And your husband is on the jury too!”

“Oh, no.”

“Are you okay? How bad did he hurt you?”

“Yes, I’m alright. Just a little bruised. Sorry about the call last night. I was really scared. But I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“No, no, that’s okay. But you never called me back, and I was worried. And then he called me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I hope you didn’t give him my name.”

“No. And don’t worry. He won’t even remember what hap­pened last night. He never remembers anything from when he’s drunk.”

“Good.” Greg looked around to reassure himself that nobody was listening.

“But, Greg, since you’re on the jury I need to tell you some­thing Troy said last night—”

“—wait. I can’t talk about the case.”

“This is not about the case. It’s about Troy. Last night, while he was still sober, he was saying things like, that black boy ought to be hung. The electric chair ain’t good enough for that scum. I don’t know whether the man is guilty or not, but I don’t see how he can get a fair trial when a juror has already made up his mind before the trial even starts.”

Greg felt it welling up in his chest—righteous indignation.

“Don’t worry. This will be a fair trial. I will make sure of that.”

He looked up and saw Troy Blockerman standing right in front of him, and quickly ended the call, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Hey, ain’t you that piano teacher?”

It was a simple question. But would the answer lead to a bloody nose?

“Yes, I teach piano, voice, guitar, and music theory.”

“Yeah, I thought so. My sister’s kid takes piano from you.”

“I don’t recall meeting you.” Surely Greg would have remembered this guy. He looked like an offensive tackle.

“No, I didn’t meet you. I just saw you standing in the door­way when I dropped her off.”

Troy leaned in close and Greg flinched.

“This trial should be over by the end of the day. This guy is toast.”

**********

Jenny had completed her job and was headed back to Dal­las. She turned off the blaring CD player, and made a phone call.

“Mission accomplished, Buford.”

She had once asked him why his parents named him ‘Buford’—not a popular name in 1969 when he was born. And why he didn’t use a nickname instead. He had told her it was his grandfather’s name. And people remembered the name because it was unusual. He liked that.

“So, we got Troy Blockerman and Greg Tenorly?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Okay. Great job, Jenny.”

“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking—why was it so impor­tant to get those two men on the jury? I can understand why the defense would want Greg Tenorly. But why Troy Blockerman? He’s a redneck who’s obviously going to vote ‘Guilty.’”

“I don’t mind you asking, Dear. But, if you want an answer, you’ll have dinner with me tonight.”

Jenny wasn’t sure her curiosity was that strong.

END OF EXCERPT

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“May I help you?”

The worn-out speaker was crackly, but he still recognized the particularly twangy East Texas voice of Fontana Fry.

Over his six years of vocal training, he had become acutely aware of accents. This is true of all classically trained singers. Great emphasis is placed on precise pronunciation and enun­ciation. It is mandatory that the singer’s repertoire include works written in English, Latin, Italian, German, and French.

So, by the time Greg finished his graduate degree, his accent had been all but eliminated. He sounded somewhat like a net­work news anchor instead of an East Texan.

“I would like a large—”

“—a large dipped cone, the usual. Right?”

The Dairy Queen drive-thru ordering station was located out in front of the restaurant, on the right side. He looked up, and saw the 19 year-old waving at him. She looked so cute in her little Dairy Queen outfit. Fontana was in her first year at Kilgore College. She planned to be an elementary teacher. He knew she would be a good one.

Greg had met Fontana a few months earlier when she brought her 13-year-old brother to the studio to enroll for guitar lessons. The boy was holding a U.S. made, 1968 Harmony acoustic guitar his uncle gave him. The body and the frets were badly worn, but the instrument still played beautifully. It looked somewhat like a large violin, with arched top and f-holes. That shape produces a more mellow sound than flattops. And the guitar’s age contributed additional warmth to the tone.

Hi, I’m Fontana, and this is my brother, Montana. Greg had almost snickered. As it turned out, Montana was musically gifted. He learned faster than Greg could teach him.

Fontana probably wondered why he never came inside to eat. He always opted for the drive-thru, and then parked behind the building, in the back corner of the parking lot.

She gave Greg a tall stack of napkins before he could ask. He parked, and began his nightly ritual—spreading out the napkins meticulously in layers across his lap. Drips would be contained. A chocolate stain on his shirt or pants would, of course, be up­setting. But the slightest drip or crumb on Bon­nie’s pristine interior would be tantamount to desecration.

