---

The sixth of seven chapters that will run all week.

---

It seemed like the toughest part of the case of Jimbo Carthage versus Frontier Ford was going to be the jury selection.  Jimbo thought that any prospective juror who’d bought a car from the dealership should be stricken.  “That’s not how it works, Jimbo!  I explained that already!”  His attorney, Boyd Garland was already frustrated with his client and the trial hadn’t even started.

Daniel “Whiskey” Jack, with an 18% ownership stake in Frontier Ford was seated next to Franklin Danbury, Jr. as things got underway in the wood paneled upstairs courtroom of the Pecos County Courthouse.  “I still think we should have made the sumbitch an offer to settle out of court and make this whole thing just go away,” he said, chafing from having to put on a necktie for the first time in years.  In the years since he’d been given ownership in the dealership from his best friend, Mason McCullough, he’d rarely been involved in the intricacies of the business and wasn’t excited about doing so for the trial.

“We could have.  But as your attorney, I advised against it.  In the end, it’s your call.  But if that’s the direction you want to go, you’ll have to tell me now.  Once this train leaves the station there’s no turning it around.”  Danbury knew what the answer would be, but had to make the offer one last time.

“Hell no.  We’re here now, just make sure you win the damn thing,” Whiskey would have rather driven nails in both eyes than have to be sitting in that courtroom.

At the table across the aisle, Jimbo Carthage sat with his attorney, a guy he’d hired from Buena Vista, Doug Dunbar.  It seemed the other attorneys in town didn’t want to touch the case.  Dunbar had advised Jimbo that the case would probably never go to trial due to the parties involved.  “Corporations hate litigation.  Ninety-five percent of my suits never see the inside of the courtroom,” he told Jimbo.  Apparently neither did the one he was wearing.  It was one of those that could actually be washed and dried at home, but hadn’t been.

Once the jurors had been selected, seated, and sworn in the judge broke for a twenty minute opportunity for anyone to use the bathroom that needed to, grab a coffee from the vending machine, or smoke.  Most went for the coffee thinking it was going to be a boring day ahead of them.  They were correct.

Back in the courtroom with the hearing actually underway, Dunbar called the first witness on his list, still somewhat surprised that he hadn’t been approached by counsel for the defense with an offer to settle.  The Service Manager of Frontier Ford took the stand and answered all the questions under oath, none of which were disputed by Danbury.  The judge declared the court to be in recess for lunch and banged the gavel like it was Trixie from the Klip-N-Dye.

Folks filed out of the courtroom and headed to either the Grounds for Divorce or the K-Bob’s for lunch.  They didn’t talk about the case, primarily because there was nothing to say.  It had been cut and dried so far with no fireworks, and not even a single objection.  For those serving on the jury, it was nothing like what they were used to seeing in courtrooms on TV or in movies.

After lunch Dunbar called his next witness, the General Manager of Frontier Ford.  Again, it was straight forward, unemotional, and without any drama.  At the conclusion of the testimony of both witnesses Danbury declined to cross-examine.  None of the facts presented were disputed.  Whiskey thought they might finish the whole thing up in a lot less time than he’d originally thought.  He was looking forward to being back out at the ranch and done with the whole thing.

The day was finished by Dunbar showing slides on a poorly produced PowerPoint explaining the details of how triple damages worked in the state of Texas and why they were drafted into law in the first place.  His references to criminals posing as companies made some in the jury box bristle, as Frontier Ford, “Home of the Straight Shootin’ Deal,”  had been part of the community for decades.  Many of them learned to drive in Galaxies, Torinos, or Fairlanes provided to Jim Bowie High School by Frontier Ford.  They were put off by the dealership being likened to a drug cartel from across the border.

By four o’clock, Dunbar had rested his case.  “We’ve heard enough for one day,” the judge said as he addressed the jury.  He was as bored as they were.  “We’ll resume tomorrow at 9:00 AM at which time the defense will present its case.”  Again he banged the gavel, which appeared to be his favorite part of the job.

Danbury and Whiskey met at his office across from the courthouse before the trial began the next morning, just so Danbury could lay out the basics of how he thought the day would go.  “They didn’t throw anything out there that I hadn’t planned on,” Danbury noted.  “So far everything is going just about exactly as I expected.  I’m only calling three witnesses.  Their testimony should be short.  I’m thinking we’ll be able to wrap this up today, tomorrow morning at the latest.”

