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Bernie the Bookie

Bobby Townsend

    Bernie the Bookie was a thin little guy who owned a barroom on a winding road out in the woods somewhere and it was an extremely odd place for it to be, not only because you wouldn’t expect a business to be in such a location, but because the city of Brockton, Massachusetts, was pretty heavily populated and there simply weren’t that many wooded areas around. But that’s where Bernie set up shop and he did a fair amount of business because Bernie had a lot of friends who became regular customers and they told their friends about the place and, after all, word-of-mouth is the best kind of advertising. Certainly no passerby would ever just see the sign for Bernie’s Barroom and decide on the spur of the moment to stop in and wet their snouts because there was no reason to be on that particular road unless you were driving home to the little town of Whitman nearby and not many people lived in the little town of Whitman. And, besides that, come to think of it, there was no sign outside of Bernie’s. The building looked just like a big old warehouse and if you didn’t know in advance that there was a barroom inside, there wasn’t any reason to presume it was a place where you could wet your snout. But Bernie hired some very pretty young babes to tend bar and there was a huge backroom behind the bar that had a big-screen TV where you could watch sporting events and anybody who heard about Bernie’s and tried it once was likely to come back.
    A friend of mine brought me to Bernie’s one night and I found Bernie to be very personable, indeed. Like I said, he was a little guy. He had a wealth of gray hair mixed into his black and a pencil thin moustache that was all gray and he walked like a chicken. Part of the reason for that, I was told, was that he had polio when he was a kid. His neck was stiff and, when he turned his head, his whole body turned. He had a muffled, whispery voice like Marlon Brando’s when Brando was playing the godfather. I kind of wondered if that came naturally or through years of practice of trying to sound like Brando.
    The night I met Bernie, he was dressed entirely in black, which I would come to learn, he was prone to do. I would also learn that Bernie was a very rich man and, as good as business was at the barroom, it was hard to imagine he was making all that money by dispensing beer. And he wasn’t. Bernie was a bookie by trade and that was the secret of his affluence, although his affluence was no secret at all. Bernie was always dressed to kill. He wore a huge rock on his right hand, its cousin on his left hand, a Rolex watch and he always carried an outrageous wad of bills in each pocket. In the right pocket, he carried one-, five-, and ten-dollar bills; small potatoes whenever he needed them. In the left, were all fifties and hundreds. And he didn’t mind flashing either wad. Like he kid, he was proud of the money he carried and he seemed to want everybody to know he was carrying it.
    At one point during the night I met Bernie, he was peeling off two hundred dollar bills from the large-bill wad when he turned his whole body to a greasy, mechanic-type dude who was at the bar. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said in his whispery voice to the dude with the dirty fingernails and the slicked down hair. “You’re thinking that one night you’ll catch me alone out in the parking lot, knock me over the head with one of your wrenches and rob me. Well, let me tell you, if you do, you better kill me because, I will spend any amount of money to see you dead.”
    It was a very chilling comment, indeed.
    Well, after that first night I spent many more nights at Bernie’s because, like I said, once anybody tried the place, he was likely to come back. It was extremely pleasant watching sporting events on the big-screen TV and very handy, too, having a bookie right there on the premises. You could place your bets right up until game time.
    One night I was sitting at the bar having a drink and chatting with Bernie as I very often did because he was such a personable guy and I asked him how he got away with being so open about being a bookie. I mean, everybody knew he was the biggest bookie in town and the nickname, Bernie the Bookie, was a dead giveaway.
    “Well, first of all,” he whispered, “I didn’t get the nickname because I’m a bookie. I read a lot. But, more importantly, I pay off the cops. They don’t give me no trouble.”
    I was shocked! Not so much by the fact that Bernie was paying off the cops or that the cops were accepting his contributions to leave him alone, we all know those kinds of things go on in the best of neighborhoods. But I was shocked about Bernie’s candidness in telling me. I mean, I was a reporter for the local newspaper at the time and Bernie’s remarks didn’t seem appropriate to be telling a newspaper reporter.