Just as he bit off the tip of the chocolate covered mountain, his cell phone rang.

Unknown Name. Unknown Number.

Greg figured it was some misdialing drunk. It could be han­dled quickly. His ice cream was already beginning to melt. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Hello?”

It was a woman whispering frantically. The sound was so distorted he couldn’t understand her at first, and was about to hang up.

“He’s doing it again.” She sounded terrified. “He hit me and threw me into the wall. I’m sorry, Greg, I shouldn’t be calling you, but—”

Greg heard a man shouting in the background, then a com­motion. The phone went dead. He felt sick and helpless, like a kid who had just been spun on a merry-go-round at breakneck speed until he flew off. And the dizziness would not soon go away.

Greg wanted to call the police, but what would he tell them? And why did she call him instead of 911? He would call her back. No, he couldn’t—he didn’t have her number.

Then he felt something on his leg. The ice cream was melt­ing beneath the chocolate shell, and it had collapsed under its own weight, and fallen onto the bed of napkins in his lap.

Still dazed, he sat for a full minute studying the ice cream as it dripped down the sides of the cone onto his hand and arm. Gradually the streams of white turned to pink, then to red— running down Cynthia’s face! A cold chill ripped through his body, and jolted him back to reality. He dropped the cone onto the gooey pile, bundled the entire mess, and threw it out of the car, as though it was toxic.

Suddenly Greg felt exposed sitting alone in the convertible, in the dark. He put the top up, locked it in place, and drove home as quickly as he could without attracting local law en­forcement. There was nothing to tell the police.

Why had she come to him? He wished he had never met her. Yet he wanted to help her.

It was quiet on his street. Most of the neighbors were reti­r­ees, and were already in bed. He turned into his driveway, parked, and hurried toward his back porch. Just before he reached the door, his cell phone rang.

“Cynthia?”

A drunken man yelled back at him. “Who is this?”

Greg snapped the phone shut, and started to throw it into the woods behind his house. But throwing the phone away wouldn’t help. Fear began to flush through his veins, from head to toe.

Greg looked all around, and saw nothing but darkness. Then he thought he sensed movement in the distance. He fum­bled with the keys. Why wasn’t the porch light on? Office keys, church keys, car keys. Where was the house key?

Finally, he got it opened, and darted in. He slammed the door, and double-locked it. The light switch was on. What a time for the bulb to burn out.

He moved quickly throughout the house, turning on every light, and all three TVs.

The electric bill was the least of his worries.

Greg had appeared at the courthouse that morning as part of a jury pool, only to be released. He and the rest of his group would have to return the next morning. He hoped they would not need him. The church would pay his regular part-time sal­ary while he was serving on a jury, but any private lessons he missed would be money lost.

Greg’s red 1965 Pontiac Bonneville convertible always turned heads as he drove through the small town. He had purchased it two months earlier from a career Navy man down in Longview who had babied the thing for years. It spent most of its life in the man’s garage, coming out only when he was on leave. Most trips were to the car wash or the Pontiac dealer for scheduled maintenance.

Greg gladly paid $4,000 for it. The sailor called him the very next day and tried to buy it back. He said it was like los­ing a member of the family. Greg felt bad, but not bad enough to give up the car. How could a 40-year-old car have only 93,000 miles on it? It was dazzling.

His little studio was near the town square, nestled between Coreyville Hardware and Susie’s Sewing Box. Occasionally he and a student could hear a pipe wrench or hammer hitting the floor on the hardware side. But things were always quiet from Susie’s side. At least the soundproofing he had installed kept his neighbors from hearing his students. You can’t teach music without hearing both beautiful sounds and sour notes.

Parking the mammoth red beauty behind the building always made him a little nervous. The two pickups next door were in and out constantly. It was only a matter of time before one of those trucks drove out of the alley with red paint across the fender.

He walked through the back door, and into the odor of yesterday’s Folgers and aging music scores and textbooks. A welcome aroma.

The message machine was flashing.

Message 1: Hello Greg, this is Penelope Ragsdale. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to make my lesson today. Thanks.

That’s $12 down the drain, he thought.

Message 2: Mr. Tenorly, this is Patty Hansel. Hugh fell out of a tree and broke his collar bone, so he’s going to miss his piano lessons for a while. I’ll let you know when he can come back. Thanks.

Why did they name the kid Hugh? Maybe he was named after Hugh Grant or Hugh Jackman. Surely not Hugh Hefner.