As they walked across the street to the courthouse, they passed a 1960 Plymouth Fury 4-door sedan in the lot.  Whiskey thought it looked vaguely familiar, but couldn’t quite place it.  Sitting over new unibody underpinnings for 1960, the full-size Fury retained quirky transitional styling cues including flamboyant rear “Stabilizers” along with distinctive eyebrows, canted wheel arches, and a Sport Deck trunk lid with a faux spare tire. It looked like it had been repainted in its original monotone white.  The exterior presented a nice overall shine down large expanses of gently curved sheet metal.

“They damn sure don’t make ‘em like that anymore!”  Whiskey couldn’t help but admire the huge old Fury as they walked by.

Red-painted steel wheels wore bright but occasionally rumpled factory covers and newer Coker Classic wide whitewalls.  Extensive stainless brightwork was intact throughout and retained a bright polish on the front grille, rear skirts, and swept Sport Shield wheel arch panels.   Danbury was surprised Whisky didn’t recognize the car; it was owned by his star witness that would be testifying in just a short time.

Settled in, the jury heard testimony from Bobby Turnbow, the auto technician who’d performed the work on Jimbo’s F-150 Raptor.

“Are you factory-certified?” Danbury asked.

“Yes, Sir.  Have to be to work at Frontier Ford.  Company rules.”

“And how long have you worked at Frontier Ford?”

“Going on nine years now, Sir.”

“And it is a good place to work?” Danbury asked him.

“IRRELEVANT!” Dunbar shouted from the table.  The jury jumped a little at the sound of his voice.  Even the judge seemed to wince just a bit.

“Overruled.”  The judge thought Dunbar just needed to be heard to shake things up.  “Continue.”

“In your nine years at Frontier Ford, have you ever had a vehicle that you worked on that left with the oil pan plug not put back in correctly after it was serviced?” Danbury asked.

“Never.  Not once.  That’s just about the easiest thing you can do when servicing a vehicle nowadays.  The only thing that hadn’t changed much or gotten more complicated.”  Bobby was polite, sincere, and about as likable as a witness could get.  Whiskey was proud of his performance.  

Dunbar didn’t see any benefit to trying to dispute what the kid had said or be confrontational.  “No questions, your Honor.”

“Call your next witness,” the judge said to Danbury.

---

---

A middle aged woman stood from the courtroom and made her way to the witness box.  She stated her name as Wanda Willoughby and her occupation as Accounts Receivable Manager for Pecos Prosthetics.  She swore to tell the truth, Dunbar swore under his breath.

Responding to a line of questioning that went on about 45 minutes in which Dunbar objected four times and was overruled each time, Wanda stated that Pecos Prosthetics had been attempting to collect on an artificial leg purchased with a bad check by Jimbo Carthage for over a year.  “Our calls are not being returned.  We are about to turn it over to collections, who have advised us that we are not alone in attempting to collect funds that are very delinquent.”

“No further questions,” Danbury said.

Dunbar attempted to cross examine but his questions seemed scattered and leading nowhere, as though he was making them up on the fly, which he was.  Fifteen minutes later Wanda stepped down and made her way back to the pews in the gallery.

“I call Brother Bob to the stand, pastor of Second Baptist Church of Fort Stockton,” Danbury said.  Brother Bob marched through the court and to the witness box as though he was taking his place to preach the sermon on the mount.  Three of the jurors rolled their eyes.  A couple were enraptured.  He swore to “tell the truth, so help me God,” as though they were best friends.

Brother Bob testified that the roof of the church remodel had leaked ever since Jimbo’s construction company had replaced it, but that the roofing company wouldn’t come to fix it because they haven’t been paid.  He claimed that the flooring was curling up in places and that Nadine Tomball had actually tripped on it, causing a fairly serious ankle injury.

“Has the flooring issue been repaired?” Danbury asked.

“Not yet.  They said they haven’t been paid.” Brother Bob said, hoping to convince jurors that it wasn’t his fault.

“Are there any other issues with the work performed by Jimbo Carthage’s construction company?” Danbury queried.

Brother Bob looked sheepish.  “I’m afraid so.”

“Go ahead,” Danbury said.

“Apparently there is an issue with the plumbing between the women’s restroom and the baptistry.”

“And that would be?”

