I Shot the Sheriff
The confession slipped out before he could catch the fumbling letters as they crashed against the wall, ceiling and floor of Bob Marley’s apartment room. Bob’s hands sweat profusely as he narrated why he’d been hiding, while he paced up and down the place, bare footed. Bob hadn’t been at work for 3 days and best friend and colleague, Mark, knew something was up — something bad. After all 15 years of friendship was enough time to notice when Bob was not his Bob-like self. All those years of Bob stealing his food at lunchtime in the staff office. All those years of Bob borrowing money from him for sweets. Bob only missed work for two reasons alone; a late drunken night at the Sondar Music Club in New Orleans’ high town the previous night or…a steamy night with a woman and the tantalising, lustrous scent of her melanin skin. Even his phone had been off for 2 days straight.
“I — I — I shot the sheriff,” he panted, “but I didn’t shoot the deputy!”
Mark glanced over to the TV screen on the left only to see Bob’s face plastered onto NBC News’s headline report.
Hanging on to his latter clause and noticing, Mark replied flippantly, “What does it matter mate? You’re all over the news!”.
“It was fucking self-defence. Cologne has always hated me. I don’t even know why! It’s like every time I plant a seed, he kills it, before it grows”.
“Oh Lord. Damnnnn. So where’s the deputy?” Mark asked again, careful not to give anything away.
“That day after Jamelia’s birthday bash when I was free from community service, I walked through my hometown when all of a sudden, Sheriff Cologne wan shoot me down, he wan shoot me. Say I thief from Margery’s store,” he muffled.
“Whaaaat?”
“So I shot him, I shot him down and say if I am guilty, I will pay.”
“You need to get away. You stay here and they will find you. Here,” Mark beckoned him with his hands so the housemates couldn’t hear, “I got a plan.”
Word broke out that foreign Jamaican notorious juvenile, Bob, was on the loose and the feds started tracking him down. They interviewed Jamelia and Mark but with their vague, eye rolling and one worded responses, the fellow sheriffs were forced to pry further. Bob’s place was turned upside down by forensic investigators and detectives alike and Mark’s place soon followed.
Sheriff Whaites noticed Mark’s car was not in the drive way and when asked, he said “Oh it’s at the garage sir” and to make his fib more convincing added “You know the one on Portland Street”.
Whaites nodded along with Mark’s words ever so slowly but once they were back in the sheriff’s office and successfully tracked Mark’s car to the ferry to Mexico, they knew they’d got Bob.
“Best friend loans car to criminal on the run, in hopes of getting away before the sheriffs’ clock on. Typical,” Whaites thought.
The following month, Bob stood in Holwood Court accused of the very crime he did not commit. The murder of infamous Sheriff Cologne. Bob’s escape shamefully foiled. His ankles trembled in his chains and his heart burst with an unquenchable anger to prove his innocence. If not for the reflexes he had in that dreaded moment of fear, he wouldn’t be wrongly accused anyway.
“May the defendant please stand,” Bob heard through the ringing in his ears.
Bob felt the eyes of the all the judges and jury members burn through his cheap black linen suit and dark mahogany skin. He glimpsed to the left and saw two women consoling another middle aged lady who he thought must have been Sheriff Cologne’s wife and daughters. Bob’s usual bravado and grit shrivelled up in that gallery into a man; shameful and barely able to look up from the level of his seat. Unlike his own lawyer. The one Mark had arranged for him. His face stood expressionless yet bold, ready for battle. Bob didn’t care to remember his name in this moment despite their previous fruitless meetings. At the clang of the gavel, the clerk read the indictment.
“Bob Marley, also known as Mr Robert Nesta Marley, from Nine Mile, Jamaica, is indicted for the wilful murder of both Sheriff Benedict Cologne and Deputy Sheriff Jay Barnes in that on the 23rd February in the year of 1987, he did shoot and kill Sheriff Benedict Cologne and Deputy Sheriff Jay Barnes with two bullets at their lower chests using a stolen hand gun; their bodies having been discovered at the scene immediately by fellow sheriffs’ Timothy Whaites and Patricia Garty”, the dainty clerk read from the front of court.
“Mr Rainer to conduct the prosecution,” he ended.
Bob took a large gulp in time for the judge to direct the lawyer of the plaintiff to stand and make their case. Mr Webster, the family lawyer of the Cologne’s, was a plain looking guy; the sort that wore suits and shirts that you could tell had been ironed for years on end and a face wrinkled with the weight of cases presented to him over the decades. There he stood with his glasses and grey suit, upright, poised, with no doubt in the words he was about to utter.
“Your honour, I represent the family of Sheriff Cologne and I hereby present our case against the felonious defendant here present today. On the night of 23rd February, my client was notified of a burglary at the convenience store in the centre of town on Canary Street owned by a women called Margery Smith. Hardworking citizen of our community. She called the police to report a theft and Sheriff Cologne made his way to the store at approximately 8.45pm to settle and investigate the indecent with his colleagues. He watched the CCTV briefly to confirm, only to later see, Mr Marley, walking with several packs of tobacco. He began the statutory line of questioning and that is when an altercation broke out and Marley, this man beside me in this very courtroom, pulled the trigger to the gun hidden in his back pocket and shot and killed Cologne for simply questioning him on whether his item was indeed paid for. This is abominable act of murder on our streets and I would like to refer to the further evidence of the statements of Timothy Whaites and Patricia Garty, the detailed photographs from the Coroners and hospital records which detail the hit to Cologne’s lower abdomen.” Mr Webster sat down theatrically, lifting off the tail end of his blazer before sitting and scornfully eyeing Bob.