Greg had twenty-nine students. Many of them took two les­sons per week. He taught piano, voice, guitar, and music the­ory. His teaching hours were from 1:00-8:00 PM, although there were plenty of open time slots. On an average week, seven or eight students cancelled lessons. He dreaded phone calls, since they were nearly always cancellations.

The phone rang, and Greg reluctantly picked up.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?”

It was David Beachton, owner of BeachTone Tanning Salon and a bass in Greg’s choir. Greg didn’t think tanning was healthy, even in the sun—much less under artificial light. He tried not to think about it too much because David was a good friend.

“I’m fine. How about you?”

“I just wanted to let you know you are not off the hook for the big trial.”

“How did you find out?”

“Greg, I’m always one of the first to know what’s going on in this town. You know that. They only got eight jurors out of today’s group. So, they’ll have a shot at you tomorrow.”

“Hope I don’t get picked.”

“Oh, you will. No doubt.”

“But I can’t make a living while I’m spending time on a jury.”

“I hate to tell you, Buddy, but they don’t care. Besides, you want to do your civic duty, right?” David laughed. He would hate taking time for jury duty.

“Yeah, right. But what makes you so sure I’ll be picked?”

“Think about it, Greg. They’ll ask if you can be fair—even though the defendant is black and the victim was white. You will say ‘Yes.’ They’ll want to know if you have any relatives or friends directly connected to the case. You will say ‘No.’ You’ll answer each question correctly just by being honest. So, if you don’t want to serve, you’ll have to lie. But you won’t.”

“Oh, man.”

Greg was overdue for some lunch. His first lesson was an hour away, so he locked up, and walked down the sidewalk to Jane’s Diner. He heard the usual ring of the bell and a ’Hi’ from Jane as he walked in. He sat down in his favorite booth at the front window. He liked to watch the people come and go, around town square.

Things were so different here than in Longview, where he had lived for many years. Like stepping into the mid-1960s in many ways. It only seemed fitting that his car was a 1965 model.

As was often the case, Jane herself waited on him.

“Do you need a menu today, Greg?” She always asked, but he never needed one. He had only lived in Coreyville for about a year, but he ate at Jane’s nearly every day.

“No thanks, Jane. Just give me the turkey on wheat and a Diet Coke.” It was a delicious sandwich, piled high with extra thin turkey slices, fresh lettuce, dark red tomato from a local gardener, and mayo on toasted whole wheat bread. It came with a huge dill spear and potato chips on the side.

While Greg was waiting for his lunch, he overheard some men talking in the back of the restaurant.

“There’s no doubt he’s guilty. I don’t know why they’re wasting taxpayer money to try that piece of trash!”

Greg was beginning to realize how difficult it would be to find twelve impartial jurors for the trial. Then he heard the 1:30 train barreling through the outskirts of town. It felt like he was tied across those tracks. The murder trial was coming toward him like a locomotive.

Resistance was futile.

His appetite was gone.

Cast of Characters
• Greg Tenorly
  Part-time private music instructor, part-time music minister at First Baptist Church, Coreyville, Texas.
• Cynthia Blockerman
  Vice President of First State Bank, Coreyville.
• Troy Blockerman
  Cynthia Blockerman’s abusive husband.
• Buford Bellowin
  A powerful Dallas attorney.
• John X
  A young, up-and-coming hit man.
• Marty Crumb
  An old ex-con, ex-hit man.
• Kyle Serpentine
  An ambitious Longview attorney.
• Angela Hammerly
  The district attorney.
• Andrea Newly
  The assistant district attorney.
• Jenny Slidell
  A jury consultant.
• Jane Appletree
  Owner/operator of Jane’s Diner (Also appears in the Ginger Lightley Cozy Mystery Series).
• Dr. J. Marshall Huff
  Pastor of First Baptist Church, Coreyville.
• Sam Spokane
  Owner/operator of Sam’s Bicycle Shop. Murder victim.
• Dorothy Spokane
  Sam’s Spokane’s wife.
• Kantrell Jamison
  On trial for the murder of Sam Spokane.
• Ella Jamison
  Kantrell Jamison’s mother.
• Jolee Jamison
  Kantrell Jamison’s sister.
• Ben “Big-Ben” Jones
  Kantrell Jamison’s cell mate.
• Arabeth Albertson
  Eyewitness for the murder trial.