Brother Bob squirmed in his chair.  “When someone in the women’s restroom flushes the toilet, there’s a pretty good chance we’re going to wind up with a floater in the baptistry.  We have a net standing by, but have found it’s just best to lock the door to the women’s restroom if there’s a baptism.”  Brother Bob couldn’t look at the jury.  “That was on recommendation of the health department.  Just till the plumbing issue gets resolved.”

“And when will that be?”

“When they get paid.”

“No more questions.” Danbury said.

Dunbar fell silent.  The judge broke for lunch.  The jury seemed to sneer at Jimbo as they filtered out of the courtroom.

Whiskey treated Danbury to lunch at the Dairy Twin.  Neither mentioned the trial.  It was like they would have jinxed the outcome if they’d have discussed it.  But they both felt good about how the morning had gone.

Back in court, the jury was sleepy as they filtered back into the jury box.  Their stomachs were full.  The testimony was dry.  The room was warm.  And the hum of the slow circling ceiling fans was enough to put them to sleep.  After the judge called them to order, Danbury called his final witness.

Everyone in the courtroom perked up when they saw who was heading toward the witness box.  Whiskey turned around and glanced at Danbury.  He suddenly realized the connection to the 1960 Plymouth Fury they had admired in the parking lot earlier than morning.

“State your name and occupation,” the court clerk said.

“Hank Hennessy.  Bartender at the Lucky Lady Lounge in Fort Stockton, Texas.”  Everyone laughed at the thought of him having to claim that distinction.  There wasn’t a soul in town who didn’t know Hank.  He’d been a fixture at the Lucky Lady damn near forever.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God?” the clerk inquired, Hank’s right hand on the Good Book.

“Try my damndest,” Hank said.  The jury chuckled.

Danbury stood up and made his way to the witness box.  He led Hank through a series of questions that seemed to entertain and inform the jury.  Most were regarding how often Jimbo Carthage came into the Lucky Lady and what the conversations he had with Hank consisted of.  It didn’t take long to see a pattern.  Jimbo was drowning his sorrows in alcohol, and most of those sorrows were due to poor financial decisions and past due bills all over Pecos county.  But then things took a strang turn.

“What do you drive, Hank?” Danbury asked.

“A white 1960 Plymouth Fury 4 door sedan.  It had been my daddy’s car.  I tracked it down to a family that bought it years ago and bought it back.  It’s a purdy thing.  Nothing else in town like it. A pair of fender skirts is all it lacks makin’ it perfect.”

Dunbar started to object, but then saw the futility in it.

“And where do you keep the Plymouth parked when you’re at the Lucky Lady? Danbury asked.

“Out back.  Behind the bar.  The car is real unusual and draws a crowd if I keep it out front.  Damn fingerprints all over the thing, ‘specially the spare tire cover on the deck lid.”  Hank went on, “That stainless steel don’t polish itself!”  The jury laughed out loud.  “Anyway, I keep it out back, off the street, where folks don’t bother it none.”

“Anything unusual happen on the night that the plaintiff came in roughly six months ago?” Danbury asked.

“Only if you figure someone crawling under a damn near brand new truck and loosening the oil drain plug as bein’ unusual.”  Hank said.

Further testimony revealed that Hank had gone out to the Fury to retrieve a rhinestone bracelet out of the glove box for Shannon Hudspeth that she’d inadvertently left at his place.  In the course of doing so, he’d seen Jimbo drive his year old Rapture around the back of the Lucky Lady, crawl underneath it with a wrench of some type and work on a nut underneath the engine.  “What a man does with his own nuts is up to him.  But yeah, I thought it was strange.  When he left the parking lot, I saw a little trail of motor oil following behind him.”

The jury immediately looked over at Jimbo, who looked away.  Dunbar looked at the judge.  Whiskey looked at Danbury.  Danbury looked back at Hank.

“I damn sure knew it wasn’t drippin’ out of the A-series 318ci V8 purring under the hood of my Fury.  You could eat off that sumbitch.”

Hank had time to grab a steak at K-Bob’s before he went to work that night.  The crowd was heavy that night, folks stopping in for a Lone Star Longneck and to swap stories with Hank.

Jimbo Carthage was arrested for fraud a couple days later at his place.  A repo truck was picking up the F-150 Raptor about the same time.  Whiskey covered the expense of getting the plumbing situation worked out over at Second Baptist.  The flock still seems hesitant to be baptized.  Apparently they read more details in the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch than Brother Bob had actually intended to divulge.

---

---