Coach by Walt Sautter (most difficult books to read txt) 📖

and then the fight started in the car.”
“Give him a ride back? Why would Coach do that after all the shit Ricky let out about him?”
“I don’t know. I’m just tellin’ what Freddy told me”, answered Tojo.
“And why would Ricky leave his hat there? I’m sure he wouldn’t leave it again after he just went up there to get it.”
“I don’t know. I’m just tellin’ ya what I heard.”
“Do they have anybody sayin’ any of this is true?”
“The Chief had Flash in his office for about an hour the other day. Flash told ‘em that Ricky said he lost his hat up by Coach’s the night you guys went there. He said Ricky was all upset about losin’ it.”
“Why did the cops bring Flash in, in the first place?” I asked.
“I think they said that Flash was tellin’ everybody how he drove you guys up there that night. You know the Flash, how he likes to tell stories about everything, including himself.
Then too, you know, Flash always has a thing goin’ around about him that maybe he’s a queer, so the Chief kinda used that to get him to say what he wanted him to say. He just said if Flash didn’t cooperate he’d get some kids to say that he queered ‘em and then Flash would go to jail. So, I guess it worked and he told ‘em about Ricky losin’ his hat and all.
So, I don’t even know if it’s true. Did he leave his hat at Coach’s like Flash said?”
I paused.
“Yeah, it’s true but he promised he wasn’t gonna tell anybody”, I replied.
“You shoulda known better. Flash tells everybody everything and besides he had the cops pressuring him.”
“I guess.”
“You don’t really think Ricky would kill anybody, do ya?” I asked Tojo.
“Not really! But what I’m thinkin’ don’t count. It’s what the cops think that counts.
I guess they figure, first of all he’s a nigger and second he moved up here from the city. They probably figure any nigger comin’ from the city like that wouldn’t have any problem killin’ somebody.”
He paused his conversation.
“And they do have some guys sayin’ that he might of done it” he continued.
“Who? Flash? He didn’t say Ricky killed anybody, he just said about him losin’ his hat up at Coach’s” I replied.
“Well, yeah but they got Moose too” he answered.
“Moose! What the fuck does he have to do with it?”
“They bought him in and talked to him too. He told Chief that he picked up Ricky right by Coach’s just around the time his wife found him. He said he picked him up and gave him a ride back to town. Then when Moose asked him what he was doing out there he says he went to get his hat.”
“Went to get his hat! Then why didn’t he have it with him when Moose picked him up?” I asked rhetorically.
“I don’t know man, I don’t know. That’s just what he said.”
“And by the way, doesn’t Moose’s sister, Minnie work for the police?
She works right in the Chief’s office there, right?”
“Sure does,” answered Tojo.
“Think maybe that’s got somethin’ to do with what Moose said?”
“Could be,” answered Tojo again.
Again a long pause in the conversation persisted.
“Well, no matter what, Ricky’s got a shit load of trouble goin’”, Tojo sighed.
“Sure does!” I agreed.
The next day was a Saturday and I had decided that I would go to the town jail and visit Ricky. I walked up town and stopped at Ralph’s Drugstore and bought a pack of Camels. I knew Ricky only smoked a little but every movie I ever saw showed the visitor offering the guy in jail a smoke. I figured that was the way it was done and it would make my visit more official like.
When I got to the police station I went to the front desk and asked to see Ricky White.
“Aint no Ricky White here” came the reply from the chubby woman behind the desk.
“Was here but they moved him” she continued and picked up a smoldering cigarette from the ashtray for another drag.
“Yeah, he’s up at county now” she added, with an exhale of smoke slipping out between the words.
“If you’re gonna go up there you better call ahead. You just can’t show up any old time and see him. They got visitor’s hours up there.”
“How come they took him up there?” I asked.
“Don’t really know. Somethin’ about security and stuff” she answered.
“You a friend of his?”
“Yeah!” I answered.
“You shouldn’t be admittin’ that so easy. He’s got a mess of trouble and a lot of people in this town aren’t taken too kindly to him after what he’s been charged with. I think that’s why he’s up at county. That’s just my guess from I what been hearin’. But then again, like I said I don’t really know” she concluded and took another long drag.
I left the police station and went to the closest pay phone back at Ralph’s. I got the number of the county jail and dialed.
‘Visiting hours, two to four on Saturday and Sunday.’
The clock across the street on the bank read one thirty. I left Ralph’s, walked to the edge of town and stuck my thumb out. Several cars passed. Within minutes, a blue Chevy pulled over and the driver waved me forward. I ran to the waiting car, jumped in and began the fifteen miles ride to the jail.
It was a gray, stone building with barred, steel framed windows. I hesitated for a moment and then ascended the steps, through the large double metal doors to the main desk.
