The Man With My Spare Key Testified Beneath The Courtroom Clock

By September, I had repaired the regulator that someone had wound in my shop. I had also learned to cook squash without turning it into paste.

Beatrice said both were signs of progress.

We had kept our Thursday suppers through motions, delays, and a winter that filled the brook with shelf ice. She came to my bench when she wanted company. Some evenings she stayed home and read. I had stopped taking that as a message about me.

Conrad's criminal trial began in a courtroom in Newfane. I wore my dark suit, the one with a small burn mark inside the pocket from an old soldering iron.

Beatrice straightened my tie outside.

"Tell them what you saw," she said.

"You've said that before."

"It's still good."

We were kept outside until our turns to testify. I sat under a notice about turning off phones and thought how much of my life was now waiting for my name.

On the stand, I explained the two printing surfaces. Ames gave me a simple drawing I had made and checked. The jury could see how one lever struck both records.

"Would the hidden roll know who actually pressed the lever?" she asked.

"No. It printed the number someone selected."

"Would it know if the clock showed the correct time?"

"No. Other records had to tell us that."

I pointed out the bent guide. I described feeding the paper onto my tray, making the pictures, and rewinding it without cutting it.

Conrad's trial lawyer asked if my hands shook.

"Sometimes."

"Could that affect your work?"

"That's why I use a stand for the camera."

He asked whether I disliked Conrad.

"By the time he demanded my pictures, I was afraid of him."

"But you kept them."

"They were my repair records."

After my testimony, I could sit in the courtroom. Beatrice testified about Ruth's inventory, the tear in the envelope, and the purple number she had seen months before the theft.

She did not mention her old title until asked about her work history. She did not need it to remember a piece of paper.

Then Silas took the stand.

He looked older than he had at my bench. He had pleaded guilty to his role in the burglaries and to entering my shop unlawfully. His agreement required truthful testimony. His lawyer sat in the back.

He said Conrad kept a list of collections seen during home appraisals. Conrad picked nights when the owners were away. Silas and Owen drove the truck, brought the stolen goods to the warehouse, and sorted them for sale.

"Why punch in?" Ames asked.

"He paid us through warehouse wages. Extra hours. We punched our own numbers."

Conrad had told them to destroy their cards after each pay period. Silas had kept some in a toolbox because his pay had been short.

Those were the cards police had found.

One had a corner patched with clear tape. Silas said he had torn it getting it out of his coat. A detective held up the card in its sleeve, then showed the matching entry in my photograph.

"Did Mr. Mott know about the internal roll?"

"Not until Mr. Fiske said something. He thought cards were all it made."

Silas said Conrad had pulled out the paper after collecting the clock. He had burned it in a barrel behind the warehouse.

Then Ames asked about my key.

Silas looked toward me and then away.

"I still had the old emergency set. Mott said to find the camera card and any loose pictures."

"What happened?"

"They weren't there. I checked the bench drawers."

Police already held the original files. The camera card and my backup had been in the locked records cabinet across the room. He had not opened it.

"Why did you wind the regulator?"

"Mott said to leave something running. So he'd know we could get in. Mott gave me the note."

There it was. No ghost. No failing mind. A key that should have been returned and a man willing to use it.

Silas said he had later put the key in an envelope at the warehouse. His new shop repair order showed when he had started working for Conrad. The old building list showed why he had my key in the first place.

The defense asked about his plea deal. He answered. The jury heard exactly what he hoped to gain.

Owen's account followed, along with the truck records, sale records, and insurance audit. Each witness held a different small piece.

During the jury's second afternoon of talks, Beatrice and I sat on a bench outside. We shared an apple she had cut into quarters.

The courtroom door opened. The clerk came down the hall holding a folded slip.

"Mr. Fiske," she said. "The jury has returned."