    I guess Bernie was either confident in the relationship we had struck in the last couple of months or, if I wrote such an expose, it would be my word against his and the cops. Or maybe he figured if I wrote such a story I’d better make sure he was dead or he’d spend any amount of money to see me dead.
    Actually, I was a court reporter for the local newspaper. I covered trials. So, obviously, I was very interested in the trial of Francis “Bucky” McGee when that case got to court. You see, Bucky McGee was charged with attempted armed robbery and the alleged victim in the case was none other than Bernie the Bookie.
    Of course, everyone who hangs at Bernie’s Barroom had heard the story about the attempted robbery. In fact, we had all heard several versions. You know how stories get distorted when they get passed around. But from all I was told when I attempted to separate fact from fiction, the story went something like this:
    It was a Tuesday afternoon and business was pretty slow at Bernie’s Barroom being a Tuesday afternoon and nothing on the television but daytime TV. There were only seven people at the bar; Jake the (retired) Plumber and his old lady, both nursing a beer; Clyde, who was known to sell hot watches out of a case, and three bikers were drinking beer from bottles and playing liars poker with one-dollar bills. Doris, a cute little dirty-blonde, was tending the bar and Bernie was walking toward the front door when it opened, a burst of cold air came inside and so did a tall, skinny dude with outrageous buck teeth and severe pock marks on his face.
    Bernie, hit by the blast of cold air, stopped in his tracks a moment and the tall, skinny dude, produced a handgun from his bulky coat and said: “Give me your money, old man!”
    I guess Bernie was pretty offended, not only because this tall, skinny guy was holding a gun on him, but because still in his late forties, Bernie didn’t think of himself as being that old.
    In any event, Bernie stood motionless for a moment, staring down the tiny barrel of the little handgun, and then he let out a wild squeal, turned around and started running toward the back room. Clyde, the dude who was known to sell hot watches, told me it was a very funny sight because when Bernie took to running, he went very bow-legged and his legs were flailing out on both sides. Nobody had ever seen Bernie run before. In fact, Clyde said it was such a funny sight that he burst out laughing. As Bernie ran toward the back room, he yelled to Doris: “Call the cops! Call the cops!”
    It was obvious that the tall, skinny dude didn’t know what to do. He had never anticipated such a reaction from Bernie and I guess he wasn’t prepared to shoot him because his put his handgun back into his jacket and ran out the front door. After a couple of minutes, when Clyde had gotten all of the laughs out of him, he went to the door of the back room and said: “It’s OK. You can come out now. The guy with the gun took off.”
    When Bernie returned to the bar, Doris told him the cops were on the way.
    “What did you call them for?” Bernie asked.
    “You told me to,” she said.
    “Yeah, but I didn’t want you to call the cops. I just wanted to scare the guy with the gun. We don’t need the cops involved.”
    But now the cops were involved. They took Bernie down to the station to have him look at books of mug shots and it wasn’t long before he saw the tall skinny dude with the outrageous buck teeth and the severe pock marks. For a moment, Bernie considered just telling the cops that he couldn’t identify the culprit, but then he pointed out his assailant.
    “Are you sure that’s him?” asked the cop.
    “Yeah, that’s him,” Bernie said.
    I was a little surprised the day of the trial. I didn’t know the name Bucky McGee from a hole in the ground, but when I saw the dude I recognized him immediately from several Brockton watering holes I had a few beers in from time to time. He frequented bars in Montello, the north side of Brockton, and I was known to have tipped a few beers there, too.
    I listened intently in court as Bernie told the story in his muffled voice. He told the story pretty much as I related it to you, except he didn’t mention anything about squealing before he turned to run or his legs flailing out.
    When it came time for cross-examination, the public defender representing Bucky McGee, didn’t ask much of anything at all. Quite often, when you go to court with a public defender, you get what you pay for, which is nothing at all. But I had seen this young public defender, Candy Cameron, in action before and she was really a sharp cookie. I couldn’t imagine where she was going with her cross-examination of Bernie, though. She didn’t get anything out of him that mattered at all.