“I’m here to see Ricky White,” I announced with a slight stammer.
The man at the desk said nothing, just began to shuffle through the deck of file cards before him. After several seconds, he stopped, withdrew one of cards, examined it carefully and then spoke.
“Relative?” he recited in a mechanical voice.
“No, friend”, I replied.
“He knows your comin”?”
“No”, I again answered and with that he arose and motioned for me to follow him.
We walked down a long corridor, through a chain link gate, which slammed ominously behind us, and into a dingy visiting room. My escort silently motioned for me to be seated in front of one of the several plate glass windows, which lined the rear wall of the room. About ten minutes had passed and then Ricky appeared and seated himself on the other side of glass. He bent forward and spoke through the round, mesh covered opening in the glass partition.
“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” he asked with some surprise.
“I should ask you the same thing,” I answered attempting to be as laid back as I could.
“I’m getting’ a bad rap hung on me, that’s what I’m doin’ here.”
Then he continued soberly, “You know I could never have done what they say. You know that.”
“Yeah, I know”, I replied.
“What kinda stuff did you hear Beamy?”
With that I relayed the entire story that was told to me by Tojo the day before. Ricky sat silently, behind the heavy glass partition, nodding his head periodically in agreement as I spoke.
“Yeah, that’s all about right. What Tojo told ya is pretty much it” he replied at the end of my story.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“Don’t know! They charged me and I guess a trial is next. I got a lawyer they gave me. My dad says we can’t afford a lawyer on our own so we gotta take what we get. His name is Harrington Gerity. Name sounds like he’s pretty smart, huh?”
“Yeah, sounds smart to me”, I agreed.
He hesitated for a moment and cast his eyes downward.
“Sure hope he’s a good one”, he then added.

Chapter 9
“Crowd Demands Highburg Trial Venue” the headline of the weekly Highburg Herald read.
“A protest drawing over two hundred local residents marched in front of the town police station demanding that the trial of accused murderer Richard White be held in Highburg. The present plan will hold that trial at the county court in Stanton.
One of the signs carried by the protesters read, ‘Coach Lived Here, Coach Died Here, We Want the Trial Here’. Another said ‘Justice for Coach, Justice for Highburg, Justice in His Town’.
An unnamed official said that in light of the fact that county elections are to be held next month, the demonstration is having a definite effect and the trial may be moved to Highburg. Additionally, the source indicated that jury selection might be made from Highburg citizens.
White’s father vehemently objected to the suggestion that the jury be made up town residents.
‘I fail to see how a jury made up of the victims ex players, friends and idolizers can yield a fair assessment of the facts in my son’s case’, he stated.
The final decision as to the venue and jury pool will be made by the end of the week. In the meantime, the suspect, Richard White is being held in the county jail at Stanton.”
“Hey kid, you gonna buy that paper? This aint no library!”
The voice came from behind the drugstore counter at Ralph’s.
I quickly refolded the newspaper and placed it back on the rack.
“Give me a coke, small”, I replied, walked over to the counter and wrestled a nickel from my pocket.
I sat, sipping the soda, thinking about what I had just read.
It didn’t sound good!
I was sure Mr. White was unfortunately correct.
It was a strange sight. A huge tent covered the doors of the firehouse. It was the tent that was erected every year in the park for the Fourth of July celebration in the event of rain. They had secured its opening against the outside wall of the firehouse and parked the fire engines at the side of the building so as to convert the interior into one large room.
I walked up and peeked in through a small opening in the canvas. Two men were busily arranging row after row of folding chairs. Tomorrow night it would be packed. From what I had heard, not a soul would miss being here. The trial would begin at six o’clock sharp and only two hundred people would be admitted, first come, first serve. A contingent of state cops would also be present as security and the trial itself was expected to last for several days.
The next day arrived and I arose anxious and unnerved. I had been called to Principal Robertson’s office the day before and told to be at the firehouse by four o’clock. I was to be a witness.
School ended at three o’clock and I went be to the firehouse immediately.
When I arrived, a dozen or so people had already lined up, most of them elderly, retired souls eager for relief from the daily boredom. They queued up and waited at the tent entrance. By the time five thirty arrived, and entry began, the line was well down the block.
I peered out from the door of the room to which I was assigned. I watched the first few enter as they raced, as quickly as they could, to the seats at the front of the makeshift courtroom.
A primitive railing constructed with a series of sawhorses, draped with black cloth separated the sitting from the area occupied by the judge, lawyers and jury. The judge was to be seated on a raised platform consisting of old wooden pallets and plywood, again fitted with a black, cloth covering. On each side of the railing stood a rigidly erect, state cop bearing a somber stare.
The room filled and the