“Thank you Mr Webster, we will now hear from Mr Marley. Please take the stand. The oath will be presented. Repeat after me.”
“I, Robert Nesta Marley,”
“I, Robert Nesta Marley,”
“will speak the truth,”
“will speak the truth,”
“and nothing but the truth,”
“and nothing but the truth,”
“so help me God,”
“so help me God,” his hand loosely arched on the Holy Bible.
Bob’s legs felt weighted as he walked over to the stand; his vision blurred and his mind was stumbling over hedges at a thousand miles per hour. He had to tell them the truth and he knew it. But he also had to prove it was self defence and that he has not stolen a single thing. Either he proved his innocence in the most well constructed way possible or he could be faced with life imprisonment for the murder of a man he didn’t intend to kill. Sure, people considered him a gangster, a young juvenile, and a street hooligan but he was not going allow violence to punctuate his name too. Bob trained his mind in the milliseconds it took him to move to the stand. He would prove that he was unjustly attacked and stereotyped. Pried upon, just for his past. That he genuinely feared for his life. He’d heard of Kylan and Jeff who’d died at the hands of police brutality and he didn’t want the same fate. Music was the bone to Bob’s existence. What was he to do if he was convicted? He’d never drum a string on a guitar again. Never caress a warm microphone in a crowded car again. Never dance to those reggae beats that galvanised his soul to leap. This speech needed to punch weight; enough to change the direction of the case.
At that moment, the clerk from earlier before came in and whispered in Mr Rainer’s ears. The gavel and desk met each other loudly once more in a beat of three.
“Court adjourned! We will resume in a week’s time once this new apparent witness has been questioned,” Rainer fired out.
“All rise!” the clerk added, as the judges trotted out.
Just like that, Bob’s hands clung to the bars of the jail cell once more than the smooth lyptus wood armrests of the Holwood Courtroom.
“Someone’s here to see you,” the prison guard scoffed.
Bob’s lawyer slotted into view and began to open up his case files methodically.
“So Mr Marley, a new witness has come forwards and you’ll be pleased to know it’s in your favour. And it’s not someone unknown either. Mark has decided to testify; though I’m not exactly sure what he will say. He better not mess this up for us. Let’s hope it helps us in the long run. Remember — everything we do and say is to ensure you get the lowest sentence possible and if not, a miraculous pardon.”
Bob nodded as he only had the energy to do.
A week later, Bob nestled into the seat he sat in before but with a newfound ease. With Mark there, he hoped he’d tell the jury how Cologne taunted him daily, spied on him; waiting for him to trip up and set him up somehow. Mark said he wasn’t going to testify originally, worried that it’d harm our case, seeing as the police caught on to his idea to help me escape. But it didn’t matter, he was here and he could defend him. When it came time for Mark to speak after his oath that is, he couldn’t quite believe the words that flowed effortlessly out.
“First things first yeah, Bob left Jamelia’s place at 9pm but what went down in Margery’s happened earlier around 8.40pm” Mark began. He paused, then peered down.
“It was me that stole the tobacco from the store. Ted had been blackmailing me that if I didn’t get some supplies for him, he’d tell Joanne about my affair with Alyssa. So I took some and just ran out. I thought I could escape in time and for a few moments, I had but then I heard a gunshot and I panicked I thought I saw a gang running towards me in the dark and I just — i just ran and ran but they shot at me and with my contact lenses not in, I was shooting to get them to step back not to hurt nobody. I believe one of my shots hit deputy Barnes. You see this is just a thing of mistaken identity. I look like Bob. Same black hoodie and black joggers. Bob only shot Cologne out of self defence. He was on Panos Road and I was on the adjacent road on the left, James Street, it must of been. He did nothing wrong. Cologne has always had it in for him. The tobacco he had was given to him at Jamelia’s house 5 miles away from the store”.
Mark swivelled over to Bob and said “I’m sorry man I didn’t confess this to you but I was scared”.
Mr Rainer interrupted “So you are telling us that you stole this item, ran out and were mistaken for Bob hence both sheriffs were fatally killed?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
“Well. Well both the statements of Mark Henly and Robert Marley reveal some devastating flaws in policing and clear lack of judgment from both men. It’s evident there’s a sense of mistrust from these such men in the community and the authorities, and this must ultimately be addressed. We are very concerned about the circulation of these weapons and will be addressing this also,” the judge verbally contemplated.
So the jury conferred out of the doors and all that could be heard in the rest of the courtroom was a chorus of whispers, gasps and sighs. Mark stepped down and was led out momentarily. Bob steadied his breath, wondering what his fate would be. The jury strolled back in the room languidly, their faces solemn and distant that it was hard for Bob to gauge a single outcome.
“How do you find the defendant? Guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty.”
“Given the circumstances of the incident, it’s clear unfair practices have occurred but the murder remains a fact”, the judge began, “thereby we convict Robert Nesta Marley of manslaughter to serve a maximum of 7 years in prison. And for you, Mark Henly, you will be tried for the murder of Sheriff Barnes and the burglary at Margery Smith’s Store on Canary Street in accordance with your own statement.”
Internally, Bob lifted a victory fist that he had not been given a life sentence, but instead 7 years. It wasn’t a cause for jubilation to be confined to a cell but he thought “I’ll be out in 3 years I’m sure for good behaviour”. For he did shoot the sheriff but his best friend shot the deputy. So he awaited Mark’s fate now as he began counting down the days till he was back at the Sondar Club, enjoying dancehall at its best.
© Mabel Osejindu
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