    Then the cop who responded to the scene and took Bernie back to the station to look at mug books testified. Candy didn’t ask Patrolman Jerry DuChane anything of any particular importance, either.
    “Did you ask Mr. Romero (Bernie’s last name) how much money he had on him at the time?”
    “Yes, I did,” DuChane responded.
    “How much did he say he had one him?”
    “Ten or fifteen dollars.”
    After DuChane’s testimony, the prosecution rested its case. Short and sweet. I guess the prosecution figured it was a slam-dunk. And, after all, it was only an attempted armed robbery. If Bernie had been shot, the prosecution would have called in Jake the (retired) Plumber and his old lady, Clyde the Watchman, the bikers, ballistics experts and, if Bernie had died, a coroner.
    But it was only an attempted robbery and the prosecution had Bernie’s testimony, an identification and a previous-convicted felon in the defendant’s chair. Good enough.
    When the prosecution rested, the court broke for lunch.
    After lunch, Candy Cameron called the defendant to the witness stand.
    Francis “Bucky” McGee said he couldn’t have been the dude who walked into Bernie’s Barroom and pulled a gun on the owner because he wasn’t anywhere near Bernie’s that afternoon. He said he was across in the Montello section of Brockton bar-hopping with a dude by the name of “Rabbit” that day. No, he didn’t know Rabbit’s real name.
    The cross-examination by Assistant District Attorney George Peterson was really something else. George Peterson was a crusty old guy with vicious eyes and a thirst for the jugular.
    “So, you were with a friend called Rabbit on the day in question?” Peterson asked.
    “Yes, I was.”
    “And what was Rabbit’s real name?”
    “Like I said, I don’t know.”
    “Not much of a friend, was he?”
    Candy jumped to her feet, but before she had a chance to object, Peterson said: “Withdrawn.”
    “What did Rabbit look like?” Peterson asked.
    “He was tall. Had big ears.”
    “How tall?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe 6-3.”
    “And his ears were very big, weren’t they?”
    “Yes.”
    “In fact, that’s why they called him Rabbit, wasn’t it?”
    “I don’t know. I guess so.”
    “And you’re sure you were with Rabbit that day?”
    “Yes.”
    “Very sure?” Peterson nearly screamed, as if he thought the vibrations from his voice would shake the defendant free of his story.
    “Yes.”
    Peterson then went on to ask Bucky a series of mundane questions about where he and Rabbit had been drinking that day, who they saw in which barroom and what they had talked about. Then he walked back toward the prosecution table as if he were through questioning, but he stopped, turned back to him and asked in a very meek voice: “You’re sure you were with Rabbit that day?”
    “Yes, I’m sure.”
    Peterson then finished the walk to his table picked up a document and approached the witness stand, handing it to the defendant.
    “Is this the man you know as Rabbit?” Peterson asked.
    When Bucky hesitated, Peterson added: “You can see that’s a wanted person’s poster with the name Ralph “Rabbit” Robinson’s name under the picture.”
    “Objection!” Candy shouted. The judge called the lawyers to his bench and, after a conference in whispered tones, the judge told the jury: “Disregard the last comment”.
    “Is that the man that you know as Rabbit?” Peterson asked the defendant.
    “Yes, it is,” Bucky responded.
    “Where does this document list as Rabbit’s last known address?”
    “The Overland Hotel on Main Street in Brockton.”
    “Have you seen Rabbit since the day in question?”
    “No, I haven’t.”
    “Do you know where he is today?”
    “No, I don’t?”
    “Would it surprise you to learn that Ralph “Rabbit” Robinson died two months before the day you say you were barhopping with him on the West Side of Brockton, Mr. McGee?”
    Bucky stood on the witness stand with his mouth open, all color drained from his cheeks.
    “I hand you this death certificate of one Ralph Robinson of the Overland Hotel on Main Street in Brockton, dated two months to the day before you say you were barhopping with him on the West Side of Brockton.”
    Bucky McGee didn’t have anything to say.
    “Are you the same Francis McGee who pleaded guilty to a charge of unarmed robbery in 1994 and was given five years’ probation?’ Peterson asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Are you the same Francis McGee who was found guilty of unarmed robbery in 1996 and was sentenced to five-to-seven years in prison?” Peterson asked.
    “Yes.”
    After Bucky McGee’s testimony, the prosecution rested its case and court broke for the day. The judge told jurors they would be hearing closing arguments in the morning.
    The next day when court convened, however, there were no jurors in the jury box.
    “Miss Cameron,” the judge said to the defense attorney, “I have been told you would like to address the court before the jury is brought in.”
    “Yes, your honor,” the tall and somewhat lanky defense attorney responded. “It would appear my client has lost confidence in me and would be requesting a new lawyer.”
    “Miss Cameron, the trial is nearly complete.”
    “Yes, your honor, I would request a mistrial and ask that the court appoint Mr. McGee new counsel.”
    The judge turned his gaze to the defendant – with daggers. “Mr. McGee!”
    “Yes, your honor.”
    “Stand when you address the court,” a court officer barked and Bucky sprang to his feet.
    “Why is it that you feel you want new counsel?”
    “You heard what went on yesterday, your honor. My lawyer isn’t doing her job. She let the DA lead me down the primrose path. No objections or nothing. Just let him lead me into a trap. How can I get a fair trial now? How could a jury ever find me innocent at this point?”
    “Mr. McGee,” the judge responded, “I’m sure Miss Cameron is not responsible for who you were with – or not with – on the day of this attempted robbery. And I don’t think Miss Cameron let the Assistant District Attorney lead you down a primrose path. I think you elected to walk down that path all by yourself. Your motion for new counsel is denied.”
    Turning to a court officer, the judge instructed: “Bring the jury in now.”
    I kind of felt sorry for Candy Cameron. I mean, having to make a closing argument for this loser after he tried to fire her in court. I thought her closing remarks would say a lot about her character. How much enthusiasm could she muster to try to convince a jury that this liar didn’t commit the crime? I guess she was in a similar position to an athlete playing out the season after his team has been eliminated from the playoffs. Playing for pride.
    But Candy’s closing argument nearly knocked me off my seat. It went something like this:
    “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury; you will soon here the judge instruct you on the law in this case and he will tell you that there are two things the prosecution must prove to you in order for you to find my client guilty. And both things must be proven to you beyond a reasonable doubt. If the prosecution fails to prove either of these two things, then you must find my client not guilty. Even if you don’t want to do it. Even if you think my client is a liar and a cheat and a despicable person.
    “First, the prosecution must prove that a crime has been committed. In this case, it’s the crime of attempted armed robbery. And then, if you believe that in fact a crime has been committed, you must be convinced beyond a reasonable doubt that my client committed the crime.”
    Candy then approached the jury box, placed her hands on the rail and leaned forward as if she were going to speak to the jurors very confidentially. When she spoke, her voice was deeper. It was almost as if she was trying to strike the pose and persona of Spencer Tracey in the movie “Inherit the Wind.” The movie was based on the Scopes Monkey Trial and Spencer Tracey was playing the part of the defense attorney, who was Henry Drummond in the movie, but was actually Clarence Darrow in real life. And, as sharp as Candy Cameron was, of course she was no Clarence Darrow.
    “I’m going to go out on a limb here and predict that if you get beyond the first prong of what the prosecution must prove – that a crime has been committed – if at the end of the day here, you truly believe a crime has been committed, then it would be reasonable for you to find that my client committed it.”
    There was a gasp in the courtroom. What was she doing? Throwing her client to the wolves because he had the unmitigated gall to try to fire her? Was she throwing the trial? The judge jerked anxiously in his high chair as if he had suddenly become uncomfortable.
    “Sure, it you believe a crime has been committed, it would be perfectly logical to believe my client did it. He obviously lied about where he was that Tuesday. Or, at least, he lied about who he was with. You can’t go hopping from bar to bar with a dead man, can you? Mr. McGee was obviously lying. Or very mistaken.
    “That was six months ago. Can any of your tell me where you were or who you were wish on that Tuesday six months ago?
    “Still, if this attempted armed robbery happened, you could find that Mr. McGee did it. Hey, he did it before, didn’t he? You heard about the two unarmed robberies he was convicted of. It wouldn’t be such a stretch for you to figure that he added a gun to his repertoire.”
    Candy removed her palms from the railing of the jury box, paced several steps back from the jurors turned, pointing at them and bellowed with a voice from deep down inside her: “But I suggest to you, when all is said and done, you will not be convinced that a crime has been committed! You cannot convict my client of an attempted armed robbery because an attempted armed robbery simply did not happen!
    “Sure you heard Bernard Romero take the witness stand and tell you that a tall skinny male with protruding teeth and pock marks came into his establishment, pulled a gun on him and demanded his money.
    “Now, I want you to stop and analyze this testimony and ask yourself, ‘Does it make sense?’
    “Of course it doesn’t! If a gunman is going to walk into a barroom to commit a robbery, where’s he going to go once inside? He’s going to go to the cash register and pull his weapon on the bartender. That’s where the money is.
    “He’s not going to stop some little guy halfway between the front door and the cash register and attempt to rob him. There’s no guarantee he’s going to have any money at all. He may have just spent the last two bucks he had for a beer.
    “You’ll recall Bernard told the police that night he had ten or fifteen dollars on him at the time. Why’s he going to take the chance of settling for ten or fifteen dollars when there are obviously hundreds in the cash register?
    “I don’t know what Bernard’s game is here. I don’t know why he came in and told this story. I don’t know if he ever met my client before or what kind of a grudge he has against him. He told you he never met my client before, but come on; Brockton isn’t that large a city. My client, as you can surmise, spends plenty of time bar hopping and Bernard owns a bar.
    “Barnard’s story simply does not make sense. It’s doesn’t have the ring of truth. You can’t convict my client of a crime that didn’t happen. As much as you might like to.”
    There was more, a lot more. Lawyers like to talk. And then there was the prosecutor’s spiel. Then the jury heard instructions from the judge and was sent out to deliberate.
    They deliberated for about three hours and sent the judge a message saying they had reached a verdict.
    “Not guilty!”
    Unbelievable.
    Bernie wasn’t in the courtroom when the verdict was delivered. Hell, he hadn’t even been there when the lawyers made their closing arguments. He left the courthouse as soon as he finished his testimony.
    I went back to the newspaper, wrote my story and then headed out to Bernie’s. I knew the prosecutor would have been in touch with him by then and figured Bernie would really be pissed.
    “I gotta ask you something,” I said to Bernie over a beer. “Why the hell did you ever tell the cop you were only carrying ten of fifteen dollars?”
    “Why, did that come out in court?” Bernie asked.
    “Yeah, it became a very big deal at the trial.” Then I went on to explain to him how the defense attorney made it a very big deal.
    Bernie smiled.
    “So why did you tell the cop you were only carrying ten or fifteen dollars?” I asked again.
    “It was a joke,” Bernie said. “Jerry knows me. He knows I was carrying a few thousand. Everybody in Brockton knows I always carry a few thousand. So when he asked me how much I had on me, I said, ‘Not much, ten of fifteen dollars.’ It was a joke.”
    Bernie was still smiling. He didn’t seem very upset.
    “How come you’re not pissed he was found not guilty?” I asked.
    “Ah, I never expected much,” he said. “I never trusted the court system.”
    I never saw Bucky McGee around the bars again. Even when I did some bar hopping in Montello.
    Nobody in Brockton ever saw Bucky McGee around again.

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